The Grell Mystery

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THE GRELL MYSTERY

BY FRANK FROEST

[Illustration: Publisher's logo]

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1913,
BY FRANK FROEST

COPYRIGHT, 1914,
BY EDWARD J. CLODE




THE GRELL MYSTERY

CHAPTER I


Outside the St. Jermyn's Club the rain pelted pitilessly upon deserted
pavements. Mr. Robert Grell leaned his arms on the table and stared
steadily out through the steaming window-panes for a second. His
shoulders lifted in a shrug that was almost a shiver.

"It's a deuce of a night," he exclaimed with conviction.

There was a faint trace of accent in his voice--an almost imperceptible
drawl, such as might remain in the speech of an American who had
travelled widely and rubbed shoulders with all sorts and conditions of
men.

His companion lifted his eyebrows whimsically and nipped the end from a
cigar.

"It is," he agreed. "But the way you put it is more like plain Bob Grell
of the old days than the polished Mr. Robert Grell, social idol,
millionaire and diplomat, and winner of the greatest matrimonial prize
in London."

Grell tugged at his drooping iron-grey moustache. "That's all right," he
said. "This is not a meeting of the Royal Society. Here, in my own club,
I claim the right of every free-born citizen to condemn the weather--or
anything else--in any language I choose. Great Scott, Fairfield! You
don't expect me to wear my mantle all the time. I should explode if I
didn't have a safety valve."

Sir Ralph Fairfield nodded. He understood. For years the two had been
close friends, and in certain phases of temperament they were much
alike. Both had tasted deeply of the sweets and hardships of life. Both
had known the fierce wander-lust that drives men into strange places to
suffer hunger, thirst, hardship and death itself for the sheer love of
the game, and both had achieved something more than national fame.
Fairfield as a fertile writer on ethnography and travel; and Grell
equally as a daring explorer, and as a man who had made his mark in the
politics and finance of the United States. More than once he had been
employed on delicate diplomatic missions for his Government, and always
he had succeeded. Great things were within his reach when he had
suddenly announced his intention of giving up business, politics and
travel to settle in England and lead the life of a gentleman of leisure.
He had bought a thousand acres in Sussex, and rented a town house in
Grosvenor Gardens.

Then he had met Lady Eileen Meredith, daughter of the Duke of Burghley.
Like others, he had fallen a victim to her grey eyes. The piquant
beauty, the supple grace, the intangible charm of the girl had aroused
his desire. A man who always achieved his ends, he set himself to woo
and win her with fierce impetuosity. He had won. Now he was spending his
last night of bachelordom at his club.

A man of about forty-five, he carried himself well and the evening dress
he wore showed his upright muscular figure to advantage. Every movement
he made had a swift grace that reminded one irresistibly of a tiger,
with its suggestion of reserve force. His close-cropped hair and a
drooping moustache were prematurely grey. He had a trick of looking at
one through half-closed eyelids that gave the totally erroneous
impression that he was half asleep. The face was square, the chin
dogged, the lips, half-hidden by the moustache, thin and tightly pressed
together. He was the type of man who emerges victor in any contest,
whether of wits or muscle. Plain and direct when it suited his purpose;
subtle master of intrigue when subtlety was needed.

A nervous gust of wind flung the rain fiercely against the window. Sir
Ralph Fairfield uncrossed his knees with care for the scrupulous crease
in his trousers.

"You're a great man, Bob," he said slowly. "You take it quite as a
matter of course that you should win the prettiest girl in the three
kingdoms." His voice became meditative. "I wonder how married life will
suit you. You know, you're not altogether the type of a man one
associates with the domestic hearthstone."

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.