like Cæsar's wife, above suspicion. Now do you understand? Eh, what? Reply, sir."
Arthur nodded. "I understand. And if Maunders hunts down The Spider he will be worth engaging as a partner."
"No, I don't mean that. But you are setting him to achieve an impossibility, and unless he fulfils your wish he cannot hope to be a partner. In the meantime, you and I hunt down The Spider. Then when we have him jailed, Maunders, not having done what you asked of him, can't expect to become a partner."
"I think he will in any case?" said Vernon grimly.
"I think not, sir," said Dimsdale very distinctly. "Of course, Emily is all right, and this blackmailing accusation is a lie. All the same, Maunders, who is anxious to secure a position in Society and marry Ida--confound him, he never shall with my consent--will not wish the slightest breath of his being a possible natural child to get about."
"I should say nothing," said Vernon stiffly.
"Quite so. I never expected you would. But the mere probability of the business becoming known will make Maunders careful. He won't worry you again, as, judging you by his own iniquitous self, he will think you capable of betraying him. _Now_ can you see?"
"Yes. But Constantine knows that I would never speak."
"I daresay, because he thinks the bribe isn't enough. He believes as Peel did--or Walpole was it?--that every man has his price. He won't worry you, I tell you, if you give the merest hint to him of the matter. Not that you need to, for he will know about this blackmailing letter to-morrow."
Vernon recalled how Maunders had said that his aunt had detained him, and how he had suggested that she had something on her mind. "He doesn't know it at present, anyhow."
"No. Emily saw me before speaking to him. However, listen to the scheme I have in my mind to catch this Spider wretch. He is trying to blackmail me."
"Oh!" Vernon sat up and laughed. "How ridiculous. You of all men cannot be blackmailed, since your life is so open."
"No man's life is open," said Dimsdale drily; "and mine has its dark pages as everyone else's has. I have a secret; not a particularly bad one, it is true. Still, one that I should prefer to keep to myself."
"What is it?"
"I shan't tell you or any man," snapped the ex-police commissioner. "It is sufficient to say that it is not a very bad secret, and that even if it were told to the world it would matter little. However, The Spider--hang him, I think he must have some acquaintance with my life in the East--has learned something I thought no one but myself knew anything about. He asks one thousand pounds, which is moderate compared with his demand on Emily. Shows that he knows my secret isn't so very deadly, or it would be worth more."
"Did he write to you?" asked Vernon alertly. "Of course he did, making the usual threat of exposure by postcards to self and friends. Now I am going to consent to his demands."
"And pay the money?"
"I didn't say that," corrected Dimsdale sharply, "but I am writing asking him to meet me in my library, and receive the money; also for him to hand over any documents to me which even hint at my secret. When he comes, you can be concealed in the room and we'll take him in charge."
"But then your secret will become known," objected Vernon. "The Spider always provides against arrest by leaving the evidence in the hands of others to publish."
"He can publish what he likes about me," said Mr. Dimsdale coolly; "don't I tell you that the secret is of little value. The Spider in his letter to me embroidered upon actual fact, and can make things unpleasant; but I can prove the exact truth of what he states, and so can save my bacon. There may be a few cold shoulders, but I shan't care for that, especially when my own conscience is clear. Now, don't ask me to tell you my secret, for I shan't. It has nothing to do with you or anyone else. All you have to do is to come to-morrow or the next day to my house at Hampstead, and I'll sketch out the plan of campaign."
"What about Mrs. Bedge?"
"She has a fortnight to consider the payment. We shall catch the scoundrel before then--you understand. Eh, what? Good! Now I must be off to Julia's ball. Are you coming?--not asked! Of course; you love Lucy, and that will never do for Julia, who wants her to make a titled match. Good-night! Ha, ha! You have plenty to think about. Don't get brain fever. Good night!"
Then the oddly-assorted pair parted for the time being.
CHAPTER III.
HOW THE TRAP WAS SET.
As Martin Dimsdale had spent the greater part of his sixty years in Burmah, he naturally retained an affectionate remembrance of that most fantastic country. This he showed by calling his house "Rangoon;" and, as a further concession to what might almost be termed his native land, the house was built after the fashion, more or less accurate, of a bungalow. On arriving some ten years previously in England, Mr. Dimsdale had purchased an ancient Grange with its few remaining acres, situated on the verge of Hampstead Heath. In spite of the fact that the mansion was historic and famous, this Vandal pulled it down, amidst the protests and to the grief of various antiquarians. On the cleared ground he erected the rambling one-storey building which reminded him of the Far East. It was not an entirely Indian house, nor a wholly Burmese house, nor an absolutely English house, but a bastard mixture of all three, as the chilly northern climate had to be taken into consideration. But Dimsdale looked upon it as a genuine reconstruction of the bungalows to which he had been accustomed, and would hear no argument to the contrary. This was just as well for those who differed from his views, as he was a peppery little man, voluble in speech.
From the wide road, which flanked this corner of the Heath, the grounds were divided by a tall and thick-set laurel hedge, which must have taken years to attain its present stately beauty. At right angles to this, red-brick walls, old and mellow, ran back for a considerable distance to terminate in another hedge of mingled holly and oak saplings and sweetbriar and hawthorn. A gate in the centre of this gave admittance to a well-cultivated kitchen-garden of two acres. Beyond, and divided from the garden by a low stone wall, stretched the meadows, encircled by aggressive barbed-wire fences. The whole, consisting of eight acres, belonged to the man who had built the bungalow, and was a very desirable freehold for a well-to-do middle-class gentleman.
In the first square between the hedges and brick walls stood the house, looking quite dazzling in the sunshine by reason of its white-tiled walls and the raw hue of its red-tiled roof. Round three sides ran a deep verandah, and the fourth side--at the back--bordered the cobble-stone yard, at the sides of which were the stables and outhouses. Everything here was neat and trim and sweet-smelling, as Mr. Dimsdale would tolerate no litter, and was fidgety about the drainage. This was just as well, seeing that the stables were over-near the dwelling. Some judicious person had earlier pointed out to Mr. Dimsdale that it would be advisable to erect them beyond the kitchen-gardens and in the meadows, but the little man, out of sheer obstinacy, refused to entertain the idea, and built them cheek by jowl with the house.
On either side of the bungalow, trellis work covered with creepers shut off the yard from the front garden. This last, consisting of smooth lawns bordered by brilliantly coloured flowerbeds, stretched to a rustic-looking, white-painted gate set in the laurel hedge. To this, a broad walk, sanded to a deep yellow tint, ran from the shallow steps leading up to the front verandah. Two noble elms--the sole survivors of a once well-wooded park--sprang one on each side of the path, from the trim lawns.
The
