THE SOLUTION
If you can understand that all the extraordinary events of the previous
chapters occurred without the knowledge of Fleet Street, that eminent
journalists went about their business day by day without being any the
wiser, that eager news editors were diligently searching the files of
the provincial press for news items, with the mystery of the safe at
their very door, and that reporters all over London were wasting their
time over wretched little motor-bus accidents and gas explosions, you
will all the easier appreciate the journalistic explosion that followed
the double inquest on Spedding and his victim.
It is outside the province of this story to instruct the reader in what
is so much technical detail, but it may be said in passing that no
less than twelve reporters, three sub-editors, two “crime experts,”
and one publisher were summarily and incontinently discharged from
their various newspapers in connection with the “Safe Story.” The
_Megaphone_ alone lost five men, but then the _Megaphone_ invariably
discharges more than any other paper, because it has got a reputation
to sustain. Flaring contents bills, heavy black headlines, and column
upon column of solid type, told the story of Reale’s millions, and the
villainous lawyer, and the remarkable verse, and the “Borough Lot.”
There were portraits of Angel and portraits of Jimmy and portraits of
Kathleen (sketched in court and accordingly repulsive), and plans of
the lawyer’s house at Clapham and sketches of the Safe Deposit.
So for the three days that the coroner’s inquiry lasted London,
and Fleet Street more especially, reveled in the story of the old
croupier’s remarkable will and its tragic consequences. The Crown
solicitors very tactfully skimmed over Jimmy’s adventurous past, were
brief in their examination of Kathleen; but Angel’s interrogation
lasted the greater part of five hours, for upon him devolved the task
of telling the story in full.
It must be confessed that Angel’s evidence was a remarkably successful
effort to justify all that Scotland Yard had done. There were certain
irregularities to be glossed over, topics to be avoided--why, for
instance, official action was not taken when it was seen that Spedding
contemplated a felony. Most worthily did Angel hold the fort for
officialdom that day, and when he vacated the box he left behind him
the impression that Scotland Yard was all foreseeing, all wise, and had
added yet another to its list of successful cases.
The newspaper excitement lasted exactly four days. On the fourth day,
speaking at the Annual Congress of the British Association, Sir William
Farran, that great physician, in the course of an illuminating address
on “The first causes of disease,” announced as his firm conviction that
all the ills that flesh is heir to arise primarily from the wearing of
boots, and the excitement that followed the appearance in Cheapside of
a converted Lord Mayor with bare feet will long be remembered in the
history of British journalism. It was enough, at any rate, to blot out
the memory of the Reale case, for immediately following the vision of
a stout and respected member of the Haberdasher Company in full robes
and chain of office entering the Mansion House insufficiently clad
there arose that memorable newspaper discussion “Boots and Crime,”
which threatened at one time to shake established society to its very
foundations.
“Bill is a brick,” wrote Angel to Jimmy. “I suggested to him that he
might make a sensational statement about microbes, but he said that
the _Lancet_ had worked bugs to death, and offered the ‘no boots’
alternative.”
It was a fortnight after the inquiry that Jimmy drove to Streatham
to carry out his promise to explain to Kathleen the solution of the
cryptogram.
It was his last visit to her, that much he had decided. His rejection
of her offer to equally share old Reale’s fortune left but one course
open to him, and that he elected to take.
She expected him, and he found her sitting before a cozy fire idly
turning the leaves of a book.
Jimmy stood for a moment in an embarrassed silence. It was the first
time he had been alone with her, save the night he drove with her to
Streatham, and he was a little at a loss for an opening.
He began conventionally enough speaking about the weather, and not to
be outdone in commonplace, she ordered tea.
“And now, Miss Kent,” he said, “I have got to explain to you the
solution of old Reale’s cryptogram.”
He took a sheet of paper from his pocket covered with hieroglyphics.
“Where old Reale got his idea of the cryptogram from was, of course,
Egypt. He lived there long enough to be fairly well acquainted with
the picture letters that abound in that country, and we were fools not
to jump at the solution at first. I don’t mean you,” he added hastily.
“I mean Angel and I and Connor, and all the people who were associated
with him.”
The girl was looking at the sheet, and smiled quietly at the _faux pas_.
“How he came into touch with the ‘professor----’”
“What has happened to that poor old man?” she asked.
“Angel has got him into some kind of institute,” replied Jimmy. “He’s
a fairly common type of cranky old gentleman. ‘A science potterer,’
Angel calls him, and that is about the description. He’s the sort of
man that haunts the Admiralty with plans for unsinkable battleships, a
‘minus genius’--that’s Angel’s description too--who, with an academic
knowledge and a good memory, produced a reasonably clever little
book, that five hundred other schoolmasters might just as easily have
written. How the professor came into Reale’s life we shall never
know. Probably he came across the book and discovered the author, and
trusting to his madness, made a confidant of him. Do you remember,”
Jimmy went on, “that you said the figures reminded you of the Bible?
Well, you are right. Almost every teacher’s Bible, I find, has a plate
showing how the alphabet came into existence.”
He indicated with his finger as he spoke.
“Here is the Egyptian hieroglyphic. Here is a ‘hand’ that means ‘D,’
and here is the queer little Hieratic wiggle that means the same thing,
and you see how the Phœnician letter is very little different to the
hieroglyphic, and the Greek ‘delta’ has become a triangle, and locally
it has become the ‘D’ we know.” He sketched rapidly.
[Illustration]
“All this is horribly learned,” he said, “and has got nothing to do
with the solution. But old Reale went through the strange birds,
beasts and things till he found six letters, S P R I N G, which were
to form the word that would open the safe.”
“It is very interesting,” she said, a little bewildered.
“The night you were taken away,” said Jimmy, “we found the word
and cleared out the safe in case of accidents. It was a very risky
proceeding on our part, because we had no authority from you to act on
your behalf.”
“You did right,” she said. She felt it was a feeble rejoinder, but she
could think of nothing better.
“And that is all,” he ended abruptly, and looked at the clock.
“You must have some tea before you go,” she said hurriedly.
They heard the weird shriek of a motor-horn outside, and Jimmy smiled.
“That is Angel’s newest discovery,” he said, not knowing whether to
bless or curse his energetic friend for spoiling the _tête-à-tête_.
“Oh!” said the girl, a little blankly he thought.
“Angel is always experimenting with new noises,” said Jimmy, “and some
fellow has introduced him to a motor-siren which is claimed to possess
an almost human voice.”
The bell tinkled, and a few seconds after Angel was ushered into the
room.
“I have only come for a few minutes,” he said cheerfully. “I wanted
to see Jimmy before he sailed, and as I have been called out of town
unexpectedly----”
“Before he sails?” she repeated slowly. “Are you going away?”
“Oh, yes, he’s going away,” said Angel, avoiding Jimmy’s scowling eyes.
“I thought he would have told you.”
“I----” began Jimmy.
“He’s going into the French Congo to shoot elephants,” Angel rattled
on; “though what the poor elephants have done to him I have yet to
discover.”
“But this is sudden?”
She was busy with the tea-things, and had her back toward them, so
Jimmy did not see her hand tremble.
“You’re spilling the milk,” said the interfering Angel. “Shall I help
you?”
“No, thank you,” she replied tartly.
“This tea is delicious,” said Angel, unabashed, as he took his cup.
He had come to perform a duty, and he was going through with it. “You
won’t get afternoon tea on the Sangar River, Jimmy. I know because I
have been there, and I wouldn’t go again, not even if they made me
governor of the province.”
“Why?” she asked, with a futile attempt to appear indifferent.
“Please take no notice of Angel, Miss Kent,” implored Jimmy, and added
malevolently, “Angel is a big game shot, you know, and he is anxious to
impress you with the extent and dangers of his travels.”
“That is so,” agreed Angel contentedly, “but all the same, Miss Kent,
I must stand by what I said in regard to the ‘Frongo.’ It’s a deadly
country, full of fever. I’ve known chaps to complain of a headache at
four o’clock and be dead by ten, and Jimmy knows it too.”
“You are very depressing to-day, Mr. Angel,” said the girl. She felt
unaccountably shaky, and tried to tell herself that it was because she
had not recovered from the effects of her recent exciting experiences.
“I was with a party once on the Sangar River,” Angel said, cocking a
reflective eye at the ceiling. “We were looking for elephants, too, a
terribly dangerous business. I’ve known a bull elephant charge a hunter
and----”
“Angel!” stormed Jimmy, “will you be kind enough to reserve your
reminiscences for another occasion?”
Angel rose and put down his teacup sadly.
“Ah, well!” he sighed lugubriously, “after all, life is a burden, and
one might as well die in the French Congo--a particularly lonely place
to die in, I admit--as anywhere else. Good-by, Jimmy.” He held out his
hand mournfully.
“Don’t be a goat!” entreated Jimmy. “I will let you know from time to
time how I am; you can send your letters via Sierra Leone.”
“The White Man’s Grave!” murmured Angel audibly.
“And I’ll let you know in plenty of time when I return.”
“When!” said Angel significantly. He shook hands limply, and with the
air of a man taking an eternal farewell. Then he left the room, and
they could hear the eerie whine of his patent siren growing fainter and
fainter.
“Confound that chap!” said Jimmy. “With his glum face and extravagant
gloom he----”
“Why did you not tell me you were going?” she asked him quietly. She
stood with a neat foot on the fender and her head a little bent.
“I had come to tell you,” said Jimmy.
“Why are you going?”
Jimmy cleared his throat.
“Because I need the change,” he said almost brusquely.
“Are you tired--of your friends?” she asked, not lifting her eyes.
“I have so few friends,” said Jimmy bitterly. “People here who are
worth knowing know me.”
“What do they know?” she asked, and looked at him.
“They know my life,” he said doggedly, “from the day I was sent
down from Oxford to the day I succeeded to my uncle’s title and
estates. They know I have been all over the world picking up strange
acquaintances. They know I was one of the”--he hesitated for a
word--“gang that robbed Rahbat Pasha’s bank; that I held a big share in
Reale’s ventures--a share he robbed me of, but let that pass; that my
life has been consistently employed in evading the law.”
“For whose benefit?” she asked.
“God knows,” he said wearily, “not for mine. I have never felt the need
of money, my uncle saw to that. I should never have seen Reale again
but for a desire to get justice. If you think I have robbed for gain,
you are mistaken. I have robbed for the game’s sake, for the excitement
of it, for the constant fight of wits against men as keen as myself.
Men like Angel made me a thief.”
“And now----?” she asked.
“And now,” he said, straightening himself up, “I am done with the old
life. I am sick and sorry--and finished.”
“And is this African trip part of your scheme of penitence?” she asked.
“Or are you going away because you want to forget----”
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and her eyes were looking into
the fire.
“What?” he asked huskily.
“To forget--me,” she breathed.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “that is what I want to forget.”
“Why?” she said, not looking at him.
“Because--oh, because I love you too much, dear, to want to drag you
down to my level. I love you more than I thought it possible to love
a woman--so much, that I am happy to sacrifice the dearest wish of my
heart, because I think I will serve you better by leaving you.”
He took her hand and held it between his two strong hands.
“Don’t you think,” she whispered, so that he had to bend closer to hear
what she said, “don’t you think I--I ought to be consulted?”
“You--you,” he cried in wonderment, “would you----”
She looked at him with a smile, and her eyes were radiant with unspoken
happiness.
“I want you, Jimmy,” she said. It was the first time she had called him
by name. “I want you, dear.”
His arms were about her, and her lips met his.
They did not hear the tinkle of the bell, but they heard the knock at
the door, and the girl slipped from his arms and was collecting the
tea-things when Angel walked in.
He looked at Jimmy inanely, fiddling with his watch chain, and he
looked at the girl.
“Awfully sorry to intrude again,” he said, “but I got a wire at the
little postoffice up the road telling me I needn’t take the case at
Newcastle, so I thought I’d come back and tell you, Jimmy, that I will
take what I might call a ‘cemetery drink’ with you to-night.”
“I am not going,” said Jimmy, recovering his calm.
“Not--not going?” said the astonished Angel.
“No,” said the girl, speaking over his shoulder, “I have persuaded him
to stay.”
“Ah, so I see!” said Angel, stooping to pick up two hairpins that lay
on the hearthrug.
THE END
A New and Deadly Force is Introduced
In A Plot to Destroy
London.
The Three Days’
Terror
By J. S. FLETCHER
It was impossible for Lord Grandminster, Prime Minister of England,
to believe, at first that London could be destroyed in a terrible and
unknown manner if the fabulous sum of money, demanded by the men who
boasted they were the possessors of a new Force which was mighty enough
to wreck the world, was not delivered before a set date. The ransom
was not paid and the first blow of “The Dictators” was struck. Charing
Cross was leveled to the ground in a manner that left no doubt of the
powers of the pitiless, unknown Dictators. Three days of looting and
terror followed in the city; days filled with maddening suspense for
the ministry that had disregarded the ultimatum--a suspense that was
only ended when the steamer Malvolio was sunk in the North Sea.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.