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Updated: August 27, 2024
Hecklemeir smiled, kneading his pudgy hands. "It will be hard to borrow," he said. "Money is very dear to the Britisher just now right against his heart.... Still.... perhaps one's family could be thumb screwed......An elderly relative with no children would be the most favorable, I think. Have you got such a relative concealed somewhere in a nook of London? Think about it.
With some concern she examined the contents of her purse. There was a guinea, a half crown and some shillings in it the dust of the bin. And her profession, as Hecklemeir had said, was ended. She leaned over, like a man, resting her arms on the closed doors. The future looked troublous. Money was the blood current in the life she knew. It was the vital element. It must be got.
Hecklemeir did not ask how Lady Muriel came by the thing she claimed; his profession always avoided such detail. But he knew that she had gone to Bramwell Winton; and what she had must have come from some scientific source. The mention of Hector Bartlett was not without its virtue. Lady Muriel marked the man's changed manner, and pushed her trade.
Something that would have been the greatest find of the age to Tony Halleck... something that the biologist, clearly from his words and manner, valued beyond the gold plates of Sir Hector Bartlett. It was a thing that Hecklemeir would buy with money... the very thing which he would be at this opportune moment interested to purchase. She saw it in the very first comprehensive glance.
For almost four years she had been relieved of this thought about one's family. The one "over the water" for whom Hecklemeir had stolen the Scottish toast to designate, had paid lavishly for what she could find out. She had been richly, for these four years, in funds. The habit was established of dipping her hand into the dish. And now to find the dish empty appalled her.
Something would turn up. She was lucky... others had gone to the tower; gone before the firing squad for lesser activities in what Hecklemeir called her profession, but she had floated through... carrying what she gleaned to the paymaster. Was it skill, or was she a child of Fortune?
When a woman began to send her gloves to the laundry she was on her way down. Other evidences were not entirely lacking in the woman's dress, but they were not patent to the casual eye. Lady Muriel was still, to the observer, of the gay top current in the London world. The woman followed the man's glance about the room. "You must be rich, Hecklemeir," she said. "Lend me a hundred pounds."
She carried buttoned in the bosom of her jacket something that these men valued. But, what was it? Well, at any rate it was something that would mean fame and fortune to the one who should bring it out of Africa. That one would now be Hecklemeir, and she should have her share of the spoil.
Lady Muriel found the drawing-room of her former employer in some confusion; rugs were rolled up, bronzes were being packed. But in the disorder of it the proprietor was imperturbable. He merely elevated his eyebrows at her reappearance. She went instantly to the point. "Hecklemeir," she said, "how would you like to have a definite objective in your explorations?" The man looked at her keenly.
"If it is Scotland Yard, my Lady," he said, "you will not require a direction. I can give you the address. It is on the Embankment, near..." "Don't be a fool, Hecklemeir," she interrupted, and taking the book from his hands, she whipped through the pages, got the address she sought, and went out onto the narrow landing and down the steps into Regent Street: She took a hansom.
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