catch the midnight train."
"I will go," he said at last, "for your sake and Doris's."
"Good man!" she returned with sudden good humour, her eyes bright. "It will all come right—you'll see! Tell old Christopher that his little sweetheart of the old days—Doris, I mean; he never loved me!—is in danger of the workhouse and so forth, and ask for fifty thousand at least."
"It will end any chance we have of a share in the di—"
"'Sh!"
Doris came in. She was a tall girl with something of her mother's darkness, but she had the blue-grey eyes of her father and his finely-cut features. Of late a sadness foreign to youth had dwelt in her eyes, and her smile had seemed dutiful rather than voluntary. Otherwise she had not betrayed her sorry heart and uneasy mind. She carried herself splendidly, and she had good right to be called lovely.
"Mother," she exclaimed, and kissed her father, "why didn't you tell me he was to be home for breakfast?"
"Because I did not know, my dear"—which was untrue—"and, besides, you were very late last night. Better to have your rest out." Mrs. Lancaster rose. "Persuade your father to have a fresh cup of coffee while you take your own breakfast, I must 'phone Wilders about the flowers for to-night." She left the room.
Doris poured the coffee and milk and placed the cup at his hand, saying—
"You must be tired, dear, after two nights in the train."
"A little, Doris," he answered, endeavouring to make his voice sound cheerful.
"And worried, I'm afraid," she added tenderly.
"A little that way, too, perhaps. But one must hope that there's a good time coming, my dear."
The girl hesitated before she returned: "I want to say something, and it's difficult. I've wanted to say it for a long time." She paused.
"Say on," he said. "A horrid bill—eh?" He knew it was not. Doris had never asked him for money beyond her big allowance.
"Don't! It's just this: Is there anything in the world I could do, father, just to make it a little easier for you?"
It was unexpected, and yet it was like Doris. Tears came into his eyes.
"Forgive me," she went on quickly, "but sometimes I can't bear to see you suffering. I'd give up anything—"
Mrs. Lancaster entered quickly.
"Robert, Mr. Bullard is in the library—"
"Bullard!—now?"
"He must see you at once. He has been to the office, and there was a wire—"
Lancaster, who had risen, caught at the back of his chair. "Alan
Craig—safe?" he said in a husky whisper.
Neither noticed the girl's sudden pallor, the light in her eyes.
"Nonsense!" the woman rapped out. "Christopher Craig—died last night!"
CHAPTER V
Mrs. Lancaster would have accompanied her husband to the library, but for once, and despite the shock he had just suffered, he showed some firmness.
"I will see Bullard alone," he said, and left her in the hall.
He entered the library, closed and locked the door, and drew the heavy curtain across it. But there his spirit failed him, and he seemed to grope his way to his familiar chair.
Without a word Bullard put the telegram into his hands. It had been sent off at 8 a.m., the hour of opening for the local post office. It was addressed to both men, and was brief:
Mr. Craig died nine last night. Funeral private.—Caw.
"Caw must have had instructions," remarked Bullard presently. "One wonders how much Caw knows about his master's affairs."
Possibly Lancaster did not hear. He kept on staring at the message that had closed the door on his last hope. Carlotta's suggestion, or rather command, had been far from grateful to his inclinations, yet it had forced him towards the less of two evils, and for a few minutes he had imagined himself with Christopher's cheque in his pocket, immediate salvation and peace assured whatever it might cost him eventually. And now this telegram!
Impatiently Bullard touched him on the arm.
"Look here, Lancaster!—there is a train from St. Pancras at eleven, and it's now past ten. Pull yourself together."
"St. Pancras—eleven? To-night?" Lancaster checked himself.
"No, this morning! We shall be in Glasgow at eight, and a good car will run us down under a couple of hours. … Lancaster, for Heaven's sake, wake up! Can't you take in the situation? Listen! Point one: We saw the diamonds yesterday. Point two: Christopher died suddenly, sooner than even he expected, and the diamonds, in all probability, have not left the house—if he ever intended to send them elsewhere. They may even be still on the table or in the drawer! Point three: The sooner we discover their whereabouts the better, for if they are in the house we must act on Alan's will at once, though I'd have avoided that if possible. Alan knew nothing about the diamonds. Christopher distinctly stated that no one knows about them excepting ourselves and his servant. Well, if necessary, we must manage Caw, somehow. Now—"
"But—the clock—"
"Oh, damn the clock—mere tomfoolery! As for Alan's return, if you persist in doubting what I have already told you"—Bullard lowered his voice—"I shall be forced to introduce to you the man who—who saw Alan Craig die."
"Die!"
"Don't get hysterical. At this moment the one thing that matters is that we locate or lay hands on that green box."
"But I—I can't think to go prowling into Christopher's house, and he—"
"Don't think; I'll do all that's necessary in that way, and we shall have plenty of time for talk in the train. Now I want your cheque—open—for five hundred pounds. I'm going to draw the same amount on my own. We may have to buy things—Caw, for instance. Don't argue. We've got to catch that train, and I've got to go to the bank first."
Lancaster sat up. "Bullard," he said hoarsely, "I won't have anything to do with this beastly business."
Bullard smiled. "Very well, Lancaster," he said pleasantly; "I'll take your cheque for twenty-four thousand and seventy-five pounds."
"My God!" It was the sum he owed the Syndicate.
Moments passed, and then with a white face he got up and went feebly to the writing table.
* * * * *
In the last hour of the journey they dined. Bullard ordered champagne, and saw to it that
