# The Long Arm of Mannister/Chapter 2
### CHAPTER II
#### TRASKE AND THE BRACELET

GLITTER of glass and perfume of flowers, the music of women's laughter, the sparkle of jewels upon white bosoms, all the nameless air of content and well-being which pervades such a restaurant as Luigi's during the holy hour of all Englishmen—the hour when he dines. The little orchestra, whose soft restrained playing was one of the charms of the place, had just finished the "Salut D'Amour." Smoothly shining heads were bent towards more elaborate coiffures; whispers and smiles and glances, lit with meaning, flashed backwards and forwards between the occupants of the small tables. Dark visaged maîtres d'hôtel deft and eager, watched the scene with interest At one table only, a large round one near the door, were there any signs of dissatisfaction.
The table was laid for four, and there were but three men present. They represented the obvious attitude of waiting for the tardy guest. The eldest of the party, bald-headed, with gold-rimmed spectacles, pink cheeks, and smooth-shaven face, looked continually at his watch and bent forward to see every new arrival. The other two men were talking to one another in earnest whispers.
Luigi himself came up to the table, and bowed to his customers with all the ease of a long acquaintance.
"Mr. Polsover is later this evening, gentlemen," he remarked. "You think that he will come, eh? You see it is half-past eight, and the dinner was ordered for eight o'clock punctual."
"I'm hanged if we'll wait any longer, Luigi," declared the man with the gold-rimmed glasses. "Tell them to serve up dinner. By-the-bye, have either of you fellows seen Polsover to-day? "
"I saw him only an hour or so ago," Traske declared—Traske, the junior of the party, in white waistcoat and tie of the latest pattern, sleek, well groomed, immaculate, after the amazing fashion of the struggling stockbroker. "He was in at Poole's trying a coat on, and we walked down the arcade."
"Say anything about to-night?" the other asked.
"Only that we should meet again later. By Jove, here he is! Polsover, you blackguard! Do you know the time?"
They all turn towards him with a little chorus of protests and questions. And then as suddenly there was silence. The new arrival, tall, slim, and darker than the average Englishman, was slowly unwinding his scarf and passing his hat to the attendant. The eyes of the three men were fastened upon his face. Traske passed a cocktail across the table.
"Have a drink, old chap," he said.
Polsover took the glass, and held it with difficulty to lips almost as pale as the white kid gloves which as yet he had not removed. He drained it, and set it down empty. Then he took his place at the table. The silence was strained and unnatural.
Waiters and maîtres d'hôtel melted away for a moment. Traske leaned across the table. His voice was lowered almost to a whisper—a whisper which, notwithstanding all his efforts, was hoarse and shaky. The words came out with a jerk—harsh, staccato.
"What's wrong, Polsover?"
Polsover glanced around half fearfully. His face was still the colour of chalk. He leaned across the table, and the heads of the four men were close together.
"Mannister is in London," he whispered. "I have seen him. I believe that he is coming here."
Something unique in the way of oaths broke from the lips of the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles, who presided over the little gathering. The other two simply stared. It was incredible, astounding! They neglected for the first few moments even to ask him the obvious questions. Then the coming of a waiter imposed upon them the ghastly necessity of concealing their terror. Conversation of some sort was necessary. Polsover spoke of wine, and ordered the magnum which stood in the ice pail by their side to be immediately opened. Never were glasses raised to the lips and drained more eagerly. Polsover, who had had time to realize this thing, was now the most self-possessed of the party.
"I went into the bar at the Savoy," he explained, "to have a Dubonnet before coming across. He was there, in travelling clothes, just arrived I should think. I nearly went through the floor,"
"What did he say? Did he speak to you?" Traske asked.
"Just as though we had parted yesterday," Polsover declared. "I—I had a drink with him."
The thing was driven home to them now beyond a doubt. Polsover had stood before the bar and drank with him. No one could do that with a ghost.
"He asked—after everybody," Polsover continued, "just as though he had been away for a week-end. He said—when he had changed—that he was coming here."
Hambledon drank his third glass of champagne, and made a brave attempt to break through the stupefaction which seemed to have clouded the intellects of all of them. Hambledon was the man in the gold-rimmed spectacles, who seemed to play the host
"Look here," he said, "we're not a pack of babies, to be scared to death just because one man's come back from the dead. Mannister can't eat us. We've played it low down against him, but we're inside the law. He can't know much. If Sinclair and he have ever come face to face, there would be more shooting than talking done. I doubt if he knows anything. Remember—if he comes he is welcome. Not too much surprise, mind—and no explanations to-night."
"About the time?" Traske asked hoarsely,
"Silence!" Hambledon declared.
Then they heard Luigi's little cry of surprise merged into one of welcome, and the thunderbolt fell. Tall and lean, with bronzed face and clear, sunburnt skin, Mannister, in his trim evening clothes, and unchanging air of complete self-composure, seemed, as he slowly advanced towards them, a perfectly natural part of the place and its surroundings. Only these four men who had known him intimately could detect some slight but significant change in the expression of the man who came so calmly forward to greet them.
"Mannister, by all that's wonderful!" Hambledon exclaimed, rising and holding out both his hands.
"Mannister!" the others echoed, and rose to their feet.
There was a moment's pause of breathless expectancy. They felt that the next few seconds would decide the momentous question as to whether this man had come as friend or enemy. He himself seemed for some reason inclined to prolong the period of uncertainty. He stood quite still for an appreciable space of time, looking at the four men who had risen to their feet prepared to receive him with every appearance of good fellowship, and yet, notwithstanding all their efforts, showing something of the nervousness which they all felt, in their faces and manners. With a little laugh, Mannister threw his coat to the cloak-room attendant who had followed him in, and leisurely drawing off his gloves, extended his hand to Hambledon.
"Can you make room for an unexpected visitor?" he asked. "It's like old times to see a magnum of Pomeroy. Hambledon, you haven't changed a bit. Traske, you are looking fit as ever. Jacobs, how are you? Where are you all with your dinner? I'll chip in if I may."
The key-note of their conversation was struck. Their welcome was more than effusive, it was almost uproarious. His glass was filled, and a place was hastily laid for him. There was no lack of conversation. He had been away for more than a year. There were a hundred people to ask after, endless little pieces of news and gossip to retail to him. But the greater things they left alone. No mention was made of the reason of his sudden disappearance from the country, or of the man in search of whom he had gone. Nor did they speak of certain transactions which had taken place during his absence, but for which they knew very well that a day of reckoning must come. There were certain names, too, which Mannister left alone until dinner was almost over. Then he asked after them, one by one, and it seemed to the four men who answered, that there was something sinister in these inquiries, apparently so casual, and yet embracing just those men and no others.
"Colin Stevens is not here to-night, I see," Mannister began.
"He is over in Paris for a few days," Hambledon answered.
Mannister nodded.
"And Rundermere, Phil Rundermere?"
"Phil's about as usual," Hambledon answered, "but a little down on his luck He's had a very bad season's racing."
"John Dykes?"
"He may be in any moment," Traske declared, a little uneasily. "He doesn't often dine with us. He's had gout badly, and he's trying a diet cure."
Hambledon drank a glass of wine during the momentary silence which followed. He felt the perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. These names and no others! There must be a purpose in it. Seven of the eight, including those who were present, had already been inquired for. There was only one left. If he should ask for her and no one else, they would know that it was war. They would know that their danger was no fancied one.
"And last, but not least," Mannister asked, looking intently into the contents of his glass, "la belle Sophy, Mrs. De la Mere, unless she has changed her name?"
"She is dining here to-night," Hambledon answered. "She is sitting immediately behind you."
Mannister smiled.
"Presently," he said, "I must pay my respects to her. It is very interesting to hear about so many old friends."
Then he was silent for several moments, still apparently watching the bubbles rise in his champagne glass, and the four men stole glances one at the other. He had asked after them all, all the eight! They could not doubt any longer but that it was war!
Coffee and liqueurs were set before them. Already half the diners in the place had left. Mannister glanced at the clock.
"Half-past nine," he said. "Remember that I have been away from London a year. What does one do now? Have we any——?"
He glanced meaningly at Hambledon, who shook his head.
"No, no!" he said. "There is nothing of that sort on just now. We might go to a music-hall for an hour, and round to Cumberland Mansions afterwards, all of us except Ben, that is. Ben is a reformed character. In fact this is something in the way of a farewell dinner. Ben is going to be married next month to somebody very young and very rich."
Traske was obviously annoyed.
"Don't listen to Hambledon's rot," he said, "but that reminds me. I must be off."
Mannister stretched out a detaining hand.
"Don't hurry," he said. "Remember that your old friends too have claims. By-the-bye, what about Sophy de la Mere?"
Traske was uncomfortable, and showed it. Such questioning from any one else he would have resented at once.
"Oh, Sophy's all right," he declared. "Not likely to round upon an old pal."
Sophy herself appeared, radiant in white lace, a picture hat, and a feather boa. She, perhaps, more than any of them, had suffered from nerves when first she had seen Mannister enter the restaurant, but she had had time to get over it, and she was a woman. So she came up to him with outstretched hands and a brilliant smile. It was simpler to treat his absence as something quite ordinary, to ignore those things concerning which speech was difficult.
"Back again to Babylon, my friend," she said, lightly. "Welcome home! I am delighted to see you."
Mannister stood and smiled down upon her, his hand resting on the back of his chair.
"I see that your friends," he remarked, "have dispersed. Won't you sit down and have some coffee with us? It will be quite like old times."
"On one condition," she answered, "and that is that you all come round to my rooms afterwards. Dicky is going to South Africa to-morrow, and we are going to give him a send-off, music and bridge and a riotous time generally. You'll all come, won't you? If you say yes I'll sit down, and we can all go back together."
"I shall be charmed," Mannister answered. "I do not think that any of us could refuse such an invitation."
His glance rested as though by accident upon Traske, who was suddenly conscious of a feeling of apprehension for which he could not account.
"I am afraid," he said, rising, "that I shall have to be excused. I was just explaining to Mannister here——"
"You will not be excused," Mrs. De la Mere said quietly. "You are coming, Ben. I insist upon it."
There was a moment's silence. No one else intervened. They recognized that the disposal of Traske's evening had suddenly become a matter of some import.
"I am sorry," Traske began, but without any conviction in his tone, "but I really have an important engagement this evening. If to-morrow evening or——"
"No other evening will do," Mrs. De la Mere said. "I am thinking of leaving town myself almost directly, so this may very well be a farewell party in more senses than one. You must come, Ben."
Traske resumed his seat, but his face was troubled. Hambledon whispered in Mannister's ear.
"Extraordinary thing about Ben. He made up to a little girl somewhere in the suburbs just because she had a lot of money, and upon my word I believe it's coming off. Talks of chucking the city and town life, and going to live in the country."
"Is he honest, do you suppose?" Mannister asked.
Hambledon smiled—an unpleasant smile.
"Until he gets hold of the money. He's got round the girl somehow or other, I suppose. She's very pretty and very pious, and that's all we know about her. He's taken good care to keep her away from all of us? "
Mannister leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself thoughtfully. He glanced across at Traske, and the smile deepened, although there was little of mirth in it.
In the vestibule of the restaurant, Sophy de la Mere drew Mannister on one side.
"I want you to drive home with me," she said. "The others can follow in hansoms."
Mannister bowed.
"I shall be charmed, of course," he said, and followed her across the pavement into the little electric coupé. She raised her veil as they swung off, and he looked at her critically. She had certainly aged, and there was more powder upon her cheeks than she had used a year ago.
"Look here," she said, "I know very well that your coming back means no good to any of us. I watched you come and I watched the others' faces. They are scared out of their lives, but I don't suppose they have had the pluck to talk to you as I mean to. We served you a low-down miserable trick, a trick that no man is likely to forgive. We gambled upon your never being able to show yourself in England again, and you see we lost. Don't think I am going to cry off for my share. I know very well you're not the forgiving sort."
Mannister looked at her curiously.
"If one might venture to inquire——" he began.
"Don't interrupt me," she continued. "We have only a few minutes, and I want to make the most of them. You're back here to get level with all of us, and I have a sort of an idea that you'll do it. You can't collect our heads or reputations, or whatever you mean to strike at, into one, and destroy them at one blow. You'll have to take us separately. Have you any choice as to the order?"
Mannister began to understand. He thrust his hand into his breast coat pocket, and drew from a small pocket-book a folded strip of paper. He spread it open upon his knee, and moved a little so that the electric light at the back of the coupé fell upon it.
"You see here," he remarked, "a list of eight names. They are in order, not alphabetically, as you will observe. You see who heads the list."
"She peered forward.
"Benjamin Traske!" she exclaimed.
He nodded, and replaced the paper in his pocket.
"Are you not curious," he asked, "to see where yours comes?"
"Not I," she answered quickly. "When my turn comes I shall be ready. Listen. I am not offering to make a bargain with you. I want no mercy for what I did. If my name stands second upon that list, I am ready even now to tell you to do your worst. But of my own free will I offer you this." She touched with her slim forefinger the place where that paper had been. "I will help you with that first name."
He smiled.
"So you do not like the idea," he remarked, "of our friend Benjamin's marriage?"
"I do not," she answered. "To tell you the truth I do not mean that marriage to take place."
"You would prefer," he suggested softly, "that our young friend should find himself involved, perhaps——"
"Never mind that," she interrupted. "I have a scheme. I only ask you when the lime comes to play up to me. The girl he is engaged to is a little Puritan and a fool. I do not wish to see her miserable for life. When she understands what sort of a man Benjamin Traske really is, she will never look at him again."
Mannister nodded.
"I will be ready," he answered. "When do you suppose this opportunity will come?"
"To-night!" she whispered in his ear. "You will understand presently."
The coupé had drawn up before the block of flats in which she lived. Mannister helped his companion to alight, and as they passed into the building, the other hansoms turned into the Square. Traske, who was the last to descend, stood for a moment upon the pavement, looking across the Square to where the wind was moving softly in the tops of the blossoming lime trees. A faint breath of their perfume reached him where he stood, and brought with it sudden swift thoughts of a garden not so very far away, a quaint, old-fashioned, walled garden, full of sweet smelling flowers, shadowy corners, and seats in unexpected places. Even now she would be walking there waiting for him. A sudden passionate distaste for the sort of evening which lay before him checked his footsteps even as he turned away. He could see it all through those dark curtained windows; the little rooms, over-scented, over-hot; the soft, sense-stirring music; the dancing, not quite such as one would see in a ballroom; the champagne, the flushed faces, the sense of subtle excitement, unwholesome, ignoble. It was the first time he had felt any such revulsion, and he knew very well that it was only a temporary one. These had been his pleasures, this the manner of his life. He had looked for nothing better, desired nothing better. He had lived all his days as one of the herd, and he knew it. To-night he was suddenly conscious of a hopeless, passionate desire to get away. Almost he fancied that he could hear the girl's voice calling to him softly, calling him away for ever from all the things that lay across the threshold of Mrs. De la Mere's flat. He turned abruptly round. In a moment he would have crossed the Square. Suddenly a hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned round to find Mannister there.
"My dear fellow," Mannister said, "they're all in the lift waiting for you. What are you doing moon-gazing out here?"
"I have a headache," Traske answered. "I am going home."
Mannister's hand tightened on his shoulder like a vise.
"No," he said, "I think not! You are coming with me."
{[dhr]} Inside, the evening passed very much as many an evening before had passed. A little orchestra was tucked away in the corner of the larger of Mrs. De la Mere's sitting-rooms. Furniture was pushed back. They danced when they felt inclined, they sat about and talked. On the sideboard in the smaller room were many bottles of champagne, which, however, grew steadily less. Several young ladies connected with the theatrical profession had been summoned from their rooms, and other friends whom Mrs. De la Mere had invited kept coming and going. Traske, after an hour or so of weariness, gave in. Mrs. De la Mere herself took him into the smaller room, and made him open champagne for her. When he came back to dance his face was flushed, and his whole manner changed. He had forgotten all about the garden in the suburbs, and those other things which had troubled him for a moment. At thirty-five it is hard to reform. So the music went faster. A young lady, amidst uproarious applause, danced a "Pas Seul," and it was Traske who took her out afterwards and opened champagne for her. The air was blue with cigarette smoke, faces were flushed and hot, voices not altogether steady. Only two people remained unchanged, and they were Mannister and Mrs. De la Mere. Dicky, in whose honour the feast was given, sat upon the table which had been pushed into a corner of the room, with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other.
"We'll lock the doors," he declared. "We won't let a soul out till eight o'clock, and then we'll all go round to breakfast at my place."
"You can stay as late as you like," Mrs. De la Mere answered, "but the band must go at three. They don't allow music afterwards."
"We will dance in the street," Dicky declared. "Remember it's my last night in England."
Nevertheless, presently a few people began to slip away. Traske, who had been left alone for a minute, moved suddenly to the window of the smaller room, which chanced to be empty, and throwing it open, leaned out. A rush of night air upon his face, cool, delicious, brought to his uncertain brain some glimmering apprehension of those other things, the memory of which had troubled him once before. He moved resolutely to a corner, took up his overcoat and hat, and had reached the door before a shout assailed him. It was Hambledon who had suddenly called attention to his going, and the others all streamed through the doorway.
"You sneak, Ben!" Mrs. De la Mere cried, "trying to steal away without even saying good night to your hostess! I'm ashamed of you. Come back at once, sir, and take off that coat."
Traske looked as though he had been surprised in something worse than a mere attempt to make his escape from a scene of which he had suddenly tired. His face was flushed, and he looked confused. He muttered something about the rooms being hot and having a headache, and he still tried to go. Mannister laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"We can't spare you, Traske," he said; "positively we can't spare you yet. Do you mean to say that you were going without even wishing your hostess good night?"
There was no opportunity for Traske to reply, there was no opportunity just then for any one else in the room to say a word. From the other room came Miss Bella Delmain, a burning spot of colour in her cheeks, her eyes lit with anger, her voice shrill with passion.
"My bracelet!" she cried. "I took it off only ten minutes ago, and it has gone. Don't let any one leave the room. Lock the doors, please, until my bracelet is found."
Mrs. De la Mere turned quickly round.
"You don't mean your diamond bracelet, Bella!" she exclaimed.
"I do!" was the excited response. "It cost five hundred pounds. It was given me by—never mind. It was my diamond bracelet, I tell you. Some one has taken it, some one who is in the room now. If this is a joke, for Heaven's sake drop it. I want my bracelet back. Do you hear, all of you? Who has it?"
There was a dead silence. The musicians had left off playing. Every one was drawing toward the little group of which Bella Delmain was the centre. Mannister intervened.
"Where did you leave the bracelet?" he asked.
"On the piano, not ten minutes ago," was the quick reply.
"It may have slipped down," some one suggested, and a search was made. They moved the piano, they shook the music books, they went on hands and knees upon the carpet, but there was no bracelet anywhere near the spot where it had been left. Mannister spoke again, and this time his voice was graver.
"This is a very unpleasant thing," he said. "With your permission, Mrs. De la Mere, we will lock the doors."
Traske objected vigorously.
"Such rot!" he exclaimed. "The girl will find the bracelet in a moment or two, probably upon her arm. I want to go. Do you hear, Mannister?"
Mannister eyed him coldly.
"I am afraid," he said, "that you will have to curb your impatience. Ladies and gentlemen," he added, turning back into the room, "this is a most unpleasant affair, and there is only one way out of it. First of all we must search the room, and then we must search one another."
Traske, who was more than half drunk, shook the handle of the door with his hand.
"Rubbish!" he exclaimed. "I won't be searched, and I won't stop here while you go through such an absurd performance. Do you hear, I want to go home."
Mannister turned towards him, smiling, and at that moment Traske felt the blood run cold in his veins. There was something in Mannister's face which he did not understand, something which seemed ominous in the faint, complacent smile with which he was regarded. Vaguely he felt that he was in some sort of danger, that he was trapped, and that Mannister knew all about it, and he lost for a moment control of himself.
"Give me the key, d—n you, Mannister!" he cried. "I am not going to stay for this buffoonery,"
Mannister caught him by the shoulders and addressed him with mock gravity.
"My young friend," he said, "you will excuse me, but you will certainly not leave here until you have undergone the same search as we others are willing to submit to. As you are in so great a hurry, however, and as you were on the point of bidding us a somewhat unceremonious farewell, we will consult your convenience by searching you first,"
Then Traske knew what was coming, and his knees shook and his cheeks were ashen pale. He was not even surprised when the bracelet was drawn from his breast pocket. He looked wildly around and saw the same thing in every face.
"I never took it!" he cried. "My overcoat was on the floor, and some one must have put the bracelet there. Sophy, Mannister, Hambledon, you don't really believe that I stole it!"
But there was no reply from any one of the three. Only Mrs. De la Mere crossed the room swiftly, and stooping down pressed the electric bell.
"What is that for?" Traske cried. "What are you going to do?"
Mrs. De la Mere faced him coldly.
"I can stand a great deal," she said, "from those who have been my friends, but such a theft as this, in my own rooms, passes even my forgiveness. John," she added, turning to the night porter who had answered the bell, "I want you to call up a policeman, please."
Traske raved, and struggled to escape, but Mannister's hand was like a vise upon his shoulder. The musicians and the few remaining guests hurried away by the other door. When the policeman arrived, only Bella Delmain, Mrs. De la Mere, Mannister, and Traske himself, were left. Traske fell on his knees.
"You are not going to charge me with this," he cried. "You know very well that it will ruin me."
Mannister smiled. Already they could hear the heavy footsteps ascending the stairs.
"It may ruin you," he said, "but it will at least save that unfortunate young woman whom you were talking of marrying, from making a fatal mistake,"
Traske understood then, and his face was white with despair.
"You are going through with this?" he gasped. "You are going to have me convicted?"
Mannister shook his head.
"Not necessarily," he said. "The evidence will probably be insufficient. But before the magistrates you certainly will go, and every one who pays a penny for a newspaper to-morrow will know how you spent the evening."
{[dhr]} Curiously enough, Mannister's words were prophetic. Traske was somewhat reluctantly discharged in the morning by a magistrate who obviously believed in his guilt. The young lady in the garden was hurried off to Switzerland by her aunt, and Mannister, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket, deliberately ruled a firm thick line through the first name.