Kate plus 10
discussion and if you cannot speak respectfully of her, I beg you to
leave this room.”
“If it had not been for your daughter we should have remembered to
send Griggs back.”
“I am not in charge of the railway,” said his lordship with mock
humility. “I cannot order engine-drivers to return to Seahampton. Be
reasonable, Sapson!”
“You have got to bear your share,” said the other doggedly, “you are
morally responsible. I wish I had never thought of bringing your
infernal ships to Seahampton.”
He was haggard and drawn of face. In two days he seemed to have shrunk
so that his usually well-fitting clothes hung on him loosely.
“Everything can be discussed in a quiet business-like way,” said Lord
Flanborough. “I am very sorry that you have this loss. It is by no
means certain that it is a loss, but business is business--you cannot
expect me to shoulder your responsibilities, my dear friend.”
“It is your responsibility as well as mine,” stormed Ralph, jumping up
from his chair and advancing upon the little man who stepped
cautiously backward, “and I insist upon your accepting your share.”
“Which would amount to?” suggested his lordship.
“About seven hundred thousand pounds,” growled the other.
“Seven hundred thousand pounds! Impossible!” said Lord Flanborough
emphatically.
Ralph turned livid.
“If you don’t,” he hissed, thumping his palm with his fist, “if you
don’t--”
At that moment help came in the shape of Moya. She nodded coolly to
Sir Ralph and crossed the room to her father.
“There is no news of Michael,” she said.
“Dear me,” sighed his lordship.
“Michael!” sneered Ralph. “There is no news of the money! That’s the
important thing, Moya!”
“We are not on the ‘Moya’ terms any more, Sir Ralph,” she said
quietly.
“Rub it in,” groaned the man.
“I don’t want to rub it in. We all have our troubles, but some of us
bear them less courageously than others. It won’t ruin you if you do
lose all this money. You know you are enormously rich.”
“I am not going to lose,” said Sir Ralph doggedly; “your father has to
bear his share.”
“If father is responsible he will bear his share,” said the girl, “but
it is not by any means certain that he is responsible, is it, papa?”
“Certainly not,” said Lord Flanborough, placing a table between
himself and his infuriated partner.
There was a tap at the door and Sibble came in, somewhat furtively.
He looked mysteriously at Moya and she went to him.
“What is it, Sibble?” she asked.
“There’s a man to see you, miss,” he said. “I think it is something
very special.”
“To see me? Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is, miss, but he has a very special message for
you.”
She went out into the hall. A respectable looking man stood hat in
hand. By his thick coat she thought at first he was an omnibus driver.
In a sense, she was right.
“Are you Lady Moya Felton, madame?”
“Yes,” said the girl.
He handed her a card. She took it. It was a business card announcing
that Messrs. Acton and Arkwright, contractors, were prepared to remove
anything from machinery to furniture and that they had a “larger
number of motor lorries than any other firm doing business in the
south of England.”
“I am afraid there is a mistake,” she said. “I didn’t send for you.”
“No, miss, we’ve brought the goods.”
“The goods?” she said puzzled.
He led the way to the door.
Lining one side of the street and stretching from the house to the
corner of Gaspard Place were ten motor lorries.
“Here’s the name.”
He turned the card over.
“Lord Flanborough, Felton House, Grosvenor Avenue,” said the man
reading it over her shoulder.
“Have you any letter?”
“No, miss, these are all the instructions I had. I was told to bring
the chemicals to his lordship and ask for you.”
“Chemicals?” she said.
Her father had followed her to the door.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This man has brought some chemicals for you.”
“Oh, nonsense, there is some mistake,” said Lord Flanborough. “I am
not a chemist.”
He went down the steps with the girl to the first lorry. She looked
inside and apparently it was empty.
“What is it you have brought?” she asked in surprise.
“There they are, miss, on the floor.”
And then she saw a number of packages wrapped in sacking.
“They’re pretty heavy,” said the man, “considering their size.”
She reached out her hand and tried to draw one toward her. It defied
her efforts. Lord Flanborough tried and succeeded in moving it.
Something in its shape startled him.
“Have you a knife?” he asked the man.
The contractor produced a big clasp knife and opened it.
“Be careful, my lord,” he warned, “they’re dangerous--”
But Lord Flanborough had ripped the canvas package and exposed a dull
yellow ingot. He dropped the knife and stepped back.
“How many wagons are there?” he asked huskily.
“Ten, sir. They’ve all got the same number of packages--and are we to
take them to the Docks?”
Lord Flanborough made a rapid calculation.
“Take them into the basement and put them into the coal cellar,” he
said and went up the steps two at a time and back into his study.
Sir Ralph was still waiting. The rudeness of his host neither
increased nor decreased his irritation.
Lord Flanborough stepped up to him briskly.
“Look here, Sapson,” he said. “What responsibility do you want me to
bear in the matter of this gold?”
“I want you to bear half.”
“I will do more than that,” said his lordship. “I will assume the
whole responsibility for two hundred thousand pounds.”
Ralph swung round.
“You will?” he said incredulously.
“I will.”
“Done,” said Sir Ralph and pulled out his cheque book.
He wrote quickly and nervously but quite legibly enough and handed the
slip to Lord Flanborough, what time his lordship was writing with more
leisure but no less excitement on the other side of the table.
“There’s your cheque,” said Sir Ralph.
“And there’s my note freeing you from responsibility,” said his
lordship.
“I am sorry I have been so unpleasant,” said the baronet wiping his
steaming brow, “but you will understand.”
“I quite understand,” said Lord Flanborough.
“Business is business,” said Ralph.
“Business is business,” repeated his lordship and folding the cheque
slipped it into his pocket.
CHAPTER XVI.
ON THE UNMORALITY OF PROFESSIONAL
THIEVES
The main building of what had once been Boltover’s Cement Works
consisted of four high walls and a slate roof. Here had stood the wash
mills and the revolving knives which had reduced the clay and mud from
the nearby river into slurry. Leading therefrom was the heating
chamber and the kiln house. There was no trace of mill, though the
kilns still stood.
All the machinery had been removed, the concrete floor strengthened
and the only engine visible was a great Atlantic locomotive which had
stood with steam up day and night before the wreckage of two trucks.
In each of these was a rough circular hole and the blistered paint and
the drops of metal which hung upon the edge or had trickled down its
blackened side, told of the terrific heat which had been employed to
break through the steel walls.
Near one wall were a number of small packages neatly stitched in
canvas and ready for removal, and on these sat Mr. Mulberry, the
benignity of whose countenance was somewhat discounted by the fact
that a loaded rifle lay across his knees. Leading from the main
building was a small office approached through a steel door and in
this were seated the seven guiding spirits of the great raid, Francis
Stockmar, Gregori, Colonel Westhanger, Colling Jacques, Thomas
Stockmar, Mr. Cunningham and Kate.
Gregori was talking. He leant across the table, his hands lightly
clasped, his head on one side turned to the girl who sat opposite to
him and a little to his right.
“I think, Kate, we finish here,” he was saying. “Crime Street is
getting a little too warm.”
“I didn’t expect you to lose your nerve,” she said.
“I’m not losing my nerve,” he said with a scowl. “I am afraid of
losing my life, if you want to know the truth. We are watched all the
time. They know you are out of town and are searching for you.”
“They found me,” said the girl coolly. “I am staying at Brighton.”
“We have made a big haul and it will take us a year to get rid of it,”
Gregori went on, “but when we _have_ got rid of it, we shall have
enough to settle down.”
“But why do you want to settle down?” she asked.
“My dear Kate,” said her uncle querulously, “don’t ask absurd
questions. You know there is no reason in the world why we should not
settle down. We have enough money.”
“Exactly what do you mean by settling down?” she insisted. “I am not
being sarcastic. I merely want information. You have taught me that it
is the game and not the prize that is worth while. That has been my
life’s teaching. Why, you told me if you were a millionaire,” she
looked at her uncle under her bent brows, “nothing would induce you to
be ‘dull and honest.’ Those were your words.”
“My dear child,” said Colonel Westhanger, “I have told you lots of
things which have to be interpreted in a liberal spirit. We have had
all the fun we want and now we will--”
He was at a loss in his desire to avoid a tautological repetition of a
certain phrase.
“Settle down,” she suggested; “be dull and honest?”
“But, surely, Kate,” said Gregori impatiently, “you don’t want to be a
hunted beast all your life?”
“Why not?” she asked in astonishment. “It is just as much fun being
hunted as hunting. You have said that a score of times. Does Michael
Pretherston--”
“Oh, hang Michael Pretherston,” said Gregori.
“Does Michael Pretherston,” she went on, “get as much fun out of
chasing me, as I get out of escaping him? Does Michael Pretherston
find the same exhilaration of mind in following on my tracks as I find
in keeping ahead of him?”
“Anyway,” said Gregori. “I have had enough of it and I want to go out
of the business and I advise you to do the same. And there is another
thing, Kate--”
He looked at the Colonel for support, but Colonel Westhanger found it
convenient at that moment to be staring at the skylight.
“What is the other thing?” she asked.
“Well, you know I am fond of you,” he said, “and I want to--” he
floundered.
“Settle down,” she suggested innocently; “what is all this ‘settling
down’ that everybody loves so much? Does it mean we shall never plan
another great coup?” She leant her elbows on the table. “Honestly, I
am not being wilfully dense. I know money is useful, because it helps
one to prepare the way for making more money, but I have not been in
this,” she waved her hand, “in all these things for money. I told
Michael Pretherston so and he believed me.”
“What have you been telling Michael Pretherston?” asked Gregori
suspiciously.
“I told him that,” she said simply.
“But, my dear girl,” said her uncle, “fun and excitement and all that
sort of thing are well enough in their way, but you don’t mean to tell
me, at this hour, that you have not been working for the ‘stuff’?”
“I will tell you as much at this or any other hour,” she answered
immediately.
“I see,” said Gregori with a faint smile, “then really you are what I
would call a criminal artist--art for art’s sake, eh?”
“I mean that,” she said again. “One must not judge one’s successes by
the amount of money one has made.”
“That is how I joodge it,” said the thick voice of Francis Stockmar;
“so much mooney, so much sugsess, isn’t it?”
“I tell you frankly,” said Gregori. “I am in this for the money and so
is your uncle. We have taken many risks, some of us have been caught
and some of us,” he said significantly, “have been lucky. I’ve got
thirty years in front of me, with any luck, and so I am going to--”