The Door with Seven Locks · Chapter 6 (2/2)

“About three months ago a letter came to my mother. It was written in very bad English by a priest, and said that Silva was dead, and that before he died he asked her forgiveness for all the harm he had done to us. He left something which was only to be given into the hand of a member of our family. That sounds remarkable, doesn’t it?”

Dick nodded, impatient for her to continue.

“Of course, it was out of the question for mother or me to go⁠—we have very little money to spare for sea trips. But the day after we got the letter, we had another, posted in London and containing a hundred pounds in notes and a return ticket to Madeira!”

“Sent by?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. At any rate, I went. The old priest was very glad to see me; he told me that his little house had been burgled three times in one month, and that he was sure the burglars were after the little package he was keeping for me. I expected something very valuable, especially as I learnt that Senhor Silva was a very rich man. You can imagine how I felt when I opened the box and found⁠—this key.”

Dick turned the key over in his hand.

“Silva was rich⁠—a gardener, you said? Must have made a lot of money, eh? Did he leave a letter?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing. I was disappointed and rather amused. For some reason or other, I put the key into the pocket of the coat I was wearing, and that was lucky or unlucky for me. I had hardly left the priests’ house before a man came out of a side alley, snatched my bag, and was out of sight before I could call for help. There was nothing very valuable in the bag, but it was all very alarming. When I got on board ship, I put the key in an envelope and gave it to the purser.”

“Nobody bothered you on the ship?”

She laughed quietly as at a good joke.

“Not unless you would call the experience of finding your trunk turned out and your bed thrown on to the floor a ‘bother.’ That happened twice between Madeira and Southampton. Is it sufficiently romantic?”

“It certainly is!” said Dick, drawing a long breath. He looked at the key again. “What number Coram Street?” he asked.

She told him before she realized the impertinence of the question.

“What do you think is the meaning of these queer happenings?” she asked as he passed the cardboard box back to her.

“It’s surely queer. Maybe somebody wanted that key badly.”

It seemed to her a very lame explanation.

She was still wondering what had made her so communicative to a comparative stranger when the train ran into Waterloo Station. She felt a little nettled by his casual farewell; a nod and he had disappeared behind the screen of other passengers and their friends who crowded the platform.

It was a quarter of an hour later before she retrieved her baggage from the welter of trunks that littered the vicinity of the baggage van. A porter found her a cab, and she was tipping him, when a man brushed past her, jostling her arm, whilst a second man bumped into her from the opposite side. Her bag slipped from her hand and fell to the pavement. Before she could stoop, a third man had snatched it from the ground, and, quick as lightning, passed it to an unobtrusive little man who stood behind him. The thief turned to fly, but a hand grasped his collar and jerked him round, and as his hands came up in defence, a fist as hard as ebony caught him under the jaw and sent him flying.

“Get on your feet, thief, and produce your bag-snatching permit!” said Dick Martin sternly.