Chapter XVII: A Student of Problems

When Burgoyne left Mrs. Walsingham and Richard Shrewsbury at the door of Abbotsbury House and went off asking himself the ever-recurring question as to the opening of the safe, he was also conscious that another very unpleasant impression was rapidly forcing itself to an absolute conviction in his mind--namely, that Richard was in the hands of unscrupulous people. Long habit had helped Burgoyne to sum up character quickly; he was well aware that he had not been favourably impressed by either Carsdale or Mrs. Walsingham; what he had seen of them that afternoon had not impressed him any more favourably. He had been quick to observe a certain wariness in Carsdale’s manner towards himself; a certain watchfulness in Mrs. Walsingham’s beautiful eyes: each, in some strange and subtle fashion, seemed to suggest, more than to show, a certain suspicion of him, as if they secretly wondered what he was after. The more he thought over the signs, circumstances, facts, the less he liked their look; he had privately thought his young friend from Trinidad a fool for becoming engaged to a woman of whom it was impossible he could know much; now he became seriously alarmed about him.

“I’m afraid my diamond necklace is a mere detail, a paltry incident,” he thought, as he strolled westward along the crowded Strand. “If those people really have had a hand in cheating me out of it, they’re quite capable of helping themselves pretty freely to Master Dick’s money. The woman can do it by settlements, and presents, and heaven knows what, and all in a legal way; the man seems as astute a person as I’ve seen in my time. And the question as usual, is--what to do?”

Burgoyne began to cast about in his mind for some answer to this question. And looking in one direction after another, and turning up one path only to retrace his steps and take a second, he suddenly thought of a name, and at the thought threw up his head with an involuntary exclamation thereby arousing the wonder of sundry approaching pedestrians who had been attracted by his bronzed face and keen eyes.

“By Jove!” he said. “Gavin Blair!”

Then, as he shouldered his way along, a little more quickly, he muttered: “The very man--if I can lay hands on him.”

At the thought of Gavin Blair, Burgoyne’s mind turned a long way back. He remembered days at Sandhurst, when he and Blair were boys together; he remembered after-days at Aldershot, and at various more or less dismal garrison towns in England and Ireland, when they were subalterns in the same foot regiment; he remembered certain foreign stations, and at any rate, one little experience of active service in which Blair had lost his left arm, and thereby got his dismissal from all soldiering for ever. But more than these things, he remembered Blair’s peculiar bent from his earliest years. Although he was a keen and hard working soldier, he had many other interests--he had always shown a great taste for literature, for art, and for music. And when he had been obliged to leave the Army, he had turned to what had been his hobbies as subjects for the serious business of life, and before Burgoyne had left England on his last expedition, had become widely known as the author of two or three remarkable novels in which psychology played a considerable part, and as an art critic of no mean order.

But beyond his creative and critical faculties, Blair possessed another which just then appealed to Burgoyne with particular force. He had always taken a delight in working out curious and intricate problems, and on more than one occasion had achieved results so surprisingly true and accurate, that Burgoyne had put his ability down to some remarkable hereditary gift not unconnected with his Gaelic ancestry. Amongst his friends Blair had made a reputation for seeing to the bottom of things with amazing clearness and speed; difficult problems which puzzled really clever heads were solved by him with a sureness that was almost uncanny. And Burgoyne remembered his name with a great sense of relief. Gavin Blair was the very man he wanted.

Turning a little aside from the throng, Burgoyne took out a much-worn pocket-book, and found a page on which the pencilled memoranda had grown almost illegible. But he was able to make out Blair’s address, and he drew out his watch.

“Half-past five,” he murmured. “I’ll drive down there on the chance.”

Blair lived--or had lived when the address which Burgoyne had just consulted was written--in a palatial building, given up to flats, which overlooked the Thames from the excellent vantage point of the Chelsea Embankment. Burgoyne, entering the hall of this building from his taxi-cab, was greatly relieved to see his old friend’s name still showing on the list of tenants; he was still more relieved when, on knocking at Blair’s outer door, it was opened almost immediately, by Blair himself--a tall, athletic-looking man, grizzled of hair and moustache, who, but for the empty sleeve pinned up to his tweed jacket, would have been taken for one who was continually engaged in something that required physical exertion. He stretched out a big hand, looking steadily at his visitor out of steel-blue eyes.

“Come in, Burgoyne,” he said quietly. “I was expecting you.”

Burgoyne gripped the big hand and followed its owner across an entrance hall into a wide spaced room overlooking the river--a room which seemed to be full of books and pictures and papers, and of a grand piano in a wonderful case, and yet communicated an idea of airiness and breadth. He dropped into the chair which Blair drew forward and looked at his old friend with a certain curious questioning in his eyes.

“You were expecting me!” he said. “Do you mean--now?”

“Now,” replied Blair. “It is not five minutes since, writing at that desk, I suddenly said to myself, ‘Ralph Burgoyne is coming here--he is almost here.’ So I put the writing aside. Have a drink--and help yourself to what you want in the way of tobacco.”

Burgoyne picked a cigarette out of a box and lighted it thoughtfully.

“So the old instinct, or power, or whatever it is, is still there?” he said. “But I supposed it would be. And that’s why I came down just now. Of course, I was coming to find you as soon as I could. I’ve a lot to do, as you’ll readily understand. But I want your advice. I’ve a difficult problem before me, and I believe you’re the one man in London who can help to a proper solution of it. Do you mind if I tell you about it--now.”

Blair filled a big briarwood pipe out of a curious old tobacco jar, and sat down in an easy chair in front of Burgoyne.

“Now, go ahead,” he said. “And don’t forget to begin at the very beginning, and to tell everything, and don’t hurry--my time is my own.”

“Thanks,” said Burgoyne. “Very well, then--to begin at the beginning....”

Blair had smoked three pipes and the evening was drawing on by the time Burgoyne made an end of his story. He told it as clearly, yet as fully, as he could, from the time of his negotiations with Barclay Leverton to that afternoon; he told of how he had come to know young Richard Shrewsbury; he reiterated his belief in Barclay Leverton and in his daughter, and in Mr. Winch; he expressed his curious suspicions of Carsdale and of Mrs. Walsingham. And Blair listened quietly and steadily, rarely interrupting except to ask a question on some point of fact.

“And that’s all,” said Burgoyne, at last. “Now you know everything. Tell me what you think when you’re ready to tell.”

Blair took his big pipe out of his mouth and blew a spiral of smoke towards the ceiling.

“I can tell you something of what I think now,” he said. “I think your necklace is going to be a means of salvation for that youngster.”

Burgoyne gave his friend a puzzled look.

“Yes?” he said. “I should be glad to think that anything of mine would do him good. But--how?”

“Because I have not the slightest doubt in the world that she is the guilty party,” answered Blair. “The man--Carsdale--may be in it, but I should say not. Now, if you can establish the woman’s guilt, establish it so completely that there can be no doubt about it, there will be no marriage. No lad of that sort, however chivalrous he may be, and however impressionable, will marry a thief.”

“Well,” said Burgoyne hesitatingly, “--ye-es--I see that. But--supposing there is a hasty marriage?”

“There won’t be a hasty marriage, in all probability, so long as her suspicions are not aroused,” answered Blair. “Wherefore, it behoves you to move with great caution. Alarm her, and you’ll have the boy rushing off to Doctors’ Commons for a special licence. Go slow, Burgoyne. But I think you need not fear a hasty marriage, on other grounds. She will want settlements, and so on. You have time.”

“But what’s to be done?” asked Burgoyne. “I don’t want publicity. I’m not going to call in police and detectives and all that sort of thing.”

“By no means,” said Blair. “I don’t think there’s any need: I think you can do much yourself. There are certain questions which suggest themselves to me at once. Let me tabulate them:--

“_First._ Who are Mr. John Carsdale and Mrs. Sylvie Walsingham in
reality, and what were their relations with the late Barclay
Leverton?

“_Second._ Under what conditions was Mrs. Walsingham living previous
to the arrival of Richard Shrewsbury?

“And I have a third notion, which I will tell you of a little later. Now----”

“I can answer the second myself, at present,” said Burgoyne. “Shrewsbury has told me that Mrs. Walsingham lives in--well, a fairly luxurious state in an expensive flat.”

“Very well,” said Blair. “That is something to know. Now, as to the first question--you tell me that you met Miss Frances Leverton at the solicitor’s when you redeemed your property. What sort of young woman is she?”

Burgoyne gave himself up to a moment’s reflection.

“I should say a cool-headed, practical, business-like young woman,” he answered.

“The sort that can keep counsel if necessary?” asked Blair.

“I should say, emphatically, yes,” replied Burgoyne.

“You said that young Shrewsbury told you that Miss Leverton is, in some fashion, carrying on her father’s business. Do you know where?”

“Yes, at her private residence in Maida Vale,” said Burgoyne. “I know that, because Shrewsbury wanted me to entrust some of my business to her, and I said I wouldn’t.”

“Did you? Well, but I want you to do some business with her, now,” said Blair. “I have formed the opinion that Miss Leverton will prove most useful to you in this affair. Don’t ask me the whys and wherefores, but sit down at that desk and write what I am going to dictate. Now, write:--

“DEAR MISS LEVERTON,--

“I understand that you are in some sense your father’s successor
in business, and I should be glad to have an interview with you.
I will call upon you to-morrow morning at 11 o’clock, and I shall
take the liberty of bringing with me a friend, Captain Blair, who is
interested in the matter.
“Yours faithfully,
“RALPH BURGOYNE.”

“Now, Burgoyne,” continued Blair, “you will write that out on your own note-paper as soon as you get home, and post it to-night. To-morrow morning, I shall call for you at Shrewsbury’s rooms at half-past ten, and on our way to Maida Vale I shall coach you in what you’re to say to Miss Leverton on our arrival. And now, old boy, run away, for I have an article to finish before dinner--you must tell me all about your travels when--well, when we’ve got this very nasty affair over.”

So Burgoyne went off, not a little mystified by Blair’s advice, but fully trusting in it and wholly confident of his old friend’s powers, and in due course he transcribed the letter to Frances Leverton, who was as much surprised in receiving it as Burgoyne had been in taking it down from Blair’s dictation. She was a little nervous and fluttered when the two gentlemen were announced, but she remembered that her great desire in life was to cultivate a sternly business-like manner, and Blair was secretly amused at the somewhat off-hand manner in which she received them, pointing them to chairs, and resumed her seat at her desk.

“What can I do for you, Captain Burgoyne?” she asked, almost brusquely.

Burgoyne, carefully coached by Blair, looked into the lining of his hat. He showed signs of embarrassment.

“Well, the fact is, Miss Leverton,” he said, “the fact is--I wished to see you on a most important matter, which is also an unpleasant one.”

“Unpleasant?” said Frances.

“Unpleasant for me,” answered Burgoyne, still repeating his lesson. “You remember that I received from you and Mr. Winch the other day what purported to be the diamond necklace which I had deposited with your father?”

“Purported!” exclaimed Frances. “Purported, Captain Burgoyne?”

“I said purported, Miss Leverton,” repeated Burgoyne quietly. “You see, what I really did receive was a mere counterfeit--quite valueless--of my own property.”