The Grell Mystery | Page 2

Their eyes met. The twinkle of humour which was in the baronet's did
not reflect itself in the other's. Grell, too, was wondering whether he
was fitted for domestic life. He had a taste for introspection, and was
speculating how far the joyous girl who had confided her heart to his
keeping would fit in with the scheme of things. He roused himself with
an effort and glanced at his watch. It was half-past nine.
"You make a mistake, Fairfield," he laughed. "Eileen and I fit each
other, and you'll see we'll settle down all right. Care to see the present
I'm giving her to-morrow? It's to be a little surprise. Look here!"
He inserted a hand in his breast pocket and produced a flat case of blue
Morocco leather. He touched a spring: "There!"
Soft, shimmering white against the sombre velvet lining reposed a
string of pearls which even the untrained eye of Fairfield knew must be
of enormous value. Each gem was perfect in its soft purity, and they
had been matched with scrupulous care. Grell picked it up and dangled
it on his forefinger, so that the crimson glow of the shaded electric
lights was reflected in the smooth surface of the jewels.
"Pretty toy, isn't it?" he commented. "I gave Streeters carte blanche to
do the best they could."
He dropped the necklace carelessly back in its case, snapped the catch,
and placed it in his pocket. Fairfield's jerk of the head was significant.
"And you are fool enough to carry the thing around loose in your
pocket. Good heavens, man! Do you know that there are people who

would not stick at murder to get a thing like that?"
The other laughed easily. "Don't you worry, Fairfield. You're the only
person I've shown it to, and I'm not afraid you'll sandbag me." He
changed the subject abruptly. "By the way, I've got an engagement I
want to keep. Do you mind answering the telephone if I'm rung up by
any one? Say I'm here, but I'm frightfully busy clearing up some
business matters, will you?"
The baronet frowned half in perplexity, half in protest. "Why--forgive
me, Bob--why not say that you are gone out to keep an appointment?"
Grell was plainly a little embarrassed, but he strove to disguise the fact.
"Oh, it's only a fancy of mine," he retorted lightly. "I shan't be gone
long. You'll do it, won't you?"
"Of course," agreed Sir Ralph, still frowning.
"That's all right, then. Thanks. I'll be back in half an hour."
He strode away with an abrupt nod. Shortly afterwards Fairfield heard a
taxicab scurry away down the sodden street. He leaned back in his chair
and puffed a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. There was a dim
uneasiness in his mind, though he could have given no reason for it. He
picked up an evening paper and threw it aside. Then he strolled up into
the cardroom and tried to interest himself in watching a game of bridge.
But the play only bored him. Time hung heavily on his hands. A
servant spoke to him. Instantly he rose and made his way to the
telephone. A call had been made for Grell.
"Hello! Is that you, dear? This is Eileen speaking.... I can't hear. What
do you say?"
It was the clear, musical voice of the girl Robert Grell was to marry.
Fairfield wondered if his friend had expected this.
"This is not Mr. Grell," he said. "This is Fairfield--Sir Ralph
Fairfield--speaking."

"Oh!" He could detect the disappointment in her voice. "Is he there? I
am Lady Eileen Meredith."
Fairfield mentally cursed the false position in which he found himself.
He was usually a ready-witted man, but now he found himself
stammering almost incoherently.
"Yes--no--yes. He is here, Lady Eileen, but he has a guest whom it is
impossible for him to leave. It's a matter of settling up an important
diplomatic question, I believe. Can I give him any message?"
"No, thank you, Sir Ralph." The voice had become cold and dignified.
He could picture her chagrin, and again anathematised Grell in his
thoughts. "Has he been there long? When do you think he will be free?"
"I can't say, I'm sure. He met me here for dinner at seven and has been
here since."
He hung up the receiver viciously. He had not expected to have to lie to
Grell's fiancée when he had promised not to disclose his friend's
absence from the club. It was too bad of Grell. His eye met the clock,
and with a start he realised that it was a few minutes to eleven o'clock.
Grell had been gone an hour and a half.
"Queer chap," he murmured to himself, as he lit a fresh cigar and
selected a