Four square Jane
The girl looked at him thoughtfully.
“How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much
difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of
people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of
thing.”
She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face.
“Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends
of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.”
“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his
hand straying to his pocket.
This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination,
and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario.
“What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not
only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown
people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly
distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked
mysteriously.
She shook her head.
He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a
heavily scented letter.
He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:--
“I have only just read the terrible news that you are being married
to-morrow. Won’t you see me once, just once, for the sake of the happy
day long ago? I must see you before you are married. I must take
farewell of you in person. Believe me, I will never trouble you again.
You used to praise my pretty face; won’t you see it again for the last
time? If you will, put an ‘agony’ advertisement in _The Times_, and I
will meet you at the Albert Gate, Regents Park, at nine o’clock
to-morrow night.”
“That’s to-night,” explained the young man.
“Who is she?” asked the girl curiously.
“The Lord knows!” said Mr. Claythorpe with a cheerful smirk; “of
course, dear old thing, I’ll have to see her. I put the advertisement
in. You’re sure you don’t mind?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t told the governor,” said the young man, “and I want you to
keep it dark. You see he’s a bit old-fashioned in things like that,
and he hasn’t got your broad outlook, Joyce. And for heaven’s sake,
don’t breathe a word to Father Maggerley; you know what a stick he
is!”
“Father Maggerley,” repeated the girl, “oh, yes, we’re lunching with
him, aren’t we?”
“Personally,” the young man babbled on, “I think it’s a little
indecent for a bride and bridegroom to lunch with the fellow who’s
going to tie them up. But the governor’s frightfully keen on
Maggerley. He’s even dining with us to-night, as well. I hope he
doesn’t give me any good advice, or I shall have a few words to say to
him.”
He braced his lean shoulders with a determined air, and again the girl
had to suppress a smile.
She went up to her room soon after, and did not appear until the car
had arrived at the door to carry them to Ciro’s. Father Maggerley, who
was the fifth member of the party, was a tall aesthetic man, reputed
to be very “high church,” and suspected of leanings towards the
papacy.
It was not remarkable that the conversation turned upon Four Square
Jane. It was a subject in which Lord Claythorpe was tremendously
interested, and as he listened to Mrs. Wilberforce’s theories, his
lined yellow face betrayed signs of unusual alertness.
“The police will have her sooner or later,” he said viciously, “you
can be sure of that.”
Francis was bubbling over with good humour. The girl had interrupted
him in the morning at the point when he was telling her news, which
was no news at all, since he had imparted the information, not once
but a dozen times in the course of the past week, that he carried in
his pocket the wedding ring which was to unite them. He took it out
and showed it to her, a thin circle of shining platinum, but Joyce was
not enthusiastic over its beauties, and after a long exposition of his
own good taste in jewellery, Francis rambled on to another and equally
uninteresting subject.
For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again
and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce
had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy
with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards
people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.
That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure
to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late,
in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the
meeting.
“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe
disapprovingly.
“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was
veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the side-walk.
I got in and had a little chat with her, and then”--with a fine air of
unconcern--“she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a
second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’”
“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr. Maggerley thoughtfully, “very
singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of
seclusion in one of our religious houses.”
“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a
person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your
wedding eve.”
Mr. Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his
patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he
evolved a sermon from the incident--a sermon which could not fail to
gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere
dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.
“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a low
voice.
“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr. Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister
Agatha.”
This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the
various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was
impossible that he should remember their names.
He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a
sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in
the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler,
and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.
“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and
I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”
“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m
afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”
A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid
inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a
newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were
untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to
bed.
The marriage of Mr. Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was
one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St. Giles was
crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than
usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an
uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not
disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. To-day represented to him
the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope
which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table
that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature
of Four Square Jane. The letter read:--
“You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. To-day, by sacrificing the
happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to
your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who
had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will
in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup
and the lip.”
“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again,
and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That
explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.
* * * * *
Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the
usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the
altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from
the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.
“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and
Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.
He opened it and gasped.
“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the
neighbouring pews could hear.
Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It
was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which
might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own
wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched
the proceedings with a smile of indifference.
As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened
and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley,
with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the
door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time,
and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he
reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.
And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party
disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them.
On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed--“Marriage
License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce
Wilberforce.”
“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as
he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”
“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.
“This license,” began the clergyman.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before
yesterday. It is a special license--there’s nothing wrong with it, is
there?”
Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.
“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it.
Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet----”
“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake,
what has happened?”
For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope,
opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.
“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore
under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar
squares.
“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”
Mr. Maggerley shook his head.
“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha.
Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his
study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by
anybody.
So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!
V
Peter Dawes, of Scotland Yard, and a very gloomy Lord Claythorpe sat
in conference in the latter gentleman’s City office. For Lord
Claythorpe was a director of many companies, and had interests of a
wide and varied character.
The detective sat at a table, with a little block of paper before him,
jotting down notes from time to time, and there was a frown upon his
face which suggested that his investigations were not going exactly as
he could have wished them.
“There is the case,” said Lord Claythorpe. “The whole thing was a
malicious act on the part of this wretched woman, directed against me,
my son, and my niece.”
“Is Miss Joyce Wilberforce your niece?” asked the detective, and Lord
Claythorpe hesitated.
“Well, she is not my niece,” he said at last. “Rather she was the
niece of one of my dearest friends. He was an immensely wealthy man,
and when he died he left the bulk of his property to his niece.”