Mrs. Gordon Wilberforce was a large, yielding lady of handsome and aristocratic features and snow-white hair. It is true that she had not reached the age when one expected hair of that snowy whiteness, and there were people who told with brutal frankness a story that was not creditable to Mrs. Wilberforce.
According to these gossips the lady had attended the salon of a famous beauty doctor, who had endeavoured to restore Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair to the beautiful golden hue which was so attractive to her friends and admirers in the late eighties. But the beauty doctor had not had that success which his discreet advertisements seemed to guarantee. One half of Mrs. Wilberforce’s hair had come out green, and the other a deep pinky russet brown. Thereupon, Mrs. Wilberforce, with great heroism, had ordered the trembling hair-dresser to bleach without mercy.
And in course of time she appeared in her family circle. She explained that her hair had gone white in a night with the worry she had had from Joyce.
Joyce Wilberforce distressed her mother for many reasons. Not the least of these was the fact that her mother did not understand her, and Joyce did understand her mother.
They sat at breakfast in their little morning-room overlooking Hyde Park, Mrs. Wilberforce and her daughter, and the elder woman was very thoughtful.
“Joyce,” she said, “pay attention to what I am going to say, and try to keep your mind from wandering.”
“Yes, mother,” said the girl meekly.
“Do you remember that maid we discharged, Jane Briglow?”
“Jane Briglow?” said the girl, “yes, I remember her very well. You didn’t like her manner or something.”
“She gave herself airs,” said Mrs. Wilberforce tartly.
The girl’s lips curved in a smile. Joyce and her mother were never wholly in harmony. It was not the first time they had discussed Jane Briglow in the same spirit of antagonism which marked their present conversation.
“Jane was a good girl,” said Joyce quietly. “She was a little romantic, rather fond of sensational literature, but there was nothing wrong with her.”
Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed.
“I am glad you think so,” she said, and the girl looked up quickly.
“Why do you say that, mother?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “doesn’t it seem strange to you that this horrible burglar person should also be called Jane?”
Joyce laughed.
“It is not an uncommon name,” she said.
“But she is going about her work in an uncommon manner,” said her mother. “All the people she is robbing are personal friends of ours, or of dear Lord Claythorpe. I must say,” she went on with a little shiver of exasperation, “that you take your loss very well. I suppose you realize that a £50,000 necklace intended for you has disappeared?”
Joyce nodded.
“Purchased to deck the sacrifice,” she said ironically.
“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Wilberforce, “sacrifice indeed! You are marrying Lord Claythorpe’s heir, and Lord Claythorpe was your uncle’s dearest friend.”
“He is not my dearest friend,” said the girl grimly in a sudden fit of exasperation. “Because one’s been brought up with a person, regarding him almost as a brother, that is no reason why one should marry him. In fact to the contrary. No one has yet accused me of being weak, but I should certainly lose all my self-respect if I allowed myself to be married off in this way.”
“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Wilberforce, “that for a girl who has no other prospects of marriage, you are arguing with great passion. And short-sightedness,” she added.
“It isn’t a question of wanting to marry someone else,” said Joyce, after a perceptible pause, “it’s merely a question of not wanting to marry Francis.”
She walked across the room and picked up a silver-framed photograph of the young man under discussion.
“And I think I’m justified,” she concluded.
Mrs. Wilberforce was silent.
“After all, why shouldn’t I marry whom I choose,” said Joyce. “Don’t you realize that Lord Claythorpe is being horribly selfish and that this marriage is being designed for his own purpose?”
“I realize one thing,” said Mrs. Wilberforce angrily, “and that is that you look like being pig-headed enough to ruin your own chances socially, and both of us financially. You know as well as I do, Joyce, that Lord Claythorpe is acting absolutely in accordance with your uncle’s will, and you cannot doubt that your uncle had your best interests at heart.”
“When uncle left his great fortune to me and made the provision that I should not marry anybody who was not the choice of Lord Claythorpe, the trustee of his estate, the poor dear old man thought he was protecting my interests, because he had a most childlike faith in Lord Claythorpe’s honesty. He never dreamt that Lord Claythorpe would choose his own idiot son!”
“Idiot!” gasped Mrs. Wilberforce, “that is an outrageous statement. He’s not one of the intellectuals, perhaps, but he’s a good boy, and one day will become Lord Claythorpe.”
“So far as I can see,” said the girl, “that’s his only virtue. You can turn the matter about as you like, mother, but there the fact remains. Unless I marry Francis Claythorpe I lose a great fortune. Lord Claythorpe can well afford to give me £50,000 necklaces!”
Mrs. Wilberforce smoothed her dress over her knees patiently.
“The provision was a very wise one, my dear,” she said, “otherwise you would have married that awful person Jamieson Steele. Imagine, a penniless engineer and a forger!”
The girl sprang to her feet, her face crimson.
“You shall not say that, mother,” she said sharply. “Jamieson did not forge Lord Claythorpe’s signature. The cheque which was presented and paid to Jamieson was signed by Lord Claythorpe, and if he repudiated his own signature he did it for his own purpose. He knew I was fond of Jamieson. It was cruel, terribly cruel!”
Mrs. Wilberforce raised her hands in protest.
“Do not let us have a scene,” she said, “my dear girl, think of all your money means to me. The years I’ve scrimped and saved to get you an education and put you in a position in society. Perhaps Jamieson was led astray----”
“I tell you he did not do it,” cried the girl. “The charge against him was made by Lord Claythorpe in order to discredit him and give him a reason for refusing his consent to our marriage.”
Mrs. Wilberforce shrugged her ample shoulders.
“Well, there’s no sense in going into the question now,” she said, “let us forget all about it. Jamieson has disappeared, and I hope he is living a virtuous life in the Colonies.”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. She knew it was useless to continue any argument with her mother. She changed the subject.
“What is this about Jane Briglow?” she asked. “Have you seen her?”
Mrs. Wilberforce shook her head.
“No,” she said, “but in the night I have been thinking things out, and I have decided that Jane knows something about these crimes. From all the descriptions I have had of this girl I can reach no other conclusion than that she has something to do with the burglaries.”
The girl laughed.
“Don’t you think Jamieson may also have had something to do with them?” she asked satirically, and Mrs. Wilberforce tightened her lips.
“You have a very bitter tongue, Joyce; I am rather sorry for poor Francis.”
The girl rose and walked across to the window, staring out across the park, and Mrs. Wilberforce eyed her anxiously.
“You are a queer girl, Joyce,” she said, “you are going to be married to-morrow, and to-morrow you will be a rich woman in your own right. One might imagine that you were going to be hanged.”
A maid came in at this moment.
“Lord Claythorpe and Mr. Claythorpe,” she announced, and Mrs. Wilberforce arose with a beaming face.
The youth who followed his lordship into the room was tall and lank. A small weak face on an absurdly small head, round shoulders, long and awkward arms—if Joyce did not look like a bride in prospective, this young man certainly had no appearance of being a bridegroom of the morrow.
He gave Mrs. Wilberforce a limp hand and shuffled across to the girl.
“I say,” he said in a high-pitched voice, which ended in a little giggle, “awfully bad luck about losing those pearls, what?”
The girl looked at him thoughtfully.
“How do you feel about getting married, Francis?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely; “it really doesn’t make much difference to me. Of course, I shall have to explain to quite a lot of people, and there’ll be a lot of heartaches and all that sort of thing.”
She could have laughed, but she kept a straight face.
“Yes, I suppose I have disappointed a number of very charming friends of yours,” she said drily, “still, they can’t all have this paragon.”
“That’s what I say,” said Mr. Claythorpe, and then giggled again, his hand straying to his pocket.
This young man had no small opinion of his own powers of fascination, and was, by his own standards, something of a Lothario.
“What’s so jolly amusing,” he said with a little snigger, “is that not only the people one knows are upset, but quite a lot of unknown people. People, or girls I have quite forgotten are terribly distressed about it. You don’t mind if I show you a letter?” he asked mysteriously.
She shook her head.
He took an ornamental case from his pocket, opened it, and produced a heavily scented letter.
He unfolded the thick sheet of note-paper, and read:--
“I have only just read the terrible news that you are being married
to-morrow. Won’t you see me once, just once, for the sake of the happy
day long ago? I must see you before you are married. I must take
farewell of you in person. Believe me, I will never trouble you again.
You used to praise my pretty face; won’t you see it again for the last
time? If you will, put an ‘agony’ advertisement in The Times, and I
will meet you at the Albert Gate, Regents Park, at nine o’clock
to-morrow night.”
“That’s to-night,” explained the young man.
“Who is she?” asked the girl curiously.
“The Lord knows!” said Mr. Claythorpe with a cheerful smirk; “of course, dear old thing, I’ll have to see her. I put the advertisement in. You’re sure you don’t mind?”
She shook her head.
“I haven’t told the governor,” said the young man, “and I want you to keep it dark. You see he’s a bit old-fashioned in things like that, and he hasn’t got your broad outlook, Joyce. And for heaven’s sake, don’t breathe a word to Father Maggerley; you know what a stick he is!”
“Father Maggerley,” repeated the girl, “oh, yes, we’re lunching with him, aren’t we?”
“Personally,” the young man babbled on, “I think it’s a little indecent for a bride and bridegroom to lunch with the fellow who’s going to tie them up. But the governor’s frightfully keen on Maggerley. He’s even dining with us to-night, as well. I hope he doesn’t give me any good advice, or I shall have a few words to say to him.”
He braced his lean shoulders with a determined air, and again the girl had to suppress a smile.
She went up to her room soon after, and did not appear until the car had arrived at the door to carry them to Ciro’s. Father Maggerley, who was the fifth member of the party, was a tall aesthetic man, reputed to be very “high church,” and suspected of leanings towards the papacy.
It was not remarkable that the conversation turned upon Four Square Jane. It was a subject in which Lord Claythorpe was tremendously interested, and as he listened to Mrs. Wilberforce’s theories, his lined yellow face betrayed signs of unusual alertness.
“The police will have her sooner or later,” he said viciously, “you can be sure of that.”
Francis was bubbling over with good humour. The girl had interrupted him in the morning at the point when he was telling her news, which was no news at all, since he had imparted the information, not once but a dozen times in the course of the past week, that he carried in his pocket the wedding ring which was to unite them. He took it out and showed it to her, a thin circle of shining platinum, but Joyce was not enthusiastic over its beauties, and after a long exposition of his own good taste in jewellery, Francis rambled on to another and equally uninteresting subject.
For all that, the lunch was not without interest to Joyce. For again and again the conversation returned to Four Square Jane, and, as Joyce had admitted to her mother that morning, she had a certain sympathy with this criminal because her activities had been directed towards people who were particularly loathsome from Joyce’s own point of view.
That night the amorous Francis set forth in a spirit of high adventure to meet his unknown adorer. He came to his father’s dinner table late, in a tremble of excitement, and blurted forth his version of the meeting.
“Do you mean to say you didn’t know her?” asked Lord Claythorpe disapprovingly.
“No, sir,” said the young man. “I couldn’t see her face. She was veiled. She was sitting in a car, and beckoned me from the side-walk. I got in and had a little chat with her, and then”--with a fine air of unconcern--“she just put her arms round my neck, held me tight for a second, and then said, ‘I can stand no more, Francis; go.’”
“Very singular,” said the Reverend Mr. Maggerley thoughtfully, “very singular indeed. Poor soul, possibly she will now seek a life of seclusion in one of our religious houses.”
“It was a stupid thing to do,” rapped Lord Claythorpe, “meeting a person you didn’t know. I am surprised at you, Francis, on your wedding eve.”
Mr. Maggerley was probably more impressed by the incident than his patron. As he walked home that night, to his house in Kensington, he evolved a sermon from the incident—a sermon which could not fail to gain a measure of comment from the lay press. He reached his austere dwelling, and was received by a butler of solemn and respectful mien.
“Sister Agatha is waiting for you in the study, sir,” he said in a low voice.
“Sister Agatha?” repeated Mr. Maggerley. “I don’t remember Sister Agatha.”
This was not remarkable, for there were many sisters attached to the various Orders in which Father Maggerley was interested, and it was impossible that he should remember their names.
He went up to his study wondering what urgent business could bring a sister of charity to his house at this hour. The light was burning in the study, but Sister Agatha was not there. He summoned the butler, and that gentleman was frankly nonplussed.
“It’s very extraordinary, sir, but I showed the sister in here, and I’ve been in the hall, or in view of the hall ever since.”
“Well, she’s not here now,” said Father Maggerley humorously. “I’m afraid, Jenkins, you’ve been sleeping.”
A thought occurred to him, an alarming thought, and he made a rapid inspection of the study. He was relieved to find that not so much as a newspaper had been moved, that his priceless Venetian glasses were untouched, so he dismissed Sister Agatha from his mind and went to bed.
The marriage of Mr. Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce was one of the social events of the season. The big porch of St. Giles was crowded with a fashionable congregation. The girl, looking paler than usual, came to the church with her mother, and was received by an uncomfortable-looking bridegroom and by Lord Claythorpe, who did not disguise his good cheer and satisfaction. To-day represented to him the culmination of a long-planned scheme. Not even the grey envelope which was in his pocket, and which he had found on his breakfast table that morning, distressed him, although it bore the curious signature of Four Square Jane. The letter read:--
“You are very mean, Lord Claythorpe. To-day, by sacrificing the
happiness of a young girl, you are endeavouring to bring riches to
your almost bankrupt estate. You have betrayed the trust of one who
had faith in you and have utilised the provisions of his foolish will
in order to enrich your family. There is many a slip between the cup
and the lip.”
“Pooh!” said Lord Claythorpe on reading this. “Pooh!” he said again, and his son looked up over his cup and asked for an explanation. That explanation Lord Claythorpe peremptorily refused.
Francis Claythorpe moved forward to meet the girl and, contrary to the usual custom, walked up the aisle with her, and took his place at the altar rails. As he did so, the Reverend Father Maggerley entered from the side door and paced slowly to the centre of the church.
“The ring, Francis?” muttered Lord Claythorpe in his son’s ear, and Francis took a little case from his pocket with a satisfied grin.
He opened it and gasped.
“It’s gone!” he said in so loud a voice that everyone in the neighbouring pews could hear.
Lord Claythorpe did not curse, but he said something very forcibly. It was Mrs. Wilberforce whose presence of mind saved a situation which might otherwise have proved rather embarrassing. She slipped her own wedding-ring off, and passed it to the young man, and the girl watched the proceedings with a smile of indifference.
As young Lord Claythorpe fumbled with the ring the vestry door opened and someone beckoned to the clergyman. The Reverend Father Maggerley, with a little frown at this indecorous interruption, paced back to the door in his stately fashion and disappeared. He was gone some time, and there was a little murmur of wonder in the congregation when he reappeared and called Lord Claythorpe towards him.
And then to the amazement of the congregation, the whole wedding party disappeared into the vestry. It was a queer situation which met them. On the table of the vestry lay a long envelope inscribed--“Marriage License of the Honourable Francis Claythorpe and Miss Joyce Wilberforce.”
“I am exceedingly sorry,” said Mr. Maggerley in a troubled voice, as he picked up the envelope, “but something unaccountable has happened.”
“What is it?” said Claythorpe sharply.
“This license,” began the clergyman.
“Yes, yes,” snapped Claythorpe, “I gave it to you the day before yesterday. It is a special license—there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
Mr. Maggerley could not answer immediately.
“It was in my safe, in my own study,” he said, “I can’t understand it. Nobody has access to the safe but myself, and yet----”
“And yet what?” wailed Mrs. Wilberforce. “Tell me, for heavens’ sake, what has happened?”
For answer, Father Maggerley took a slip of paper from the envelope, opened it and handed it without a word to Lord Claythorpe.
“That is all it contains,” said the clergyman, and Claythorpe swore under his breath, for instead of the license were the four familiar squares.
“Four Square Jane!” he muttered. “How did she get this?”
Mr. Maggerley shook his head.
“I can’t understand,” he began, and then he remembered Sister Agatha. Sister Agatha, who had arrived unexpectedly, who had remained in his study for the greater part of an hour, and had disappeared unseen by anybody.
So Sister Agatha had been Four Square Jane!