Chapter 2

The chairman of the Bloxley Road Hospital for Women took his seat at
the head of the table, with a grim nod of recognition for his
colleagues, and a more respectful inclination of his head for that
eminent surgeon, Sir John Denham, who was attending this momentous
meeting of the Governors by special invitation.

Doctor Parsons, the chairman, pushed aside a little brown paper parcel
which lay on his blotting pad, and which he saw, after a cursory
glance, was addressed to himself. Presumably this contained the new
vaccine tubes which he had ordered from the research laboratory. He
cast a swift glance from left to right, smiling a little bitterly at
the glum faces of the staff.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “Bloxley Road Hospital looks like
closing.”

“Is it as bad as that, sir?” asked one of the surgeons with a troubled
face, and Dr. Parsons nodded.

“I suppose you didn’t have any luck, Sir John?”

Sir John Denham shook his head.

“I have been to everybody in London who is likely to help. It is
little short of a crime that the hospital should have to close down,
and that’s just how it stands, doesn’t it, Parsons?”

The doctor nodded his head.

“I’ve already shut two wards out of four,” he said. “We ourselves have
had no salaries for a fortnight, but that, of course, does not matter.
And the devil of it is that women are clamouring to get into this
hospital--I’ve got a waiting list of nearly eighty.”

Sir John nodded gravely.

“It’s a terrible state of affairs,” he said. “Do you know Lewinstein?”

“Slightly,” said the doctor with a faint smile. “I know him well
enough to cadge from him; but it was no go. Mr. Lewinstein would get
no credit from having his name on our subscription list, and he is
rather out for credit. As a matter of fact, he did subscribe once
before. By the way, talking of Lewinstein reminds me that Lord
Claythorpe, a close friend of his, has bought his niece a £50,000
pearl necklace as a wedding present. It was in all the morning
papers.”

“I saw it,” said Sir John.

“Really, I sometimes feel that I would like to turn burglar,” said the
exasperated chairman, “and join the gang of that--what do you call the
lady?--the person who stole that Venetian armlet that is being
advertised for so industriously. She went down in the guise of a
detective to Lewinstein’s house. Apparently she cleared out all the
guests and bolted in the night, and amongst the things she took was an
armlet belonging to one of the Doges of Venice, worth a fortune. At
any rate, they are advertising for its return.”

“Whose is it?”

“Lord Claythorpe’s. His wife was wearing it. Like a fool she took it
down to Lewinstein’s place. Claythorpe is a bit of a connoisseur, and
they say he has been off his head since his wife came back and
reported the loss.”

At that moment the telephone bell rang, and the doctor pulled the
instrument towards him with a little frown.

“I told those people in the office not to put anybody through,” he
said and lifted the receiver.

“Who’s that?” he said sharply, and the soft pleasant voice of a girl
replied:

“Is that Dr. Parsons?”

“Yes, it is I,” said the doctor.

“Oh, I just wanted to tell you that I read your moving appeal for
funds in the _Morning Post_ to-day.”

The doctor’s face brightened. This little hospital was his life’s
work, and the very hint of a promise that help was coming, however
meagre that help might be, cheered him.

“I’m glad you were moved by it,” he said, half in humour and half in
earnest; “and I trust that you will be moved to some purpose. Am I
wrong in suspecting you to be a possible subscriber?”

There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.

“You are appealing for £8,000 to carry on the hospital for another
six months,” said the girl.

“That’s right,” nodded the doctor.

“Well, I’ve sent you £10,000,” was the surprising reply, and the
doctor gasped.

“You’ve sent me £10,000!” he said hollowly. “You’re joking, I
suppose.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly sent you £10,000,” said the voice--“that is
to say, in money. I have sent you the money’s worth. I sent a parcel
to you last night. Have you got it?”

The doctor looked round.

“Yes,” he said, “there is a parcel here, posted at Clapham. Is that
from you?”

“That’s from me,” said the girl’s voice. “I am relieved to know that
you have found it.”

“What’s in it?” demanded the man curiously.

“A very interesting armlet which was, and probably is still, the
property of Lord Claythorpe.”

“What do you mean?” asked the doctor sharply.

“It is the armlet I stole from him,” said the voice; “and there is a
reward of £10,000 for its return. I want you to return it, and apply
the money to your hospital.”

“To whom am I speaking?” asked Dr. Parsons huskily.

“To Four Square Jane!” was the reply and there was a “click!” as the
receiver was hung up.

With trembling fingers the doctor tore the tape which bound the little
parcel, pulled the brown-paper cover aside, disclosing a small wooden
box with a sliding lid. This he pushed back, and there, in its bed of
cotton wool, glittered and flashed the famous Venetian Armlet.

It was a nine days’ wonder. The daily Press, which for the past weeks
had had to satisfy itself with extravagant weather reports and
uninteresting divorce cases, fell upon this latest sensation with
enthusiasm, and there was not a Sunday paper in the country that did
not “feature” it in the largest of black type. For it was the greatest
story that had been printed for years.

The securing of the reward was not to be so simple a matter as the
Press and Dr. Parsons imagined. A telephone message had acquainted
Lord Claythorpe with the recovery of his jewel, and the doctor himself
carried it to Belgrave Square. Lord Claythorpe was a thin little man,
bald of head, and yellow of face. He suffered from some sort of
chronic jaundice, which not only tinged his skin, but gave a certain
yellowy hue to his temper. He received the doctor in his beautiful
library, one wall of which, as Dr. Parsons noticed, was covered with
the doors of small safes which had been let into the wall itself. For
Lord Claythorpe was a great connoisseur of precious stones, and argued
that it was just as absurd to keep your gems all behind one door as it
was to keep all your eggs in one basket.

“Yes, yes,” he said a little testily; “that is the jewel. I wouldn’t
have lost it for anything. If my fool of a--if her ladyship hadn’t
taken it down with her I shouldn’t have had all this bother and worry.
This is one of the rarest ornaments in the kingdom.”

He descanted upon the peculiar artistic value and historical interest
of this precious armlet for the greater part of a quarter of an hour,
during which time Dr. Parsons shifted uneasily from foot to foot, for
no mention of the reward had been made. At last Parsons managed to
murmur a hint.

“Reward--er--reward,” said his lordship uncomfortably, “there was some
talk of a reward. But surely, Dr. Parsons, you do not intend to
benefit your--er--charitable institution at the expense of a
law-abiding citizen? Or, might I say, receive a subscription at the
hands of a malicious and wicked criminal?”

“I am wholly uninterested in the moral character of any person who
donates money to my hospital,” said Parsons boldly. “The only thing
that troubles me is the lack of funds.”

“Perhaps,” said his lordship hopefully, “if I put my name down as an
annual subscriber for----”

The doctor waited.

“Say ten guineas a year,” suggested Lord Claythorpe.

“You offered a £10,000 reward,” said the doctor, his anger rising.
“Either your lordship is going to pay that reward or you are not. If
you refuse to pay I shall go to the Press and tell them.”

“The reward was for the conviction of the thief,” said his lordship in
triumph. “You don’t deny that. Now, you haven’t brought the thief
along to be convicted.”

“It was for any information that would lead to the recovery of the
jewel,” said the angry doctor; “and that is what I have brought
you--not only information, but the jewel itself. There was some talk
of conviction; but that, I am informed, is the usual thing to put into
an advertisement of this character.”

For half an hour they haggled, and the doctor was in despair. He knew
that it might mean ruin to take this curmudgeon into court, and so
after a painful argument he accepted, with a sense of despair, the
£4,000 which Lord Claythorpe most reluctantly paid.

That night his lordship gave a dinner party in honour of his niece,
whose wedding was to take place two days later. Only one person spoke
at that dinner party, and that person was Lord Claythorpe. For not
only had he to tell his guests what were his sensations when he learnt
the jewel was lost, but he had to describe vividly and graphically his
emotions on its restoration. But the choicest morsel he retained to
the last.

“This doctor fellow wanted £10,000--the impertinence of it! I knew
very well I was offering too large a reward, and I told those police
people so. Of course, the armlet is worth three times that amount, but
that is nothing to do with it. But I beat him down! I beat him down!”

“So I saw,” said the easy-going Mr. Lewinstein.

“So you saw?” said Lord Claythorpe suspiciously. “Where did you see
it? I thought nobody knew but myself. Has that infernal doctor been
talking?”

“I expect so,” said Lewinstein. “I read it in the evening papers
to-night. They’ve got quite a story about it. I’m afraid it’s not
going to do you any good, Claythorpe. If Jane hears about it----”

“Jane!” scoffed his lordship. “What the deuce do I care for Jane?”

Lewinstein nodded, and catching his wife’s eye, smiled.

“I didn’t care for Jane--until Jane came and bit me,” he said
philosophically. “Until I saw her four little squares labelled on my
door, and missed the contents of my private safe. I tell you that girl
is no ordinary crook. She returned the armlet to you because she
wanted to benefit the hospital, and if she hasn’t benefited the
hospital as much as she hoped I’d like to bet a thousand pounds to a
penny that she’s going to get the balance from you.”

“Let her try!” Lord Claythorpe snapped his fingers. “For years the
best burglars in Europe have been making a study of my methods, and
three of them have got as far as the safe doors. But you know my
system, Lewinstein,” he chuckled, “ten safes, and seven of them empty.
That baffles ’em! Why, Lew Smith, who is the cleverest
burglar--according to Scotland Yard--who ever went into or came out of
prison, worked all night on two empty safes in my cupboard.”

“Doesn’t anybody know which safes you use?”

“Nobody,” replied the other promptly; “and only one of the three
contains jewellery worth taking. No; it’s nine to one against the
burglar ever finding the safe.”

“What do you do?” asked the interested Lewinstein. “Change the
contents of the safe every night?”

Lord Claythorpe grinned and nodded.

“In the daytime,” he said, “I keep most of my valuables in the big
safe in the corner of my study. That is where I put such things as the
Doges’ armlet. At night, before the servants retire, I take all the
valuable cases out of my big safe and put them on the library table.
My butler and my footman stand outside the door--outside, you
understand--and then I switch out all the lights, open the safe in the
darkness, put in the jewellery, lock the safe, pocket my keys, and
there you are!”

Lewinstein grunted, though the rest of the table had some word of
applause for the genius and prescience of the little man.

“I think that’s rather unnecessary,” said Lewinstein, his practical
mind revolting from anything which had a touch of the theatrical; “but
I suppose you know your own business best.”

“You suppose rightly,” snapped Claythorpe, who was not used to having
his judgment or his wisdom questioned.

“I can only warn you,” said the persistent Lewinstein, “that in Four
Square Jane you are dealing with a person who wouldn’t be stopped if
you had fifty safes, and a policeman sitting on top of every one of
them.”

“Four Square Jane!” scoffed his lordship, “don’t worry about her! I
have a detective here----”

Mr. Lewinstein laughed a bitter little laugh.

“So had I,” he said shortly. “A female detective, may I ask?”

“Of course not. I’ve got the best man from Scotland Yard,” said Lord
Claythorpe.

“What I should like to know is this,” said the other lowering his
voice, “have you any kind of suspicious woman in the house?”

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Lord Claythorpe bridling.

“Can you account for all your lady guests? There are a dozen here
to-night. Do you know them all?”

“Every one of them,” said his lordship promptly. “Of course, I
wouldn’t have strangers in the house at this moment. I have dear
Joyce’s wedding presents----”

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” said Mr. Lewinstein. “Would you mind
if I had a little look round myself?”

There was a sneer on Lord Claythorpe’s thin lips.

“Turning detective, Joe?” he asked.

“Something like that,” said Lewinstein. “I’ve been bitten myself, and
I know just where it hurts.”

Lewinstein was given the run of the big house in Belgrave Square, and
that evening he made one or two important discoveries.

The first was that “the best detective from Scotland Yard” was a
private detective, and although not a Headquarters’ officer, still a
man of unquestionable honesty and experience, who had been employed by
his lordship before.

“It’s not much of a job,” admitted the detective. “I have to sit with
my back to the door of his study all night long. His lordship doesn’t
like anybody in the study itself--what’s that?” he asked suddenly.

They were standing within half a dozen paces of the library door, and
the detective’s sensitive ears had caught a sound.

“I heard nothing,” said Lewinstein.

“I swear I heard a sound inside that room. Do you mind staying here
while I go for his lordship?”

“Why don’t you go in?” asked the other.

“Because his lordship keeps the library door locked,” grinned the
detective. “I won’t keep you waiting long, sir.”

He found Lord Claythorpe playing bridge, and brought that nobleman
along, an agitated and alarmed figure. With shaking hands he inserted
the key in the lock of the heavy door and swung it open.

“You go in first, officer,” he said nervously. “You’ll find the switch
on the right-hand side.”

The room was flooded with light, but it was empty. At one end of the
apartment was a long window, heavily barred. The blind was drawn, and
this the detective pulled up, only to discover that the window was
closed and had apparently not been opened.

“That’s rum,” he said. “It was the noise of a blind I heard.”

“The wind?” suggested Lewinstein.

“It couldn’t have been the wind, sir, the windows are hermetically
closed.”

“Well nobody could get in that window anyway, through the bars,” said
his lordship; but the detective shook his head.

“An ordinary man couldn’t, sir. I’m not so sure that a young girl
couldn’t slip through there as easily as you slip through the door.”

“Bah!” said his lordship, “you’re nervous. Just take a look round, my
good fellow.”

There were no cupboards, and practically no places where anybody could
hide, so the examination of the room was of a perfunctory character.

“Are you satisfied?” asked his lordship.

“Perfectly,” said the detective, and they went out, closing the door
which Lord Claythorpe locked behind them.

By half-past eleven the guests had departed, all except Lewinstein,
who was hoping that he would be admitted to the curious ceremonial
which Claythorpe had described. But in this he was disappointed. His
lordship entered the library alone, locked the door behind him and
switched out the lights, lest any prying eyes should see where he
deposited the jewel cases he took from the great safe in the corner of
the room. Presently they heard the soft thud of closing doors, and he
emerged.

“That’s all right,” he said with satisfaction, as he pocketed the
keys. “Now come along and have a drink before you go. You’ll stay
here, Johnson, won’t you?” he said to the private detective.

“Yes, my lord,” said the man.

On the way to the smoking-room where drinks had been served, Lord
Claythorpe explained that he did not rely entirely upon the detective
agency, that he had indeed notified Scotland Yard.

“The house is being watched, or will be watched, night and day until
after the wedding,” he said.

“I think you’re wise,” responded Mr. Lewinstein.

He tossed down a stiff whisky and soda, and, accompanied by his host,
went into the hall where he was helped on with his coat. He was on the
point of saying “Good night,” when there was a thunderous knock at the
front door, and the butler opened it. Two men stood on the doorstep
gripping between them a frail and slender figure.

“It’s all right, sir,” said one, with a note of exultation, “we’ve got
her! Can we come in?”

“Got her?” gasped his lordship, “who is it?”

And yet there was no need for him to ask.

The prisoner was a girl dressed from head to foot in black. A heavy
veil covered her face, being secured apparently under the
tightly-fitting little felt hat on her head.

“Caught her under your library window,” said one of the men with
satisfaction, and there was a grunt from Johnson the private
detective.

“Who are you?” asked his lordship.

“Sergeant Felton, from Scotland Yard, sir. Are you Lord Claythorpe?”

“Yes,” said his lordship.

“We’ve been watching the house,” said the man, “and we saw her dodging
down the side passage which leads to your stables. Now then, young
woman, let’s have a look at your face.”

“No, no, no,” said the girl struggling, “there are reasons. The Chief
Commissioner knows the reason.”

Her captor hesitated and looked at his companion.

“I think we’d better get the superintendent in charge of the case
before we go any further, my lord,” he said.

He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

“Hold out your hands,” he said, and snapped the glittering bracelets
on her wrists.

“Have you got a strong room, my lord, where I can keep her till the
superintendent comes?”

“In my library,” said his lordship.

“Has it got a good door?”

Lord Claythorpe smiled.

He himself unlocked the library door and switched on the lights, and
the girl was pushed into the room and on to a chair. The detective
took a strap from his pocket and secured her ankles together.

“I’m not taking any risks with you, my lady,” he said. “I don’t know
who you are, but I shall know in a very short time. Now I want to
telephone. Have you a telephone here?”

“There is one in the hall.”

The detective looked at the girl, and scratched his chin.

“I don’t like leaving her alone, Robinson. You had better stay with
her. Remember, you’re not to take your eyes off her, see?”

They went out together, his lordship closing and locking the door
behind them, whilst the man went in search of a telephone number.

“By the way, you can hear my man if he shouts, can’t you?” he asked.

“No,” said his lordship promptly. “You can hear nothing through that
door. But surely your man is capable of looking after a girl?”

Lewinstein, a silent spectator of these happenings, smiled. He had no
illusions as to the resources of that girl, and was anxious to see the
end of this adventure. In the meantime, behind the locked doors of the
library the girl held out her hands and the “detective” with her
unlocked the handcuffs. She bent and loosened the strap, then moved
quickly to the wall where the ten safes were embedded. Each she
examined quickly.

“These are the three, Jimmy,” she said, and her companion nodded.

“I won’t ask you how you know,” he said admiringly.

“It was easy,” she said. “As soon as I got in here I gummed some thin
black silk over the edges of each door. These three have been broken,
so these three safes have been opened. We’ll take a chance on this
one. Give me the key.”

The “detective” opened a little leather case which he had taken from
his pocket, and revealed some queerly shaped instruments. Three times
the girl tried, each time withdrawing the tool from the keyhole to
readjust the mechanism of her skeleton key, and at the third time the
lock snapped back, and the door swung open. “Got it first time,” she
said in triumph.

She pulled out a case, opened it and took one fleeting look, then
thrust the jewel case into a long pocket on one side of her dress. In
twenty seconds the safe was emptied, and the girl nodded to her
companion.

“Get the window open. Put the light out first. You’ll find it a
squeeze, Jimmy. It’s easy enough for me.”

Outside the “detective-sergeant” was having trouble with the ’phone.
He put it down and turned despairingly to his lordship.

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll run down to Scotland Yard. I’ve got a
motor-bicycle waiting. I don’t seem able to get into touch with the
superintendent. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going into the room and
keeping my man company for a little while.”

“Surely,” said his lordship indignantly, “your man is perfectly
capable of carrying out his instructions without my assistance? I am
scarcely accustomed----” He paused for breath.

“Very good, sir,” said the “sergeant” respectfully.

A little later they heard the “pop-pop” of his motor-bicycle as it
left.

“We had better do what the sergeant suggests,” said Lewinstein, “we
can’t do any harm by going in, at any rate.”

“My dear fellow,” repeated his lordship testily, “that police officer
is quite capable of looking after the girl. Don’t you agree, Johnson?”

Johnson, the private detective, did not immediately reply.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you that I feel a bit
uneasy about the lady being in the same room as the jewels.”

“Good lord!” gasped his lordship, “I didn’t think of that. Pooh! Pooh!
There’s a policeman with her. You know these officers, I suppose,
Johnson?”

“No, sir,” said Mr. Johnson frankly, “I don’t. I’m not brought much
into touch with Scotland Yard men, and they’re constantly changing
from one division to another, so it’s difficult to keep up with them.”

His lordship pondered, a horrible fear growing within him.

“Yes, perhaps you’re right, Lewinstein,” he said, “we’ll go in.”

He put the key in the door and turned it. The room was in darkness.

“Are you there?” squeaked his lordship in such a tone of consternation
that Lewinstein could have laughed.

There was a click and the lights went on, but the room was empty.

Lord Claythorpe’s first glance was to the safes. Apparently they were
closed, but on three of them was a square label, and Lewinstein was
the first to see and understand the significance of that sign.

“What is it? What is it?” said Lord Claythorpe in a shrill tremolo,
pointing with shaking fingers to the labels.

“The visiting card of Four Square Jane!” said Lewinstein.