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The Yellow Streak

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"Tony, old son," said Robin, "I won't lunch with you even to set the
board in a roar at your aunt's luncheon-party. But I'll walk up to
Mart's with you, for I'm going there myself ..."

They entered Mart's together and parted in the vestibule, where Tony
gravely informed his "dear old scream" that he must fly to his
"avuncular luncheon." Robin walked quickly through the hotel and left by
the other entrance. The street was almost deserted. Of the man with the
dingy neckerchief there was no sign. Robin hurried into Piccadilly and
hopped on a 'bus which put him down at his club facing the Green Park.

He had a late lunch there and afterwards took a taxi back to the Temple.
The daylight was failing as he crossed the courtyard in front of his
chambers. In the centre the smoke-blackened plane-tree throned it in
unchallenged solitude. But, as Robin's footsteps echoed across the
flags, something more substantial than a shadow seemed to melt into the
gathering dusk in the corner where the narrow passage ran.

Robin stopped to listen at the entrance to his chambers. As he stood
there he heard a heavy tread on the stone steps within. He turned to
face a solidly built swarthy-looking man who emerged from the building.

He favoured Robin with a leisurely, searching stare, then strode heavily
across the courtyard to the little passage where he disappeared from
view.

Robin looked after him. The man was a stranger: the occupants of the
other chambers were all known to him. With a thoughtful expression on
his face Robin entered the house and mounted to his rooms.




CHAPTER XVI


THE INTRUDER

"D----!" exclaimed Bruce Wright.

He stood in the great porch at Harkings, his finger on the electric
bell. No sound came in response to the pressure, nor any one to open the
door. Thus he had stood for fully ten minutes listening in vain for any
sound within the house. All was still as death. He began to think that
the bell was out of order. He had forgotten Hartley Parrish's insistence
on quiet. All bells at Harkings rang, discreetly muted, in the servants'
hall.

He stepped out of the porch on to the drive. The weather had improved
and, under a freshening wind, the country was drying up. As he reached
the hard gravel, he heard footsteps, Bude appeared, his collar turned
up, his swallow-tails floating in the wind.

"Now, be off with you!" he cried as soon as he caught sight of the trim
figure in the grey overcoat; "how many more of ye have I to tell there's
nothing for you to get here! Go on, get out before I put the dog on
you!"

He waved an imperious hand at Bruce.

"Hullo, Bude," said the boy, "you've grown very inhospitable all of a
sudden!"

"God bless my soul if it isn't young Mr. Wright!" exclaimed the butler.
"And I thought it was another of those dratted reporters. It's been
ring, ring, ring the whole blessed morning, sir, you can believe me, as
if they owned the place, wanting to interview me and Mr. Jeekes and Miss
Trevert and the Lord knows who else. Lot of interfering busybodies, _I_
call 'em! I'd shut up all noospapers by law if I had my way ..."

"Is Mr. Jeekes here, Bude?" asked Bruce.

"He's gone off to London in the car, sir ... But won't you come in, Mr.
Wright? If you wouldn't mind coming in by the side door. I have to keep
the front door closed to shut them scribbling fellows out. One of them
had the face to ask me to let him into the library to take a
photograph ..."

He led the way round the side of the house to the glass door in the
library corridor.

"This is a sad business, Bude!" said Bruce.

"Ah, indeed, it is, sir," he sighed. "He had his faults had Mr. Parrish,
as well _you_ know, Mr. Wright. But he was an open-handed gentleman,
that I will say, and we'll all miss him at Harkings ..."

They were now in the corridor. Bude jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"It was in there they found him," he said in a low voice, "with a hole
plumb over the heart."

His voice sank to a whisper. "There's blood on the carpet!" he added
impressively.

"I should like just to take a peep at the room, Bude," ventured the boy,
casting a sidelong glance at the butler.

"Can't be done, sir," said Bude, shaking his head; "orders of
Detective-Inspector Manderton. The police is very strict, Mr. Wright,
sir!"

"There seems to be no one around just now, Bude," the young man
wheedled. "There can't be any harm in my just going in for a second?..."

"Go in you should, Mr. Wright, sir," said the butler genially, "if I had
my way. But the door's locked. And, what's more, the police have the
key."

"Is the detective anywhere about?" asked Bruce.

"No, sir," answered Bude. "He's gone off to town, too! And he don't
expect to be back before the inquest. That's for Toosday!"

"But isn't there another key anywhere?" persisted the boy.

"No, sir," said Bude positively, "there isn't but the one. And that's
in Mr. Manderton's vest pocket!"

Young Wright wrinkled his brow in perplexity. He was very young, but he
had a fine strain of perseverance in him. He was not nearly at the end
of his resources, he told himself.

"Well, then," he said suddenly, "I'm going outside to have a look
through the window. I remember you can see into the library from the
path round the house!"

He darted out, the butler, protesting, lumbering along behind him.

"Mr. Wright," he panted as he ran, "you didn't reelly ought ... If any
one should come ..."

But Bruce Wright was already at the window. The butler found him leaning
on the sill, peering with an air of frightened curiosity into the empty
room.

"The glazier from Stevenish"--Bude's voice breathed the words hoarsely
in Wright's ear--"is coming to-morrow morning to put the window in. He
wouldn't come to-day, him being a chapel-goer and religious. It was
there we found poor Mr. Parrish--d'you see, sir, just between the window
and the desk!"

But Bruce Wright did not heed him. His eyes were fixed on the big
writing-desk, on the line of black japanned letter-trays set out in
orderly array. Outside, the short winter afternoon was drawing in fast,
and the light was failing. Dusky shadows within the library made it
difficult to distinguish objects clearly.

A voice close at hand cried out sharply:

"Mr. Bude! Mr. Bu-u-ude!"

"They're calling me!" whispered the butler in his ear with a tug at his
sleeve; "come away, sir!"

But Bruce shook him off. He heard the man's heavy tread on the gravel,
then a door slam.

How dark the room was growing, to be sure! Strain his eyes as he might,
he could not get a clear view of the contents of the letter-trays on the
desk. But their high backs hid their contents from his eyes. Even when
he hoisted himself on to the window-sill he could not get a better view.

He dropped back on to the gravel path and listened. The wind soughed
sadly in the bare tree-tops, somewhere in the distance a dog barked
hoarsely, insistently; otherwise not a sound was to be heard. He cast a
cautious glance round the side of the house. The glass door was shut;
the lamp in the corridor had not been lit.

Hoisting himself up to the window-sill again, he crooked one knee on the
rough edge and thrusting one arm through the broken pane of glass,
unbolted the window. Then, steadying himself with one hand, with the
other he very gently pushed up the window, threw his legs across the
sill, and dropped into the library. Very deliberately, he turned and
pushed the window softly down behind him.

Some unconscious prompting, perhaps an unfamiliar surface beneath his
feet, made him look down. Where his feet rested on the mole-grey carpet
a wide dark patch stood out from the delicate shade of the rug. For a
moment a spasm of physical nausea caught him.

"How beastly!" he whispered to himself and took a step towards the desk.

Hartley Parrish's desk was arranged just as he always remembered it to
have been. All the letter-trays save one were empty. In that was a
little pile of papers held down by a massive marble paper-weight.
Quickly he stepped round the desk.

He had put out his hand to lift the weight when there was a gentle
rattle at the door.

Bruce Wright wheeled instantly round, back to the desk, to face the
door, which, in the gathering dusk, was now but a squarer patch of
darkness among the shadows at the far end of the library. He stood
absolutely still, rooted to the spot, his heart thumping so fast that,
in that silent room, he could hear the rapid beats.

Some one was unlocking the library door. As realization came to the
boy, he tiptoed rapidly round the desk, the sound of his feet muffled by
the heavy pile carpet, and reached the window. There was a click as the
lock of the door was shot back. Without further hesitation Bruce stepped
behind the long curtains which fell from the top of the window to the
floor.

The curtains, of some heavy grey material, were quite opaque. Bruce
realized, with a sinking heart, that he must depend on his ears to
discover the identity of this mysterious interloper. He dared not look
out from his hiding-place--at least not until he could be sure that the
newcomer had his back to the window. He remained, rigid and vigilant,
straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, scarcely daring to
breathe.

He heard the door open, heard it softly close again. Then ... silence.
Not another sound. The boy remembered the heavy pile carpet and cursed
his luck. He would have to risk a peep round the curtains. But not yet!
He must wait ...

A very slight rustling, a faint prolonged rustling, caught his ear. It
came nearer, then stopped. There was a little rattling noise from
somewhere close at hand, a small clinking sound.

Then silence fell again.

The wind whooshed sadly round the house, the window clattered dismally
in its frame, the curtains tugged fretfully before the cold breeze which
blew in at the broken pane. But the silence in the room was absolute.

It began to oppress the boy. It frightened him. He felt an
uncontrollable desire to look out into the room and establish the
identity of the mysterious entrant. He glided his hand towards the
window-frame in the hope that he might find a chink between curtain and
wall through which he might risk a peep into the room. But the curtain
was fastened to the wall.

The room was almost entirely dark now. Only behind him was a patch of
grey light where the lowering evening sky was framed in the window. He
began to draw the curtain very slowly towards him, at the same time
leaning to the right. Very cautiously he applied one eye to the edge of
the curtain.

As he did so a bright light struck him full in the face. It streamed
full from a lamp on the desk and almost blinded him. It was a
reading-lamp and the bulb had been turned up so as to throw a beam on
the curtain behind which the boy was sheltering.

Behind the desk, straining back in terror, stood a slim, girlish figure.
The details of her dress were lost in the gathering shadows, but her
face stood out in the gloom, a pale oval. Bruce could see the dark line
made by the lashes on her cheek.

At the sight of her, he stepped boldly forth from his hiding-place,
shielding his eyes from the light with his hand.

"It's Bruce Wright, Miss Trevert," he said, "don't you remember me?"




CHAPTER XVII


A FRESH CLUE

"Oh!" cried the girl, "you frightened me! You frightened me! What do you
want here ... in this horrible room?"

She was trembling. One slim hand plucked nervously at her dress. Her
breath came and went quickly.

"I saw the curtain move. I thought it was the wind at first. But then I
saw the outline of your fingers. And I imagined it was he ... come
back ..."

"Miss Trevert," said the boy abashed, "I must have frightened you
terribly. I had no idea it was you!"

"But why are you hiding here? How did you get in? What do you want in
this house?"

She spoke quickly, nervously. Some papers she held in her hand shook
with her emotion. Bruce Wright stepped to the desk and turned the bulb
of the reading-lamp down into its normal position.

"I must apologize most sincerely for the fright I gave you," he said.
"But, believe me, Miss Trevert, I had no idea that anybody could gain
access to this room. I climbed in through the window. Bude told me that
the police had taken away the key ..."

The girl made an impatient gesture.

"But why have you come here?" she said. "What do you want?"

The boy measured her with a narrow glance. He was young, but he was
shrewd. He saw her frank eyes, her candid, open mien, and he took a
rapid decision.

"I think I have come," he answered slowly, "for the same purpose as
yourself!"

And he looked at the papers in her hand.

"I used to be Mr. Parrish's secretary, you know," he said.

The girl sighed--a little fluttering sigh--and looked earnestly at him.

"I remember," she said. "Hartley liked you. He was sorry that he sent
you away. He often spoke of you to me. But why have you come back? What
do you mean by saying you have come for the same purpose as myself?"

Bruce Wright looked at the array of letter-trays. The marble
paper-weight had been displaced. The tray in which it had lain was
empty. He looked at the sheaf of papers in the girl's hand.

"I wanted to see," he replied, "whether there was anything here ... on
his desk ... which would explain the mystery of his death ..."

The girl spread out the papers in her hand on the big blotter.

She laid the papers out in a row and leant forward, her white arms
resting on the desk. From the other side of the desk the boy leant
eagerly forward and scanned the line of papers.

At the first glimpse his face fell. The girl, eyeing him closely, marked
the change which came over his features.

There were seven papers of various kinds, both printed and written, and
they were all on white paper.

The boy shook his head and swept the papers together into a heap.

"It's not there?" queried the girl eagerly.

"No!" said Bruce absent-mindedly, glancing round the desk.

"What isn't?" flashed back the girl.

Bruce Wright felt his face redden with vexation. What sort of a
confidential emissary was he to fall into a simple trap like this?

The girl smiled rather wanly.

"Now I know what you meant by saying you had come for the same purpose
as myself," she said. "I suppose we both thought we might find
something, a letter, perhaps, which would explain why Mr. Parrish did
this dreadful thing, something to relieve this awful uncertainty about ...
about his motive. Well, I've searched the desk ... and there's
nothing! Nothing but just these prospectuses and receipts which were in
the letter-tray here. They must have come by the post yesterday morning.
And there's nothing of any importance in the drawers ... only household
receipts and the wages book and a few odd things like that! You can see
for yourself ..."

The lower part of the desk consisted of three drawers flanked on either
side by cupboards. Mary Trevert pulled out the drawers and opened the
cupboards. Two of the drawers were entirely empty and one of the
cupboards contained nothing but a stack of cigar boxes. One drawer held
various papers appertaining to the house. There was no sign of any
letter written on the slatey-blue paper.

The boy looked very hard at Mary.

"You say there was nothing in the letter-tray but these papers here?" he
asked.

"Nothing but these," replied the girl.

"You didn't notice any official-looking letter on bluish paper?" he
ventured to ask.

"No," answered the girl. "I found nothing but these."

The boy thought for a moment.

"Do you know," he asked, "whether the police or anybody have been
through the desk?"

"I don't know at all," said Mary, smoothing back a lock of hair from her
temple; "I daresay Mr. Jeekes had a look round, as he had a meeting with
Mr. Parrish's lawyer in town this afternoon!"

She had lost all trace of her fright and was now quite calm and
collected.

"Do you know for certain whether Mr. Jeekes was in here?" asked Bruce.

"Oh, yes. The first thing he did on arriving last night was to go to the
library."

"I suppose Jeekes is coming back here to-night?"

No, she told him. Mr. Jeekes did not expect to return to Harkings until
the inquest on Tuesday.

Bruce Wright picked up his hat.

"I must apologize again, Miss Trevert," he said, "for making such an
unconventional entrance and giving you such a fright. But I felt I could
not rest until I had investigated matters for myself. I would have
presented myself in the ordinary way, but, as I told you, Bude told me
the police had locked up the room and taken away the key ..."

Mary Trevert smiled forgivingly.

"So they did," she said. "But Jay--Mr. Parrish's man, you know--had
another key. He brought it to me."

She looked at Bruce with a whimsical little smile.

"You must have been very uncomfortable behind those curtains," she said.
"I believe you were just as frightened as I was."

She walked round the desk to the window.

"It was a good hiding-place," she remarked, "but not much good as an
observation post. Why! you could see nothing of the room. The curtains
are much too thick!"

"Not a thing," Bruce agreed rather ruefully. "I thought you were the
detective!"

He held out his hand to take his leave with a smile. He was a
charming-looking boy with a remarkably serene expression which went well
with close-cropped golden hair.

Mary Trevert did not take his hand for an instant. Looking down at the
point of her small black suede shoe she said shyly:

"Mr. Wright, you are a friend of Mr. Greve, aren't you?"

"Rather!" was the enthusiastic answer.

"Do you see him often?"

The boy's eyes narrowed suddenly. Was this a cross-examination?

"Oh, yes," he replied, "every now and then!"

Mary Trevert raised her eyes to his.

"Will you do something for me?" she said. "Tell Mr. Greve not to trust
Manderton. He will know whom I mean. Tell him to be on his guard against
that man. Say he means mischief. Tell him, above all things, to be
careful. Make him go away ... go abroad until this thing has blown
over ..."

She spoke with intense earnestness, her dark eyes fixed on Bruce
Wright's face.

"But promise me you won't say this comes from me! Do you understand?
There are reasons, very strong reasons, for this. Will you promise?"

"Of course!"

She took Bruce's outstretched hand.

"I promise," he said.

"You mustn't go without tea," said the girl. "Besides,"--she glanced at
a little platinum watch on her wrist,--"there's not another train until
six. There is no need for you to start yet. I don't like being left
alone. Mother has one of her headaches, and Horace and Dr. Romain have
gone to Stevenish. Come up to my sitting-room!"

She led the way out of the library, locking the door behind them, and
together they went up to the Chinese boudoir where tea was laid on a low
table before a bright fire. In the dainty room with its bright colours
they seemed far removed from the tragedy which had darkened Harkings.

They had finished tea when a tap came at the door. Bude appeared. He
cast a reproachful look at Bruce.

"Jay would be glad to have a word with you, Miss," he said.

The girl excused herself and left the room. She was absent for about ten
minutes. When she returned, she had a little furrow of perplexity
between her brows. She walked over to the open fireplace and stood
silent for an instant, her foot tapping the hearth-rug.

"Mr. Wright," she said presently, "I'm going to tell you something that
Jay has just told me. I want your advice ..."

The boy looked at her interrogatively. But he did not speak.

"I think this is rather important," the girl went on, "but I don't quite
understand in what way it is. Jay tells me that Mr. Parrish had on his
pistol a sort of steel fitting attached to the end ... you know, the
part you shoot out of. Mr. Parrish used to keep his automatic in a
drawer in his dressing-room, and Jay has often seen it there with this
attachment fitted on. Well, when Mr. Parrish was discovered in the
library yesterday, this thing was no longer on the pistol. And Jay says
it's not to be found!..."

"That's rather strange!" commented Bruce. "But what was this steel
contraption for, do you know? Was it a patent sight or something?"

"Jay doesn't know," answered the girl.

"Would you mind if I spoke to Jay myself?" asked the young man.

In reply the girl touched the bell beside the fireplace. Bude answered
the summons and was despatched to find Jay. He appeared in due course, a
tall, dark, sleek young man wearing a swallow-tail coat and striped
trousers.

"How are you, Jay?" said Bruce affably.

"Very well, thank you, sir," replied the valet.

"Miss Trevert was telling me about this appliance which you say Mr.
Parrish had on his automatic. Could you describe it to me?"

"Well, sir," answered the man rather haltingly, "it was a little sort of
cup made of steel or gun-metal fitting closely over the barrel ..."

"And you don't know what it was for?"

"No, sir!"

"Was it a sight, do you think?"

"I can't say, I'm sure, sir!"

"You know what a sight looks like, I suppose. Was there a bead on it or
anything like it?"

"I can't say, I'm sure, sir. I never gave any particular heed to it. I
used to see the automatic lying in the drawer of the wardrobe in Mr.
Parrish's room in a wash-leather case. I noticed this steel appliance,
sir, because the case wouldn't shut over the pistol with it on and the
butt used to stick out."

"When did you last notice Mr. Parrish's automatic?"

"It would be Thursday or Friday, sir. I went to that drawer to get Mr.
Parrish an old stock to go riding in as some new ones he had bought were
stiff and hurt him."

"And this steel cup was on the pistol then?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"And you say it was not on the pistol when Mr. Parrish's body was
found?"

"No, sir!"

"Are you sure of this?"

"Yes, sir. I was one of the first in the room, and I saw the pistol in
Mr. Parrish's hand, and there was no sign of the cup, sir. So I've had a
good look among his things and I can't find it anywhere!"

Bruce Wright pondered a minute.

"Try and think, Jay," he said, "if you can't remember anything more
about this steel cup, as you call it. Where did Mr. Parrish buy it?"

"Can't say, I'm sure, sir. He had it before ever I took service with
him!"

Jay put his hand to his forehead for an instant.

"Now I come to think of it," he said, "there was the name of the shop or
maker on it, stamped on the steel. 'Maxim,' that was the name, now I put
my mind back, with a number ..."

"Maxim?" echoed Bruce Wright. "Did you say Maxim?"

"Yes, sir! That was the name!" replied the valet impassively.

"By Jove!" said the boy half to himself. Then he said aloud to Jay:

"Did you tell the police about this?"

Jay looked somewhat uncomfortable.

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

Jay looked at Mary Trevert.

"Well, sir, I thought perhaps I'd better tell Miss Trevert first. Bude
thought so, too. That there Manderton has made so much unpleasantness in
the house with his prying ways that I said to myself, sir ..."

Bruce Wright looked at Mary.

"Would you mind if I asked Jay not to say anything about this to anybody
just for the present?" he asked.

"You hear what Mr. Wright says, Jay," said Mary. "I don't want you to
say anything about this matter just yet. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss. Will that be all, Miss?"

"Yes, thank you, Jay!"

"Thanks very much, Jay," said the boy. "This may be important. Mum's the
word, though!"

"I _quite_ understand, sir," answered the valet and left the room.

Hardly had the door closed on him than the girl turned eagerly to Bruce.

"It _is_ important?" she asked.

"It may be," was the guarded reply.

"Don't leave me in the dark like this," the girl pleaded. "This horrible
affair goes on growing and growing, and at every step it seems more
bewildering ... more ghastly. Tell me where it is leading, Mr. Wright! I
can't stand the suspense much more!"

Her voice broke, and she turned her face away.

"You must be brave, Miss Trevert," said the boy, putting his hand on her
shoulder. "Don't ask me to tell you more now. Your friends are working
to get at the truth ..."

"The truth!" cried the girl. "God knows where the truth will lead us!"

Bruce Wright hesitated a moment.

"I don't think you have any need to fear the truth!" he said presently.

The girl took her handkerchief from her face and looked at him with
brimming eyes.

"You know more than you let me think you did," she said brokenly. "But
you are a friend of mine, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Bruce, and added boldly:

"And of his too!"

She did not speak again, but gave him her hand. He clasped it and went
out hurriedly to catch his train back to London.




CHAPTER XVIII


THE SILENT SHOT

That faithful servitor of Fleet Street, the Law Courts clock, had just
finished striking seven. It boomed out the hour, stroke by stroke,
solemnly, inexorably, like a grim old judge summing up and driving home,
point by point, an irrefutable charge. The heavy strokes broke in upon
the fitful doze into which Robin Greve, stretched out in an armchair in
his living-room, had dropped.

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