The Cold Blooded Vengeance: 10 Mystery & Revenge Thrillers in One Volume. E. Phillips Oppenheim

upon your wonderful gymnasium.”

      The man bowed.

      “It is the best appointed in the country, sir,” he said proudly. “Absolutely no expense has been spared in fitting it up. Every one of our appliances is of the latest possible description, and our bathrooms are an exact copy of those in a famous Philadelphia club.”

      “What is the subscription?” Wilmore asked.

      “Five shillings a year.”

      “And how many members?”

      “Two thousand.”

      The manager smiled as he saw his two visitors exchange puzzled glances.

      “Needless to say, sir,” he added, “we are not self-supporting. We have very generous patrons.”

      “I lave heard my brother speak of this place as being quite wonderful,” Wilmore remarked, “but I had no idea that it was upon this scale.”

      “Is your brother a member?” the man asked.

      “He is. To tell you the truth, we came here to ask you a question about him.”

      “What is his name?”

      “Reginald Wilmore. He was here, I think, last Wednesday night.”

      While Wilmore talked, Francis watched. He was conscious of a curious change in the man’s deportment at the mention of Reginald Wilmore’s name. From being full of bumptious, almost condescending good-nature, his expression had changed into one of stony incivility. There was something almost sinister in the tightly-closed lips and the suspicious gleam in his eyes.

      “What questions did you wish to ask?” he demanded.

      “Mr. Reginald Wilmore has disappeared,” Francis explained simply. “He came here on leaving the office last Monday. He has not been seen or heard of since.”

      “Well?” the manager asked.

      “We came to ask whether you happen to remember his being here on that evening, and whether he gave any one here any indication of his future movements. We thought, perhaps, that the instructor who was with him might have some information.”

      “Not a chance,” was the uncompromising reply. “I remember Mr. Wilmore being here perfectly. He was doing double turns on the high bar. I saw more of him myself than any one. I was with him when he went down to have his swim.”

      “Did he seem in his usual spirits?” Wilmore ventured.

      “I don’t notice what spirits my pupils are in,” the man answered, a little insolently. “There was nothing the matter with him so far as I know.”

      “He didn’t say anything about going away?”

      “Not a word. You’ll excuse me, gentlemen—”

      “One moment,” Francis interrupted. “We came here ourselves sooner than send a detective. Enquiries are bound to be made as to the young man’s disappearance, and we have reason to know that this is the last place at which he was heard of. It is not unreasonable, therefore, is it, that we should come to you for information?”

      “Reasonable or unreasonable, I haven’t got any,” the man declared gruffly. “If Mr. Wilmore’s cleared out, he’s cleared out for some reason of his own. It’s not my business and I don’t know anything about it.”

      “You understand,” Francis persisted, “that our interest in young Mr. Wilmore is entirely a friendly one?”

      “I don’t care whether it’s friendly or unfriendly. I tell you I don’t know anything about him. And,” he added, pressing his thumb upon the button for the lift, “I’ll wish you two gentlemen good afternoon. I’ve business to attend to.”

      Francis looked at him curiously.

      “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” he asked, a little abruptly.

      “I can’t say. My name is John Maclane.”

      “Heavy-weight champion about seven years ago?”

      “I was,” the man acknowledged. “You may have seen me in the ring. Now, gentlemen, if you please.”

      The lift had stopped opposite to them. The manager’s gesture of dismissal was final.

      “I am sorry, Mr. Maclane, if we have annoyed you with our questions,” Francis said. “I wish you could remember a little more of Mr. Wilmore’s last visit.”

      “Well, I can’t, and that’s all there is to it,” was the blunt reply. “As to being annoyed, I am only annoyed when my time’s wasted. Take these gents down, Jim. Good afternoon!”

      The door was slammed to and they shot downwards. Francis turned to the lift man.

      “Do you know a Mr. Wilmore who comes here sometimes?” he asked.

      “Not likely!” the man scoffed. “They’re comin’ and goin’ all the time from four o’clock in the afternoon till eleven at night. If I heard a name I shouldn’t remember it. This way out, gentlemen.”

      Wilmore’s hand was in his pocket but the man turned deliberately away. They walked out into the street.

      “For downright incivility,” the former observed, “commend me to the attendants of a young men’s gymnasium!”

      Francis smiled.

      “All the same, old fellow,” he said, “if you worry for another five minutes about Reggie, you’re an ass.”

      At six o’clock that evening Francis turned his two-seater into a winding drive bordered with rhododendrons, and pulled up before the porch of a charming two-storied bungalow, covered with creepers, and with French-windows opening from every room onto the lawns. A man-servant who had heard the approach of the car was already standing in the porch. Sir Timothy, in white flannels and a panama hat, strolled across the lawn to greet his approaching guest.

      “Excellently timed, my young friend,” he said. “You will have time for your first cocktail before you change. My daughter you know, of course. Lady Cynthia Milton I think you also know.”

      Francis shook hands with the two girls who were lying under the cedar tree. Margaret Hilditch seemed to him more wonderful than ever in her white serge boating clothes. Lady Cynthia, who had apparently just arrived from some function in town, was still wearing muslin and a large hat.

      “I am always afraid that Mr. Ledsam will have forgotten me,” she observed, as she gave him her hand. “The last time I met you was at the Old Bailey, when you had been cheating the gallows of a very respectable wife murderer. Poynings, I think his name was.”

      “I remember it perfectly,” Francis assented. “We danced together that night, I remember, at your aunt’s, Mrs. Malcolm’s, and you were intensely curious to know how Poynings had spent his evening.”

      “Lady Cynthia’s reminder is perhaps a little unfortunate,” Sir Timothy observed. “Mr. Ledsam is no longer the last hope of the enterprising criminal. He has turned over a new leaf. To secure the services of his silver tongue, you have to lay at his feet no longer the bags of gold from your ill-gotten gains but the white flower of the blameless life.”

      “This is all in the worst possible taste,” Margaret Hilditch declared, in her cold, expressionless tone. “You might consider my feelings.”

      Lady Cynthia only laughed.

      “My dear Margaret,” she said, “if I thought that you had any, I should never believe that you were your father’s daughter. Here’s to them, anyway,” she added, accepting the cocktail from the tray which the butler had just brought out. “Mr. Ledsam, are you going to attach yourself to me, or has Margaret annexed you?”

      “I have offered myself to Mrs. Hilditch,” Francis rejoined promptly, “but so far I have made no impression.”