The Datchet Diamonds Page 3

  CHAPTER III

  THE DIAMONDS

  Mr. Paxton heard no more--he made no serious attempt to hear. As theGerman-American ceased to speak the train slowed into Preston Park. Atthe station Mr. Paxton saw that some one else got into the nextcompartment, forming a third, with its previous occupants, the rest ofthe way to Brighton.

  Mr. Paxton had heard enough. The whirlwind in his brain, instead ofbecoming less, had grown more. His mental confusion had become worseconfounded. He seemed unable to collect his ideas. He had attained tonothing like an adequate grasp of the situation by the time the trainhad arrived at its journey's end. He alighted, his Gladstone in hishand, feeling in a sort of intellectual fog. He saw Mr. Lawrence--alsocarrying a Gladstone--get out of the next compartment. A tall, thinman, with high cheekbones, a heavy moustache, and a pronouncedstoop, got out after him--evidently the German-American. Mr. Paxtonallowed the pair to walk down the platform in front, keepinghimself a respectful distance in the rear. They turned into therefreshment-room. He went in after them, taking up his position closebeside them, with, however, no sort of definite intention in his head.Mr. Lawrence recognised him at once, showing that he also had a memoryfor faces. He nodded.

  "Mr. Paxton, I believe."

  Mr. Paxton admitted that that was his name, conscious, on a sudden, ofa wild impulse to knock the fellow down for daring to accost him.

  "What is your drink, Mr. Paxton?"

  That was too much; Mr. Paxton was certainly not going to drink withthe man. He responded curtly--

  "I have ordered."

  "That doesn't matter, does it? Drink up, and have another with me."

  The fellow was actually pressing him to accept of his pestilentcharity--that was how Mr. Paxton put it to himself. He saidnothing--not because he had nothing to say, but because never beforein his life had he felt so stupid, with so little control over eitherhis senses or his tongue. He shook his head, walked out of therefreshment-room, got into a cab, and drove off to Makell's hotel.

  Directly the cab had started and was out of the station yard he toldhimself that he had been a fool--doubly, trebly, a fool--a fool allround, from every possible point of view. He ought never to have letthe scoundrels out of his sight; he ought to have spoken to thepolice; he ought to have done something; under the circumstances noone but an idiot would have done absolutely nothing at all. Nevermind--for the moment it was too late. He would do something to repairhis error later. He would tell Miss Strong the tale; she would rejoiceto find a friend of her own figuring as the hero of such a narrative;it would be a warning to her against the making of chanceacquaintance! He would ask her advice; it was a case in which twoheads might be better than one.

  Reaching the hotel, he went straight to his bedroom, still in a sortof mental haze. He had a wash--without, however, managing to wash muchof the haze out of his head. He turned to unlock his Gladstone,intending to take out of it his brush and comb. There was somethingthe matter with the key, or else with the lock--it would not open. Itwas a brand-new Gladstone, bought with a particular intent; Mr. Paxtonwas very far from being desirous that his proposed voyage to foreignparts should prematurely be generally known. Plainly, the lock was notin the best of order. Half abstractedly he fumbled with it for someseconds, before it could be induced to open, then it was opened ratherby an exertion of force, than in response to the action of the key.

  Having opened it, Mr. Paxton found himself a little puzzled by thearrangement of its contents. He could not at first remember just wherehe had put his brush and comb. He felt on the one side, where he had asort of dim idea that it ought to be, and then on the other. He failedto light on it on either side. He paused for a moment to consider.Then, by degrees, distinctly remembered having placed it in aparticular corner. He felt for it. It was not there. He wondered whereit had contrived to conceal itself. He was certain that he had placedit in the bag. It must be in it now. He began to empty the bag of allits contents.

  The first thing he took out was a shirt. He threw it from him on tothe bed. As it passed through the air something fell from it on to thefloor--something which came rolling against his foot. He picked it up.

  It was a ring.

  He could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. He sat staringat the trinket in a stupor of surprise. And the more he stared themore his wonder grew. That it was a ring there could not be theslightest shadow of doubt. It was a woman's ring, a costly one--a hoopof diamonds, the stones being of unusual lustre and size.

  How could such an article as that have found its way into hisGladstone bag?

  He picked up another shirt, and as he did so felt that in the frontthere was something hard. He opened the front to see what it was. Theshirt almost dropped from his hand in the shock of his amazement.Something gleamed at him from inside the linen. Taking this somethingout he found himself holding in his hand a magnificent tiara ofdiamonds.

  As he knelt there, on one knee, gazing at the gaud, he would havepresented a promising study for an artist possessed of a sense ofhumour. His mouth was open, his eyes distended to their fullest; everyfeature of his countenance expressed the bewilderment he felt. Thepresence of a ring in that brand-new bag of his was sufficientlysurprising--but a tiara of diamonds! Was he the victim of someextraordinary hallucination, or the hero of a fairy tale?

  He stared at the jewel, and from the jewel to the shirt, and from theshirt to the bag. Then an idea, beginning at first to glimmer on himdimly, suddenly took vivid shape, filling him with a sense of strangeexcitement. He doubted if the bag were his. He leant over it toexamine it more closely. New brown Gladstone bags, thirty inches inlength, are apt to be as like each other as peas. This was a new bag,his was a new bag--he perceived nothing in the appearance of this oneto suggest that it was not his.

  And yet that this was not his bag he was becoming more and moreconvinced. He turned to the shirt he had been holding. The contents ofhis bag had all been freshly purchased--obviously, this shirt had justcome from the maker's too. He looked at the maker's name inside theneckband. This was not his shirt--it had been bought at a differentshop; it had one buttonhole in front instead of three; it was not hissize. He looked hastily at the rest of the things which were in thebag--they none of them were his. Had he had his wits about him hewould have discovered that fact directly the bag was opened. Everygarment seemed to have been intended to serve as cover to a piece ofjewellery. He tumbled on to the bed rings, bracelets, brooches,necklets; out of vests, shirts, socks, and drawers. Till at last hestood, with an air of stupefaction, in front of a heap of glitteringgems, the like of which he had scarcely thought could have existedoutside a jeweller's shop.

  What could be the meaning of it? By what accident approaching to themiraculous could a bag containing such a treasure trove have beenexchanged for his? What eccentric and inexcusably careless individualcould have been carrying about with him such a gorgeous collection insuch a flimsy covering?

  The key to the situation came to him as borne by a flash of lightning.They were all diamonds on the bed--nothing but diamonds. He caught upthe evening paper which he had brought with him from town. He turnedto the list which it contained of the diamonds which had been stolenfrom the Duchess of Datchet. It was as he thought. Incredible thoughit seemed, unless his senses played him false, in front of him werethose priceless jewels--the world-famed Datchet diamonds! Reflectionshowed him, too, that this astounding climax had been brought about bythe simplest accident. He remembered that Mr. Lawrence had alightedfrom the railway carriage on to the Brighton platform with theGladstone in his hand;--he remembered now, although it had not struckhim at the time, that that bag, like his own, had been brown and new.In the refreshment-room Mr. Lawrence had put his bag down upon thefloor. Mr. Paxton had put his down beside it. In leaving, he must havecaught up Mr. Lawrence's bag instead of his own. He had spoiled thespoiler of his spoils. Without intending to do anything of the kind,he had played on Mr. Lawrence exactly
the same trick which thatenterprising gentleman had himself--if Mr. Paxton could believe whathe had overheard him say in the railway carriage--played on theDuchess of Datchet.

  When Mr. Paxton realised exactly how it was he sat down on the side ofthe bed, and he trembled. It was so like a special interposition ofProvidence--or was it of the devil? He stared at the scintillatingstones. He took them up and began to handle them. This, according tothe paper, was the Amsterdam Necklace, so called because one of theDukes of Datchet had bought all the stones for it in Amsterdam. It,alone, was worth close in the neighbourhood of a hundred thousandpounds.

  A hundred thousand pounds! Mr. Paxton's fingers tingled as he thoughtof it. His lips went dry. What would a hundred thousand pounds notmean to him?--and he held it, literally, in the hollow of his hand. Hedid not know with certainty whose it was. Providence had absolutelythrown it at his head. It might not be the Duchess's, after all. Atany rate, it would be but robbing the robber.

  Then there was the Datchet Tiara, the Begum's Brooch, the Banee'sBracelet; if the newspaper could be credited, every piece in thecollection was historical. As he toyed with them, holding them to thelight, turning them this way and that, looking at them from differentpoints of view, how the touch of the diamonds seemed to make the bloodin Mr. Paxton's veins run faster!

  He began to move about the bedroom restlessly, returning every now andthen to take still another look at the shimmering lumps of light whichwere beginning to exercise over him a stronger and strongerfascination. How beautiful they were! And how low he himself hadfallen! He could scarcely sink much lower. Anyhow, it would be but topass from one ditch to another. Supposing he obtained for them even atithe of their stated value! At this crisis in his career, what afresh start in life five-and-twenty thousand pounds would mean! Itwould mean the difference between hope and helplessness, betweenopportunity and despair. With his experience, on such a foundation hecould easily build up a monstrous fortune--a fortune which would meanhappiness--Daisy's and his own. Then the five-and-twenty thousandpounds could be easily returned. Compared with what he would make withit, it was but a trifle, after all.

  And then the main point was--and Mr. Paxton told himself that on thatpoint rested the crux of the position--it would not be the Duchess ofDatchet who would be despoiled; it was the robbers who, with truepoetic justice, would be deprived of their ill-gotten gains. She hadlost them in any case. He--he had but found them. He endeavoured toinsist upon it, to himself, that he had but found them. True,there was such a thing as the finder returning what he hadfound--particularly when he suspected who had been the loser. But whocould expect a man situated as he was to throw away a quarter of amillion of money? This was not a case which could be judged by theordinary standards of morality--it was an unparalleled experience.

  Still, he could not bring himself to say, straight out, that he wouldstick to what he had got, and make the most of it. His mind was notsufficiently clear to enable him to arrive at any distinct decision.But he did what was almost equally fatal, he allowed himself, halfunconsciously--without venturing to put it into so many words--todrift. He would see which way the wind blew, and then, if he could, gowith it. For the present he would do nothing, forgetting that, in sucha position as his, the mere fact of his doing nothing involved thedoing of a very great deal. He looked at his watch, starting to findit was so late.

  "Daisy will be tired of waiting. I must hurry, or she'll be off beforeI come."

  He looked into the glass. Somehow there seemed to be a sort of filmbefore his eyes which prevented him from seeing himself quite clearly,or else the light was bad! But he saw enough of himself to be awarethat he was not looking altogether his usual self. He endeavoured toexplain this in a fashion of his own.

  "No wonder that I look worried after what I've gone through lately,and especially to-day--that sort of thing's enough to take the heartout of any man, and make him look old before his time." He set histeeth; something hard and savage came into his face. "But perhaps theluck has turned. I'd be a fool to throw a chance away if it has. I'vegone in for some big things in my time; why shouldn't I go in for thebiggest thing of all, and with one bold stroke more than win back allI've lost?"

  He suffered his own question to remain unanswered; but he stowed theprecious gems, higgledy-piggledy, inside the copy of the eveningpaper which contained the news of the robbery of the Duchess ofDatchet's diamonds; the paper he put into a corner of the Gladstonebag which was not his; the bag he locked with greater care than he hadopened it. When it was fastened, he stood for a moment, surveying it alittle grimly.

  "I'll leave it where it is. No one knows what there is inside it.It'll be safe enough. Anyhow, I'll give the common or garden thief achance of providing for himself for life; his qualms on the moralaspect of the situation will be fewer than mine. If it's here when Icome back I'll accept its continued presence as an omen."

  He put on his hat, and he went out to find Miss Strong.