Mrs. Pett, on leaving the luncheon-table, had returned to thedrawing-room to sit beside the sick-settee of her stricken child.
She was troubled about Ogden. The poor lamb was not at allhimself to-day. A bowl of clear soup, the midday meal prescribedby Doctor Briginshaw, lay untasted at his side.
She crossed the room softly, and placed a cool hand on her son'saching brow.
"Oh, Gee," said Ogden wearily.
"Are you feeling a little better, Oggie darling?""No," said Ogden firmly. "I'm feeling a lot worse.""You haven't drunk your nice soup.""Feed it to the cat.""Could you eat a nice bowl of bread-and-milk, precious?""Have a heart," replied the sufferer.
Mrs. Pett returned to her seat, sorrowfully. It struck her as anodd coincidence that the poor child was nearly always like thison the morning after she had been entertaining guests; she put itdown to the reaction from the excitement working on ahighly-strung temperament. To his present collapse the brutalbehaviour of Jerry Mitchell had, of course, contributed. Everydrop of her maternal blood boiled with rage and horror whenevershe permitted herself to contemplate the excesses of the lateJerry. She had always mistrusted the man. She had never liked hisface--not merely on aesthetic grounds but because she had seemedto detect in it a lurking savagery. How right events had provedthis instinctive feeling. Mrs. Pett was not vulgar enough todescribe the feeling, even to herself, as a hunch, but a hunch ithad been; and, like every one whose hunches have proved correct,she was conscious in the midst of her grief of a certaincomplacency. It seemed to her that hers must be an intelligenceand insight above the ordinary.
The peace of the early afternoon settled upon the drawing-room.
Mrs. Pett had taken up a book; Ogden, on the settee, breathedstentorously. Faint snores proceeded from the basket in thecorner where Aida, the Pomeranian, lay curled in refreshingsleep. Through the open window floated sounds of warmth andSummer.
Yielding to the drowsy calm, Mrs. Pett was just nodding into apleasant nap, when the door opened and Lord Wisbeach came in.
Lord Wisbeach had been doing some rapid thinking. Rapid thoughtis one of the essentials in the composition of men who are knownas Gentleman Jack to the boys and whose livelihood is won only bya series of arduous struggles against the forces of Society andthe machinations of Potter and his gang. Condensed into capsuleform, his lordship's meditations during the minutes after he hadleft Jimmy in the dining-room amounted to the realisation thatthe best mode of defence is attack. It is your man who knows howto play the bold game on occasion who wins. A duller schemer thanLord Wisbeach might have been content to be inactive after such aconversation as had just taken place between himself and Jimmy.
His lordship, giving the matter the concentrated attention of histrained mind, had hit on a better plan, and he had come to thedrawing-room now to put it into effect.
His entrance shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Aida, who hadbeen gurgling apoplectically, sprang snarling from the basket,and made for the intruder open-mouthed. Her shrill barking rangthrough the room.
Lord Wisbeach hated little dogs. He hated and feared them. Manymen of action have these idiosyncrasies. He got behind a chairand said "There, there." Aida, whose outburst was mere sound andfury and who had no intention whatever of coming to blows,continued the demonstration from a safe distance, till Mrs. Pett,swooping down, picked her up and held her in her lap, where sheconsented to remain, growling subdued defiance. Lord Wisbeachcame out from behind his chair and sat down warily.
"Can I have a word with you, Mrs. Pett?""Certainly, Lord Wisbeach."His lordship looked meaningly at Ogden.
"In private, you know."He then looked meaningly at Mrs. Pett.
"Ogden darling," said Mrs. Pett, "I think you had better go toyour room and undress and get into bed. A little nice sleep mightdo you all the good in the world."With surprising docility, the boy rose.
"All right," he said.
"Poor Oggie is not at all well to-day," said Mrs. Pett, when hewas gone. "He is very subject to these attacks. What do you wantto tell me, Lord Wisbeach?"His lordship drew his chair a little closer.
"Mrs. Pett, you remember what I told you yesterday?""Of course.""Might I ask what you know of this man who has come here callinghimself Jimmy Crocker?"Mrs. Pett started. She remembered that she had used almost thatvery expression to Ann. Her suspicions, which had been lulled bythe prompt recognition of the visitor by Skinner and LordWisbeach, returned. It is one of the effects of a successfulhunch that it breeds other hunches. She had been right aboutJerry Mitchell; was she to be proved right about the self-styledJimmy Crocker?
"You have seen your nephew, I believe?""Never. But--""That man," said Lord Wisbeach impassively, "is not your nephew."Mrs. Pett thrilled all down her spine. She had been right.
"But you--""But I pretended to recognise him? Just so. For a purpose. Iwanted to make him think that I suspected nothing.""Then you think--?""Remember what I said to you yesterday.""But Skinner--the butler--recognised him?""Exactly. It goes to prove that what I said about Skinner wascorrect. They are working together. The thing is self-evident.
Look at it from your point of view. How simple it is. This manpretends to an intimate acquaintance with Skinner. You take thatas evidence of Skinner's honesty. Skinner recognises this man.
You take that as proof that this man is really your nephew. Thefact that Skinner recognised as Jimmy Crocker a man who is notJimmy Crocker condemns him.""But why did you--?""I told you that I pretended to accept this man as the real JimmyCrocker for a purpose. At present there is nothing that you cando. Mere impersonation is not a crime. If I had exposed him whenwe met, you would have gained nothing beyond driving him from thehouse. Whereas, if we wait, if we pretend to suspect nothing, weshall undoubtedly catch him red-handed in an attempt on yournephew's invention.""You are sure that that is why he has come?""What other reason could he have?""I thought he might be trying to kidnap Ogden."Lord Wisbeach frowned thoughtfully. He had not taken thisconsideration into account.
"It is possible," he said. "There have been several attemptsmade, have there not, to kidnap your son?""At one time," said Mrs. Pett proudly, "there was not a child inAmerica who had to be more closely guarded. Why, the kidnappershad a special nick-name for Oggie. They called him the LittleNugget.""Of course, then, it is quite possible that that may be the man'sobject. In any case, our course must be the same. We must watchevery move he makes." He paused. "I could help--pardon mysuggesting it--I could help a great deal more if you were toinvite me to live in the house. You were kind enough to ask me tovisit you in the country, but it will be two weeks before you goto the Country, and in those two weeks--""You must come here at once, Lord Wisbeach. To-night. To-day.""I think that would be the best plan.""I cannot tell you how grateful I am for all you are doing.""You have been so kind to me, Mrs. Pett," said Lord Wisbeach withfeeling, "that it is surely only right that I should try to makesome return. Let us leave it at this then. I will come hereto-night and will make it my business to watch these two men. Iwill go and pack my things and have them sent here.""It is wonderful of you, Lord Wisbeach.""Not at all," replied his lordship. "It will be a pleasure."He held out his hand, drawing it back rapidly as the dog Aidamade a snap at it. Substituting a long-range leave-taking for themore intimate farewell, he left the room.
When he had gone, Mrs. Pett remained for some minutes, thinking.
She was aflame with excitement. She had a sensational mind, andit had absorbed Lord Wisbeach's revelations eagerly. Heradmiration for his lordship was intense, and she trusted himutterly. The only doubt that occurred to her was whether, withthe best intentions in the world, he would be able unassisted tofoil a pair of schemers so distant from each other geographicallyas the man who called himself Jimmy Crocker and the man who hadcalled himself Skinner. That was a point on which they had nottouched, the fact that one impostor was above stairs, the otherbelow. It seemed to Mrs. Pett impossible that Lord Wisbeach, forall his zeal, could watch Skinner without neglecting Jimmy orfoil Jimmy without taking his attention off Skinner. It wasmanifestly a situation that called for allies. She felt that shemust have further assistance.
To Mrs. Pett, doubtless owing to her hobby of writing sensationalfiction, there was a magic in the word detective which was sharedby no other word in the language. She loved detectives--theirkeen eyes, their quiet smiles, their Derby hats. When they cameon the stage, she leaned forward in her orchestra chair; whenthey entered her own stories, she always wrote with a greaterzest. It is not too much to say that she had an almost spiritualattachment for detectives, and the idea of neglecting to employone in real life, now that circumstances had combined to renderhis advent so necessary, struck her as both rash and inartistic.
In the old days, when Ogden had been kidnapped, the only thingwhich had brought her balm had been the daily interviews with thedetectives. She ached to telephone for one now.
The only consideration that kept her back was a regard for LordWisbeach's feelings. He had been so kind and so shrewd that tosuggest reinforcing him with outside assistance must infalliblywound him deeply. And yet the situation demanded the services ofa trained specialist. Lord Wisbeach had borne himself duringtheir recent conversation in such a manner as to leave no doubtthat he considered himself adequate to deal with the mattersingle-handed: but admirable though he was he was not aprofessional exponent of the art of espionage. He needed to behelped in spite of himself.
A happy solution struck Mrs. Pett. There was no need to tell him.
She could combine the installation of a detective with the nicestrespect for her ally's feelings by the simple process of engagingone without telling Lord Wisbeach anything about it.
The telephone stood at her elbow, concealed--at the expressrequest of the interior decorator who had designed the room--inthe interior of what looked to the casual eye like a stuffed owl.
On a table near at hand, handsomely bound in morocco to resemblea complete works of Shakespeare, was the telephone book. Mrs.
Pett hesitated no longer. She had forgotten the address of thedetective agency which she had employed on the occasion of thekidnapping of Ogden, but she remembered the name, and also thename of the delightfully sympathetic manager or proprietor orwhatever he was who had listened to her troubles then.
She unhooked the receiver, and gave a number.
"I want to speak to Mr. Sturgis," she said.
"Oh, Mr. Sturgis," said Mrs. Pett. "I wonder if you couldpossibly run up here--yes, now. This is Mrs. Peter Pett speaking.
You remember we met some years ago when I was Mrs. Ford. Yes, themother of Ogden Ford. I want to consult--You will come up atonce? Thank you so much. Good-bye."Mrs. Pett hung up the receiver.
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