certainly was not bad-looking. Her appearance, her bearing, her
movements suggested buoyancy, activity, health. Her eyes were her most
characteristic possession. They affected different people in different
ways. They were blue eyes. Their chief peculiarity was that they were
light--some people said unnaturally light. But, as also they were
beautiful eyes, that saying may be set down to malice. Somehow one felt
as one looked at Miss Jardine that she would never cry.
She held out her hand to Mr. Townsend.
"Reggie!"
Mr. Townsend made no attempt to touch the outstretched hand. He merely
bowed.
"Miss Jardine!"
Miss Jardine was not at all disconcerted. She laughed.
"So it's that way!" She assumed an air of mock dignity, which became
her very well. "Mr. Townsend, may I offer you a chair?"
"With your permission I will stand."
Mr. Townsend spoke with an air of decorous propriety which approached
the severe. The lady did not fall into his mood at all. She looked up
at him with her sunny eyes.
"Stand! Why stand?"
Mr. Townsend returned the young lady's smiling glance, without evincing
any inclination to smile in return.
"You have sent for me. I have come."
Going to the fireplace, Miss Jardine stood with one foot upon the kerb.
Her hands were behind her back. Her face was inclined a little upwards.
She reminded one somehow of a bird--a resemblance which owed something,
perhaps, to the brightness of her eyes.
"I have one or two questions which I wish to ask you. You must answer
them. First, Do you love me?"
"You must forgive my suggesting that that is scarcely the first
question which you should ask me. The man in the street may love you.
It does not follow that he is worthy."
"But if I love him?"
Mr. Townsend made a slight movement with his hands. He was standing in
what, to the average Englishman, is a rather trying position--in the
centre of the room, away from any article of furniture, with his arms
hanging loosely at his sides; and yet he looked well.
"He may love you. You may love him. And yet any connection with him may
bring you, at the best, unhappiness."
"You have not answered my question. Do you love me?"
"You know that I do."
"As you say, I know that you do. You know also that I love you. My
second question, Are you married?"
"I am not."
"Then why should you not marry me? Stay! Let me explain my position."
His eyes became, if anything, brighter. Something came over her which
made one forget how physically small she was. One realised that the
girl, like the man she was addressing, had a magnetic personality of
her own.
"I am, in a measure, Reggie--I am going to call you Reggie--what it is
the fashion to call a pessimist. It is my father's dower. I am afraid
that, in a sense, from the men of my acquaintance, I always expect the
worst. I believe most of them do, in their youth, many things which
they ought not to do--and for which, in their age, they are sorry. I
take this for granted. And I believe that, in spite of this being so,
some of them make good husbands and good fathers. I think it possible
that your temptations have been greater than is the case with the
average man, and that, therefore, your misdoings have been more. But I
am convinced that, as regards real strength, you are stronger than the
average man, and that you can, if you like, put these things behind you
for ever--and, on the stepping-stones of your dead self, rise to higher
things. And I believe that you will like, because you love me--and
because, also, I love you."
"Unfortunately, Miss Jardine----"
She made an imperious gesture with her hand.
"Call me Dora. With you, now, it shall not be Miss Jardine."
"Unfortunately"--there was an almost imperceptible pause, and then
there came very softly the Christian name--"Dora, there are things
which, when they are once done, we cannot put away. They meet us at
Philippi."
"If in your life there are such ghosts, why did you ask me to marry
you?"
"I ought not to have done. When I did I hoped that I should be able to
lay the ghosts, and that for me there would be no Philippi."
"But is there no hope now?" He seemed to hesitate. She went on with, in
her voice, a sudden tremor. "Consider! Think well before you speak!
Reggie, I wonder if you know how much the spoiling of your life will
mean the spoiling of mine?"
Her voice, or her manner, or her words--or all three combined--affected
Mr. Townsend strangely. There seemed to be something in her glance
which he found himself unable to encounter. He turned away. Going to
him, she touched him softly on the arm. A shudder went all over him.
The muscles of his face seemed to stiffen; his expression became a
little set. His voice also became, as it were, a little rigid.
"There may be hope."
"There may be? Reggie!" She paused--as if breathless. "Of laying the
ghosts--for ever?"
"For ever."
She was still again. Her articulation seemed to be actually impeded.
"When will you know--for sure?"
"This afternoon, at five."
"Reggie!" His words appeared to take her by surprise. "Do you mean
it--really?"
"I do."
He turned and looked at her. Their glances met. She shrank away from
him. The hot blood flowed into her cheeks. Her emotion was so great, it
made her beautiful. His name came from her lips, with a catching of her
breath, and in a whisper. She was visibly trembling.
"Reggie!"
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ON THE THRESHOLD.
It was plain that Mrs. Carruth was impatient. Nor was the thing made
less evident by her attempts to conceal it from herself. She lounged on
a couch. A pile of books and magazines was at her side. She pretended
to read--or, rather, it would be more correct to write that she tried
not to pretend to read. But it would not do. It was nothing but
pretence. And she knew that it was nothing but pretence. She took up a
book. She turned a page or two. She put it down again. She exchanged it
for a magazine--a magazine with pictures. She tried to look at the
pictures. The pictures palled. She essayed a magazine without pictures.
That was as great a failure as the other. In her present mood the
ministrations of print and pictures alike were ineffectual.
No wonder she had become impatient. She had been on tenterhooks all
day--waiting! waiting! All the morning she had expected to receive some
sort of communication--some acknowledgment of the expressive line or
two which she had sent. But when lunch came, and there still was
nothing, she was quite sure that, during the afternoon the gentleman
would come himself.
She was ready for him by two. She did not think it likely that he would
come quite so early. Still, it would be well that she should not be
taken unawares. So she made herself even unwontedly charming. She put
on a brand-new dress, which suited her to perfection. It really did
make her look uncommonly nice! It fitted her so well that it displayed
her long, lithe, and yet by no means unbecomingly bony figure, to the
best advantage. She took astonishing pains with her hair. She even went
in for unusual splendour in the way of shoes and stockings. And the
effect produced by the few touches which she bestowed upon her
countenance was wonderful.
In spite of all she was ready by two. And still--he cometh not, she
said. The silvery chimes of the exquisite little clock which stood on
the top of the overmantel announced that it was three-quarters after
three. She looked at her own watch to see if it really was so late. The
thing was true enough. Her watch was in complete agreement with the
clock--it was a quarter to four.
She put down the last of the magazines with, in her manner, an
appearance of finality. She rose from the couch. She went to the
window. She stood there with her fingertips drumming idly and
noiselessly against the pane. The only creature in sight was a milkman,
who, by way of killing two birds with one stone, was serving a customer
across the road, and flirting with the maid. Mrs. Carruth watched the
flirtation proceed to its conclusion, and, when the milkman, springing
into his cart, had disappeared with the inevitable clatter, Mrs.
Carruth, turning away from the window, came back into the room.
She stood at a little centre table. She laughed to herself.
"If, after all, he shouldn't come--what fun it would be!"
She was very far from being an ill-looking woman, as she stood there,
with smiles puckering her lips and peeping from her eyes.
"If he should suppose that I am not in earnest! His experience may
teach him that many women never are in earnest. If he should imagine
that I am one of the many!"
Raising her right hand, she began daintily pinching her lower lip
between her finger and her thumb.
"It would be a pity for both of us." She made a little impatient
movement with her head. "And yet, I can't believe that a man with his
experience could suppose that I am one of the many. If he did, it would
be his fault--not mine."
The little clock struck four.
"An hour more, my friend--an hour more. And then--well, I do hope
you'll come before the hour's out, for your sake, as well as mine. I
wonder if, in this little matter, I've been counting my chickens before
they're hatched. I, of all women, should have known better. And, with
such a hand faced on the board, one might be excused for supposing that
it would take the pool. A straight flush cannot be beaten."
She laughed again, this time not quite so lightly.
"It reminds me of some of the games which I have seen played. You can't
show a hand to beat a straight, but you can fight to save the pool. I
wonder if he means fighting. If he does, it'll be against all the odds.
He has neither gun nor bow. When I start shooting, he's bound to drop.
Sure."
The merriment passed from her face, the laughter from her eyes--an
expression of anxiety came into them instead; a look which suggested
hunger, a something which made her, all at once, seem actually old.
"Perhaps he takes it that a victory, on these lines, may mean more
than a defeat. And he counts on that. It would, too. It would mean
farewell--a long farewell, an actual farewell--to another of my dreams.
And the brightest of them all. But I don't care. It would mean death to
him. Death! And such a death! And, after all, it would only mean a
stumble to me. From the practice I have had, I have become so used to
stumbles that surely one other wouldn't count."
She began moving about the room restlessly, touching here a table,
there a chair, to the window, and back again, as if a spirit possessed
her which made her not know what it was she wanted to be at. She
approached a corner of the room, as if she were about to take refuge in
it, like some naughty child. As she went, clenching her fists, as if
she were pressing her finger-nails into her palms, she gave a little
cry.
"Oh, I'd give--I'd give, what wouldn't I give?--if he'd come into the
room, now--without keeping me waiting any longer, now!--and speak to me
as I would have him speak! Why doesn't he come? He has everything to
gain, he has nothing to lose!"
She swept right round, with a swish of her skirts, in a sort of frenzy,
echoing her own question as she swung out her arms in front of her.
"Why doesn't he come?"
Even as the words were on her lips, at the hall door there came a
knocking. She went red and white, despite the aids of beauty! She
caught at a chair, as if desirous of having something to lean against.
"Thank God!"
Then, as if conscious of the incongruity of such words upon her lips,
she put her hands up to her face.
"Oh, I'm so glad he's come!"
Some one outside had hold of the handle of the door. She uncovered her
face. She touched her hair. She touched the bosom of her dress. She
dropped into the chair by which she was standing. In an instant she was
the picture of composure.
The door opened to admit Mr. Haines.
His appearance was a shock to Mrs. Carruth. She looked negligently
round, as if indifferent who the new-comer might be, and then--she
stared.
"You!"
There was something in the lady's intonation which was very far from
being complimentary. She stood up, quivering with disappointment and
with rage.
"I thought I gave instructions that this afternoon I was not at home to
visitors."
Mr. Haines did not seem to be at all nonplussed.
"That's what the young lady who opened the door told me. I said I would
wait until you were. I will."
Mr. Haines sat down--with every appearance of having come to stay. Mrs.
Carruth looked at the clock, then at her watch, then at the gentleman
upon the chair. The gentleman in question, with his head thrown back,
was staring at the ceiling, as if quite unconscious of her
neighbourhood. It seemed to be as much as the lady could do to retain
her self-control.
"I am sure, Mr. Haines, that you cannot wish to be rude. I have an
appointment this afternoon which I regret will prevent my having the
pleasure of receiving you."
"I'm going to have my say. I'll say it afterwards, or I'll say it now.
It's all the same to me."
"What do you mean by you're going to have your say?"
"If you're ready, I'll let it out. But don't mind me. Don't let me
spoil your appointment. Keep anything you've got to keep."
Mrs. Carruth seemed to be at a loss to know what to do. Her looks were
eloquent witnesses as to what she would have done if she could. But,
apparently, she did not see her way to do it. She temporised.
"If there is anything of importance, Mr. Haines, which you wished to
say to me, perhaps you will be so good as to say it as briefly as you
can, now. Possibly it will not detain you, at the utmost, more than a
quarter of an hour."
"Possibly it will not. I rather reckon you'll have a word to say in
that. It won't all be for me." Mr. Haines brought his eyes down to
the level of the lady's face. He spread out his hands upon his knees.
He looked at her very straight. "What I have to say may be said in
about two words. It's just this--I've found my girl."
Mrs. Carruth did not display any great amount of interest, but she did
seem to be surprised.
"Indeed! I am glad to hear it. I hope that she is well."
"She is well. She's better than many of us ever will be. She's at
rest."
"At rest? How?"
"As it was told to me. She is dead."
"Dead! Mr. Haines?"
"Yes, murdered. As I saw it in the vision, so it is."
Mrs. Carruth looked at Mr. Haines as if she felt that he had a somewhat
singular method of imparting information--especially of such a peculiar
kind.
"If what you say is correct, you have such a queer way of putting
things. I never can quite make you out. I need not tell you how sorry I
am."
"You have cause for sorrow. The grief is about half yours."
"Half mine? What do you mean?"
"I have loved you, true and faithful, since the first time I set eyes
on you. Before ever Daniel did."
The sudden change of subject seemed, not unnaturally, to take the lady
aback.
"What nonsense are you talking? What did you mean by saying the grief's
half mine?"
"I'm coming to it, in time. I want to put to you this question. Will
you have me, now, just as I am?"
"I will not; neither now or ever. How many more times am I to tell you
that? Jack Haines, I do believe you're more than half insane."
"I may be. So'll you be before I'm through." Raising the big forefinger
of his right hand, he wagged it at her solemnly. "There's some one come
between us. Yes. That aristocrat."
"Aristocrat? What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. Yes. The blood-stained Townsend. I knew he was
stained with blood when first I saw him inside this room. But I did not
know with whose blood he was stained, or I would have called him to his
account right there and then. I did not know he was stained with the
blood of my girl."
"Jack!"
The name came from her with an unconscious recurrence to the days which
were gone.
"Yes. This is the man who has stolen what ought by rights to have been
mine--the slayer of my girl."
"It's not true! You coward! You know you lie!"
"I do not lie."
"You do lie! What proof have you?"
"Enough and to spare--for him, for me, and for you."
"Out with it, then. Let's hear what some of it's like."
Mrs. Carruth was standing by the little centre table. Rising from his
chair, Mr. Haines went and stood at the other side of it. Resting his
hands on the edges, he leaned over it towards her.
"Have you heard of the Three Bridges tragedy?"
She looked at him just once. In that one look she saw something, on his
face or in his eyes, which, to use an expressive idiom, seemed to take
the stiffening all out of her. She dropped into a chair as if he had
knocked her into it. She caught at the arms. Her complexion assumed a
curious tinge of yellow. There was a moment's pause. Then, from between
her rigid lips, there came one word.
"Yes."
"The woman who was killed was Loo--my Loo."
She shuddered, as if attacked by sudden ague.
"It's a lie!"
"It's not a lie. It's gospel truth. And Townsend killed her."
Her rejoinder, under ordinary circumstances, might have struck him as
an odd one.
"You can't prove it."
"I can prove it. And the police can prove it, too."
Half rising from her chair, she turned to him, every muscle in her body
seemed to be quivering with excitement.
"The police? Do they know it?"
"They do. To-morrow the whole world will know it. They've laid hold of
the wrong man. They've found it out just before it's a bit too late.
They hope to have hold of your friend Townsend soon. They're hoping
wrong. His first reckoning will be with me. When that is through,
neither he nor I will care who has what's left. Since I have loved you,
true and faithful, all these years, I calculated I would come and ask
you if, when all is done, you'd give me my reward. We might make a
happy ending of it, you and me together, over on the other side.
But if you won't, you won't. So I'm through. I've only one word
left--good-bye."
He held out his hand to her. So far as she was concerned, it went
unheeded. Indeed, it would seem, from the eager question which she
asked, that most of what he had been saying had gone unheeded too.
"Are you sure the police are after him? Are you sure?"
He looked at her from under the shadow of his bushy, overhanging
eyebrows, in silence, for a moment. Then he said, more in sorrow than
in anger--
"So your last thought is of him? Well, I'm sorry!"
Without anymore elaborate leave-taking than was comprised in these few
words. Mr. Haines went from the room and from the house.
Mrs. Carruth seemed scarcely conscious of the fact of his departure.
All her faculties and all her thoughts seemed far away. Indeed, it was
only after a lapse of some seconds that, looking about her, with a
start, she appeared to recognise that she was alone. Getting up, she
began to pace feverishly about the room, as if only rapid movement
could enable her to control the fires which were mounting in her blood.
"I wonder if it's true! I wonder if it is! Perhaps that explains why it
is he hasn't come. I may have been misjudging him. Perhaps he can't
come. Suppose he is arrested. Perhaps he doesn't know what it is the
police have discovered. He's nearly certain not to know. Who's to tell
him? I will go and tell him! This instant! Now! I will warn him against
the police and against Jack Haines. I will save him yet, yet. He shall
owe it all to me."
With her hands she brushed her hair from her brow--the hair which she
had so carefully arranged.
"After all I have longed for, after all I have lived through, I do
believe that for him I should esteem the world well lost."
She ran upstairs--literally ran. She put on a coat and hat in a space
of time which, for shortness, considering that a pretty woman was
concerned, was simply marvellous. And having put them on, she ran down
the stairs. She hurried through the hall. She opened the hall door.
And as she did so something or some one bounded up the steps--rather
than mounted them in an ordinary fashion. There was a flash of
something in the air. Mrs. Carruth was borne backwards.
A second afterwards she was lying half on her face, with the lifeblood
streaming from her on to the floor.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE LAST MEETING OF THE CLUB.
Horseferry Road. A hazy though a cloudless night. A house, the windows
of which showed no lights. Up two flights of stairs.
The rendezvous of that agreeable social institution, the Murder Club.
The Club was to hold a session. The gentleman who, if he was not the
actual source of inspiration, was, at any rate, the founder, the
promoter, the organiser, the backbone of the Club, was making ready for
the members coming. A man about the middle height, somewhat slightly
built, in evening dress, with an orchid in his buttonhole--Mr. Cecil
Pendarvon. Mr. Pendarvon was not bad-looking. He had a long, fair
beard, which he had a trick of pulling with both his hands. His eyes
were certainly not ugly, but to the close observer they conveyed an odd
impression. As one watched them, one began to wonder if they were the
man's real eyes which one saw, or if the real eyes were behind them.
Perhaps one had this feeling of wonder, because, although there always
was the light of laughter in Mr. Pendarvon's eyes, their real
expression was one of such cold, passionless, unrelenting cruelty.
For some reason Mr. Pendarvon seemed ill at ease. One hand was resting
on the large oval table which occupied the greater portion of the room,
with the other he tugged at his beard, while he stared at a manuscript
volume, bound in a beautiful scarlet binding, which lay open in front
of him. A cackling sound was emitted from his throat, which was,
possibly, intended for a chuckle.
"His signature! His sign manual! An elegant example, too! With his own
hand--tied tight. If I remember rightly, he did say something about his
practically committing suicide by affixing his signature to such a
declaration. How often is truth spoken in a jest. What fools men are!"
His statement--which was very far from being an original statement--of
the folly of humanity, seemed to afford him a large amount of
satisfaction. He combed his beard with the fingers of both his hands.
He kept on chuckling to himself as if he had given utterance to one of
the best jokes that ever was heard.
"What's that?"
It was queer to notice how, in an instant, all signs of amusement fled.
He gripped the rim of the massive table, as if seeking its support. He
cast a stealthy glance about him. He stood and listened, seeming to
hold his breath to enable him to do it better. The man's real self
peeped from his eyes. His whole bearing suggested fear.
There was a perfect silence for some moments. Then he drew a long
breath.
"It's nothing." He began again to tug at his beard, as if mechanically.
"What a little upsets a man if he is in the mood." He glanced at his
watch, seeming, as he did so, to make a mental calculation. "It's time
that some of them were here." He paused, the remainder of his speech
apparently referring to some other theme. "I hope that one can rely
upon them sometimes--that one may take it that the guardians of law and
order do not always blunder. I suppose that we are shadowed. I suppose,
too, that they will make no movement until they have received ocular
demonstration of the fact that all of them are here. What's that?"
Again there was a sudden, startling change in Mr. Pendarvon's outward
bearing. Obviously his every faculty was strained in the act of
listening. So far as an ordinary observer would have been able to judge
there did not appear to be a sound. Yet it is not improbable that
something had made itself audible to Mr. Pendarvon's unusually keen
sense of hearing, because presently a slight click was heard, as it
seemed, within the wall itself upon his right.
"Number one!"
Mr. Pendarvon's state of tension seemed to slightly decrease. The wall
upon his right was panelled from floor to ceiling. One of the panels
Mr. Pendarvon slipped aside, and, in doing so, revealed a dial-plate of
peculiar construction, which apparently had some connection with
electricity. On it was a prominent figure 2. Beneath it a needle made
three separate strokes. A large 1 appeared. Then three more separate
strokes. Then another prominent 2. On the appearance of the second 2,
on Mr. Pendarvon's touching an ivory button, the whole thing performed
a complete revolution, and a sound as of a gong was heard.
While the gong still continued to vibrate, a voice was heard outside
the door exclaiming "Reginald!"
The announcement of the name seemed to precipitate Mr. Pendarvon back
into his former condition of uneasiness.
"The man himself," he muttered. Then, by way of an afterthought, with a
smile which by no means suggested mirth, "I wonder if they saw him
come."
He seemed to hesitate, then, with an effort, to pull himself together.
"The honourable member should not be kept waiting."
As he made this observation to himself, with another mirthless grin, he
pressed a second button, which was on the other side of the dial.
Immediately the door without swung open.
In another moment Mr. Reginald Townsend appeared upon the threshold of
the door.
"A trifle slow to-night, Pendarvon--eh?"
Mr. Pendarvon admitted the soft impeachment.
"I'm afraid that this time, perhaps, I am. You've caught me napping. I
was just putting the things in order when you came."
"Putting the things in order! I see. The things want putting in order,
Pendarvon--eh?"
"There is a certain amount of work which has to be done, which, of
course, by virtue of my office"--this with a sneer which, perhaps, the
speaker found it impossible to suppress--"I have to do."
"By virtue of your office; yes." Mr. Pendarvon looked up at Mr.
Townsend, only, as it were, by accident and for a moment; then his
glance went back again. "It would be a fine night if it were not for
the mist which is in the air. One now and then can get peeps at the
stars beyond. But this mist gives me a chill."
"It's warm enough in here."
"Oh, yes, it's sufficiently warm in here."
In each man's manner there was something which was distinctly out of
the ordinary, and the strangest part of it was that, though each was,
as a rule, as keen an observer as one might easily meet, neither seemed
to realise that there was anything unusual in the bearing of the other.
Mr. Pendarvon was restless, fidgety, fussy, continually on the watch
for something to happen, not in the room, but out of it. He was like a
person who has an appointment of the first importance, and who is
devoured with anxiety lest the individual with whom he has the
appointment should fail to keep it. Mr. Townsend's mood, on the other
hand, seemed almost transcendental. His physical beauty, uncommon both
in type and in degree, seemed to-night to have positively increased. It
was almost startling. He seemed, too, to have increased in height. He
bore himself with an unconscious grace which displayed his splendid
figure to singular advantage. His head was thrown a little back from
his shoulders, and in his eyes and in the whole expression of his face
there was something which suggested rapturous calm. One felt that,
whatever happened, this man's mind would be at ease. He recalled the
soldier who, having volunteered for a forlorn hope, advances to meet
death, and worse than death, with a smile.
It is probably when our soldiers have been in just that mood that they
have done the deeds which have seemed to the world to be miracles of
valour. It is when one cares for nothing that, sometimes, one can do
anything.
Each of these men, however, seemed to be so preoccupied in his affairs
that he noticed nothing uncommon in the other. Mr. Pendarvon fidgeted
about the room. He set the chairs straight, the decanters on the table.
He occupied himself with a dozen trifling things which scarcely seemed
to stand in need of his attention. Mr. Townsend stood in front of the
huge, old-fashioned fireplace paying no sort of heed to the other's
fussiness, seeming indeed to be in a condition of mind which,
psychologically, approximated to a waking dream.
Although he took no notice of the fit of fidgets with which Mr.
Pendarvon seemed to be afflicted, his very calmness caused that
gentleman to seem still more ill at ease. More than once he seemed to
be on the point of saying something and then to stop short as if for
want of being able to find something appropriate to say.
At last he did hit upon a sufficiently apposite remark.
"They're late to-night."
The sound of his voice seemed to rouse Mr. Townsend to the fact of Mr.
Pendarvon's presence.
"They are a little late to-night, Pendarvon." He looked at his watch.
"Indeed! Is it possible that they may have neglected to make a note of
the occasion?"
Mr. Pendarvon laughed--again not merrily.
"I don't think there is much fear of that. They're sure to come, if
only for their own safety's sake." Again the cheerless grin. "Possibly
they're trying to get their spirits up by putting the spirits down upon
the way. Hark! there's some one coming now."
There was a silence as the two men listened, with their eyes upon the
dial-plate which Mr. Pendarvon had left exposed. It repeated the
performance with which it had announced Mr. Townsend's arrival.
"You have good ears, Pendarvon. I heard nothing."
Mr. Pendarvon admitted that it was so.
"I have good ears."
He spoke with a dryness which seemed to be unnecessarily significant.
He sounded the gong. There was a voice without.
"Henry!"
"Dear Mr. Shepherd. You may let him in."
The door swung open. There entered a tall man, with long grey hair,
clad in the attire of a superior mechanic. He had a silent face--the
face of a man who can be silent in very many tongues--and the eyes of a
man who sees visions. He vouchsafed no sort of greeting, but at once
sat down on one of the chairs which stood around the table.
Mr. Townsend looked at him as one looks at an object which one finds an
interesting study.
"I trust, Mr. Shepherd, that you may have fortune in drawing the lot
to-night."
Mr. Shepherd opened his lips, which hitherto he had kept hermetically
closed. He spoke with a nasal twang which suggested a certain type of
prayer-meeting.
"Not to-night: my hour is not yet."
"Indeed! May I ask when your hour is likely to be?"
"I seek not to inquire."
The hint which Mr. Shepherd intended to convey was unmistakable. Mr.
Pendarvon laughed. Mr. Townsend stared. Before the latter could speak
again the dial-plate repeated its previous performances. This time two
voices answered to the summons of the gong.
The door opened to admit Mr. Teddy Hibbard and his inseparable friend,
Mr. Eugene Silvester.
They were both of them boys, rather than men, and were obviously
members of that class which, in a more advanced stage of social
organisation, will probably, during its salad days, be detained in some
kindly institution, the inmates of which will be gently, yet firmly,
persuaded to do themselves as little injury as they conveniently can.
They grow out of it, some of these young men, in time. But one had only
to look at this particular two to see that, with them, that time was
scarcely yet.
The bell, being started, was kept rolling. One after the other the
members of the Club came in. A heterogeneous gathering they were. One
wondered what some of them did in such a galley. They seemed to be so
oddly out of place.
At last, with two exceptions, all the members were assembled. One of
the exceptions was Lord Archibald Beaupré. His absence was the cause,
not only of comment, but, as time went on, and still he did not come,
of obvious uneasiness to some of those who had arrived. Tell-tale looks
came on their faces. They eyed each other, as it were, askance. They
not only inquired of one another why it was he did not come, but they
made the same inquiry of themselves with still more emphasis. The
appearance of indifference with which, at first, they had treated the
absent member's tardiness became less and less convincing. It was he
who last had drawn the lot. It was he who had to do something for the
Honour of the Club.
What was it which had detained him?
Mr. Pendarvon, who, plainly, was not the least uneasy of those who were
present in the room, addressed an inquiry to Mr. Townsend.
"You are Beaupré's _fidus achates_, Townsend. When did you see him
last?"
Mr. Townsend had evidently shown an indifference to the fact of Lord
Archibald Beaupré's non-arrival which evidently in his case was not
assumed. He looked at Mr. Pendarvon a moment before he answered, and
when he did answer his manner, although completely courteous, was
hardly genial.
"For information of Lord Archibald Beaupré I must refer you--to Lord
Archibald Beaupré."
Mr. Pendarvon seemed to relish neither the look with which he had been
favoured nor the answer. Indeed, Mr. Townsend's manner, even more than
his answer, seemed to increase the general feeling of uneasiness which
was beginning to dominate the room.
Suddenly there was the sound of a click. With a rapidity which, in its
way, was comic, all eyes were fixed upon the dial-plate. Its mechanism
had been set in motion. The familiar movements followed.
"There he is!" exclaimed a voice.
Mr. Silvester added, with a show of hilarity which was slightly forced,
"Better late than never!"
Mr. Pendarvon sounded the gong, seemingly in a state of fevered
agitation.
"Stephen!" exclaimed a voice.
A blank look came on some of the faces.
"It isn't Beaupré; it's Kendrick!"
Colonel Kendrick was the other member who had not yet put in an
appearance. His absence had gone almost unnoticed. He had to do nothing
for the Honour of the Club--as yet.
Colonel Kendrick came into the room. He was a thickset,
soldierly-looking man, with a slight grey moustache and a pair of bold,
unflinching eyes. He bowed as he came in, speaking in that short,
crisp, staccato tone of voice which is apt to mark the man who has been
accustomed to command.
"Gentlemen, I have to apologise to you for my delay." He turned to Mr.
Townsend. "I have to inform you, Mr. Townsend, that Mr. Pendarvon has
set the police upon your track."
CHAPTER XL.
MR. TOWNSEND REACHES HOME.
The members, for the most part, stared at the Colonel. Then they stared
at one another. They did not seem to understand. Mr. Townsend looked at
the Colonel, then at Mr. Pendarvon. Mr. Pendarvon, with twitching lips
and dilated eyes, was leaning, as if for support, against the
dial-plate.
"Pendarvon, I am waiting for you to contradict what Kendrick has said."
Mr. Pendarvon was making an effort to control his faculty of speech.
"It's false."
Mr. Townsend turned to the Colonel.
"You hear what he says?"
The Colonel pointed at Mr. Pendarvon.
"And you see how he says it." They did see. The disclosure of his
treachery, being premature, had taken Mr. Pendarvon unawares. It had,
unfortunately, caused him to lose his nerve. He stood crouching against
the wall, trembling, like a cur, in terror of what might be to come.
The man's guilt was self-confessed. They perceived that it was so with
a stupefaction which made them dumb.
Colonel Kendrick went on.
"I have a cousin at Scotland Yard. He has just now told me that, this
morning, they received information of the existence of an organisation
called the Murder Club. They had been told that the individual who was
actually responsible for the Three Bridges Tragedy was a member of the
Club. His name was Reginald Townsend. I asked who was their informant.
I was told that it was a man named Cecil Pendarvon. So, gentlemen, the
person who is responsible for the position in which we find ourselves
is the one who has given us away."
One or two of the members made a half-unconscious movement forward.
Mr. Pendarvon seemed to endeavour to huddle himself closer to the
dial-plate.
"My cousin informed me that the club was to meet tonight, and that a
coup was to be made while the members were in actual assembly. I have
hurried straight from my cousin here. I have some acquaintance with the
personnel of Scotland Yard. As I approached these premises I recognised
one or two individuals whom I knew by sight. Mr. Townsend, the police
are at the door waiting to receive the signal to effect your capture."
Of all those present Mr. Townsend seemed the least affected by the
Colonel's communication. It was the humorous side of the situation
which seemed to strike him first.
"It is the unexpected happens, my dear Kendrick. I do believe that all
the wisdom of the world is contained in that one phrase. The blow has
come from the quarter from which I least expected it. Mr. Pendarvon, I
presume that you are acquainted with the rule which you yourself
framed, and which lays down the measure which is to be meted out to
traitors."
Mr. Townsend moved towards Mr. Pendarvon. Snatching a revolver from his
pocket, Mr. Pendarvon pointed it in the face of the man he had
betrayed. In an instant Colonel Kendrick had struck it from his hand.
One barrel was discharged harmlessly as it fell. Immediately a dozen
weapons were in a dozen hands. Mr. Townsend retained his appearance of
perfect ease. Standing in front of Mr. Pendarvon, he regarded that
gentleman with courteous contempt which caused him, literally, to seem
to wither.
"Well done!"
The tranquil scorn of Mr. Townsend's tone seemed to affect Mr.
Pendarvon as if it had been vitriol. He writhed.
"You--you hound!" he spluttered.
Mr. Townsend merely repeated his former commendation, which the other
received as if it had been a scorpion's lash.
"Well done!"
There was a click. Mr. Pendarvon's body was obscuring the dial-plate.
With scant ceremony, the Colonel thrust him aside. The dial had made a
new departure. It displayed the figure 3.
The Colonel spoke.
"I fancy we may take it that that is the signal which Mr. Pendarvon has
arranged with his policemen friends. It is they who have given it,
being now outside the door. I imagine, gentlemen, that, so far as we
are concerned, we have but little to fear. Be so good, some one, as to
tear that book and to burn it."
The Colonel pointed to the manuscript book in the beautiful crimson
cover. Some one snatched it up. In a moment it was in pieces and the
pieces were in flames. Mr. Pendarvon made a movement as if he would
have done something to check the destruction of so important a witness.
The Colonel checked him with a word.
"Stand still!" And Mr. Pendarvon was still. The Colonel turned to Mr.
Townsend. "It is you who have most to fear. Can you suggest how you may
be able to effect your escape?"
"Unless Mr. Pendarvon has romanced, he has not only provided the trap,
but also the means of escape from the trap which he has baited--unless,
I say, he has romanced. We shall see. Good-bye, Pendarvon."
With a gesture of careless insolence, with his open palm, Mr. Townsend
struck Mr. Pendarvon lightly across the face. That was too much even
for Mr. Pendarvon. He sprang at Mr. Townsend. Mr. Townsend knocked him
down. Being down, he seemed to deem it wiser, on the whole, to stay
there.
A voice was heard without--a peremptory voice, an official voice.
"Open this door immediately, or we shall break it down!"
Mr. Townsend gave a mocking rejoinder.
"Break it down; by all means, break it down!" He went to the fireplace;
he stood within it. He turned to the assembled company. "We shall meet
again--at Philippi!"
He grasped the first two stanchions and was immediately out of sight.
"Count twelve," he told himself as he climbed. "This is the twelfth.
Put out your hand to the right, and you will feel a bolt. This does
feel like a bolt, and a door. After all, Pendarvon, you're not such a
liar as you might have been."
Scrambling through the door which he had thrust open, Mr. Townsend
found himself standing on what was evidently thereof. It was flat just
there. In front of him was a high brick wall, which served as a base
for a stack of chimneys.
He stood for some seconds listening. He could distinctly hear voices
ascending from the room below.
"I wonder what they will do to our friend Pendarvon, and how long they
will keep those dear policemen out--if I shall have time to do what I
have to do. Keep moving, sir! The moments are all that you can call
your own."
He went forward, keeping the stack of chimneys on his left.
"Hallo! There's the edge of the roof! Yes, and here's a rail and a
bridge--all spoken of by our friend Pendarvon. To essay the great act
of crossing the bridge!"
He stepped on to the plank. It quivered beneath his weight.
"This bridge is of somewhat rickety construction and the rail
unsteady."
When about half-way across he paused. The plank seemed to be bending
double. He peered into the depths below.
"It occurs to me that it would not be a difficult business to smash
this bridge into two clean halves as I stand here. That might be an
easy way to end it all. But it will not serve. There is that which I
must do."
He moved on more rapidly. The frail planking shuddered and shook;
it swung in the air. More than once it seemed as if the tall,
quickly-moving figure was supported upon nothing. But the bridge became
firmer as he approached the opposite side. He put out his hand to the
left, feeling for what Mr. Pendarvon told him he would find there.
"The ladder! As he said, straight against the wall. Bravo! Now, if the
house is only empty, the thing is done!"
The house was empty, and the thing was done. It all happened as Mr.
Pendarvon had said it would. He ascended the ladder, raised the
unlatched window frame, struck a light, passed through the empty house,
and into the street beyond. He found a cab, and, ere long, he was at
Albert Gate.
As he stepped out of the cab some one touched him on the shoulder from
behind. He turned sharply round, thinking, perhaps, that he had but
escaped from one pitfall to fall at once into another.
But it was not so. The person whom he found himself confronting was
that recalcitrant member of the Murder Club, Lord Archibald Beaupré.
"You! Well?"
This was Mr. Townsend's greeting. Lord Archibald's response was a
little delayed. When it did come it came in a hoarse whisper from
between tremulous lips.
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
Lord Archibald, leaning forward, whispered something into Mr.
Townsend's ear.
"I was afraid, my dear Archie, that you might be a quarter of an hour
too late." Mr. Townsend paused, looking at, without seeming to notice,
the other's ashen countenance. "Is she dead?"
"No."
"Will she die?"
"No."
There was silence. Then Lord Archibald went on, rendered almost
voiceless by contending emotions, "I was there in time; you should have
waited."
"As I tell you, my dear Archie, it was a question of a quarter of an
hour."
"When I got there the house was in commotion. They had found her lying
in the hall, as you had left her. She was regaining consciousness as I
arrived. When she saw me she made me stoop down and she whispered to
me. She told me that it was you who had done it, and that you did it
just as she was starting to save you."
"She has, perhaps, her own notions of salvation."
"I think she meant it. She said she was coming to warn you against a
man named Haines."
"Haines? Indeed! That is the second time I have been warned against a
man named Haines. By the way, I have just come from Horseferry Road.
Pendarvon has given the show away."
"Pendarvon?"
"Yes, Pendarvon. He has, what I believe old-fashioned thieves used to
call, blown the gaff. The place is in the hands of the police. I
escaped up the chimney. I expect that the gentlemen in blue will soon
be here. I have no doubt that already they have missed me and are hot
upon my trail."
"Reggie!"
In Lord Archibald's voice there was something which sounded very like a
sob.
"Don't worry about me, dear boy. For me, anyhow, all things are over.
You'll be all right. After all, it was lucky for you that I was first
upon the scene." Having paused, he added, "Tell her, when she is all
right again, as you seem to think she will be, that I am sorry I did
it. She should have left me a wider option."
"I don't believe she means to give you away. When the policemen asked
her who had done it she said that the man was a stranger to her. She
had never seen him in her life before."
"Did she, indeed? How very odd! They tell you not to trust a woman. My
experience teaches me not to trust a man. One thing I do regret. I
should have liked to have killed Pendarvon. Archie, I want you to do me
a favour--to take a message."
"To whom?"
"To Miss Jardine. Will you do it?"
"Yes."
The speaker's voice was even more husky than before.
Mr. Townsend scribbled a few words on a page of his pocket-book.
Tearing out the leaf, he handed it to Lord Archibald Beaupré.
"Give her that. Not necessarily at once, but some time when the thing's
all over. And tell her----" He stopped; then, with a smile, went on,
"Yes, tell her that I loved her, but that already, when my love for her
was born, it was too late."
"I'll tell her. What are you going to do yourself?"
"Do? Wait; they'll soon be here. I have one or two matters which will
occupy me till they come. Good-bye."
He held out his hand. The other grasped it in his own.
"By ----, Reggie, I had almost sooner that it had been I."
"Don't be an ass, dear boy. Slip across the water till the wind has
blown a little of the dust away."
He nodded, moved quickly across the pavement, and disappeared into the
house. Lord Archibald Beaupré was left standing in the street,
clutching the sheet of paper tightly in his hand.
As Mr. Townsend entered a woman came forward to greet him. She wore an
air of considerable concern.
"Oh, Mr. Townsend, sir, I'm so glad it's you. Burton's out, and
something has happened which has quite upset me.
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Lane, that you should have been upset. What has
upset you?"
"There's been a man who wanted to see you--leastways, he didn't look as
if he was a gentleman, and he didn't behave like one. I told him you
weren't in, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He pushed right past
me and marched straight into your room, and said he'd wait until you
came. He's been there an hour or more; and I just went in to say that I
really didn't think it was any use his waiting when I was taken quite
aback to find that the room was empty and that he wasn't there."
"That, probably, was because he had gone. Let us trust that the spoons
have not gone too!"
"Oh, sir, I do trust they haven't. But what makes it seem so queer to
me is that I have been watching all the time, and haven't seen a
creature leave the room."
"Possibly, Mrs. Lane, he has vanished into air."
Laughing at her as he passed, Mr. Townsend went into his room.
CHAPTER XLI.
TAKING LEAVE.
It was a handsome room, that in which Mr. Townsend, when at home,
passed the larger portion of his waking hours--large, lofty,
well-proportioned. The walls were wainscoted. Here and there was a
piece of tapestry. Curtains suggested, rather than screened, an
occasional recess. Veiled, too, were entrances to rooms beyond. A
window, running from floor to ceiling, extended on one side of the
room, almost from wall to wall. Had it been daytime, one would have
seen that it overlooked Hyde Park.
On his entrance Mr. Townsend went immediately to the portrait of the
girl which stood up on his mantelboard. He looked at it long and
earnestly. He took it out of its frame. He kissed it, not once or
twice, but a dozen times at least. He regarded it with something of the
veneration which the religious Russian peasant regards his Icon.
"Dora!" he murmured. "Dora!" Then, with a smile, "What might have
been!"
Gripping the portrait with both his hands, he began to tear it into
two; then stopped.
"It seems almost like sacrilege." He kissed the face again. "It would
be a sacrilege to let it fall into their hands as evidence that she had
endured the contamination of my acquaintance."
He tore the portrait, not only into halves, but into fragments, and the
fragments he cast upon the fire. As the flames consumed them he made a
little gesture towards them with his hands.
"Good-bye!"
He picked up several knick-knacks which were about the room and
examined them, as if he were considering what ought to be their fate.
Some of them, which bore unmistakable traces of feminine handiwork and
taste, he threw, after the portrait, into the fire. He opened a large
despatch-box which stood upon a table at one side. From among its varied
contents he took all sorts of things--a glove, a knot of ribbon, a menu
card, some programmes of dances, a chocolate bonbon, a variety of
trivial impedimenta with which one would hardly have thought such a man
would have cared to be troubled. Last of all he took out four or five
envelopes addressed to himself in what was evidently a woman's hand.
"My love letters!--love letters! I doubt if there was a word of love in
one of them, except that which came to me this morning. In our
courtship hitherto love letters have scarcely entered. There has been
no opportunity. It is another case of what might have been--and yet
these are my love letters, for they were written by her hand, and these
are my love tokens, because they are tokens of certain passages which
she has had with me. Nor must they become their spoil. These sort of
tales find their way into so many sorts of papers that, for her sake,
it is well that I have had time enough to destroy what might tend to
show that I ever was engaged--save the mark!--to marry Miss Jardine."
He threw the letters and the various trivialities together into the
fire, breaking up the coals to enable them to burn the faster. He stood
watching their destruction. When they were entirely consumed he turned
away, the finger of his right hand in his waistcoat pocket, apparently
feeling for something which was there.
"I think that that is all; now I'm ready."
"That, young man, is just as well, because so am I."
The voice came from behind his back. Mr. Townsend showed no sign of
being startled, nor did he evince any anxiety to turn and inquire into
the speaker's personality. He stood, for a moment, as if he was
endeavouring to recall to his memory the tones of the speaker's voice.
He turned at last, at his leisure, and with a smile--
"Mr. Haines?"
It was Mr. Haines. His sudden appearance was explained by the fact that
he had obviously just stepped from behind a pair of curtains which
concealed the entrance to an inner room. He still held one of the
curtains in his hand. He eyed Mr. Townsend in silence, one hand being
in suggestive proximity to the hip pocket in his trousers in which the
Westerner is apt to keep his gun.
"Yes, I am Mr. Haines."
"I am glad to have the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. Haines. Might I ask
you to be good enough to select your own chair?"
Mr. Haines took no notice of Mr. Townsend's gesture of almost
exaggerated courtesy. Manner and tone alike were dogged.
"I've been watching you."
"I am gratified to think that any action of mine should have been
esteemed worthy your attention."
"The woman said that you weren't in. I said I'd wait. I knew you'd
come. She fidgeted. So I stepped behind the curtains. I thought trouble
might be saved."
"It was very thoughtful, Mr. Haines, of you, indeed."
Mr. Haines moved away from the curtains. He came farther into the room,
his hand still in the neighbourhood of his pistol pocket, his eyes
never wandering from Mr. Townsend's face.
"Last night I reckoned with your brother."
"My brother?"
"He says he is your brother. He let it out as I was laying into him.
And he's about your style all over. He calls himself Stewart
Trevannion, and he's a thief, but not near such a thief as you."
"Is that so? May I inquire, Mr. Haines, what I have done that you
should say I am a thief?"
"You've stole my girl."
"Your girl?" Mr. Townsend raised his eyebrows slightly, but still
sufficiently for the movement to be perceptible. "Are you alluding to
Mrs. Carruth?"
"Mrs. Carruth? No, young man, I am not alluding, as you call it, to
Mrs. Carruth."
"I thought that Mrs. Carruth could hardly be adequately described as a
girl."
"Is it sneering at Mrs. Carruth you are?"
Mr. Haines's idiom, on the sudden, became flavoured with, as it were, a
reminiscence of Ireland.
"I trust that I never, Mr. Haines, shall be guilty of so heinous a
crime as sneering at a lady. I believe that I am merely asserting a
fact in venturing to express an opinion that Mrs. Carruth can hardly be
adequately described as a girl."
Mr. Townsend's exaggeration of courtesy, suggesting more than it
expressed, seemed to be something for which Mr. Haines was unprepared.
He hesitated, as if in doubt; then repeated his previous assertion.
"You've stole my girl, and I've come to call you to account."
"I am unconscious of having conveyed from you any property of the kind.
Of whom are you speaking as your girl?"
"My Loo."
"Your----" Mr. Townsend obviously started, regaining his
self-possession only after a momentary pause. "I am still, Mr. Haines,
so unfortunate as to be unable to follow you."
"Whether she was known to you as Louisa Haines, or Louise O'Donnel, or
Milly Carroll, she was my girl. You stole her. You killed her. I am
here to kill you for it."
There was silence. The two men eyed each other. Mr. Haines with that
sullen, dogged look upon his face which it was used to wear; Mr.
Townsend with the natural expression of the man who has just been told
a sudden startling, wholly unexpected piece of news. He seemed to find
it so startling a piece of news as to be almost incredible.
"Is it possible, Mr. Haines, that the lady whom I knew as Louise
O'Donnel was your child?"
[Illustration: "'Remove your hand, Sir!'" _Page_ 339]
"She was: my only child--my one ewe lamb. You took her life. What have
you to say why I shouldn't have your life for hers?"
"Only that it is the unexpected happens. I may tell you, twice I have
been advised to beware of you. I had no notion what was your cause of
quarrel. Now that I do know, I admit its perfect justice."
"Put up your hands."
Mr. Haines flashed a revolver in the air. Mr. Townsend remained
unmoved; he simply looked at Mr. Haines and smiled.
"I am afraid that I must decline to obey you, literally, Mr. Haines. We
do not do it quite that way this side. To an English taste the method
seems a little bizarre. But I will undertake to offer no resistance.
Nor to move. So far as I am concerned, you may shoot. I'm ready."
Mr. Haines moved a step or two forward. He pointed his revolver at Mr.
Townsend's head, pointed it with a hand which did not tremble. There
was an interval of silence. They steadfastly regarded each other,
neither moving so much as an eyelash.
"You've grit. Which is what your brother'd like to swallow."
"It pleases you to say so. I would not wish to put you to
inconvenience, but if you will permit me to advise you you will shoot
and waste no time. Time is precious. I happen to know that, if you
waste it, others may cheat you of your prey."
Mr. Haines lowered his revolver.
"I reckoned to shoot you on sight. It's not because you've grit I
don't. Don't you think it. I've seen men like you before. A few. Some
of them with grit enough to dare the devil to do his level worst when
he gets them down to hell. Grit's just an accident. It don't count with
me neither one way nor the other. Young man, I'm going to make you an
offer."
"Make it."
"There are two things I've had to live for. Just two. No more. You've
robbed me of them both. My girl, and the heart which I reckoned to have
one day for mine."
"If, as I presume, this time it is Mrs. Carruth to whom you are
referring, I do protest with all my heart that you are welcome to her
heart, Mr. Haines."
"It's not your consent I should be asking. No. It's hers. I've asked
for it. In vain. I reckon that with nothing to live for living isn't
worth it. I've another gun in here." Mr. Haines produced a second
revolver from one of his tail pockets. Mr. Townsend smiled. "What are
you laughing at, young man?"
"You must forgive me. You reminded me for a moment of a pirate king of
whom I used to read in my boyish days, whose habit it was to carry an
arsenal about with him wherever he might go."
"Laugh on. One of these guns is for you, the other gun's for me. We are
going to shoot each other."
"Excuse me, we are not."
"I say we are." Mr. Townsend slightly shrugged his shoulders. The
gesture seemed to anger Mr. Haines. He went still closer to him. "You
are going to put the muzzle of one gun to my forehead, and I'm going to
put the muzzle of the other gun to yours, and we're going to fire
together on the word."
"I beg ten thousand pardons for being constrained to contradict you,
but--we are not."
"I say we are." Again the only response was a movement of Mr.
Townsend's shoulders. "Take hold of the gun."
Mr. Haines endeavoured to thrust one of the revolvers into Mr.
Townsend's hand.
"Not I."
"Take hold of the gun!"
Mr. Haines, on Mr. Townsend's betraying an inclination to remove
himself from too near neighbourhood, caught him by the shoulder.
"Remove your hand, sir. I have no objection to your shooting me. But to
your touching me while I am still alive I have."
"You hearken to what I say, young man. Take hold of this gun!"
Mr. Haines endeavoured to subject Mr. Townsend to what, in the nursery,
is called a shaking.
"If you attempt to do that again, Mr. Haines, I shall be under the
disagreeable necessity of knocking you down--before the shooting."
Mr. Haines attempted to do it again. Mr. Townsend tried to knock Mr.
Haines down. Mr. Haines was not to be easily felled. Bursting into
sudden passion, he seized Mr. Townsend by both shoulders. His two
"guns" fell, unnoticed, to the ground. With commendable promptness Mr.
Townsend returned the compliment which had been accorded him by
clutching Mr. Haines. They clenched, struggled, and together fell to
the floor.
On the floor they continued to discuss to the best of their ability the
side issue which Mr. Haines had raised.
So engrossed were they with their own proceedings that they failed to
notice the sudden opening of the door, followed by the unannounced
entrance into the room of four or five men. One of them moved quickly
to where the two combatants were contending on the floor. He placed his
hand on Mr. Townsend's shoulder.
"You are my prisoner, Mr. Townsend. I arrest you on the charge of
murder."
The sound of Mr. Holman's voice--for Matthew Holman was the
speaker--did produce a diversion of the interest. The two men ceased to
struggle. Then, being suffered to do so by Mr. Haines, Mr. Townsend
rose to his feet. As he did so, some one who had come into the room
with the police broke into laughter as he pointed at him with his
finger. It was Mr. Pendarvon.
"Yes, officer, that's your man. That's Townsend, the Three Bridges
murderer."
Mr. Pendarvon's merriment seemed out of place. He had cause to exchange
it for something else a moment afterwards.
Mr. Townsend turned to Mr. Holman.
"As this person says, I am the man you want. And----" He paused; before
they had a notion of what it was he intended to do, rushing forward, he
had caught Mr. Pendarvon in his arms and borne him completely from his
feet. "You are just the man I want."
Mr. Townsend's movements were so rapid that, before they could do
anything to stop him, he had carried his victim right across the room,
and, brushing aside the curtains, with a tremendous splintering of
glass, had crashed with him through the closed windows into the night
beyond.
"All right," cried Mr. Holman, as, too late to check his progress, the
constables rushed after him. "There are some of the other chaps out
there. They'll have him."
From Mr. Holman's point of view it proved to be all right. The drop
from the window was only six or seven feet. By the time Mr. Holman had
reached it Mr. Townsend was already again in the hands of the police.
The detective shouted his instructions through the shattered pane.
"Put the handcuffs on him."
A voice replied from below--
"They are on him. He has almost killed this other man."
Mr. Townsend was heard speaking with a most pronounced drawl.
"Almost! Not quite! That's a pity. Still, 'twill serve. Officer, will
you allow me to use my handkerchief; my mouth is bleeding?"
He succeeded, in spite of his handcuffed wrists, in withdrawing a
handkerchief from an inner pocket of his coat. He pressed it, for a
moment, to his lips. When he removed it, he tossed something into the
air.
"Done you!" he cried. "Hurrah!"
There was an exclamation from the officer who was in charge of him.
"He has taken something. I can smell it."
"Yes," said Mr. Townsend, "I have taken leave." There was a small
commotion. Mr. Townsend, reeling, would have fallen to the ground had
he not been supported by the sergeant's arms. The man leaned over him
to smell his breath. He, probably, was something of a chemist.
"Hydrocyanic acid!" he exclaimed. "He is dead."
CHAPTER XLII.
HAND IN HAND.
Mrs. Tennant had obtained permission to see her husband in prison once
before he was hung to say good-bye. She was starting upon the errand
now--alone.
She had resolved to go alone. She had battled out the question with
herself, upon her knees, in prayer, and it seemed to her that, of many
alternatives, she had not chosen the worst. She would have with her
neither his mother, nor hers, nor any of their kith and kin. The horror
of the memory of that parting should be hers alone.
Nor would she take their little child, their Minna. That was for the
child's sake. The father might, perhaps, be glad to see, once more, his
darling, even though it was through iron bars. But the child must be
considered. The picture of that last parting might, and probably would,
be impinged upon the retina of the child's brain, never to be
obliterated. It might haunt her through the years, colour the whole of
her life.
When Mrs. Tennant was ready to start, while she was still in the
privacy of her own room, she knelt upon the floor and drew the little
child into her arms.
"Minna, I am going to see papa. Shall I tell him that you send your
love?"
A small, pleading face looked into hers.
"Can't I come with you? I want to see him too."
"I cannot take you with me, Minna, but I will take your love. I think
it would please papa to know you sent it."
"Of course you are to tell papa I love him. He knows I do. And, mamma,
you're to give him that." The child kissed her mother. "And you're to
tell him that he is to come back soon."
Mrs. Tennant went with the little one downstairs, not daring to trust
herself in further speech. Her mother came to receive the child, and to
put to her a last inquiry.
"Are you quite sure, Lucy, that you would not like to have me with
you--nor any one--even as far as Lewes? Consider, dear, all you are
undertaking, and think before you speak." Mrs. Tennant's answer was
quietly conclusive. "I would rather go quite alone, mother, thanking
you." There was a knocking at the hall door. Since bad news had come
crowding so fast upon the household, every fresh knock had seemed to be
the precursor of more ill-tidings. The two women looked at each other
with frightened faces, a question in their very silence. While they
still were looking there came, bursting into the room, no less a
personage than that eminent counsel, Bates, Q.C., who had defended Mr.
Tennant at his trial.
Mr. Bates seemed to be in a condition of very unlawyerlike excitement.
"Mrs. Tennant, I bring you good news!"
Mrs. Tennant shrunk back.
"Good news! For me!"
"The best of all possible news. I have only just heard it. I have come
rushing off at once to tell you. Your husband is pardoned!"
"Pardoned! Do you mean that his sentence is commuted?"
"Nothing of the sort! He is a free man--as free as air! He has told us
all along the absolute truth. He had nothing to do with the woman
falling out of the carriage--she isn't even dead! It's an extraordinary
story, and you shall hear all the details another time; but he had no
more to do with the death of the poor girl who actually was murdered
than you or I. Mrs. Tennant, your husband is a hardly used and a deeply
injured man."
Mrs. Tennant had sunk into a chair. She was crying. Mr. Bates blew his
nose; he wiped his eyes.
"Don't cry madam, don't cry! This isn't a case for tears! I am told
that a Queen's messenger is taking the official pardon to Lewes by the
next train. If you make haste, you'll be able to travel with him. And
I'll come with you if you like!"
"Thank you, Mr. Bates, I will go alone."
And, practically, she went alone. In the same compartment of the train
was the official messenger, but they did not exchange half a dozen
words. Sitting in a corner of the railway carriage, with her veil down,
she cried all the way to Lewes, smiling through her tears. They had a
carriage from the station up to the prison on the hill. And Mrs.
Tennant was suffered to be the bearer of the glad tidings to her
husband.
In the condemned cell, locked in each other's arms, the man and woman
cried as if their hearts would break.
And very shortly the prison gates closed after them, as, out of the
valley of the shadow of death, they passed to face the world again, the
husband and the wife, together, hand in hand.
THE END.
UNWIN BROTHERS, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Crime and the Criminal, by Richard Marsh