situation has arisen.
‘It happened that this St John Price had occasion to visit South Africa on diplomatic business during the war, and as luck would have it he took his return passage on the Maurania, the ship on which his nephew Arnold was third officer. But he never reached England. He met his death on the journey under circumstances which involved a coincidence too remarkable to have happened otherwise than in real life.’
In spite of himself Cheyne was interested. Price glanced at him and went on:
‘One night at the end of the voyage when they were running without lights up the Channel, a large steamer going in the same direction as themselves suddenly loomed up out of the darkness and struck them heavily on the starboard quarter … My cousin was on deck, though not in charge. He saw the outlines of the vessel as she was closing in, and he also saw that a passenger was standing at the rail just where the contact was about to take place. At the risk of his own life he sprang forward and dragged the man back. Unfortunately he was not in time to save him, for a falling spar broke his back and only just missed killing Arnold. Then, as you may have guessed from what I said, it turned out that the passenger was none other than St John Price. My cousin had tried to save his own uncle.’
Once more Price paused, but Cheyne still remaining silent he continued:
‘St John lingered for some hours, during most of which time he was conscious, and it was then that he told Arnold about his belief that he, Arnold, was heir to the barony of Hull. I don’t know, Mr Cheyne, if you are aware that the present Lord Hull is a man well on to eighty and is in failing health. He has no known heir, and unless some claimant comes forward speedily, the title will in the course of nature become extinct. As you probably know also, Lord Hull is a man of enormous wealth. St John Price believed that he, Arnold and myself were all descended from the eldest son of Francis, the fifth Baron Hull. This man had lived an evil, dissolute life, and England having become too hot to hold him, he had sailed for South Africa in the early part of the last century. On his father’s death search was made for him, but without result, and the second son, Alwyn,-inherited. St John had after many years’ labour traced what he believed was a lineal descent from the scapegrace, and he had utilised his visit to South Africa to make further inquiries. There he had unearthed the record of a marriage, which, he believed, completed the proofs he sought. As he knew he was dying, he handed over the attested copy of the marriage register to Arnold, at the same time making a new will leaving all the other documents in the case to Arnold also.
‘When Arnold received his next leave he went fully into the matter with his solicitor, only to find that one document, the register of a birth, was missing. Without this he could scarcely hope to win his case. The evidence of the other papers tended to show that the birth had taken place in India, probably at Bombay, and Arnold therefore applied for a transfer into a service which brought him to that country, in the hope that he would have an opportunity to pursue his researches at first hand. It was there that I met him—I am junior partner in Swanson, Reid & Price’s of that city—and he told me all that I have told you.
‘Before going to the East he sealed up the papers referring to the matter and sent them to you. If you will pardon my saying so, I think that there he made a mistake. But he explained that he knew too much about lawyers to leave anything in their hands, that they would fight the case for their own fees whether there was any chance of winning it or not, and that he wanted the papers to be in the hands of an honest man in case of his death.
‘I pointed out that I was interested in the matter also, but he said No, that he was the heir and that during his life the affair concerned him alone. Needless to say, we parted on bad terms.
‘Now, Mr Cheyne, you can see why I want those papers. Though Arnold is my cousin I doubt his honesty. I want to see exactly how we both stand. I want nothing but what is fair—as a matter of fact I can get nothing but what is fair—the law wouldn’t allow it. But I don’t want to be done. If I had the papers I would show them to a first-rate lawyer. If Arnold is entitled to succeed he will do so, if I am the heir I shall, if neither of us no harm is done. We can only get what the law allows us. But in any case I give my word of honour that, if I succeed, Arnold shall never want for anything in reason.’
Price was speaking earnestly and his manner carried conviction to Cheyne. Without waiting for a reply he proceeded.
‘You, Mr Cheyne, if you will excuse my saying it, are an outsider in the matter. Whether Arnold or I or neither of us succeeds is nothing to you. You want to do only what is fair to Arnold, and you have my most solemn promise that that is all I propose. If you enable me to test our respective positions by handing over the papers to me you will not be letting Arnold down.’
When Price ceased speaking there was silence between the two men as Cheyne thought over what he had heard. Price’s manner was convincing, and as far as Cheyne could form an opinion, the story might be true. It certainly explained the facts adequately, and Cheyne believed that the statements about Lord Hull were correct. All the same he did not believe this man was out for a square deal. If he could only get what the law allowed, would not the same apply whether he or Arnold conducted the affair? Cheyne, moreover, was still sore from his treatment, and he determined he would not discuss the matter until he had received satisfactory replies to one or two personal questions.
‘Did you drug me in the Edgecombe hotel in Plymouth a week ago and then go through my pockets, and did you the same evening burgle my house, break open my safe and mishandle my servants?’
It was not exactly a tactful question, but Price answered it cheerfully and without hesitation.
‘Not in person, but I admit my agents did these things. For these also I am anxious to apologise.’
‘Your apologies won’t prevent your having a lengthened acquaintance with the inside of a prison,’ Cheyne snarled, his rage flickering up at the recollection of his injuries. ‘How do your confederates come to be interested?’
‘Bought,’ the other admitted sweetly. ‘I had no other way of getting help. I have paid them twenty pounds on account and they will get a thousand guineas each if my claim is upheld.’
‘A self-confessed thief and crook as well as a liar! And you expect me to believe in your good intentions towards Arnold Price!’
An unpleasant look passed across the other’s face, but he spoke calmly.
‘That may be all very well and very true if you like, but it doesn’t advance the situation. The question now is: Are you prepared to hand over the letter? Nothing else seems to me to matter.’
‘Why did you not come to me like an ordinary honest man and tell me your story? What induced you to launch out into all this complicated network of crime?’
Price smiled whimsically.
‘Well, you might surely guess that,’ he answered. ‘Suppose you had refused to give me the letter, how was I to know that you would not have put it beyond my reach? I couldn’t take the risk.’
‘Suppose I refuse to give it to you now?’
‘You won’t, Mr Cheyne. No one in your position could. Circumstances are too strong for you, and you can hand it over and retain your honour absolutely untarnished. I do not wish to urge you to a decision. If you would prefer to take today to think over it, by all means do so. I sent the wire to Mrs Cheyne shortly before six last night, so she will not be uneasy about you.’
Though the words were politely spoken, the threat behind them was unmistakable and fell with sinister intent on the listener’s ears. Rapidly Cheyne considered the situation. This ruffian was right. No one in such a situation could resist indefinitely. It was true he could refuse his consent at the moment, but the question would come up again that evening and the next morning and again and again until at last he would have to give way. He knew it, and he felt that unless there was a strong chance of victory, he could not stand the hours of suffering which a further refusal would entail. No, bitter as the conclusion was, he felt he must for the moment admit defeat, trusting later to getting his own back. He turned back to Price.
‘I haven’t