The Man Who Lost Himself Part 16

Rochester had been plucked right and left by these harpies. He had received five thousand pounds for land worth a million from the father, he had paid eight thousand, or a good part of eight thousand to the daughter. Fine business that!

I compared Jones, when he was fighting Voles, to a terrier. He had a good deal of the terrier in his composition, the honesty, the rooting out instinct, and the fury before vermin. Men run in animal groups, and if you study animals you will be surprised by nothing so much as the old race fury that breaks out in the most civilized animal before the old race quarry or enemy.

For a few seconds, as he paced the floor, Jones was in the mental condition of a dog in proximity to a hutched badger. Then he began to think clearly. The obvious fact before him was that Voles, the Plinlimons and Mulhausen were a gang; the presumptive fact was that the money paid in blackmail had gone back to Mulhausen, or at least a great part of it.

Was Mulhausen the spider of the web? Were all the rest his tools and implements?

Jones had a good deal of instinctive knowledge of women. He did not in his heart believe that a woman could be so utterly vile as to use love letters directed to her for the purpose of extracting money from the man who wrote them. Or rather that, whilst she might use them, it was improbable that she would invent the method. The whole business had the stamp of a mind masculine and utterly unscrupulous. Even at first he had glimpsed this vaguely, when he considered it probable that Lord Plinlimon had a hand in the affair.

"Now," thought Jones, "if I could bring this home to Mulhausen, I could squeeze back that coal mine from him. I could sure."

He sat down and lit another cigar to a.s.sist him in dealing with this problem.

It was very easy to say "squeeze Mulhausen," it was a different thing to do it. He came to this conclusion after a few minutes' earnest concentration of mind on that problematical person. Hitherto he had been dealing with small men and wasters. Voles was a plain scoundrel, quite easily overthrown by direct methods. But Marcus Mulhausen he guessed to be a big man. The first thing to be done was to verify this supposition.

He rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church.

"Come in," said he, when the latter appeared, "and shut the door. I want to ask you something."

"Yes, my Lord."

"It's just this. I want you to tell me what you think of Lord Plinlimon, and what you have heard said about him. I have my own opinions--I want yours."

"Well, my Lord," began Church. "It's not for me to say anything against his Lordship, but since you ask me I will say that it's generally the opinion that his Lordship is a bit--soft."

"Do you think he's straight?"

"Yes, my Lord--that is to say--"

"Spit it out," said Jones.

"Well, my Lord, he owes money, that's well known; and I've heard it said a good deal of money has been lost at cards in his house, but not through his fault. Indeed, you yourself said something to me to that effect, my Lord."

"Yes, so I did--But what I want to get at is this. Do you think he's a man who would do a scoundrelly thing--that's plain?"

"Oh, no, my Lord, he's straight enough. It's the other party."

"Meaning his wife?"

"No, my Lord--her brother, Mr. Julian."

"Ah!"

Church warmed a bit. "He's always about there, lives with them mostly.

You see, my Lord, he has no what you may call status of his own, but he manages to get known to people through her Ladyship."

"Kind of sucker," said Jones.

Mr. Church a.s.sented. The expression was new to him, but it seemed to apply.

Then Jones dismissed him.

The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member of the gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen.

"To-morrow," said Jones to himself, "I will go for these chaps. Voles is the key to the lot of them, and I have Voles completely under my thumb."

Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinking of the girl--his wife--Rochester's wife.

The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not know it.

He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and he returned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow.

He had looked himself up again in "Who's Who," and found that his wife's name was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that he had captured it, it stuck like a burr in his mind. If he could only make good over the Mulhausen proposition, re-capture that mine, prove himself--would she, if he told her all--would she--?

He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa.

CHAPTER XIII

TERESA

He woke up next morning, to find the vision of Teresa, Countess of Rochester--so he called her--standing by his bedside.

Have you ever for a moment considered the influence of women? Go to a public meeting composed entirely of men and see what a heavy affair it can be, especially if you are a speaker; sprinkle a few women through the audience, and behold the livening effect. At a party or a public meeting in the Wheat Pit or the battlefield, women, or the recollection of a woman, form or forms one of the greatest liveners to conversation, speech, or action. Most men fight the battle of life for a woman. Jones, as he sat up and drank his morning tea, gazing the while at the vision of Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had found, almost unknown to himself, a new incentive to action.

The position yesterday had begun to sag, very little would have made him "quit," take a hundred pounds from the eight thousand and a pa.s.sage by the next boat to the States; but that girl in the Victoria, those eyes, that voice, those words--they had altered everything.

Was he in love? Perhaps not, but he was fascinated, held, dazzled.

More than that, the world seemed strange--brighter; he felt younger, filled with an energy of a new brand. He whistled as he crossed the floor to look out of the window, and as he tubbed he splashed the water about like a boy.

It was easy to see that the unfortunate man had tumbled into a position more fantastic and infinitely more dangerous than any position he had hitherto occupied since setting foot in the house of Rochester.

That vanished and fantastic humourist would have found plenty to feed his thoughts could he have returned.

The cheque book from the National Provincial Bank arrived by the first post, and after breakfast he put it aside in a drawer of the bureau in the smoking room. He glanced through the usual sheaf of letters from unknown people, tradesmen, whose accounts were marked "account rendered"

and gentlemen who signed themselves with the names of counties. One of the latter seemed indignant.

"I take this d--d bad of you, Rochester," said he. "I've found it out at last, you are the man responsible for that telegram. I lost three days and a night's sleep rushing up to c.u.mberland on a wild goose chase, and I'm telling people all about it. Some day you'll land yourself in a mess. Jokes that may be funny amongst board school boys are out of place amongst men.

"LANGWATHBY."

Jones determined to send Langwathby a telegram of apology when he had time to look his name up in "Who's Who"; then he put the letters aside, called for his hat and cane and left the house.

He was going to Voles first.

Voles was his big artillery. He guessed that the fight with Marcus Mulhausen would be a battle to the death. He reckoned a lot on Voles. In Trafalgar Square he called a taxi and told the driver to take him to Jermyn Street.