The Burglars' Club Part 29

"There is a further matter to consider--a message from Mr. Meyer, which demands a reply. Colonel Altamont, as the _doyen_ of our club, we look to your premature grey hairs for guidance."

Altamont rose amidst general applause.

"Your Grace, my lords and gentlemen," he began. "It is surely unnecessary to ask for my opinion on the situation. Our existence is now known to the outside world. Twice has this detective, Marvell, been within reach of us. Someone has betrayed us, and I for one do not intend to rest until I have traced that traitor. But this is not the matter before us now.

"Though Mr. Meyer objects to sport, he has behaved like a perfect sportsman. (Hear, hear.) For his courtesy we wish to express our hearty thanks and appreciation; but for his suggestion that we should disband we surely have one answer only, and that is: Never, never, never."

The words were re-echoed on all sides.

"Our club would indeed have fallen on degenerate days," continued Altamont, when quiet was restored, "if the fact of its existence being known were promptly to bring about its end. Surely the fact that we are watched should give an added zest to our proceedings, which have been all too monotonously serene. The knowledge that Scotland Yard is acting, and that we carry our personal liberty in our hands, should spur us on to the Homeric deeds for the perpetration of which we exist.

"Ingletree's postscript is pathetic, and vividly shows the present unbalanced state of his mind. He asks whether we consider that under Mr.

Meyer's terms he is at liberty to fish. My own feeling is that I would have suffered a long period of incarceration rather than have surrendered my right to act as a free and independent Englishman; but Ingletree, having accepted his liberty on Mr. Meyer's stupendous terms, has surely forfeited his right to again take life in any form. If he so much as nets a minnow he has no option but to surrender himself forthwith at the Bournemouth Police Station.

"We all regret the loss of our once brilliant member, but it is obvious from Ingletree's behaviour during the last few days that he is not the man he was when he paid his entrance fee by the production of--what was it, Mr. Secretary?--the Mace of the House of Commons?"

"No, sir," replied the Secretary. "That was Mr. Henderson's fee. Sir Rupert Ingletree entered with the Portland Vase, from the British Museum."

"Ah, quite so. Thank you. And a very smart bit of work it was, I remember. It is regrettable that Sir Rupert could not be here in person this evening to advance any extenuating circ.u.mstances; but as he is probably under the surveillance of Scotland Yard we appreciate his reason for adopting the medium of the Postmaster-General for communicating with us. I therefore propose that Sir Rupert Ingletree's resignation be accepted, and that, with the Holbein picture, which we at once return to its owner in accordance with our rule, we send a letter expressing our appreciation of Mr. Meyer's magnanimity, and our regret that we are unable to disband. We can leave it to our Secretary to couch this in the neat epigrammatic style for which he is famed in the Chancelleries of Europe."

XI.

THE VICTORIA CROSS.

"IT seems to me," said his Grace of Dorchester, "that the Army has been abominably neglected by us. On looking through our archives, I do not come across the record of a single military achievement. In the Church and in the State, in Diplomacy and Commerce, in Science, Art, and Literature, our activities are marked, but we have unaccountably left the Services alone. Our enemies--if such there be--might unkindly suggest that we have purposely refrained from interfering with the most vigorous portion of the community. To avoid this reproach, and to make good the omission, I therefore propose a series of three military raids, the first to be immediately undertaken by Mr. Maxwell-Pitt, who will have the opportunity of renewing his subscription at our next meeting by the production of the last Victoria Cross bestowed by His Majesty."

As the result of inquiries, Mr. Maxwell-Pitt learned that the last Victoria Cross had been given to Captain Sefton Richards, who had rescued a wounded soldier from the Somali, and, single-handed, had kept the enemy at bay till support arrived.

"H'm!" reflected Maxwell-Pitt. "He'll be a tough customer to tackle. It strikes me that if I pull this off I shall have earned the Blue Riband of the Club. I wonder where the beggar is stationed?"

Further inquiries elicited the fact that Captain Richards was at present spending his well-earned leave with his sister, who lived at Bamburn, in Lincolnshire.

The next meeting of the Club had been fixed for the 22nd of the month.

On the 19th Maxwell-Pitt set out for Bamburn.

It was an ancient country town. Once it had been an ecclesiastical centre--as its minster still bore witness--but now it was given up to the sale of sheep and the manufacture of chocolate. In its outskirts was a number of highly eligible residences, and in one of these, the bequest of an uncle who was the inventor of chocolate caramels, lived Miss Richards.

Maxwell-Pitt learnt some of this from the local directory, and some from the waiter at the inn, the night of his arrival; and on the following morning he made his way to the neighbourhood of Burgoyne Lodge--so Miss Richards' house was styled--and sat down on a seat thoughtfully provided by the local district council. He waited there a long time, apparently deeply absorbed in the columns of a sporting paper, but in reality rarely taking his eyes from the house.

At eleven o'clock his patience was rewarded. The gate opened, and two people came out. The man--tall, straight, and bronzed--was obviously Captain Richards, the lady probably his sister. Mr. Maxwell-Pitt saw them disappear along the road in the direction of the town, and then he approached the house to take in its bearings. It was the last building on the road, and it was closely surrounded by a belt of trees; behind the trees were thick bushes. This screen effectually concealed the house from the road--for the inventor of chocolate caramels had been a recluse by nature--so, in order to obtain a better view of it, Maxwell-Pitt got over the wall, and peered through the bushes.

It was a solid Georgian dwelling, with two windows on each side of the door. Which window should he attempt to force? The end ones would be farthest from the hall, and perhaps the safest. Or would it be better to try the back? Confound it!

His eyes had been so intently fixed on the house that he had omitted to notice an occupant of the garden, but now he was aware that a trimly and plainly gowned little woman who was engaged in cutting flowers had stopped in her work, and was watching him. The position was ridiculous.

What excuse could he offer? He turned round, got over the wall again, and walked quickly away, with the conviction that he had made a blunder, criminal in a professional, and unpardonable even for an amateur.

During the afternoon, while he was walking down the main street of the town, wondering at the number of sheep the land contained--for it was market day--he came face to face with the same good-looking, dapper little person he had seen in the grounds of Burgoyne Lodge. She had appeared from a side street, and no escape was open to him. He fixed his eyes on the celebrated Perpendicular architecture of the minster tower, hoping to escape her attention, but, to his surprise, she stopped him.

"Pardon me, I think we have seen one another before," she said slowly, and with a marked foreign intonation.

"Of course we have," he replied, as he took off his hat. "I remember the occasion perfectly. How do you do?" Then he added, unblushingly, "And how is your sister?"

"I thank you," she answered. "My sister would, no doubt, be quite well if I had one. But please do not make romances. I saw you this morning at Burgoyne Lodge. I know what you want."

"The d.i.c.kens you do!" he exclaimed in blank amazement. "And pray what is it?"

"I think it is something that does not belong to you," she said, her dark eyes looking steadily at him.

"Indeed! And how do you know that?"

She shrugged her shoulders expressively. "_Cela n'importe_," she answered. "If you please, let us walk on so that we do not draw attention. Yes, I know what you want, and I think that I can a.s.sist you a little."

"It's very good of you to suggest it," said Maxwell-Pitt as they walked along the street; "and I'm sure I'm much obliged to you. I'm not accustomed to this sort of business, you know."

"You have made the same business once before," she said.

"You are really remarkably well informed," he replied. "The least you can do is to tell me how you come to know these things."

"Do not waste the time," she said impatiently. "I am Adele, Miss Richards' maid. She is in town with her brother, the captain. They must not see us together. When do you intend to--to----" She hesitated.

"To pick mushrooms, shall we call it?" he answered.

"To--pick--mushrooms?" she repeated, with a puzzled look. Then she smiled. "Ah, I understand. Yes, when do you intend to pick the fine mushrooms?"

"As soon as I know where they are, and how to get them. If you a.s.sist me it will, of course, make matters easy for me."

"To-night?"

"Mademoiselle, you are a thought-reader. You antic.i.p.ate my wishes.

To-night, by all means."

"Then I will see that one of the windows is left unlatched. _Mon Dieu!_ Meet me here at this place at nine o'clock." With this she turned abruptly round the corner they were pa.s.sing, and disappeared into a shop.

Maxwell-Pitt glanced ahead, and saw Captain and Miss Richards approaching. They might not have seen him with the maid, for they were in earnest conversation. Captain Richards only glanced casually at him in pa.s.sing.

"Well, this is what I call remarkable--simply re-markable," said Maxwell-Pitt to himself as he walked to his hotel. "How on earth should she know of the V.C. business, and, what is more, that I had to pay my entrance fee by a previous burglary? Who could have told her? I wonder why any member should be so extremely anxious to a.s.sist me... . Stop!

Was it really a member? There's that man Marvell--the detective. He has been present at two former burglaries--called in by accident, certainly, but he has his eye on us, and perhaps he now has some means of finding out in advance the task set to members. The remarkably obliging Adele may be merely a female detective. She may a.s.sist me to get into the house, and show me where the V.C. is, and then, when I get it, her friend Marvell will appear. In that case Richards and his sister are in the know, and this apparently casual meeting just now, and Adele's annoyance, was pre-arranged to throw me off the scent. It seems to me, Maxwell-Pitt, that you'll have to be very careful what you are about, or you'll be landed to-night, and by a woman."

That evening he kept his appointment at the street-corner. The maid was late. The clocks had chimed the quarter before she came, hot and breathless--not her cool, nonchalant self of the morning.

"It has been so difficult to leave," she explained. "Miss Richards would have me to read to her after the dinner. Walter Scott! And me dying all the time to be here, Mr.---- What shall I call you?"

"Jones," said Maxwell-Pitt, "is a dreamy, romantic name, very suitable for a mushroom picker."