The Datchet Diamonds Part 8

"The Gladstone bag which you brought with you in the train from town, eh?"

Mr. Paxton gazed at his questioner with, on his countenance, an entire absence of any sort of comprehension. He turned to Mr. Lawrence--

"Is this a friend of yours?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "What was the colour of your Gladstone bag, eh?" _The Datchet Diamonds_. _Page_ 82.]

The pair looked at Mr. Paxton, then at each other, then back at Mr.

Paxton, then again at each other. The German-American waggled his lean forefinger.

"He is very difficult, Mr. Paxton--very difficult indeed, eh? He understand nothing. It is strange. But it is like that sometimes, eh?"

Mr. Lawrence interposed.

"Look here, I'll be plain enough, even for you, Mr. Paxton. Have you got my Gladstone bag?"

Mr. Lawrence still spoke softly, but as he put his question Mr. Paxton was conscious that his eyes were fixed on him with a singular intentness, and his friend's eyes, and the eyes of the man who half concealed them with his hat, and, unless he was mistaken, the eyes of another shabby individual who was seated at a second table, between himself and the door. Indeed, he had a dim perception that sharp eyes were watching him from all over the s.p.a.cious room, and that they waited for his words. Still, he managed to retain very fair control over his presence of mind.

"Your Gladstone bag! I! What the deuce do you mean?"

"What I say--have you got my Gladstone bag?"

Mr. Paxton drew himself up. Something of menace came on to his face and into his eyes. His tone became hard and dry.

"Either I still altogether fail to understand you, Mr. Lawrence, or else I understand too much. Your question is such a singular one that I must ask you to explain what construction I am intended to place upon it."

The two men regarded each other steadily, eye to eye. It is possible that Mr. Paxton read more in Mr. Lawrence's glance than Mr. Lawrence read in his, for Mr. Paxton perceived quite clearly that, in spite of the man's seeming gentleness, on the little voyage on which he was setting forth he would have to look out, at the very least, for squalls. The German-American broke the silence.

"It is that Mr. Paxton has not yet opened the Gladstone bag, and seen that a little exchange has taken place--is that so, eh?"

Mr. Paxton understood that the question was as a loophole through which he might escape. He might still rid himself of what already he dimly saw might turn out to be something worse than an Old Man of the Sea upon his shoulders. But he deliberately declined to avail himself of the proffered chance. On the contrary, by his reply he burnt his boats, and so finally cut off his escape--at any rate in that direction.

"Opened it? Of course I opened it! I opened it directly I got in. I've no more idea of what you two men are talking about than the man in the moon."

Once more the friends exchanged glances, and again Mr. Lawrence asked a question.

"Mr. Paxton, I've a particular reason for asking, and I should therefore feel obliged if you will tell me what your bag was like?"

Mr. Paxton never hesitated--he took his second fence in his stride.

"Mine? It's a black bag--rather old--with my initials on one side--stuck pretty well all over with luggage labels. But why do you ask?"

Again the two men's eyes met, Mr. Lawrence regarding the other with a glance which seemed as if it would have penetrated to his inmost soul.

This time, however, Mr. Paxton's own eyes never wavered. He returned the other's look with every appearance of _sang froid_. Mr. Lawrence's voice continued to be soft and gentle.

"You are sure that yours was not a new brown bag?"

"Sure! Of course I'm sure! It was black; and, as for being new--well, it was seven or eight years old at least."

"Would you mind my having a look at it?"

"What do you want to have a look at it for?"

"I should esteem it a favour if you would permit me."

"Why should I?"

Again the two men's glances met. The German-American spoke.

"Where are you stopping, Mr. Paxton, eh?"

Wheeling round, Mr. Paxton treated the inquirer to anything but an enlightening answer.

"What has that to do with you? Although a perfect stranger to me--and one to whom I would rather remain a stranger--you appear to take a degree of interest in my affairs which I can only characterize as--impertinent."

"It is not meant to be impertinent, oh, dear no; oh, no, Mr Paxton, eh?"

Putting up his clawlike hand, the fellow began to rub it against his apology for a chin. Mr. Paxton turned his attention to Mr. Lawrence; it was a peculiarity of that gentleman's bearing that since his appearance on the scene he had never for a single instant removed his beautiful blue eyes from Mr. Paxton's countenance.

"You have asked me one or two curious questions, without giving me any sort of explanation; now perhaps you won't mind answering one or two for me. Have you lost a bag?"

"I can scarcely say that I have lost it. I am parted from it--for a time."

Mr. Paxton stared, as if not comprehending.

"I trust that the parting may not be longer than you appear to antic.i.p.ate. Was there anything in it of value?"

"A few trifles, which I should not care to lose."

"Where, as you phrase it, did the parting take place?"

"In the refreshment-room at the Central Station--when you went out of it."

Mr. Paxton flushed--it might have been a smart bit of acting, but it was a genuine flush. He looked at the soft-toned but sufficiently incisive speaker as if he would have liked to have knocked him down; possibly, too, came very near to trying to do it. Then seemed to remember himself, confining himself instead to language which was as harsh and as haughty as he could conveniently make it.

"That is not the first time you have dropped a similar insinuation.

But it shall be the last. I do not wish to have a scene in a public place, but if you address me again I will call the attention of the attendants to you, and I will have you removed."

So saying, Mr. Paxton, wheeling round on his heels, favoured the offender with a capital view of his back. To be frank, he hardly expected that his Bombastes Furioso air would prove of much effect. He had reason to think that Mr. Lawrence was not the sort of person to allow himself to be cowed by such a very unsubstantial weapon as tall-talk. His surprise was, therefore, the greater when, the words being scarcely out of his mouth, the German-American, touching his a.s.sociate on the arm, made to him some sort of a sign, and without another word the two marched off together. Somewhat oddly, as it seemed, when they went out two or three other persons went out also; but Mr. Paxton particularly noticed that the man with the hat over his eyes who was seated at the little table remained behind, suddenly appearing, however, to have all his faculties absorbed in a newspaper which had been lying hitherto neglected just in front of him.

Mr. Paxton congratulated himself on the apparent effect which his words had had.

"That's a good riddance, anyhow. I don't think that I'm of the sort that's easily bluffed, but the odds were against me, and--well--the stakes are high--very high!"

As Mr. Paxton took off his hat to wipe his forehead it almost seemed that his temperature was high as well as the stakes. He called for another whisky and soda, As he sipped it, he inquired of himself how long it would be advisable for him to stop before taking his departure; he had no desire to find the enterprising a.s.sociates waiting for him in the street. While he meditated some one addressed him from behind, in precisely the same words which Mr. Lawrence had originally used. Commonplace though they were, as they reached his ears they seemed to give him a sort of thrill.

"Good evening, Mr. Paxton."