Frank Danby

“ Was it the assassin? He felt that he was on the threshold of discovery, as he knew he would be, once he had got in touch with Inez de Brissac. Nevertheless, the darkness before him was impenetrable, and although he was on the threshold the door was not open before him.
Now the fascination of the pursuit fastened upon him; he forgot his bet, his cherished work, everything. ”

“ I said, 'If it is true I will kill him—kill them both. But I could not kill my mother ...’" He lay still, his breathing loud and difficult.
"I could not kill my mother," came through again, more hoarsely.
Keightley, who talked in paradox and lived by epigram, felt a choke in his throat. Then the boy's eyes opened, and he went on again, through his difficult breath.
"She loved me when I was little, kissed me once when I lay in my cot. I could not kill her. But all our name was stained. Here I live under a different name, and watch and watch, not knowing what to do ... there were always men. ”

“ This was the opening for an interlude of coquetry in which Keightley found it difficult to play his part. Either his coolness or her own emotions presently brought about an hysterical burst of confidence.
"He said I had had another man in the flat," she broke out suddenly, her handkerchief to her eyes. "Not a soul can come near me without his making scenes. I've been driven from pillar to post, he has made my life a perfect hell upon earth. I'm sick to death of dodging about and hiding. ”

“ You and Harry Maingaye were great friends. His death must have been a terrible shock for you, a great loss," Keightley said feelingly. "Not but what you must have many other friends, a woman of your extraordinary attractions." ”

“ When he got to Battersea Bridge Keightley got out.
"I may be an hour, or more, or less. Wait for me.
Almost before the echo of the words had died away in the deserted street and Kito had realised his instructions, Keightley was in Prince of Wales Terrace, and in sight of Warriner Gardens. And there, running at top speed, as if for his life, he caught sight of someone getting over the garden wall. Instinctively he gave chase. ”

“ The feet dragged, the arms were supine, but by some miracle of speed or circumstance when he came in sight of the waiting motor at the corner of Battersea Bridge Road Keightley knew it was life and not death he held in his arms.
"Drive as quickly as you can," he said to Kito. "You can risk a fine." And then he added, more for his own satisfaction than Kito's: "My friend is worse than I thought." ”

“ Keightley was impressed by what was being suggested to him: the ingenuousness of it, and simplicity. He had often suspected his mother of ability, but never had it so clearly been brought home to him. He knew that Humphrey Marden was an old and tried friend of his mother's. If a young relative of hers had met with an accident in her house, he would see that she suffered the least possible inconvenience. Dr. Ince would only have to tell the truth; say that the wound was self-inflicted. Kito was absolutely reliable. ”

“ Then he had to defend the French Impressionists, and afterwards to attack them, maintaining his pose.
"Is anything the matter with you?" his mother asked, as Roger had done.
He answered "Nothing!" and "Why?" but afterwards admitted to a headache, and said he thought he should go home. He wanted to be by himself, to think the thing out.
All that afternoon Keightley Wilbur sat in his study, trying to piece the puzzle, to find what place Stanley Dacre had in it, to decide what he must do. He knew now that when Inez had told him she was watched she had probably been speaking the truth. ”

“ Still holding the slight figure in his arms the amateur detective stood for a moment irresolute, then with his foot slid it to the bridge's edge, and over. He did not hear it reach the river, and there was no sound as it sank. The boy was growing heavier in his arms. Keightley, although not tall, was strong, and now braced his muscles, calling upon his brain too, which responded like a trained soldier.
"Grit your teeth and help me all you can. I'm going to carry you into safety. If we don't meet anybody there's a chance. For the name's sake make an effort. I'm your friend, not your accuser. ”

“ But it is my nature to be frank. Now, say, Mr. Wilbur, what sort of woman appeals most to you? The woman, like me, who, if she cares for a man cannot conceal her feelings, or those shy, furtive ones who play underground? ”

“ That's a matter for yourselves. You can always make an excuse. But she is short of money, and I want you to send her something on account. Send her a hundred or two. I'll give you my cheque. Not regular business? Who said it was? But to oblige me——" Keightley Wilbur was accustomed to being obliged. He had always a quid pro quo to offer.
"My dear fellow!" Willie Kirsch called everyone "My dear fellow." ”

“ Keightley, after he had stared his fill, referred to the catalogue. But he knew, he knew already.
"Roger Macphail.
No. 7.—The Young Count."
The painting was in the artist's earlier manner; a little dry perhaps, but the pose superbly caught, the Goya-like perception of character compensating for anything the portrait lacked in richness of colour or voluptuousness of decoration. It was the materialisation of high lineage and young pride. "The Young Count" stood, erect and lonely, facing destiny.
"You know who it is?" Roger Macphail was beside him again, and speaking. "Not so bad, I think. ”

“ We are being 'opened' at twelve by the Duke of Connaught; there are no end of things to arrange. We've only just heard. But don't go away: go inside, there is plenty to interest you. I'll come to you the first moment I am free. I suppose you've found the man with the light eyes, the man who shot Harry Maingaye?" Then someone came up, and in another moment Roger was again submerged.
But his words lingered. Keightley had for the moment completely forgotten all about the young man who had met him in the passage of the Fin de Siècle Theatre, and stammered that they were calling out "Murder." ”

“ There was always a spare room ready, for Keightley often brought a friend home late at night. Kito and he laid the inert figure on the bed.
"Get his things off. Do what you can for him." In less time than seemed possible, Keightley, at the telephone beside the bed in his own room, was ringing up Dr. Ince.
"Come round at once, will you? A friend of mine has had an accident. What sort of accident? Oh! monkeying with a gun, shot himself. Don't say a word to anybody. ”

“ How could there be anything in common between a sordid crime in a sordid flat in Battersea and the young boy who now lay in the coffin upon the trestles in the spare bedroom at Carlton House Terrace, his hands folded and his brow clear, flowers about him?
Because there was nothing in common between them, and because, under whatever Government or conditions we live, the law takes cognisance of consequence and believes in the words of the wealthy and well represented, twelve good men and true, within forty-eight hours of his death, found Armand le Mesurier, second cousin of Mrs. ”

“ She knew by now that he was not one of the firm, but thought he might be the capitalist behind it. Women of her type always find it easy to believe what they wish. And her belief was, in a measure, justified. For Keightley rang up Willie Kirsch and desired that he should negotiate for the book. ”

“ I believe a cigarette would do me all the good in the world."
"I'll have one with you."
Then he walked about the room, and found fault with her Japanese prints and the colour of the dressing-gown that hung at the foot of the bed.
"All the nice women I know wear pink and blue. This passionate purple—— I suppose you call it passionate purple?"
"Violet."
"Is neither one thing nor another. Why don't you get a proper kimono? I know where there is one—yellow. The real thing: suit you down to the ground. ”

“ The other is now at the Goupil."
"To whom does that belong?"
"Lord Herodsfoot."
"There was something in that story then?"
"It is possible: anything is possible with Inez. She is a man-eater."
"She shall eat no more," Keightley said confidently. "She has me to reckon with now."
But the reckoning was apparently not yet. In the hubbub following the inquest on Harry Maingaye the Comtesse left England—or at least she left the fine flat she had occupied in Ashley Gardens, and even her publishers expressed themselves in ignorance of her whereabouts. ”

“ There is a scene ..."
But what our amateur detective had come to hear was not the plot of the Comtesse de Brissac's new book. He said he was quite sure that Messrs. Kirsch would be delighted with such an original idea, and asked if she had a synopsis. He said again what a pity it was that she had been so long silent. ”

“ Keightley sent the letter on by hand, and called that very afternoon at Warriner Gardens. He was surprised to find how poorly the lady he sought was lodged. No. 10 was one of a block of flats, obviously converted from what had been small houses. There were apparently only three flats in each block. In the narrow hall of the one to which Keightley had been directed a board announced that the first floor was occupied by Mrs. Carrington Mott; the ground floor had either an anonymous or no tenant. A Mr. and Mrs. ”