Four square Jane
“The Romney will be returned on condition that Mr. Tresser undertakes
to pay the sum of five thousand pounds to the Great Panton Street
Hospital for Children. On his signing an agreement to pay this sum,
the picture will be restored.
“Jane.”
“What did Tresser say about that?”
“Tresser agrees,” answered Peter, “and has sent a note to the
secretary of the Great Panton Street Hospital to that effect. We are
advertising the fact of his agreement very widely in the newspapers.”
At three o’clock that afternoon came another telegram, addressed this
time to Peter Dawes--it annoyed him to know that the girl was so well
informed that she was aware of the fact that he was in charge of the
case.
“I will restore the picture at eight o’clock to-night. Be in the
picture gallery, and please take all precautions. Don’t let me escape
this time--The Four Square Jane.”
The telegram was handed in at the General Post Office.
Peter Dawes neglected no precaution. He had really not the faintest
hope that he would make the capture, but it would not be his fault if
Four Square Jane were not put under lock and key.
A small party assembled in the gloomy hall of Mr. Tresser’s own house.
Dawes and two detective officers, Mr. Tresser himself--he sucked at a
big cigar and seemed the least concerned of those present--the three
attendants, and a representative of the Great Panton Street Hospital
were there.
“Do you think she’ll come in person?” asked Tresser. “I would rather
like to see that Jane. She certainly put one over on me, but I bear
her no ill-will.”
“I have a special force of police within call,” said Peter, “and the
roads are watched by detectives, but I’m afraid I can’t promise you
anything exciting. She’s too slippery for us.”
“Anyway, the messenger----” began Tresser.
Peter shook his head.
“The messenger may be a district messenger, though here again I have
taken precautions--all the district messenger offices have been warned
to notify Scotland Yard in the event of somebody coming with a parcel
addressed here.”
Eight o’clock boomed out from the neighbouring church, but Four Square
Jane had not put in an appearance. Five minutes later there came a
ring at the bell, and Peter Dawes opened the door.
It was a telegraph boy.
Peter took the buff envelope and tore it open, read the message
through carefully, and laughed--a hopeless, admiring laugh.
“She’s done it,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Tresser.
“Come in here,” said Peter.
He led the way into the picture gallery. There was the empty frame on
the wall, and behind it the half-obliterated label which Four Square
Jane had stuck.
He walked straight to the end of the room to one of the windows.
“The picture is here,” he said, “it has never left the room.”
He lifted his hand, and pulled at the blind cord, and the blind slowly
revolved.
There was a gasp of astonishment from the gathering. For, pinned to
the blind, and rolled up with it, was the missing Romney.
* * * * *
“I ought to have guessed when I saw the pin,” said Peter to his chief.
It was quick work, but it was possible to do it.
“She cut out the picture, brought it to the end of the room, and
pulled down the blind; pinned the top corners of the picture to the
blind, and let it roll up again. Nobody thought of pulling that
infernal thing down!”
“The question that worries me,” said the Chief, “is this--Who _is_
Four Square Jane?”
“That,” replied Peter, “is just what I am going to discover.”
IV
Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and
aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not
reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and
there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not
creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce.
According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous
beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair
to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and
admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that
success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One
half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a
deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great
heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without
mercy.
And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained
that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had
from Joyce.
Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the
least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her,
and Joyce did understand her mother.
They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde
Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very
thoughtful.
“Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try
to keep your mind from wandering.”
“Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly.
“Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?”
“Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You
didn’t like her manner or something.”
“She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly.
The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never
wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane
Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present
conversation.
“Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little
romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing
wrong with her.”
Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed.
“I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly.
“Why do you say that, mother?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that
this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?”
Joyce laughed.
“It is not an uncommon name,” she said.
“But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her
mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours,
or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little
shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose
you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has
disappeared?”
Joyce nodded.
“Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically.
“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are
marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s
dearest friend.”
“He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of
exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding
him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him.
In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but
I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be
married off in this way.”
“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no
other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And
short-sightedness,” she added.
“It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce,
after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to
marry Francis.”
She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of
the young man under discussion.
“And I think I’m justified,” she concluded.
Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.
“After all, why shouldn’t I marry whom I choose,” said Joyce. “Don’t
you realize that Lord Claythorpe is being horribly selfish and that
this marriage is being designed for his own purpose?”
“I realize one thing,” said Mrs. Wilberforce angrily, “and that is
that you look like being pig-headed enough to ruin your own chances
socially, and both of us financially. You know as well as I do, Joyce,
that Lord Claythorpe is acting absolutely in accordance with your
uncle’s will, and you cannot doubt that your uncle had your best
interests at heart.”
“When uncle left his great fortune to me and made the provision that I
should not marry anybody who was not the choice of Lord Claythorpe,
the trustee of his estate, the poor dear old man thought he was
protecting my interests, because he had a most childlike faith in Lord
Claythorpe’s honesty. He never dreamt that Lord Claythorpe would
choose his own idiot son!”
“Idiot!” gasped Mrs. Wilberforce, “that is an outrageous statement.
He’s not one of the intellectuals, perhaps, but he’s a good boy, and
one day will become Lord Claythorpe.”
“So far as I can see,” said the girl, “that’s his only virtue. You can
turn the matter about as you like, mother, but there the fact remains.
Unless I marry Francis Claythorpe I lose a great fortune. Lord
Claythorpe can well afford to give me £50,000 necklaces!”
Mrs. Wilberforce smoothed her dress over her knees patiently.
“The provision was a very wise one, my dear,” she said, “otherwise you
would have married that awful person Jamieson Steele. Imagine, a
penniless engineer and a forger!”
The girl sprang to her feet, her face crimson.
“You shall not say that, mother,” she said sharply. “Jamieson did not
forge Lord Claythorpe’s signature. The cheque which was presented and
paid to Jamieson was signed by Lord Claythorpe, and if he repudiated
his own signature he did it for his own purpose. He knew I was fond of
Jamieson. It was cruel, terribly cruel!”
Mrs. Wilberforce raised her hands in protest.
“Do not let us have a scene,” she said, “my dear girl, think of all
your money means to me. The years I’ve scrimped and saved to get you
an education and put you in a position in society. Perhaps Jamieson
was led astray----”
“I tell you he did _not_ do it,” cried the girl. “The charge against
him was made by Lord Claythorpe in order to discredit him and give him
a reason for refusing his consent to our marriage.”
Mrs. Wilberforce shrugged her ample shoulders.
“Well, there’s no sense in going into the question now,” she said,
“let us forget all about it. Jamieson has disappeared, and I hope he
is living a virtuous life in the Colonies.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to continue
any argument with her mother. She changed the subject.
“What is this about Jane Briglow?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”
Mrs. Wilberforce shook her head.
“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and
I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all
the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other
conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.”
The girl laughed.
“Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with
them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips.
“You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor
Francis.”
The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the
park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously.
“You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married
to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right.
One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.”
A maid came in at this moment.
“Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs.
Wilberforce arose with a beaming face.
The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A
small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and
awkward arms--if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this
young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the
morrow.
He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl.
“I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little
giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?”