“YOU ARE quite sure you don’t mind my having the car, Oswald?” Sybil Lorrimer looked in at the library door.
Sir Oswald was sitting near the window. He raised his head.
“Why, of course I don’t. I shall be only too delighted,” he said, speaking with more truth than Sybil guessed. That she had asked to have the car for a long day’s shopping in Birmingham meant that they would have a day without her at the Priory. And a day without Sybil was beginning to be a day of peace for Sir Oswald. The gratitude and mild liking he had formerly entertained for her was rapidly turning into something very like absolute dislike. It seemed to him that she was becoming ubiquitous, he found it impossible to stir out of doors without meeting her, and in the house she was always at his elbow with offers of service.
More than once Sir Oswald had tried to hint to his mother that Sybil’s stay had lasted long enough, but Lady Davenant liked the girl. In some way she had made herself necessary to her, and, noting her unwillingness, Sir Oswald had ceased to press the matter.
To-day he had been sitting quietly in his chair, thinking of Elizabeth: of her sweet, low tones, of the faint, elusive fragrance that clung about her. He was asking himself what could be the cause of the coldness with which she was undoubtedly treating him; it was impossible that he could have offended her, and yet the difference was unmistakable.
With a sigh of annoyance he heard Sybil come farther into the room. He wished he had gone into his study where he was less likely to be invaded.
But Sybil was apparently not in one of her talkative moods. He heard her cross the room, then there followed a rustling of paper. He bore it in silence for a minute of two, then he said in a tone of mild exasperation:
“What are you doing, Sybil? Surely you have the papers in the morning-room?”
“Not the paper I want,” Sybil answered. “You only have one copy and it is brought here. I have found what I wanted now. It was only an advertisement I saw the other day.”
“Of a new hat shop?” Sir Oswald questioned jestingly.
“No, not that,” Sybil answered absently. She was copying an address into her notebook. It stood at the bottom of a paragraph which at first sight it seemed impossible to connect with pretty, dainty Sybil Lorrimer.
“Private Detective Agency,” it was headed. “Messrs. Gregg and Stubbs are prepared to conduct inquiries on the newest lines. Delicate investigations arranged with the utmost secrecy. Highest testimonials can be given. Address: Messrs. Gregg and Stubbs, 2A, Palmer Buildings, New Fish Street, Birmingham.”
Sybil closed her notebook and put it in her satchel. Then she hesitated a moment.
“Oswald, I—”
There were voices outside. Maisie and her governess were coming downstairs. Sir Oswald rose as quickly as he could.
“I must speak to Miss Martin. Excuse me, Sybil.”
Sybil’s fair face hardened, her momentary irresolution vanished.
“Well, good-bye then,” she called out with assumed gaiety as she ran down the steps and got into the waiting car.
The great Metropolis of the Midlands was about an hour’s drive from the Priory. The road for the most part lay through pleasant, wooded country, sparsely populated until they reached the suburbs of the town.
Sybil did not tell the chauffeur to drive to New Fish Street. Instead she got out in New Street and directed the man to drive to and wait for her at the nearest garage. She had her own reasons for wishing her visit to Messrs. Gregg and Stubbs to remain unknown.
Even when she had got rid of the car she did not hurry herself; she strolled in and out of two or three shops, making trifling purchases, though it was easy to see that her thoughts were elsewhere.
But at last she made up her mind to face the real business of the day. New Fish Street was some little distance away, in the new part of the town, but Sybil found her way there with but little difficulty. Palmer Buildings was a conspicuous block near the end of the street; it was apparently let out as offices, and Messrs. Gregg and Stubbs occupied the second floor.
Sybil stopped a moment and glanced round nervously before entering the centre passage—but, no—there was certainly no one who would know her among the busy throng in the street. It seemed to her that even the lift-boy looked at her curiously as she gave the address of Messrs. Gregg and Stubbs. More than once she felt inclined to give up her expedition and turn back, but she was a little reassured by the businesslike aspect of the offices that confronted her.
Mr. Gregg was in and would be at liberty in a few minutes, she learned on application to a solemn-looking youth in spectacles, who to her relief seemed to take no interest in her whatever. He showed her into a small waiting-room and retired.
Sybil had time to ascertain that certain small trophies of hers were safe in her bag, and also to arrange in what words to open her business, before he returned to conduct her to Mr. Gregg.
Sybil looked about her curiously as she entered. Mr. Gregg rose when the door opened and placed a large leather chair for her, with its face to the light.
He was a tall, spare-looking man, with a stoop that seemed habitual about his thin shoulders; and, for the rest, he was clean-shaven with mild-looking blue eyes that seemed to be perpetually blinking. Sybil though he looked more like a professor or a student than a private detective.
He had resumed his seat at his writing-table.
“You wished to see me?” he said interrogatively.
“Yes.” Sybil fumbled with her satchel. It was more difficult to begin than she had anticipated. “You—you inquire into other people’s pasts, don’t you?” she said abruptly.
Mr. Gregg bowed. “If anybody has reason for us to do so, madam.”
He was a little puzzled by Sybil. She was not married, so there was no peccant husband to be inquired about. It must be a lover, he decided, but women of Sybil’s class did not often come to him for help. His interest was distinctly roused.
“And you don’t let them know that they are being inquired about, or anyone else?” Sybil went on feverishly. “So, if it all comes to nothing, there is no harm done?”
“No harm at all,” the detective acquiesced. “I think we know our work, madam, and secrecy is one of the first essentials. You may safely trust yourself in our hands.”
“Yes, I thought so,” Sybil said in a relieved tone. “I want you to find out all you can about the past of a woman who is a governess at Davenant Priory to my little cousin, Sir Oswald Davenant’s daughter.”
A shade of surprise flitted over Mr. Gregg’s face. This was not at all what he had expected to hear.
“Certainly, madam.”
He drew a heavy ledger towards him and turned over the leaves. Then with his pen uplifted he waited, looking at Sybil.
“Will you give me any particulars you can of the lady—any reason you may have for thinking her past may hold some secret? I presume you had references with her?”
“My aunt had,” Sybil corrected. “Written ones only from a great friend, Mrs. Sunningdale, who is now in India. She was most enthusiastic about Miss Martin, I believe.”
Mr. Gregg blinked at her. “I presume you have some definite reason for being dissatisfied with Miss Martin, for making inquiries about her?”
“I am dissatisfied with her in every way,” Sybil said with gathering energy. “I am convinced that she is an adventuress, but I want you to find me some definite grounds on which to proceed.”
Mr. Gregg’s blue eyes still blinked. All this was very interesting from his point of view, but he saw clearly enough that the affair might resolve itself into merely a matter of jealousy between two women and he felt by no means certain of Sybil Lorrimer’s ability to pay his expenses. Messrs. Gregg and Stubbs were not inclined to work for nothing.
“But, Miss Lorrimer,” he said, with a slight hesitation in his manner, “you may be quite right, very possibly you are, but I must say again, I suppose you have some reason for your suspicion, for speaking of Miss Martin as an adventuress?”
The interview was not proceeding precisely as Sybil had expected. Questioned thus, her distrust of the governess seemed almost baseless. Still, some instinct stronger than reason told her that she was on the right track, that there was some secret in Miss Martin’s past, and she was determined to discover it.
“It isn’t easy to put the reason for one’s suspicions into words,” she said slowly. “Of course if it were more than suspicion I should have no need to come to you, Mr. Gregg.”
A movement of the detective’s eyelids showed that he appreciated this thrust. He began to see that this fluffy, golden-haired lady had more in her than he had imagined.
“Her very appearance suggests a disguise,” Sybil went on. “She has large grey eyes, apparently quite strong, and yet she constantly wears smoke-coloured glasses, and however hot the weather is I have never seen her out of doors even in the park except with her hat and her face swathed in a veil. She gives neuralgia as the reason, but she evidently dislikes speaking about it.”
“Um-m.” Mr. Gregg was making some entries in his ledger. “Will you describe the lady, madam.”
“She is tall,” Sybil began, “tall, with good features and a very fair complexion and masses of black hair—too black, and not shingled. I am sure it is dyed.”
Mr. Gregg permitted himself a smile. “That is not so very unusual, madam, I fancy. Everybody does not admire shingling, either. What age is she?”
“I should say under thirty,” Sybil said vaguely. “What with her veil and her glasses it is difficult to see enough of her to be sure.”
Mr. Gregg tapped restlessly on the open page of his ledger.
“Well, madam, I think it would be well to consider what you are doing before we go on with the matter. It is sure to be expensive—such inquiries always are—and I am bound to tell you that you seem to have but the slightest of grounds for your suspicion of this lady.”
Sybil’s small face looked obstinate. “I intend to go on,” she said quietly. “But of course, Mr. Gregg—” She stopped suddenly and opened her bag. “I was forgetting. But I don’t know that you will consider these of any importance. I came across them by accident in Miss Martin’s room, among some things she was burning.” She held out the photograph and the tiny curl of red gold hair.
Mr. Gregg looked a little bored as he took them in his hand, then his expression changed indefinably; he bent over them and studied them intently. At last he glanced up.
“You are sure these belong to Miss Martin?”
“Quite sure,” Sybil returned laconically.
Mr. Gregg swept them both into an envelope.
“Well, Miss Lorrimer, we will do the best we can for you and as soon as we learn anything definite we will communicate with you.”
“One more thing I might mention,” Sybil said as she stood up. “Miss Martin, though they met as strangers, is evidently on most familiar terms with a man who dined at the Priory last week, a Mr. Carlyn, of Carlyn Hall. I feel sure he knows the secret of her past.”
“Mr. Carlyn. Ah!” The detective said no more as he opened the door for her. He was apparently lost in a brown study.
Sybil opened her bag again. “I believe it is usual to pay something on account.” She laid a twenty-pound note on the table.
Mr. Gregg pushed it back to her, blinking benevolently.
“No, no! My dear madam, wait till we have done something.”
He saw her out with grave politeness, then he went back to his office and took up his speaking-tube.
“Send Mr. Marlowe to me at once.”
There was an air of repressed excitement about him as he waited the coming of the ex-constable from Carlyn.
The ex-policeman looked much as usual, save that out of uniform he seemed a trifle less portly and important. He looked at Mr. Gregg in some surprise.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“Yes,” Mr. Gregg replied, taking the photograph from its envelope and handing it to him. “Sit down, Marlowe. Can you tell me anything about this?”
Marlowe glanced at it leisurely and then he gave a cry of amazement.
“Why, if it isn’t a photo of John Winter, who was murdered in the Home Wood at Carlyn Hall a year last spring. Where did you get it, sir?”
Mr. Gregg rubbed his hands together.
“Ah! ‘Thereby hangs a tale.’ But I thought I wasn’t mistaken. You will have to prepare for special work for the next few days, Marlowe.”