The Datchet Diamonds Part 9

Mr. Paxton turned round so quickly that some of the liquor which was in the gla.s.s that he was holding was thrown out upon the floor. The speaker proved to be a rather short and thick-set man, with a stubbly grey beard and whiskers, and a pair of shrewd, brown eyes. Mr. Paxton beheld him with as few signs of satisfaction as he had evinced on first beholding Mr. Lawrence. He tried to pa.s.s off his evident discomposure with a laugh.

"You! You're a pretty sort of fellow to startle a man like that!"

"Did I startle you?"

"When a man's dreaming of angels, he's easily startled. What's your liquid?"

"Scotch, cold. Who was that you were talking to just now?"

Mr. Paxton shot at the stranger a keen, inquisitorial glance.

"What do you mean?"

"Weren't you talking to somebody as I came in?--two men, weren't there?"

"Oh yes! One of them I never met in my life before, and I never want to meet again. The other, the younger, I was introduced to yesterday."

"The younger--what's his name?"

"Lawrence. Do you know him?"

The stranger appeared not to notice the second hurried, almost anxious look which Mr. Paxton cast in his direction.

"I fancied I did. But I don't know any one of the name of Lawrence. I must have been wrong."

Mr. Paxton applied himself to his gla.s.s. It appeared, he told himself, that he was in bad luck's way. Only one person could have been more unwelcome just at the moment than Mr. Lawrence had been, and that person had actually followed hard on Mr. Lawrence's heels. As is the way with men of his cla.s.s, who frequent the highways and the byways of great cities, Mr. Paxton had a very miscellaneous acquaintance. Among them were not a few officers of police. He had rather prided himself on this fact--as men of his sort are apt to do. But now he almost wished that he had never been conscious that such a thing as a policeman existed in the world; for there--at the moment when he was least wanted--standing at his side, was one of the most famous of London detectives; a man who was high in the confidence of the dignitaries at the "Yard"; a man, too, with whom he had had one or two familiar pa.s.sages, and whom he could certainly not treat with the same stand-off air with which he had treated Mr. Lawrence.

He understood now why the a.s.sociates had stood not on the order of their going; it was not fear of him, as in his conceit he had supposed, which had sped their heels; it was fear of John Ireland.

Gentlemen of Mr. Lawrence's kidney were pretty sure to know a man of Mr. Ireland's reputation, at any rate by sight. The "office" had been given him that a "tec." was in the neighbourhood, and Mr. Lawrence had taken himself away just in time, as he hoped, to escape recognition.

That that hope was vain was obvious from what John Ireland had said.

In spite of his disclaiming any knowledge of a man named Lawrence, Mr.

Paxton had little doubt that both men had been "spotted."

A wild impulse came to him. He seemed to be drifting, each second, into deeper and deeper waters. Why not take advantage of what might, after all, be another rope thrown out to him by chance? Why not make a clean breast of everything to Ireland? Why not go right before it was, indeed, too late--return her diamonds to the sorrowing d.u.c.h.ess, and make an end of his wild dreams of fortune? No; that he would--he could not do. At least not yet. He had committed himself to Daisy, to Miss Wentworth. There was plenty of time. He could, if he chose, play the part of harlequin, and with a touch of his magic wand at any time change the scene. He even tried to flatter himself that he might play the part of an amateur detective, and track the criminals on original--and Fabian!--lines of his own; but self-flattery of that sort was too gross even for his digestion.

"Nice affair that of the d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds."

The gla.s.s almost dropped from Mr. Paxton's hand. The utterance of the words at that identical instant was of course but a coincidence; but it was a coincidence of a kind which made it extremely difficult for him to retain even a vestige of self-control. Fortunately, perhaps, Mr. Ireland appeared to be unconscious of his agitation. Putting his gla.s.s down on the bar-counter, he twisted it round and round by the stem. He tried to modulate his voice into a tone of complete indifference.

"The d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds? What do you mean?"

"Haven't you heard?"

Mr. Paxton hesitated. He felt that it might be just as well not to feign too much innocence in dealing with John Ireland.

"Saw something about it as I came down in the train."

"I thought you had. Came down from town?"

"Yes--just for the run."

"Came in the same train with Mr. Lawrence?"

"I rather fancy I did."

"He was in the next compartment to yours, wasn't he?"

Mr. Ireland's manner was almost ostentatiously careless, and he seemed to be entirely occupied in the contents of his gla.s.s, but for some reason Mr. Paxton was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable.

"Was he? I wasn't aware of it. I noticed him on the platform when the train got in."

"With his friend?"

"Yes--the other man was with him."

"Went into the refreshment-room with them, didn't you, and had a drink?"

Mr. Paxton turned and looked at the speaker; Mr. Ireland seemed, as it were, to studiously refrain from looking at him.

"Upon my word, Ireland, you seem to have kept a keen eye upon my movements."

"I came down by that train too; you didn't appear to notice me."

Mr. Paxton wished--he scarcely knew why, but he did wish--that he had.

He admitted that the detective had gone unrecognised, and there was a pause, broken by Mr. Ireland.

"I am inclined to think that I know where those diamonds are."

Odd how conscience--or is it the want of experience?--plays havoc with the nervous system of the amateur in crime. Ordinarily, Mr. Paxton was scarcely conscious that he had such things as nerves; he was about as cool an individual as you would be likely to meet. But since lighting on those sparkling pebbles in somebody else's Gladstone bag, he had been one ma.s.s of nerves, and of exposed nerves, too. Like some substance which is in the heart of a thunderstorm, and which is peculiarly sensitive to the propinquity of electricity, he had been receiving a continual succession of shocks. When Mr. Ireland said in that unexpected and, as Mr. Paxton felt, uncalled-for fas.h.i.+on that he thought that he knew where those diamonds were, Mr. Paxton was the recipient of another shock upon the spot. Half a dozen times it had been with an effort that he had just succeeded in not betraying himself; he had to make another and a similar effort then.

"You think that you know where those diamonds are?"

"I do!"

There was silence; then the officer of the law went on. Mr. Paxton wished within himself that he would not.

"You're a sporting man, Mr. Paxton. I wouldn't mind making a bet that they're not far off! There's a chance for you!"

"Oh!" It was not at all a sort of bet which Mr. Paxton was disposed to take, nor a kind of chance he relished. "Thanks; but it's a thing about which you're likely to know more than I do; I'm not betting. Are you on the job?"

"Half the Yard is on the job already."

Silence once more; then again Mr. Ireland. He stood holding his gla.s.s in his hand, twiddling it between his finger and thumb, and all his faculties seemed to be engaged in making an exhaustive examination of the liquor it contained; but Mr. Paxton almost felt as if his voice had been the voice of fate.

"The man who has those diamonds will find that they won't be of the slightest use to him. He'll find that they'll be as difficult to get rid of as the Koh-i-Nor. Like the chap who stole the Gainsborough, he'll find himself in possession of a white elephant. Every dealer of reputation, in every part of the world, who is likely to deal in such things knows the Datchet diamonds as well as, if not better than, the Duke himself. The chap who has them will have to sell them to a fence.

That fence will give him no more for them than if they were the commonest trumpery. And for this very good reason--the fence will either have to lock them up, and bequeath them to his great-grandson, on the offchance of his having face enough to put them on the market; or else he will have to break them up and offer them to the trade as if they were the ordinary stones of commerce, just turned up by the shovel. If I were on the cross, Mr. Paxton, I wouldn't have those sparklers if they were offered me for nothing. I should be able to get very little for them; the odds are they would quod me; and you may take this from me, that for the man--I don't care who he is, first offender or not--who is found with the d.u.c.h.ess of Datchet's diamonds in his possession, it's a lifer!"

Mr. Paxton was silent for a moment or two after the detective had ceased. He took another drink; it might have been that his lips stood in need of being moistened.