Templeton pursed his lips: ‘A bit risky, wasn’t it? Do you know anything about the man?’
‘Not very much,’ she admitted; ‘but I found him most awfully interesting. He lives on the south side of the river, not far from Tower Bridge. His name’s Young. . . . Yes; I expect he buys the stuff from foreign sailors. I’m sure you’d find him amusing. When he’s got more jade to sell may I send him along to you?’
‘Not at present. I’m too busy.’
‘Been down at Holmdean lately?’ she inquired.
‘I find it’s about the only place I can find peace to work. I’ll be there next week-end.’
‘That’s splendid. Then you’ll come to my little party on Friday night at The Dean!’
He shook his head.
‘But you must! It’s going to be great fun; lots of people are motoring down from town, and you can’t be so unfriendly. After all, we’re practically next-door neighbours in the country.’
‘I’ll see if I can spare the time, Lydia,’ he demurred.
She nodded sympathetically. ‘You’re working on the Lord John case, aren’t you?’
Sir Richard Templeton looked at her out of startled eyes. ‘How in heaven’s name did you know that, Lydia?’
‘A friend mentioned it. Why, isn’t it supposed to be public?’
Scowling, he stared in front of him.
‘I won’t ask the name of your friend, Lydia, but you’ll be doing me a favour if you make sure this won’t be mentioned again. If it gets about it’ll put me in a very difficult position. Scotland Yard will think I’ve been talking. I don’t mind you knowing, of course,’ he added quickly. ‘I can trust you. But, you understand, it’s only in the most unusual cases that prosecuting counsel is consulted by Scotland Yard before they’ve caught their man.’
‘Then it’s a murder charge they’ll be bringing against the notorious Lord John—not just a string of burglaries?’
Templeton smiled as he glanced at her. ‘Your prescience is rather uncommon, Lydia! But you mustn’t ask me to go any further into that. When the case does come on——’
‘If it ever does!’
He smiled again. ‘It will be one of the most extraordinary trials of recent years. For disguise and impersonation, as everybody knows, Lord John has a genius that’s simply bewildering, and this is going to be the difficulty in any charge brought against him. What can you do against a cast-iron alibi? An evening newspaper used a phrase the other night that has stuck in my memory—“The Man With a Thousand Masks.” Sounds sensational, perhaps, but it’s almost true. Do you know, a police officer one night lay on a roof, and watched him through a skylight as he made himself up. At least, he was in time to see the last stages of the process. There was more than grease-paint in it, I assure you. There seemed to be an actual psychological change going on—yes, a mental change. The officer himself described it to me; it was uncanny. The man down in the room below was almost hypnotizing himself into his new character. When he walked about, talking to himself, he was an old, shabby suburban clerk to the very life! Even his hands had been decorated—the skin had that parched, shiny look that comes with working among ledgers for years. The police thought they had him that evening, but he slipped through their fingers. No; genius isn’t too strong a word for Lord John.’
Lydia Prideaux shivered. ‘Perhaps he’s here to-night.’
‘And if he is, believe me, it’ll take as great a genius as himself to prove it——’
Templeton broke off and glanced over his shoulder. The curtain at the rear of the alcove was drawn aside and a man entered from the passage.
‘Ah, there you are, Lydia! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Good evening, Sir Richard.’
Adrian Lister came forward with a faint smile playing round his thin lips and sank into a chair. Though he was Mrs. Prideaux’s half-brother, there was no hint of resemblance between them. Lister’s dark, somnolent eyes and black hair, brushed back from a high narrow forehead, were in sharp contrast to a skin that was almost dead white. He spoke in a slow, drawling voice, and his movements were oddly lethargic in one with a body so lithe.
‘Where have you been, Adrian?’ asked Mrs. Prideaux. ‘I’ve missed you for the last two hours.’
‘A quiet cigar in the garden, my dear child. How often must I repeat that I detest dancing.’ Lister, who was reputed to be one of the best dancers in London, smoothed his black hair and turned to the barrister. ‘So you’ve come after all, Sir Richard, to add a note of legal dignity to one of Lydia’s raffish parties?’
A slight frown had gathered on Templeton’s brow. He disliked Lister and his glib, ironic tongue.
‘Did I hear you mention Lord John as I came in?’ Lister’s smile was disarming. ‘But perhaps I’m mistaken. . . . Any more news of the gentleman, Sir Richard?’
‘Why should I have news of him?’ asked the barrister tersely.
Adrian Lister’s shrug was languid. ‘You legal birds at the Old Bailey know a lot more than you’ll admit. If they nail him in the end, may I beg a reserved seat in court for the trial?’ He gave a quiet laugh. ‘You note how I refrain from asking you if you’re to prosecute. But perhaps we’re counting our chickens before even the eggs are laid! Do you think Lord John will ever stand in the dock, Sir Richard?’
The question was punctuated by the deferential cough of a manservant who had approached the alcove where they sat.
‘A gentleman downstairs asking for Sir Richard Templeton, madam,’ he said to his mistress.
‘No name, sir,’ he replied to the barrister; ‘but he said it was urgent.’
‘Perhaps I’d better see him.’
Mrs. Prideaux nodded, and Templeton made his way down the crowded staircase to the hall. The man who rose from the chair beside the front door was of slight build, with a neatly trimmed grey moustache and pleasant, quiet grey eyes. Behind the shy courtesy of his bearing a careful observer might have caught now and then a hint of a nervous energy that so seldom was permitted to reveal itself in his actions. He might have been a solicitor, a doctor. . . .
‘Tripp!’ exclaimed Sir Richard, shaking hands with Chief Inspector James Tripp of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Sir Richard.’
‘There’s nothing wrong?’
‘So far—no.’ Tripp’s tranquil grey eyes made a slow survey of the high hall, where a stream of guests were moving down to the supper-room. ‘Have you a few minutes to spare, Sir Richard?’ he asked politely, and they moved into the vestibule out of earshot of the footman at the cloak-room door.
The detective smiled grimly. ‘I’m afraid the gentleman they call Lord John is giving us a great deal of trouble, Sir Richard. I’ve just come from a late interview with the Assistant Commissioner. His remarks weren’t exactly complimentary.’
‘To you?’
Tripp nodded. ‘And to the Metropolitan Force in general. These questions in Parliament haven’t helped matters, and the newspapers are getting a little restive. No doubt they’ll have plenty to say about to-night’s escape from Seymore Street.’
Templeton gave a quick laugh. ‘At least, Tripp, you’ve got the satisfaction of knowing that you’ve had Lord John in custody for twenty minutes.’
‘Twelve and a half, to be exact. The Chief Commissioner himself has been on the telephone with Colonel Marchmont. Something’s got to be done, Sir Richard, and rather quickly. That’s the general situation. Now for details. They come fairly near home, as far as you’re concerned. Too near perhaps, you’ll say. But there’s no need to be alarmed,’ he added in his gentle, regulated voice, ‘though of course the public mustn’t know the facts. We have traced Lord John to the Marquise Hotel.’