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Page 86
"I am not writing this to send to you," Diane concluded, "but to hide in
a secret place where it will be found if anything happens to me; life is
always uncertain. I have much more to tell, but I am too weary to put it
on paper. You will know all when me meet, and when you learn my secret,
happiness will come into your life again."
"It's a pretty clear case," reflected Jimmie. "The secret refers,
without doubt, to the man who murdered her. And the motive for it must
be traced back to her early life at Dunwold. She left a discarded lover
behind when she went to Paris. Ah, but why not a husband? Suppose she
was never really Jack's wife! In that case it is easy to see what she
meant by saying that she would make him happy again. By Jove, I'm
anxious to ferret the thing out!"
Jimmie looked at his watch; it was just seven o'clock. He put the letter
in his desk, safe under lock and key, and went straight to Morley's
Hotel. He dined with Sir Lucius Chesney, and told him what he had
learned from his visit to Mrs. Rickett. He made no mention of what he
had found in the secret closet, nor did he refer to Victor Nevill.
Sir Lucius was amazed and delighted, hopeful of success. He thoroughly
approved Jimmie's plan, and gave him a brief note of introduction to the
Vicar of Dunwold.
"I wish I could go with you," he said; "but, unfortunately, I have two
important engagements in town to-morrow."
The interview was a long one, and it was eleven o'clock when Jimmie left
the hotel. He went straight home to bed, and an early hour the next
morning found him gliding out of Victoria station in a South Coast
train.
* * * * *
On the previous night, while Jimmie and Sir Lucius were dining at
Morley's, Victor Nevill emerged from his rooms in Jermyn street, and
walked briskly to Piccadilly Circus. He looked quite unlike the spruce
young man of fashion who was wont to disport himself in the West End at
this hour, for he wore tweeds, a soft hat, and a rather shabby overcoat.
He took a cab in Coventry street, and gave the driver a northern
address. As he rode through the Soho district he occasionally pressed
one hand to his breast, and a bundle of bank notes, tucked snugly away
there, gave forth a rustling sound. The thought of them aggravated him
sorely.
"A thousand pounds to that black-mailing scoundrel!" he muttered. "It's
a steep price, and yet it means much more than that to me. There was no
other way out of it, and I can't blame the fellow for making a hard
bargain and sticking to it. If all goes smoothly, and I get possession
of the papers, it's ten to one I will be secure, with nothing more to
fear. It was fortunate that Timmins picked _me_ out. It would have meant
ruin to my prospects had he sold his knowledge elsewhere. He is a clever
rascal, and he knows that it will be to his interest to keep his mouth
shut hereafter. What risk there may be from other quarters is so slight
that I needn't worry about it."
It had not been an easy matter to find the thousand pounds, and in the
interval he had twice seen Mr. Timmins, and vainly tried to beat down
his price. The money was finally squeezed out of Stephen Foster, with
extreme reluctance on his part, and by means which he resented bitterly
but was powerless to combat. He had angrily upbraided his unscrupulous
young confederate, who would not even tell him for what purpose he
wanted the sum. Nevill was indifferent to Stephen Foster's wrath and
reproaches. He had accomplished his object, and he was too hardened by
this time to feel any twinges of conscience. He was now going to meet
the man Timmins by appointment, and buy from him the valuable papers in
his possession.
It was nine o'clock when the cab put him down in one of the noisy
thoroughfares of Kentish Town. He paid the driver, and entered a public
house on the corner. He ordered a light stimulant, and on the strength
of it he re-examined the rather vague written directions Mr. Timmins had
given him. He came out five minutes later, and turned eastward into a
gloomy and squalid neighborhood. He lost his bearings twice, and then
found himself at one end of Peckwater street. He took the first turn to
the left, and began to count the houses and scan their numbers.
While Nevill was speeding along the Kentish Town road in a cab, Mr.
Timmins, _alias_ Noah Hawker, was at home in the dingy little room which
he had selected for his residence in London. With a short pipe between
his teeth, he reclined in a wooden chair, which was tipped back against
the wall. On a table, within easy reach of him, were a packet of tobacco
and a bottle of stout. A candle furnished light.
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