<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></SPAN>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
<h3>THE PAWN TICKET</h3>
<p>Oliva Cresswell awoke to consciousness as she was being carried up the
stairs of the house. She may have recovered sooner, for she retained a
confused impression of being laid down amidst waving grasses and of
hearing somebody grunt that she was heavier than he thought.</p>
<p>Also she remembered as dimly the presence of Dr. van Heerden standing
over her, and he was wearing a long grey dust-coat.</p>
<p>As her captor kicked open the door of her room she scrambled out of his
arms and leant against the bed-rail for support.</p>
<p>"I'm all right," she said breathlessly, "it was foolish to faint,
but—but you frightened me."</p>
<p>The man grinned, and seemed about to speak, but a sharp voice from the
landing called him, and he went out, slamming the door behind him. She
crossed to the bath-room, bathed her face in cold water and felt better,
though she was still a little giddy.</p>
<p>Then she sat down to review the situation, and in that review two
figures came alternately into prominence—van Heerden and Beale.</p>
<p>She was an eminently sane girl. She had had the beginnings of what might
have been an unusually fine education, had it not been interrupted by
the death of her foster-mother. She had, too, the advantage which the
finished young lady does not possess, of having grafted to the wisdom of
the schools the sure understanding of men and things which personal
contact with struggling humanity can alone give to us.</p>
<p>The great problems of life had been sprung upon her with all their
hideous realism, and through all she had retained her poise and her
clear vision. Many of the phenomena represented by man's attitude to
woman she could understand, but that a man who admittedly did<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></SPAN></span> not love
her and had no other apparent desire than to rid himself of the incubus
of a wife as soon as he was wed, should wish to marry her was
incomprehensible. That he had already published the banns of her
marriage left her gasping at his audacity. Strange how her thoughts
leapt all the events of the morning: the wild rush to escape, the
struggle with the hideously masked man, and all that went before or
followed, and went back to the night before.</p>
<p>Somehow she knew that van Heerden had told her the truth, and that there
was behind this act of his a deeper significance than she could grasp.
She remembered what he had said about Beale, and flushed.</p>
<p>"You're silly, Matilda," she said to herself, employing the term of
address which she reserved for moments of self-depreciation, "here is a
young man you have only met half a dozen times, who is probably a very
nice married policeman with a growing family and you are going hot and
cold at the suggestion that you're in love with him." She shook her head
reproachfully.</p>
<p>And yet upon Beale all her thoughts were centred, and however they might
wander it was to Beale they returned. She could analyse that buoyancy
which had asserted itself, that confidence which had suddenly become a
mental armour, which repelled every terrifying thought, to this faith
she had in a man, who in a few weeks before she had looked upon as an
incorrigible drunkard.</p>
<p>She had time for thought, and really, though this she did not
acknowledge, she desperately needed the occupation of that thought. What
was Beale's business? Why did he employ her to copy out this list of
American and Canadian statistics? Why did he want to know all these
hotels, their proprietors, the chief of the police and the like? She
wished she had her papers and books so that she might go on extracting
that interminable list.</p>
<p>What would van Heerden do now? Would her attempted escape change his
plans? How would he overcome the difficulty of marrying a girl who was
certain to denounce him in the presence of so independent a witness as a
clergyman? She would die before she married him, she told herself.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She could not rest, and walked about the room examining the framed
prints and looking at the books, and occasionally walking to the glass
above the dressing-chest to see if any sign was left of the red mark on
her cheek where van Heerden's hand had fallen. This exercise gave her a
curious satisfaction, and when she saw that the mark had subsided and
was blending more to the colour of her skin she felt disappointed.
Startled, she analysed this curious mental attitude and again came to
Beale. She wanted Beale to see the place. She wanted Beale's sympathy.
She wanted Beale's rage—she was sure he would rage.</p>
<p>She laughed to herself and for want of other and better amusement walked
to the drawers in the dressing-bureau and examined their contents. They
were empty and unlocked save one, which refused to respond to her tug.
She remembered she had a small bunch of keys in her bag.</p>
<p>"I am going to be impertinent. Forgive the liberty," she said, as she
felt the lock give to the first attempt.</p>
<p>She pulled the drawer open. It contained a few articles of feminine
attire and a thick black leather portfolio. She lifted this out, laid it
on the table and opened it. It was filled with foolscap. Written on the
cover was the word "Argentine" and somehow the writing was familiar to
her. It was a bold hand, obviously feminine.</p>
<p>"Where have I seen that before?" she asked, and knit her forehead.</p>
<p>She turned the first leaf and read:</p>
<p>"Alsigar Hotel, Fournos, Proprietor, Miguel Porcorini. Index 2."</p>
<p>Her mouth opened in astonishment and she ran down the list. She took out
another folder. It was marked "Canada," and she turned the leaves
rapidly. She recognized this work. It was the same work that Beale had
given to her, a list of the hotels, their proprietors and means of
conveyance, but there was no reference to the police. And then it dawned
upon her. An unusually long description produced certain characteristics
of writing which she recognized.</p>
<p>"Hilda Glaum!" she said. "I wonder what this means!"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She examined the contents of the drawer again and some of them puzzled
her. Not the little stack of handkerchiefs, the folded collars and the
like. If Hilda Glaum was in the habit of visiting Deans Folly and used
this room it was natural that these things should be here. If this were
her bureau the little carton of nibs and the spare note book were to be
expected. It was the steel box which set her wondering. This she
discovered in the far corner of the drawer. If she could have imagined
anything so fantastic she might have believed that the box had been
specially made to hold the thing it contained and preserve it from the
dangers of fire. The lid, which closed with a spring catch, released by
the pressure of a tiny button, was perfectly fitted so that the box was
in all probability air-tight.</p>
<p>She opened it without difficulty. The sides were lined with what seemed
to be at first sight thick cardboard but which proved on closer
inspection to be asbestos. She opened it with a sense of eager
anticipation, but her face fell. Save for a tiny square blue envelope at
the bottom, the box was empty!</p>
<p>She lifted it in her hand to shake out the envelope and it was then that
the idea occurred to her that the box had been made for the envelope,
which refused to budge until she lifted one end with a hairpin.</p>
<p>It was unsealed, and she slipped in her finger and pulled out—a pawn
ticket!</p>
<p>She had an inclination to laugh which she checked. She examined the
ticket curiously. It announced the fact that Messrs. Rosenblaum Bros.,
of Commercial Road, London, had advanced ten shillings on a "Gents'
Silver Hunter Watch," and the pledge had been made in the name of van
Heerden!</p>
<p>She gazed at it bewildered. He was not a man who needed ten shillings or
ten dollars or ten pounds. Why should he pledge a watch and why having
pledged it should he keep the ticket with such care?</p>
<p>Oliva hesitated a moment, then slipped the ticket from its cover, put
back the envelope at the bottom of the box and closed the lid. She found
a hiding-place for the little<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></SPAN></span> square pasteboard before she returned the
box and portfolio to the drawer and locked it.</p>
<p>There was a tap at the door and hastily she replaced the key in her bag.</p>
<p>"Come in," she said.</p>
<p>She recognized the man who stood in the doorway as he who had carried
her back to the room.</p>
<p>There was a strangeness in his bearing which made her uneasy, a certain
subdued hilarity which suggested drunkenness.</p>
<p>"Don't make a noise," he whispered with a stifled chuckle, "if Gregory
hears he'll raise fire."</p>
<p>She saw that the key was in the lock on the outside of the door and this
she watched. But he made no attempt to withdraw it and closed the door
behind him softly.</p>
<p>"My name is Bridgers," he whispered, "van Heerden has told you about
me—Horace Bridgers, do you——?"</p>
<p>He took a little tortoiseshell box from the pocket of his frayed
waistcoat and opened it with a little kick of his middle finger. It was
half-full of white powder that glittered in a stray ray of sunlight.
"Try a sniff," he begged eagerly, "and all your troubles will
go—phutt!"</p>
<p>"Thank you, no"—she shook her head, looking at him with a perplexed
smile—"I don't know what it is."</p>
<p>"It's the white terror," he chuckled again, "better than the green—not
so horribly musty as the green, eh?"</p>
<p>"I'm not in the mood for terrors of any kind," she said, with a
half-smile. She wondered why he had come, and had a momentary hope that
he was ignorant of van Heerden's character.</p>
<p>"All right"—he stuffed the box back into his waistcoat
pocket—"<i>you're</i> the loser, you'll never find heaven on earth!"</p>
<p>She waited.</p>
<p>All the time he was speaking, it seemed to her that he was on the <i>qui
vive</i> for some interruption from below. He would stop in his speech to
turn a listening ear to the door. Moreover, she was relieved to see he
made no attempt to advance any farther into the room. That he was under
the influence of some drug she guessed. His eyes glittered<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></SPAN></span> with
unnatural brilliance, his hands, discoloured and uncleanly, moved
nervously and were never still.</p>
<p>"I'm Bridgers," he said again. "I'm van Heerden's best man—rather a
come down for the best analytical chemist that the school ever turned
out, eh? Doing odd jobs for a dirty Deutscher!" He walked to the door,
opened it and listened, then tiptoed across the room to her.</p>
<p>"You know," he whispered, "you're van Heerden's girl—what is the game?"</p>
<p>"What is——?" she stammered.</p>
<p>"What is the game? What is it all about? I've tried to pump Gregory and
Milsom, but they're mysterious. Curse all mysteries, my dear. What is
the game? Why are they sending men to America, Canada, Australia and
India? Come along and be a pal! Tell me! I've seen the office, I know
all about it. Thousands of sealed envelopes filled with steamship
tickets and money. Thousands of telegraph forms already addressed. You
don't fool me!" He hissed the last words almost in her face. "Why is he
employing the crocks and the throw-outs of science? Perrilli, Maxon,
Boyd Heyler—and me? If the game's square why doesn't he take the new
men from the schools?"</p>
<p>She shook her head, being, by now, less interested in such revelations
as he might make, than in her own personal comfort. For his attitude was
grown menacing ... then the great idea came to her. Evidently this man
knew nothing of the circumstances under which she had come to the house.
To him she was a wilful but willing assistant of the doctor, who for
some reason or other it had been necessary to place under restraint.</p>
<p>"I will tell you everything if you will take me back to my home," she
said. "I cannot give you proofs here."</p>
<p>She saw suspicion gather in his eyes. Then he laughed.</p>
<p>"That won't wash," he sneered—"you know it all. I can't leave here," he
said; "besides, you told me last time that there was nothing. I used to
watch you working away at night," he went on to the girl's amazement.
"I've sat looking at you for hours, writing and writing and writing."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>She understood now. She and Hilda Glaum were of about the same build,
and she was mistaken for Hilda by this bemused man who had, in all
probability, never seen the other girl face to face.</p>
<p>"What made you run away?" he asked suddenly; but with a sudden resolve
she brought him back to the subject he had started to discuss.</p>
<p>"What is the use of my telling you?" she asked. "You know as much as I."</p>
<p>"Only bits," he replied eagerly, "but I don't know van Heerden's game. I
know why he's marrying this other girl, everybody knows that. When is
the wedding?"</p>
<p>"What other girl?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Cresswell or Prédeaux, whatever she calls herself," said Bridgers
carelessly. "She was a store girl, wasn't she?"</p>
<p>"But"—she tried to speak calmly—"why do you think he wants to marry
her?"</p>
<p>He laughed softly.</p>
<p>"Don't be silly," he said, "you can't fool me. Everybody knows she's
worth a million."</p>
<p>"Worth a million?" she gasped.</p>
<p>"Worth a million." He smacked his lips and fumbled for the little box in
his waistcoat pocket. "Try a sniff—you'll know what it feels like to be
old man Millinborn's heiress."</p>
<p>There was a sound in the hall below and he turned with an exaggerated
start (she thought it theatrical but could not know of the jangled
nerves of the drug-soddened man which magnified all sound to an
intensity which was almost painful).</p>
<p>He opened the door and slid out—and did not close the door behind him.</p>
<p>Swiftly she followed, and as she reached the landing saw his head
disappear down the stairs. She was in a blind panic; a thousand formless
terrors gripped her and turned her resolute soul to water. She could
have screamed her relief when she saw that the sliding door was
half-open—the man had not stopped to close it—and she passed through
and down the first flight. He had vanished before<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></SPAN></span> she reached the
half-way landing and the hall below was empty. It was a wide hall,
stone-flagged, with a glass door between her and the open portal.</p>
<p>She flew down the stairs, pulled open the door and ran straight into van
Heerden's arms.</p>
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