is in her love for her brother an element so absorbing that she would
not hesitate to make the most terrible sacrifices for his sake. My
poor Eustace! It is weeks since I saw him, and I have no idea where he
is. He is not altogether to blame, doctor he has been led away by bad
companions. Ah, when I think of him and Mabel as little children, and
see them, as I often do, playing their innocent games together--when
I think of the exquisite joy we drew from them, and of the heavenly
happiness they were to us, it seems to me that I must be under the
influence of some horrible dream, that things have changed so!"
At half-past nine o'clock one of my confidential agents, Fowler by
name, made his appearance.
"Found, sir," was the first thing he said to me.
"Who?" I quickly asked.
"Ida White. Living at Brixton. The drawing-rooms. Quite a swell in her
way, sir."
"Is she living alone?"
"So far as we can make out. There are two men now on the watch, one to
relieve the other."
"And Mr. Eustace Rutland?" I asked.
"Haven't got track of him yet, sir. The week is rather against us."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, sir, you don't forget that it is Derby week, do you? I suppose
you backed one, but I can give you the straight tip if you want it."
"I backed Paradox for a couple of sovereigns," I said. (Where is the
man who does not take an interest in the Derby?)
"Not in it, sir. There is only one horse will win, and that is Melton."
"But," I said, coming back to the all-engrossing subject I was engaged
upon, "what difference will the Derby week make to you?"
"Well, you see, sir, London is so full. There is too much rushing about
for calm, steady work. In such a task as ours a man wants a double set
of eyes this week. Suppose my lady takes it into her head to go to the
Derby? It will be all a job not to lose sight of her."
"What lady do you refer to?"
"Ida White, to be sure. She's a bit of a blood, sir, and the result of
the Derby may mean a lot to her."
"Does she bet, then?"
"There is not much doubt of that, sir."
"How did you discover it?"
"Oh, easily enough. We have ways of our own. Why, sir, when I found
out last night where she lives, what did I do an hour afterwards but
present myself to the landlady of the house and ask her whether she
could let me have a room for a week or two? I didn't tell you that
there was a bill in her window, 'A Bedroom to Let to a Single Young
Man.' Well, if I ain't a single young man, what is that to do with
anybody--except my wife? I'm a soft-spoken chap when I like, and
before the landlady and me are together five minutes I'm hand-and-glove
with, her, and already a bit of a favorite. So I take her room and
sleep there last night, and the first thing this morning down-stairs I
am at the street door when the postman comes with the letters. Well,
sir, would you believe it, he delivers five letters, and every one of
them for Miss Ida White? I, opening the door for the postman, take the
letters from him, and hand them one by one to the landlady, who comes
puffing and panting up from the basement she weighs fourteen stone if
she weighs an ounce. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the first
letter. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the second letter. 'Miss
Ida White,' says I, giving her the other three, one by one. 'Why, it is
quite a correspondence!' All these letters are from Boulogne, sir, from
betting firms. I know them by their outsides; I believe I should know
them by the smell. Then, sir, there's something else. My lady is fond
of newspapers. What kind of newspapers? Why, the sporting ones, to be
sure. The _Sportsman_, _Sporting Life_, _Sporting Times_, _Referee_,
and the like. Put this and that together, and what do you make of it,
sir?"
"You are progressing, Fowler," I said.
"Yes, sir, we're moving. The landlady, bless her heart, she doesn't
suspect what the letters from Boulogne are, but in less than a brace of
shakes I worm out of her that Miss Ida White has received any number of
them since she came to live in the house."
"Have you an idea what horse she has backed?"
"I have an idea that she has backed half a dozen, and that neither of
the favorites is among them. When a woman bets, she wants fifty to one
as a rule, and as a rule she gets it, and has to part."
I debated a moment or two, and then I showed Fowler one of the
envelopes addressed by Eustace Rutland to his sister.
"Are you certain that none of the envelopes you saw this morning were
addressed in this handwriting?"
"Quite certain, sir."
"I should like to see the house that Miss Ida White lives in, Fowler."
"Nothing easier but I shouldn't go as I am, if I were you."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, she had a pretty long examination in court at the
Layton trial, and you were there all the time. She has sharp eyes in
her head, has Miss Ida White, and she might recognize you, and smell a
rat."
"You are right. I had better not go."
"I don't see why you shouldn't, if you let me fix you up."
"Fix me up?"
"Yes, sir."
He took from his pocket a small box of paints, and two or three sets of
wigs and whiskers and mustaches.
"I always travel with them, sir. I can make myself into another man
in five minutes or so, and as for a change of clothes, any handy
cheap-clothes shop will serve my turn. Put on these sandy whiskers and
mustaches--always hide your mouth, sir--and this sandy wig, and let me
touch you up a bit, and your own mother wouldn't know you."
I doubted whether she would when I looked at myself in the glass after
carrying out Fowler's instructions, and in less than a quarter of an
hour we were riding in a four-wheeled cab to Brixton. We alighted
within a couple of hundred yards of Miss Ida White's lodgings, and
Fowler took me boldly into the house, requesting me on the way thither
to try and discover the men working under him who were keeping watch
upon the lady's-maid's movements. To his gratification, I failed to
discover them.
"Then you didn't see me give the office to them?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"I did, though, under your very nose. That is a guarantee to you, sir,
that the thing is being neatly done. Miss White is in the house. If she
were not, my men wouldn't be in the street. Did you hear the snapping
of a lock down-stairs?"
"No."
We were sitting at the window of Fowler's room, which was situated on
the second floor. It was the front room, and we could therefore see
into the street.
"It was the key turning in my lady's room. She is going out. There's
the street door slamming. You heard that, of course?"
"Yes, I heard that."
"And there is Miss Ida White crossing the road to the opposite side of
the way, and there, sir, are my men following her, without her having
the slightest suspicion that she is being tracked."
My sight is strong, and I had a clear view of Ida White. She was
stylishly dressed, and was certainly good-looking.
"It is my opinion," said Fowler, "that she feathered her nest when she
was in Mrs. Layton's service but I don't care how much money she may
have saved or filched, if she goes on betting on horses the book-makers
will have every penny of it."
There was nothing more to be done, and feeling somewhat ill at ease in
my disguise, I prepared to leave.
"I will see you out of the street, sir," said Fowler. "It happens often
enough that watchers are watched, without their being aware of it."
Before I bade Fowler good-day I impressed upon him that no money was to
be spared in the business had intrusted to him, and that he had better
engage two or three more men, to be ready for any emergency that might
occur. He promised to do so, and I made my way home.
VI.
THE DAY AFTER THE DERBY.
Before commencing an account of what has been done, and what
discovered, I cannot refrain from writing one sentence. Success has
crowned our efforts.
There is no need here to minutely describe our proceedings on Monday
and Tuesday. Sufficient to say that I was in constant communication
with Fowler--who As a most trustworthy fellow, and shrewd to the tips
of his nails--and that I had occasion on Tuesday to again assume my
disguise. On Tuesday night I saw Dr. Daincourt, and was glad to learn
from him that there was an improvement in Miss Rutland's condition.
"Due," he observed, "in a great measure to certain assurances I
imparted to her in a voice so distinct and cheerful as to impress
itself upon her fevered imagination."
"That is good news," I said. "You are administering what she
requires--medicine for the mind."
I come now at once to the account of one of the most exciting days--the
Derby Day of 1885--I have ever passed through. Fowler was in my house
at seven o'clock in the morning, and brought with him a suit of clothes
which he wished me to wear. He had forewarned me that he intended to
make a change in his own appearance, and I was therefore not surprised
when he presented himself in the guise of a well-to-do farmer who had
come to London to see the Derby.
"Miss White is going, sir," he said, "and we are going, too. I
have been living in the house with her these last two days, and it
is important that she should not recognize me. I have a piece of
satisfactory information for you. It is an even bet that before this
day is out I bring you face to face with Mr. Eustace Rutland."
"If you do," said I, "you will lose nothing by it. Bring me into the
same room as that young man, and I will wring from him what I desire to
know."
"Don't get excited, sir," said Fowler. "Keep cool. You have had a good
night's rest, I hope?"
"Yes, I slept well."
"That's right. Make a hearty breakfast, as I am going to do. We shall
need all our strength. It is going to be a heavy day for us."
"Where does Ida White start from?" I asked.
"I can't tell you, sir. I pumped the landlady of the house, but she
knew nothing except that a new bonnet had arrived for our lady-bird.
Miss White is as close as wax, but that new bonnet means the Derby, if
it means anything. She can't very well start before nine o'clock, and
we shall be on the watch for her not later than half-past eight. I have
six men engaged in the affair, sir. It will cost something."
"Never mind the cost," I said "it is the last thing to be considered."
"That is the way to work to success. Many a ship is spoiled for a
ha'porth of tar. We shall come out of this triumphant, or my name is
not Fowler."
His confident, hopeful manner inspired me with confidence, and after
partaking of a substantial breakfast we both set out for Brixton.
Fowler had hired a cab by the hour, with a promise of double fare to
the driver, to whom he gave explicit instructions. We did not enter
the house; we lingered at the corner of a street at some distance from
it, and at twenty minutes to ten Miss Ida White closed the street door
behind her. Secret signals passed between Fowler and his men, and we
followed the lady's-maid, the cab which Fowler had engaged crawling in
our rear without attracting attention. Miss White sauntered on until
she came to a cab-stand, and entering a cab, was driven away. We were
after her like a shot. Two other cabs started at the same time, and I
learned from Fowler that they were hired by his men.
"Don't think I have drawn off all my forces, sir," he said. "Although
Miss White has left the house, there are two men on watch, who will
remain there the whole of the day. She has started early. It will make
it all the easier for us."
Miss White's cab stopped at Victoria Station, and we stopped also.
"She's a smart-looking woman, sir," whispered Fowler to me.
"She has a splendid complexion," I remarked.
"Put on, sir," said Fowler, smiling.--"put on. Leave a lady's-maid
alone to learn the tricks of the face."
Ida White purchased a first-class ticket for Epsom Downs, and we did
the same. Had I followed my own judgment I should have avoided the
carriage in which Miss White travelled, but Fowler pushed me in before
him, and got in afterwards, and being under his command, I did not
hesitate. He had purchased a number of newspapers, and shortly after we
started he surprised me by opening a conversation with a stranger. He
spoke with a Lancashire accent, and I should have been deceived by his
voice had he not been sitting by my side. The subject, of course, was
the Derby, and he appeared to be eager to obtain information as to the
merits and chances of the various runners.
Meanwhile, Miss White, who had also purchased every sporting paper
she saw, had taken from her pocket a Racing Guide, in which the
performances of the horses were recorded. She studied this Guide with
great seriousness, and was continually consulting the newspapers to
ascertain how far the opinions of the sporting prophets agreed with
the information of the authority with which she had provided herself.
"So," thought I, "this young woman, whose whole soul seems wrapped up
in racing matters, is the same young woman who in court declared that
she hated races and betting men." Before we were half an hour on our
journey I felt perfectly at ease in her presence. It was clear that she
considered herself safe, and among strangers. The conversation between
Fowler and the gentleman became more animated; others joined in, and I
observed that Miss White's attention was attracted to their utterances,
Every now and then she made a memorandum in a small metallic book,
and before we arrived at Epsom Downs she allowed herself to be drawn
into conversation, and freely expressed her opinions upon the horses
that were to run for the blue ribbon of the turf. I did not venture to
address her, but Fowler had no fear, and extracted from her the names
of the horses she believed to have the best chances. He slapped his
thigh, and declared that he should back them.
We alighted at Epsom Downs, and rode to the race-course. The great
rush of the day had not yet set in, but although the Grand Stand was
scarcely a third part filled, there were already many there who had
taken up a favorable position from which to see the principal race of
the day. Fowler improved upon his acquaintance with Miss White, and I
obeyed the instructions he managed to convey to me not to stick too
close to him. I did not lose sight of him, however, and presently he
came and said to me, in an undertone,
"It's all right, sir; I'm making headway. I've told her where I come
from in Lancashire, and that I am a single man with a goodish bit of
property which has just fallen to me through the death of my father.
I've given her my card--I had some printed yesterday in case they might
be wanted. We are going up-stairs to have a bit of luncheon before the
races commence."
Up-stairs we went to the luncheon-room, where Fowler called for a
bottle of dry champagne, in which we drank good-luck to each other. It
was only by great exertions that we managed, after lunch, to squeeze
ourselves into the Grand Stand. The crush was terrific up the narrow
stairs, and Miss Ida White would have fared badly had it not been for
Fowler's gallant attentions.
I have no intention to describe the race. It presented all the usual
features of a Derby, to which I paid but little heed, my attention
being concentrated upon Miss Ida White. She was greatly excited. There
were some book-makers on the Grand Stand shouting out the odds, and she
must have invested at least a dozen sovereigns on different horses, the
odds against which ranged from 40 to 60 to 1.
The race was over. Melton was hailed the winner. I knew that Miss White
had not backed Melton for a shilling, and I watched the effect the
result of the race had upon her. Her lips quivered, her eyes glared
furiously about. "Ida is an angel, is she?" thought I. "Ah! not much of
the angel there."
A stampede commenced to the lower ground. The Grand Stand was half
empty. Then it was that I saw a man who had just come up give a secret
look of intelligence to Fowler, after which he strolled a few paces
away, and stood with his back towards Miss White. Fowler joined him
with a negligent air, and very soon returned.
"I am very sorry you lost," he said to Miss White, "and quite as sorry
that I must wish you good-by."
He took her aside, and had a brief conversation with her, in the course
of which he slipped something into her palm, upon which her fingers
instantly closed. Shaking hands with her, he beckoned to me, and we
left the Grand Stand.
"What did you give her?" I asked.
"Only a card," he said, "with an address in London, to which she
could write to me if she felt inclined. I told her that I had never
seen a lady I admired so much, and that I hoped she would give me the
opportunity of becoming friends with her. In an honorable way--oh,
quite in an honorable way!" he added, with a laugh.
"And what are you leaving her for now?" I inquired.
"Because I know where Mr. Eustace Rutland is to be found," he replied.
"It will take two or three hours to get to the place, and I suppose it
is best to lose no time."
"Decidedly the best," I said "but how about Ida White?"
"She is safe enough. My men are all around her. She won't be left
for an instant, wherever she may go. The gentleman I entered into
conversation with in the train was one of my fellows. You are a great
lawyer, sir, but I think I could teach you something."
"I have no doubt you could. Where does Eustace Rutland live?"
"In Croydon, at some distance from the station."
We did not reach Croydon until past six o'clock, and it was nearly
another hour before we arrived at the address which Fowler had received.
"That is the house, sir," he said, pointing to it. "It doesn't look
very flourishing."
It was one of a terrace of eight sad-looking tenements, two stories in
height, and evidently occupied by people in a humble station of life.
"Before we go in, sir," said Fowler, "I must put you in possession
of the information I have gained. Mr. Eustace Rutland does not live
there"--I started--"but Mr. Fenwick does. The young gentleman has
thought fit to change his name that is suspicious. He has lived there
the last two weeks, having come probably from some better-known
locality, the whereabouts of which I shall learn by-and-by. When I say
he _came_ from some better-known locality I am not quite exact it will
be more correct to say that he was _brought_ from some better-known
locality. He was very ill, scarcely able to walk, and is still very
weak, I am given to understand. Now, sir, what do you propose to do?
Do you wish me to go in with you, or will you see this young gentleman
alone, without witnesses?"
"You are the soul of discretion, Fowler," I said, "and of shrewdness.
I must see the young gentleman alone, and without witnesses. Meanwhile
you can remain in the house, ready at my call, if I should require you.
Keep all strangers from the room while I am closeted with him."
I knocked at the door, and inquired of the woman who opened it for Mr.
Fenwick. She asked me what I wanted, and who Mr. Fenwick was.
"Mr. Fenwick lodges here," I said. "I am a friend of his, and I wish to
see him."
"How do you know he lodges here?" asked the woman.
"Simply," replied Fowler, "because we happen to have received a letter
from him with this address on it. What's your little game, eh, that you
want to deny him to us?"
As he spoke he pushed his way into the passage, and I followed. The
woman looked helplessly at us, and when Fowler said, with forefinger
uplifted warningly, "Take care what you are about," she replied, "I
don't know what to do; I am only following out my instructions."
"Your instructions," said Fowler, "were not to prevent Mr. Fenwick's
friends from seeing him."
"I was told to admit no one," the woman said.
"And pray who told you?" demanded Fowler. "The lady?"
"Yes, sir," said the woman. "Miss Porter."
"Oh, Miss Porter," exclaimed Fowler. "A friend of ours also.
Dark-skinned. Black hair. Black eyes. Red lips. White hands. Rather
slim. About five foot four."
"Yes, sir," said the woman.
Fowler had given a pretty faithful description of Miss Ida White.
"Well, then," said Fowler, whose ready wit compelled my admiration,
"there is no occasion to announce us to Mr. Fenwick. Show this
gentleman the room, and while they're chatting together I will have a
little chat with you."
"It is on the first floor," said the woman.
"Of course it is," said Fowler; "the first floor front, the room with
the blind pulled down. Do you think I don't know it? How is the young
gentleman?"
"Not at all well, sir."
I heard this reply as I ascended the stairs, in compliance with a
motion of Fowler's head. When I arrived at the door of the room
occupied by Fenwick, otherwise Eustace Rutland, I did not knock, but I
turned the handle and entered. A young gentleman who had been lying on
the sofa jumped up upon my entrance, and cried,
"Who are you? What do you want?"
I closed the door, and turned the key in the lock.
"What do you do that for?" he exclaimed.
"You will very soon know," I replied. "I am here for the purpose of
having a few minutes' conversation with Mr.--shall I say Fenwick?"
"It is my name."
"If I did not come as a friend I should dispute it, and even as a
friend I shall venture to dispute it. Your proper name is Eustace
Rutland."
He fell back upon the sofa, white and trembling.
"What do you mean? Why are you here?" he gasped.
"I will tell you," I said. "The time for evasion and concealment is
past. Your sister--"
"My sister!" interrupted Eustace. "I do not understand you."
"You do understand me. You have a sister--a twin-sister--whose name is
Mabel. She lies at the point of death, and you have brought her to it."
He covered his face with his hands, and I judged intuitively that there
sat before me a young man who, weak-minded and easily led for evil as
he might be, was not devoid of the true instincts of affection.
"Did you know of her condition?" I asked.
"No," he replied, in a trembling voice. "Is it true? Is it true?"
"It is unhappily true, and it may be that it lies in your power to
rescue from the grave the innocent young girl who has devoted her life
and happiness to you."
"My God! my God!"
"I will not deceive you. Such happiness cannot come to pass if you are
guilty."
"I am not guilty!" he cried, starting to his feet. "God knows I am not
guilty!"
"Swear it," I exclaimed, sternly.
"By all my hopes of happiness," he exclaimed, falling upon his
knees--"by my dear Mabel's life, by my dear mother's life--I swear that
I am innocent!"
He was grovelling on the floor, and 1 assisted him to rise.
"And being not guilty," I said, solemnly, "you were content to remain
in hiding while another man was accused of the crime which neither he
nor you committed! And being not guilty, you would have waited until he
was done to death before you emerged once more into the light of day!
I believe you when you say you did not know of your sister's peril,
but you knew of the peril in which Edward Layton stood. Don't deny it.
Remember, the time of evasion has passed."
"Yes," he murmured, "I knew it."
"Why did you not come forward," I said, indignantly, rushing as if by
an inspiration of reasoning to the truth, "to affirm that you and Ida
White were in Prevost's Restaurant, in the very room in which Edward
Layton and your sister entered, on the night of the 25th of March?
Why did you not come forward to affirm that it was you who--by a
devilish prompting--took Edward Layton's ulster, unknown to him, from
the peg upon which it was hanging, and went out with your paramour to
the carriage in which he and your sister had arrived? Answer me. Why
did you not do this, to prevent a noble and innocent man from being
condemned for a murder which he did not commit?"
"It was no murder!" cried Eustace. "It was no murder! She died by her
own hand!"
"She died by her own hand!" I echoed, bewildered by this sudden turn in
the complexion of the case.
"Yes," said Eustace, "by her own hand. Upon the table by her bedside
there was written evidence of it."
"Which you removed!" I cried.
"No, not I, not. I! Of which _she_ took possession!"
"Speak plainly. Whom do you mean by she--Ida White?"
"Yes."
I paused. Truth to tell, I was overwhelmed by these disclosures.
"Bear this steadfastly in mind," I said, presently, in a calm, judicial
tone. "You are in the presence of a man who has sworn to rescue the
innocent. You are in the presence of a man who has sworn to bring the
guilty to justice. Upon me depends your fate. I can save or destroy
you. If by a hair's-breadth of duplicity and evasion you attempt to
deceive me, your destruction is certain. This is the turning-point of
your life. Upon your truthfulness rests your fate. Open your heart to
me, not as to your enemy, but as to your friend, and relate to me,
without equivocation, the true story of your life, from the time you
commenced to plunge into dissipation and disgrace."
Awed and conscience-stricken, he told me the story. In the course of
his narration I was compelled frequently to prompt and encourage him,
but that, in the result, it was truthfully told I have not a shadow of
doubt.