The Daffodil Mystery | Page 8

on each occasion Thornton Lyne had
made a parade of collecting the returned wanderer, driving him home,
giving him breakfast and a great deal of worldly and unnecessary
advice, and launching him forth again upon the world with ten
pounds--a sum just sufficient to buy Sam a new kit of burglar's tools.
Never before had Sam shown such gratitude; and never before had
Thornton Lyne been less disinterested in his attentions. There was a hot
bath--which Sam Stay could have dispensed with, but which, out of
sheer politeness, he was compelled to accept, a warm and luxurious
breakfast; a new suit of clothes, with not two, but four, five-pound
notes in the pocket.
After breakfast, Lyne had his talk.
"It's no good, sir," said the burglar, shaking his head. "I've tried
everything to get an honest living, but somehow I can't get on in the
straight life. I drove a taxicab for three months after I came out, till a
busy-fellow[A] tumbled to me not having a license, and brought me up
under the Prevention of Crimes Act. It's no use my asking you to give

me a job in your shop, sir, because I couldn't stick it, I couldn't really!
I'm used to the open air life; I like being my own master. I'm one of
those fellows you've read about--the word begins with A."
[Footnote A: Detective.]
"Adventurers?" said Lyne with a little laugh. "Yes, I think you are, Sam,
and I'm going to give you an adventure after your own heart."
And then he began to tell a tale of base ingratitude--of a girl he had
helped, had indeed saved from starvation and who had betrayed him at
every turn. Thornton Lyne was a poet. He was also a picturesque liar.
The lie came as easily as the truth, and easier, since there was a certain
crudeness about truth which revolted his artistic soul. And as the tale
was unfolded of Odette Rider's perfidy, Sam's eyes narrowed. There
was nothing too bad for such a creature as this. She was wholly
undeserving of sympathy.
Presently Thornton Lyne stopped, his eyes fixed on the other to note
the effect.
"Show me," said Sam, his voice trembling. "Show me a way of getting
even with her, sir, and I'll go through hell to do it!"
"That's the kind of stuff I like to hear," said Lyne, and poured out from
the long bottle which stood on the coffee-tray a stiff tot of Sam's
favourite brandy. "Now, I'll give you my idea."
For the rest of the morning the two men sat almost head to head,
plotting woe for the girl, whose chief offence had been against the
dignity of Thornton Lyne, and whose virtue had incited the hate of that
vicious man.
CHAPTER IV
MURDER
Jack Tarling lay stretched upon his hard bed, a long cigarette-holder

between his teeth, a book on Chinese metaphysics balanced on his
chest, at peace with the world. The hour was eight o'clock, and it was
the day that Sam Stay had been released from gaol.
It had been a busy day for Tarling, for he was engaged in a bank fraud
case which would have occupied the whole of his time had he not had a
little private business to attend to. This private matter was wholly
unprofitable, but his curiosity had been piqued.
He lay the book flat on his chest as the soft click of the opening door
announced the coming of his retainer. The impassive Ling Chu came
noiselessly into the room, carrying a tray, which he placed upon a low
table by the side of his master's bed. The Chinaman wore a blue silk
pyjama suit--a fact which Tarling noticed.
"You are not going out to-night then, Ling Chu?"
"No, Lieh Jen," said the man.
They both spoke in the soft, sibilant patois of Shantung.
"You have been to the Man with the Cunning Face?"
For answer the other took an envelope from an inside pocket and laid it
in the other's hand. Tarling glanced at the address.
"So this is where the young lady lives, eh? Miss Odette Rider, 27,
Carrymore Buildings, Edgware Road."
"It is a clan house, where many people live," said Ling Chu. "I myself
went, in your honourable service, and saw people coming in and going
out interminably, and never the same people did I see twice."
"It is what they call in English a 'flat building,' Ling," said Tarling with
a little smile. "What did the Man with the Cunning Face say to my
letter?"
"Master, he said nothing. He just read and read, and then he made a
face like this." Ling gave an imitation of Mr. Milburgh's smile. "And

then he wrote as you see."
Tarling nodded. He stared for a moment into vacancy,