CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

“It’s gone further than I meant it to go. Understand me, Maud—it’s finished! I’ll find your old sweetheart for myself.”

      She laughed heartily.

      “You needn’t trouble,” she answered, with a little toss of the head. “I am not such a fool as you seem to think me. Mr. Ruff has made an appointment with him.”

      There was a change in John Dory’s face. The man’s eyes were bright—they almost glittered.

      “You mean that your friend Mr. Ruff is going to produce Spencer Fitzgerald?” he exclaimed.

      “He has promised to,” she answered. “John,” she declared, throwing herself into an easy-chair, “I feel horrid about it. I wonder what Mr. Ruff will think when he knows!”

      “You can feel how you like,” John Dory answered bluntly, “so long as I get the handcuffs on Spencer Fitzgerald’s wrists!”

      She shuddered. She looked at her husband with distaste.

      “Don’t talk about it!” she begged sharply. “It makes me feel the meanest creature that ever crawled. I can’t help feeling, too, that Mr. Ruff will think me a wretch—quite the gentleman he’s been all the time! I never knew any one half so nice!”

      John Dory set down his empty glass.

      “I wonder,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully, “what made him take such a fancy to you! Rather sudden, wasn’t it, eh?”

      Maud tossed her head.

      “I don’t see anything so wonderful about that,” she declared.

      “Listen to me, Maud,” her husband said, rising to his feet. “You aren’t a fool—not quite. You’ve spent some time with Peter Ruff. How much—think carefully—how much does he remind you of Spencer Fitzgerald?”

      “Not at all,” she answered promptly. “Why, he is years older, and though Spencer was quite the gentleman, there’s something about Mr. Ruff, and the way he dresses and knows his way about—well, you can tell he’s been a gentleman all his life.”

      John Dory’s face fell.

      “Think again,” he said.

      She shook her head.

      “Can’t see any likeness,” she declared. “He did remind me a little of him just at first, though,” she added, reflectively—“little things he said, and sort of mannerisms. I’ve sort of lost sight of them the last few times, though.”

      “When is this meeting with Fitzgerald to come off?” John Dory asked abruptly.

      She did not answer him at once. A low, triumphant smile had parted her lips.

      “To-morrow night,” she said; “he is to meet me in Mr. Ruff’s office.”

      “At what time?” John Dory asked.

      “At eight o’clock,” she answered. “Mr. Ruff is keeping his office open late on purpose. Spencer thinks that afterwards he is going to take me out to dinner.”

      “You are sure of this?” John Dory asked eagerly. “You are sure that the man Ruff does not suspect you? You believe he means that you shall meet Fitzgerald?”

      “I am sure of it,” she answered. “He is even a little jealous,” she continued, with an affected laugh. “He told me—well, never mind!”

      “He told you what?” John Dory asked.

      She laughed.

      “Never you mind,” she said. “I have done what you asked me anyway. If Mr. Ruff had not found me an agreeable companion he would not have bothered about getting Spencer to meet me. And now he’s done it,” she added, “I do believe he’s a little jealous.”

      John Dory glared, but he said nothing. It seemed to him that his hour of revenge was close at hand!

      It was the first occasion upon which words of this sort had passed between Peter Ruff and his secretary. There was no denying the fact that Miss Violet Brown was in a passion. It was an hour past the time at which she usually left the office. For an hour she had pleaded, and Peter Ruff remained unmoved.

      “You are a fool!” she cried to him at last. “I am a fool, too, that I have ever wasted my thoughts and time upon you. Why can’t I make you see? In every other way, heaven knows, you are clever enough! And yet there comes this vulgar, commonplace, tawdry little woman from heaven knows where, and makes such a fool of you that you are willing to fling away your career—to hold your wrists out for John Dory’s handcuffs!”

      “My dear Violet,” Peter Ruff answered deprecatingly, “you really worry me—you do indeed!”

      “Not half so much as you worry me,” she declared. “Look at the time. It’s already past seven. At eight o’clock Mrs. Dory—your Maud—is coming in here hoping to find her old sweetheart.”

      “Why not?” he murmured.

      “Why not, indeed?” Miss Brown answered angrily. “Don’t you know—can’t you believe—that close on her heels will come her husband—that Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, if ever he comes to life in this room, will leave it between two policemen?”

      Peter Ruff sighed.

      “What a pessimist you are, my dear Violet!” he said.

      She came up to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders.

      “Peter,” she said, “I will tell you something—I must! I am fond of you, Peter. I always have been. Don’t make me miserable if there is no need for it. Tell me honestly—do you really believe in this woman?”

      He removed her hands gently, and raised them to his lips.

      “My dear girl,” he said, “I believe in every one until I find them out. I look upon suspicion as a vice. But, at the same time,” he added, “there are always certain precautions which one takes.”

      “What precautions can you take?” she cried. “Can you sit there and make yourself invisible? John Dory is not a fool. The moment he is in this room with the door closed behind him, it is the end.”

      “We must hope not,” Peter Ruff said cheerfully. “There are other things which may happen, you know.”

      She turned away from him a little drearily.

      “You do not mind if I stay?” she said. “I am not working to-night. Perhaps, later on, I may be of use!”

      “As you will,” he answered. “You will excuse me for a little time, won’t you? I have some preparations to make.”

      She turned her head away from him. He left the room and ascended the stairs to his own apartments.

      Eight o’clock was striking from St. Martin’s Church when the door of Peter Ruff’s office was softly opened and closed again. A man in a slouch hat and overcoat entered, and after feeling along the wall for a moment, turned up the electric light. Violet Brown rose from her place with a little sob. She stretched out her hand to him.

      “Peter!” she cried. “Peter!”

      “My name,” the newcomer said calmly, “is Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald.”

      “Oh, listen to me!” she begged. “There is still time, if you hurry. Think how many clever men before you have been deceived by the woman in whom they trusted. Please, please go! Hurry upstairs and put those things away.”

      “Madam,” the newcomer said, “I am much obliged to you for your interest, but I think that you are making a mistake. I have come here to meet—”

      He stopped short. There was a soft knocking at the door. A stifled scream broke from Violet Brown’s lips.

      “It