THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB

A complete list of the books by J. S. Fletcher already published may be found at the back of this volume.

THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB

BY J. S. FLETCHER

NEW YORK ALFRED · A · KNOPF MCMXXV

COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. · PUBLISHED, JANUARY, 1925 · SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · ESPARTO PAPER MANUFACTURED IN SCOTLAND AND FURNISHED BY W. F. ETHERINGTON & CO., NEW YORK · BOUND BY H. WOLFF ESTATE, NEW YORK. ·

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CHAPTER I THE WOLVES

“Three Hundred Thousand Pounds! And in the hand of an inexperienced youngster of twenty-one. And—incidentally—in Mr. Barclay Leverton’s!”

Carsdale flung down the letter which he had been reading, and with a cynical laugh that came as a note of exclamation at the end of his involuntary burst into speech, crossed the room, and throwing open the window, leaned over the sill and looked out upon Norfolk Street, lying deep down below. It was nearly ten o’clock of a lovely May morning, and in the street itself, and in the Strand at its head, and along the Embankment at its foot, men were quickening their last paces in a laudable desire to be in office or chambers by the hour at which London, laziest city in the world in respect to its early business hours, gets into harness for the day. There was a sense of generous warmth and of new life in the spring air; the people who tenanted the floor immediately beneath the offices of Leverton & Carsdale had taken a fancy that year to ornament their window-ledges with flowers, and the scent of the well-filled boxes, just watered by a girl-clerk, came floating up to Carsdale’s nostrils as he leaned out. But Carsdale neither noticed the hurrying men, nor the bright

sunlight, nor the fragrance of the innocent blossoms; all that he was conscious of as he stood there, drumming impatient fingers on the sill, and staring with unseeing eyes at the high buildings in front, or the moving figures below, was that a callow youth had expressed a desire to [10]entrust Barclay Leverton with the management and investment of a fortune of three hundred thousand pounds. A fine sum, thought Carsdale, with another cynical laugh; a fine, handsome, substantial, comfortable sum!—a sum out of which there should be good pickings for whoever was lucky enough to handle it.

The striking of the neighbouring clocks roused Carsdale from his reverie, and with an impatient shrug of his shoulders he turned from the window and went back to the desk, on which he had thrown the letter which had given him food for thought. But instead of picking it up and reading it again, he took a cigar from an open box, and having lighted it, turned and contemplated his own reflection in a mirror which hung over the mantelpiece. This personal inspection was as critical as if it was being made by another man; when it was over, he felt somewhat impressed by himself. He was tall; he had a good figure; he could smile pleasantly and ingratiatingly; he possessed a handsome face and curly dark hair, and darker eyes: he was scrupulously well-dressed; by a mere effort of will he could assume a cheery, good-tempered, optimistic expression which was very taking and had often proved useful in critical situations. And blowing out a cloud of opalescent smoke, he nodded at his mirrored self and smiled.

“I think John Carsdale is more likely to attract a youngster than Barclay Leverton is!” he muttered as he turned from the mirror and placed the tip of a finger on one of a series of electric bells. “The great thing is—the usual thing—opportunity—opportunity!”

The door opened with a noiseless jerk, and a boy’s head and shoulders appeared. The shoulders were garbed in a smart uniform of blue and silver; the head, surmounted by an unruly thatch of sandy-coloured hair, seemed unduly [11]large for the shoulders, and was fronted by a face which for its distinguishing features showed a turned-up snub nose, a very wide mouth, and a pair of remarkably alert blue eyes. The eyes fastened upon Carsdale in a silent inquiry.

“Ask Mrs. Walsingham to be kind enough to come here,” said Carsdale. The sharp face disappeared as instantaneously as it had shot into sight; the door closed. And Carsdale sat down at the desk, and picking up the letter, fingered it nervously until the reopening of the door roused him from the train of thought into which he had fallen. Then he looked up, half rising from his chair.

“Shut the door, Sylvie,” he said in a whisper. “I—I want to talk to you.”

The woman who entered glanced sharply at Carsdale with a slight uplifting of her fine eyebrows, silently closed the door, and took the chair at the side of the desk which he indicated with an outstretched finger. For a moment he regarded her critically.

“You’re looking very well this morning,” he said, suddenly. “In fact, at your best. And I’m glad of it.”

The woman smiled—a quiet, inscrutable smile which suggested many things. She was a pretty woman with all the outward signs of refinement and delicacy strongly marked; her hair, her teeth, her hands all showed the elaborate care of a person scrupulously particular about the details of the toilet; if she was gowned somewhat elaborately for a business office, if the rings which sparkled on her slim white fingers seemed a little conspicuous amongst books and papers, both rings and gowns were in the best of taste, and seemed to belong to the wearer as naturally as her fine eyes and delicate ears. Wherever she went, this was a woman to be noticed—very careful and discerning observers would have said, after a keen [12]inspection of her, that she was also a woman of considerable possibilities in more directions than one.

“And why this particular expression of pleasure?” she said, half-mockingly, half-satirically. “For some reason of—business, eh?”

Carsdale tossed the letter which he was still nervously fingering across to her.

“It’s an excellent idea to have a fascinating young woman in an office, Mrs. Walsingham,” he said, with a light laugh. “There—read that.”

Mrs. Walsingham took the letter and glanced it rapidly over as a preliminary to a careful reading.

“Oh?” she remarked. “A private letter to Mr. Leverton.”

“It wasn’t marked private,” answered Carsdale carelessly. “And haven’t I been opening all Leverton’s letters since he was taken ill? By the by, have you heard anything this morning?”

“Yes. He had a very bad night,” replied Mrs. Walsingham. “I am to telephone again later, after the doctors have been. Now let me read this letter, whatever it may be.”

What Mrs. Walsingham, secretary to Leverton & Carsdale, and particular friend of John Carsdale, read, was a communication written in a boyish hand, bearing date of the previous day, and addressed from a Southampton hotel. And as she read, she decided that the writer, however young and callow he might be, was frank and candid and trusting to a degree which might involve him in danger.

“Dear Mr. Leverton” (ran the letter): “I am a stranger to you, but you will remember that you and my father, Martin Shrewsbury, were close friends before he left England for the [13]West Indies, some years ago. I am his only son—and only child—Richard—age twenty-one. My dear father suddenly died six weeks ago, and of course I have come in for everything—he left me, in all, a little more than £300,000. It is really about this that I am writing to you. The money is now—everything having been cleared up here—in bankers’ hands in London. Of course, I want to invest it. I have heard my father speak highly of you as a financial man, and I found your address amongst his papers. Perhaps, for the sake of your old friendship, you will give me the benefit of your experience and advice? You see, I have never been in England before. My father meant to send me to school in England, but when I was about old enough to leave, my mother died, and as he had no one but me, my coming was put off from time to time, and in the

end I stayed at home. So I don’t know much of English matters, nor of business, except of what I learnt on our plantations. It was my father’s earnest wish that I should come to England as soon as he was dead; he had left his affairs in such a state that everything could be immediately wound up. So here I am, and I feel everything very strange!

“I intend to leave Southampton for London early to-morrow morning, and I will venture to call upon you as soon as possible after my arrival.

“Yours sincerely, “Richard Shrewsbury.”

Mrs. Walsingham read this letter twice over before she folded it up and handed it back across the desk. Her face was as calm and inscrutable as ever when she looked at Carsdale.

“Well?” she said.

Carsdale waved his cigar with a flourish that suggested much.

“Three hundred thousand pounds!” he exclaimed.

Mrs. Walsingham regarded him steadily out of her half-closed eyes.

[14]“Well?” she repeated.

Carsdale sprang to his feet and began to pace the room. “Three hundred thousand pounds!—a raw youth of one-and-twenty who has never set foot in England before!—my dear Sylvie, what a chance for you and me!” he said, presently coming to a halt at the side of his companion’s chair. “What a chance!”

“This letter is addressed to Barclay Leverton,” she said pointedly.

“Barclay Leverton,” answered Carsdale, “is very ill in bed, and is likely to remain there for some weeks. This young Johnny Rawbones is coming here to-day—to-day!—and we shall see him. And—you and I are clever people, Sylvie.”

“Middlingly clever—there is room for improvement in each of us,” answered Mrs. Walsingham. “So—you want to be first in the field?”

“Naturally! And it ought to be an easy thing,” said Carsdale. “The youngster comes here—Mr. Leverton is unfortunately away from business but his partner, Mr. Carsdale, is not, and Mr. Carsdale, who has opened and read Mr. Shrewsbury’s letter, will be happy to do all that Mr. Leverton would wish to do for the son of his old friend. And—Mr. Carsdale can make himself very ingratiating to young gentlemen with money. So—if she pleases—can Mrs. Walsingham.”

“If she pleases,” observed Mrs. Walsingham. “The ‘if’ is an important word, though a small one.”

“And three hundred thousand pounds is an important matter,” said Carsdale. “I think that you and I together, Sylvie, should be able to do something with this boy before he sees Leverton. We can enjoy a long start—and first impressions make a big difference. That’s why I said [15]I was so glad to see you looking at your best this morning.”

Mrs. Walsingham made no immediate reply. She sat twisting the rings about her fingers and apparently lost in thought. And suddenly she turned sharply on Carsdale, who was still pacing up and down, puffing hard and fast at his big cigar.

“You’ve got to remember, Jack,” she said, in quick, decisive tones, “that Leverton and this boy are sure to meet—eventually.”

“It’s the start I want,” answered Carsdale. “Only let me—and you—get our spoons into the pudding first! And, according to the doctors, if Leverton recovers pretty quickly, it’ll be weeks and weeks before he’s fit for business. So that——”

Mrs. Walsingham held up a finger.

“Details, Jack—attend to details!” she said, warningly. “Remember there’s such a person as Miss Frances Leverton in the world.”

“A girl of nineteen against—against you and me!” exclaimed Carsdale. “Come, come! Why——”

“Frances Leverton, in her way, is as sharp as you are,” interrupted Mrs. Walsingham. “You know as well as I do that she’s been coming here every two or three days ever since her father was taken ill, wanting to know everything. How would you keep her from finding out about this boy? And when Leverton found that you’d kept that letter from him——”

“Yes, Frances is decidedly in the way,” said Carsdale, hastily. “But that can be got over. The youngster could be kept away from here, and——”

A sharp ring at the telephone which stood on the desk broke in upon Carsdale’s observations. He flung aside [16]his half-smoked cigar, and dropping into his chair, picked up the receiver.

“Yes—yes!” he said mechanically. “Yes—this is Mr. Carsdale. Yes—what do you say?”

Mrs. Walsingham, who had taken possession of Richard Shrewsbury’s letter again, and was re-reading it thoughtfully, heard a sudden, sharp exclamation from Carsdale, and turned to see him drop the receiver as he wheeled round his chair. He stared at her with widening eyes.

“Leverton’s dead!” he exclaimed. “D’you hear? Leverton’s dead!”

“Dead?” she said. “Why——”

“Died twenty minutes ago,” answered Carsdale. “The doctor says——”

But at that moment the door opened, and the sandy hair and sharp blue eyes of the office-boy showed themselves again. And this time sounds came from the wide mouth.

“A gentleman, sir—Mr. Richard Shrewsbury!”

CHAPTER II THE LAMB

It was characteristic of Mr. John Carsdale, and of Mrs. Walsingham, that at the first sound of the opening door their faces assumed that curiously indifferent and expressionless look which has come to be associated with the term business. Carsdale glanced at the office-boy as if that youthful functionary had been some machine which had just executed its purely mechanical message: his companion remained apparently absorbed in the reading of the letter.

“Where is Mr. Shrewsbury, Griffkin?” asked Carsdale.

“In the waiting-room, sir,” answered the boy.

“Did you tell him that Mr. Leverton was not here?”

“No, sir—told him nothing. Your orders, sir.”

“Quite right. Bring him in, Griffkin. You needn’t go, Mrs. Walsingham,” said Carsdale, as the secretary made a professional movement towards the door. “I think I shall want you. At once, Griffkin—straight in!”

The boy vanished, leaving the door ajar; a moment later, he reappeared, to throw it wide open, and to admit a young gentleman who advanced into the room with an air of shy expectation. And as he crossed the threshold the man and woman who rose to greet him looked at him with a curiosity which was all the greater because it was so carefully concealed, and each, after one sharp glance at the caller, thought the same thought—that Mr. Richard Shrewsbury was not at all what they had expected him to [18]be, and both looked at him again, with different motives.

It was very evident that Mr. Shrewsbury, ignorant of England though he might be, was English from head to foot. He was certainly bronzed and tanned to a degree quite unusual in Europe, but there was nothing in his whole six feet of height that did not bespeak the English blood, pure and unmixed for generations. Tall, slim, athletic, broad of shoulder, slender of flank, he was of the type that one sees nowhere in the world but in English hunting-fields and on English cricket-grounds—except when it is wanted for the sterner games of war and needful adventure. If he had lived in England all his life, said Mrs. Walsingham to herself, his hair would have been a light brown; the fierce suns of the West Indies had deepened it to a rich chestnut which was well in keeping with the dark tint of his cheeks. And being a judge of manly beauty, she decided that here was a youngster who was handsome as the youthful Greek gods are supposed to have been, and who was at the same time utterly unconscious that all women would admire the strength and

grace of his figure, his square chin, his firm mouth, almost innocent of moustache, the direct gaze of his grey-blue eyes, and the untrammelled freedom of his gait. She felt a quick leaping of her pulses as she looked at him, and it was with difficulty that she kept admiration out of the eyes which she so vigorously schooled to instant obedience.

As for Carsdale, he looked at the visitor with a growing consciousness that this was not exactly what he had expected to meet. There was something in the young man’s appearance which showed that he was no fool; he might be inexperienced even to greenness, but he looked to have a will of his own. And Carsdale, stepping forward to meet him with outstretched hand, assumed his most serious air.

[19]Young Richard Shrewsbury took the offered hand in a grip which made Carsdale think of giants and blacksmiths.

Mrs. Walsingham smiled as she saw Carsdale wince beneath the unconscious strength; she smiled again as she saw the youngster’s face flush under its tan.

“Mr. Leverton?” said Richard, eagerly. “This is kind, sir—you will think me a very early caller, but——”

Carsdale lifted a hand.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Shrewsbury,” he said, motioning Richard to a chair, “but I am not Mr. Leverton. I am Mr. John Carsdale, his partner. This lady is Mrs. Walsingham, our confidential secretary. The fact is Mr. Shrewsbury, Mr. Leverton has been ill for some time, and as I open all letters that come here, I opened yours this morning, so we were expecting you. In fact, we were just talking of you.”

Richard Shrewsbury heard all this with growing wonder and interest; he was already speculative and inquisitive about this obviously-man-of-the-world Carsdale, and boyishly conscious of Mrs. Walsingham’s charm and pretty face. He shyly offered her his hand, and gripped hers as mightily as he had grasped Carsdale’s. But Mrs. Walsingham was of the sort that would have picked up a white-hot iron if need be without uttering a sound or winking an eyelash, and she let her hand rest in the young giant’s as long as he, from sheer confusion and shyness, cared to hold it, and meanwhile favoured him with the full battery of her eyes, whereat he blushed up to his own—after which he somehow managed to get into the easy chair which Carsdale had motioned him to take.

“I—I’m awfully sorry to hear about Mr. Leverton,” he found himself saying, when he had taken another look at his companions and his surroundings. “I hope it is not a serious illness?”

[20]Carsdale looked at Mrs. Walsingham; Mrs. Walsingham looked at the floor.

“Well—er, it’s very serious, Mr. Shrewsbury,” replied Carsdale. “Ver-y serious indeed. I—ah, well, I don’t know that there’s any need to beat about the bush. The fact is, Mr. Leverton is dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed Richard, staring blankly at his informant. “Dead? Ah, I see!—I suppose he has been dead for some time? Of course, I didn’t know.”

“He has been dead just about half an hour,” answered Carsdale, coolly glancing at the clock. “I had just received the news of his death over the telephone when you were announced. We were not exactly surprised, for he has been very ill, but the end came quite suddenly at last.”

Richard looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression. He made as if to drag his long limbs out of the very low chair into which they had been consigned.

“I’m most awfully sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know Mr. Leverton, of course, but I’d like to have seen him for my father’s sake—he often spoke of him. I—perhaps I’d better go, Mr. Carsdale.”

But Carsdale waved him back into the chair.

“Not at all, not at all!” he said “As I told you, I am—was, rather—Leverton’s partner, and I know that nothing would please him better than that I should do for you what he would have done. So please command me in any way, Mr. Shrewsbury—I dare say I can give you the same services and advice that he would have given.”

The lad’s face flushed with pleasure at the warmth and kindliness of Carsdale’s tone.

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” he said. “I’m awfully obliged. Of course, I’ll come to you, as soon as I get settled down.”

Carsdale laughed—an indulgent and fatherly laugh.