THE COURT IS STARTLED
They dined together--it was still not too late to dine--in a private
room at the Piccadilly Restaurant. Mrs. Tranmer found that she was,
indeed, not irreparably damaged; and by the time she could be induced
to look over the fact that she was not what she called "dressed" she
began to enjoy herself uncommonly well. Delia Angel was in the highest
spirits, which, on the whole, was not surprising. The recovery of the
bag and the will had transformed the world into a rose-coloured
Paradise. The evening was one continuous delight. As for Philip
Roland--his mood was akin to Miss Angel's. Everything which had begun
badly was ending well. He was the host. The meal did credit to his
choice--and to the cook. The wine was worthy of the toasts they drank.
There was one toast which was not formally proposed, and of which, even
in his heart he did not dream, but whose presence was answerable for
not a little of the rapture which crowned the feast--"The Birth of
Romance." His life had been tolerably commonplace and grey. For the
first time that night Romance had entered into it. It was just possible
that, maintaining the place it had gained, it would continue to the end.
So might it be; for sure, the Spirit is the best of company.
After dinner the three journeyed together to Miss Angel's solicitor. He
lived in town, not far away from where they were, and though the hour
was uncanonical it was not so very late. And though he was amazed at
being required to do business at such a season, the tale they had to
tell amazed him more. Nor was he indisposed to commend them for coming
straight away to him with it at once.
He heard them to an end. Then he looked at the bag; then at the will.
Then once more at the bag; then at the will again. Then he smoothed his
chin.
"It seems to me--speaking without prejudice--that this ends the matter.
In the face of this the other side is left without a leg to stand
upon. With this in your hand"--he was tapping the will with his
finger-tip--"I cannot but think, Miss Angel, that you must carry all
before you."
"So I should imagine."
He contemplated Mr. Roland.
"So you, sir, are one of the jury. As at present advised, I cannot see
how, in the course of action which you have pursued, blame can in any
way be attached to you. But, at the same time, I am bound to observe
that in the course of a somewhat lengthy experience I cannot recall a
single instance of a juryman--an actual juryman--playing such a part as
you have done. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the position
you have taken up is--in a really superlative degree--irregular."
Such, also, seemed to be the opinion of counsel before whom, at a
matutinal hour, he laid the facts of the case. When, in view of those
facts, counsel on both sides conferred before the case was opened, the
general feeling plainly pointed in the same direction. And, on its
being stated in open court that, in face of the discovery of the
vanished will, all opposition to Miss Delia Angel would, with
permission, be at once withdrawn, it was incidentally mentioned how the
discovery had been brought about. All eyes, turning to the jury-box,
fastened on Philip Roland, whose agitated countenance pointed the
allusion. The part which he had played having been made sufficiently
plain, the judge himself joined in the general stare. His lordship went
so far as to remark that while he was pleased to accede to the
application which had been made to him to consider the case at an end,
being of opinion that the matter had been brought to a very proper
termination, still he could not conceal from himself that, so far as he
could gather from what had been said, the conduct of one of the
jurymen, even allowing some latitude--here his lordship's eyes seemed
to twinkle--was marked by a considerable amount of irregularity.
Mitwaterstraand
THE STORY OF A SHOCK
Chapter I
THE DISEASE
On the night before their daughter's Wedding Mr. and Mrs. Staunton gave
a ball. As the festivities were drawing to a close, Mr. Staunton
button-holed the bridegroom of the morrow.
"By the way, Burgoyne, there's one thing with reference to Minnie I
wish to speak to you about. I--I'm not sure I oughtn't to have spoken
to you before."
In the ball-room they were playing a waltz. Mr. Burgoyne's heart was
with the dancers.
"About Minnie? What about Minnie? Don't you think that the little I
don't know about her already, I shall find out soon enough upon my own
account?"
"This is something--this is something that you ought to be told."
Mr. Staunton hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. The next morning
Mr. Burgoyne was married.
During their honeymoon the newly-married pair spent a night at Mont St.
Michel. In the course of that night an unpleasant incident took place.
There was a bright moon, and the occupants of the bedrooms gathered on
the balconies of the Maison Blanche to enjoy its radiance. The room
next to theirs was tenanted by two sisters, Brooklyn girls. The
costumes of these young ladies, although in that somewhat remote corner
of the world, would have made an impression on the Boulevards, and
still more emphatically in the Park. The married one--a Mrs. Homer
Joy--wore some striking jewellery, in particular a diamond brooch,
redolent of Tiffany, which would have attracted notice on a Shah night
at the opera. Mr. Burgoyne had noticed this brooch earlier in the day,
and had told himself that we must have returned to the days of King
Alfred--with several points in our favour--if a woman could journey
round the world with that advertisement in diamond work flashing in
the sun.
Someone proposed a midnight stroll about the rock. They strolled. In
the morning there was a terrible to-do. The advertisement in diamond
work had disappeared!--stolen!--giving satisfactory proof that in those
parts, at any rate, the days of King Alfred were now no more.
Mrs. Joy stated that, previous to starting for the midnight ramble
about the Mount, she had placed it on her dressing-table, apparently
despising the precaution of placing it even in an ordinary box. She was
not even sure that she had closed her bedroom door, so it had, of
course, struck the eye of the first person who strolled that way, and,
in all probability, that person had, in the American sense, "struck
it." Mont St. Michel was still in a little tumult of excitement when
Mr. and Mrs. Burgoyne journeyed on their way.
Oddly enough, this discordant note, once struck, was struck again--kept
on striking, in fact. At almost every place where the honeymooners
stopped for an appreciable length of time there something was lost.
It seemed fatality. At Morlaix, a set of quaint, old, hammered
silver-spoons, which had accompanied their coffee, vanished--not,
according to the indignant innkeeper, into thin air, but into somebody's
pockets. It was most annoying. At Brest, Quimper Vannes, Nantes, and
afterwards through Touraine and up the Loire, it was the same tale, the
loss of something of appreciable value--somebody else's property, not
their's--accompanied their visitation. The coincidence was singular.
However they did seem to have shaken off the long arm of coincidence
at last. There had been no sort of unpleasantness at either of the last
two or three places at which they had stopped, and when they reached
Paris at last, they were so contented with all the world, that each
seemed to have forgotten everything in the existence of the other.
They stayed at the Grand Hotel--for privacy few places can compete with
a large hotel--and directly they stayed the annoyances began again. It
was indeed most singular. On the very morning after their arrival a
notice was posted in the _salle de lecture_ that the night before a
lady had lost her fan--something historical in fans, and quite unique.
She had been seated outside the reading-room--the Burgoynes must have
been arriving at that very moment--preparatory to going to the opera.
She laid this wonderful fan on a chair beside her, it was only for an
instant, yet when she turned it was gone. The administration charitably
suggested--in their notice--that someone of their lady guests had
mistaken it for her own.
That same evening a really remarkable tale was whispered about
the place. A certain lady and gentleman--not our pair, but
another--happened to be honeymooning in the hotel. Monsieur had left
Madame asleep in bed. When she got up and began to dress, she discovered
that the larger and more valuable portion of the jewellery which had
been given her as wedding presents, and which she, perhaps foolishly,
had brought abroad, had gone--apparently vanished into air. The
curious part of the tale was this. She had dreamed that she saw a
woman--unmistakably a lady--trying on this identical jewellery before
the looking-glass. Query, was it a dream? Or had she, lying in bed, in
a half somnolent condition, been the unconscious witness of an actual
occurrence?
"Upon my word," declared Mr. Burgoyne to his wife, "If the thing
weren't actually impossible, I should be inclined to believe that we
were the victims of some elaborate practical joke; that people were in
a conspiracy to make us believe that ill luck dogged our steps!"
Mrs. Burgoyne smiled. She was putting on her bonnet before the glass.
They were preparing to sally out for a quiet dinner on the boulevard.
"You silly Charlie! What queer ideas you get in your head. What does it
matter to us if foolish people lose their things? We have not a mission
to make folks wiser, or, what amounts to the same thing, to compel them
to keep valuable things in secure places."
The lady, who had finished her performance at the glass, came and put
her hands upon her lord's two shoulders,
"My dear child, don't look so black? I shall be much better prepared to
discuss that, or any subject, when--we have dined."
The lady made a little _moue_ and kissed him on the lips. Then they
went downstairs. But when they had got so far upon their road, the
gentleman discovered that he had brought no money in his pockets.
Leaving his wife in the _salle de lecture_, he returned to his bedroom
to supply the omission.
The desk in which he kept his loose cash was at that moment standing on
the chest of drawers. On the top of it was a bag of his wife's--a bag
on which she set much store. In it she kept her more particular
belongings, and such care did she take of it that he never remembered
to have seen it left out of her locked-up trunk before. Now, taking
hold of it in his haste, he was rather surprised to find that it was
unlocked--it was not only unlocked, but it flew wide open, and in
flying open some of the contents fell upon the floor. He stooped to
pick them up again.
The first thing he picked up was a silver spoon, the next was an ivory
chessman, the next was a fan, and the next--was a diamond brooch.
He stared at these things in a sort of dream, and at the last
especially. He had seen the thing before. But where?
Good God! it came upon him in a flash! It was the advertisement in
diamond work which had been the property of Mrs. Homer Joy!
He was seized with a sort of momentary paralysis, continuing to stare
at the brooch as though he had lost the power of volition. It was with
an effort that he obtained sufficient mastery over himself to be able
to turn his attention to the other articles he held. He knew two of
them. The spoon was one of the spoons which had been lost at Morlaix;
the chessman was one of a very curious set of chessmen which had
disappeared at Vannes. From the notice which had been posted in the
_salle de lecture_ he had no difficulty in recognising the fan which
had vanished from the chair.
It was some moments before he realised what the presence of those
things must mean, and when he did realize it a metamorphosis had taken
place--the Charles Burgoyne standing there was not the Charles Burgoyne
who had entered the room. Without any outward display of emotion, in a
cold, mechanical way he placed the articles he held upon one side, and
turned the contents of the bag out upon the drawers.
They presented a curious variety at any rate. As he gazed at them he
experienced that singular phenomenon--the inability to credit the
evidence of his own eyes. There were the rest of the chessmen, the
rest of the spoons, nick-nacks, a quaint, old silver cream-jug,
jewellery--bracelets, rings, ear-rings, necklaces, pins, lockets,
brooches, half the contents of a jeweller's shop. As he stood staring
at this very miscellaneous collection, the door opened, and his wife
came in.
She smiled as she entered.
"Charlie, have they taken your money too? Are you aware, sir, how
hungry I am?"
He did not turn when he heard her voice. He continued motionless,
looking at the contents of the bag. She advanced towards him and saw
what he was looking at. Then he turned and they were face to face.
He never knew what was the fashion of his countenance. He could not
have analysed his feelings to save his life. But, as he looked at her,
his wife of yesterday, the woman whom he loved, she seemed to shrivel
up before his eyes, and sank upon the floor. There was silence. Then
she made a little gesture towards him with her two hands. She fell
forward, hiding her face on the ground at his feet, prisoning his legs
with her arms.
"How came these things into your bag?"
He did not know his own voice, it was so dry and harsh. She made no
answer.
"Did you steal them?"
Still silence. He felt a sort of rage rising within him.
"There are one or two questions you must answer. I am sorry to have to
put them; it is not my fault. You had better get up from the floor."
She never moved. For his life he could not have touched her.
"I suppose--." He was choked, and paused. "I suppose that woman's
jewels are some of these?"
No answer. Recognising the hopelessness of putting questions to her
now, he gathered the various articles together and put them back into
the bag.
"I'm afraid you will have to dine alone."
That was all he said to her. With the bag in his hand he left the room,
leaving her in a heap upon the floor. He sneaked rather than walked out
of the hotel. Supposing they caught him red-handed, with that thing in
his hand? He only began to breathe freely when he was out in the
street.
Possibly no man in Paris spent the night of that twentieth of June more
curiously than Mr. Burgoyne. When he returned it was four o'clock in
the morning, and broad day. He was worn-out, haggard, the spectre
of a man. In the bedroom he found his wife just as he had left her,
in a heap upon the floor, but fast asleep. She had removed none
of her clothes, not even her bonnet or her gloves. She had been
crying--apparently had cried herself to sleep. As he stood looking
down at her he realised how he loved her--the woman, the creature of
flesh and blood, apart entirely from her moral qualities. He placed
the bag within his trunk and locked it up. Then, kneeling beside his
wife, he stooped and kissed her as she slept. The kiss aroused her. She
woke as wakes a child, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed
him back again. Not a word was spoken. Then she got up. He helped her to
undress, and put her into a bed as though she were a child. Then he
undressed himself, and joined her. And they fell fast asleep locked in
each other's arms.
That night they returned to London. The bag went with them. On the
morning after their arrival, Mr. Burgoyne took a cab into the city, the
fatal bag beside him on the seat. He drove straight to Mr. Staunton's
office. When he entered, unannounced, his father-in-law started as
though he were a ghost.
"Burgoyne! What brings you here? I hope there's nothing wrong?"
Mr. Burgoyne did not reply at once. He placed the bag--Minnie's
bag--upon the table. He kept his eyes fixed upon his father-in-law's
countenance.
"Burgoyne! Why do you look at me like that?"
"I have something here I wish to show you." That was Mr. Burgoyne's
greeting. He opened the bag, and turned its contents out upon the
table. "Not a bad haul from Breton peasants,--eh?"
Mr. Staunton stared at the heap of things thus suddenly disclosed.
"Burgoyne," he stammered, "what's the meaning of this?"
"Are you quite sure you don't know what it means?"
Looking up, Mr. Staunton caught the other's eyes. He seemed to read
something there which carried dreadful significance to his brain. His
glance fell and he covered his face with his hands. At last he found
his voice.
"Minnie?"
The word was gasped rather than spoken. Mr. Burgoyne's reply was
equally brief.
"Minnie!"
"Good God!"
There was silence for perhaps a minute. Then Mr. Burgoyne locked the
door of the room and stood before the empty fire-place.
"It is by the merest chance that I am not at this moment booked for the
_travaux forces_. Some of those jewels were stolen from a woman's
dressing case at the Grand Hotel, with the woman herself in bed and
more than half awake at the time. She talked about having every guest
in the place searched by the police. If she had done so, you would have
heard from us as soon as the rules of the prison allowed us to
communicate."
Mr. Burgoyne paused. Mr. Staunton kept his eyes fixed upon the table.
"That's what I wanted to tell you the night before the wedding, only
you wouldn't stop. She's a kleptomaniac."
Mr. Burgoyne smiled, not gaily.
"Do you mean she's a habitual thief?"
"It's a disease."
"I've no doubt it's a disease. But perhaps you'll be so kind as to
accurately define what in the present case you understand by disease."
"When she was a toddling child she took things, and secreted them--it's
a literal fact. When she got into short frocks she continued to capture
everything that caught her eye. When she exchanged them for long ones
it was the same. It was not because she wanted the things, because she
never attempted to use them when she had them. She just put them
somewhere--as a magpie might--and forget their existence. You had only
to find out where they were and take them away again, and she was never
one whit the wiser. In that direction she's irresponsible--it's a
disease in fact."
"If it is, as you say, a disease, have you ever had it medically
treated?"
"She has been under medical treatment her whole life long. I suppose we
have consulted half the specialists in England. Our own man, Muir, has
given the case his continual attention. He has kept a regular journal,
and can give you more light upon the subject than I can. You have no
conception what a life-long torture it has been to me."
"I have a very clear conception indeed. But don't you think you might
have enlightened me upon the matter before?"
Rising from his seat, Mr. Staunton began to pace the room
"I do! I think so very strongly indeed. But--but--I was over persuaded.
As you know, I tried at the very last moment; even then I failed.
Besides, it was suggested to me that marriage might be the turning
point, and that the woman might be different from the girl. Don't
misunderstand me! She is not a bad girl; she is a good girl in the best
possible sense, a girl in a million! No better daughter ever lived; you
won't find a better wife if you search the whole world through; There
is just this one point. Some people are somnambulists; in a sense she
is a somnambulist too. I tell you I might put this watch upon the
table"--Mr. Staunton produced his watch from his waistcoat pocket--"and
she would take it from right underneath my nose, and never know what it
was that she had done. I confess I can't explain it, but so it is!"
"I think," remarked Mr. Burgoyne, with a certain dryness, "that I had
better see this doctor fellow--Muir."
"See him--by all means, see him. There is one point, Burgoyne. I
realised from the first that if we kept you in the dark about this
thing, and it forced itself upon you afterwards, you would be quite
justified in feeling aggrieved."
"You realised that, did you? You did get so far?"
"And therefore I say this, that, although my child has only been your
wife these few short days, although she loves you as truly as woman
ever loved a man--and what strength of love she has I know--still, if
you are minded to put her from you, I will not only not endeavour to
change your purpose, but I will never ask you for a penny for her
support--she shall be to you as though she had never lived."
Mr. Burgoyne looked his father-in-law in the face.
"No man shall part me from my wife, nor anything--but death." Mr.
Burgoyne turned a little aside. "I believe I love her better because of
this. God knows I loved her well enough before."
"I can understand that easily. Because of this she is dearer to us,
too."
There was silence. Moving to the table, Mr. Burgoyne began to replace
the things in the bag.
"I will go and see this man Muir."
Dr. Muir was at home. His appearance impressed Mr. Burgoyne favourably,
and Mr. Burgoyne had a keen eye for the charlatan in medicine.
"Dr. Muir, I have come from Mr. Staunton. My name is Burgoyne. You are
probably aware that I have married Mr. Staunton's daughter, Minnie. It
is about my wife I wish to consult you." Dr. Muir simply nodded.
"During our honeymoon in Brittany she has stolen all these things."
Mr. Burgoyne opened the bag sufficiently to disclose its contents. Dr.
Muir scarcely glanced at them. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Burgoyne's
face. There was a pause before he spoke.
"You were not informed of her--peculiarity?"
"I was not. I don't understand it now. It is because I wish to
understand it that I have come to you."
"I don't understand it either."
"But I am told that you have always given the matter your attention."
"That is so, but I don't understand it any the more for that. I am not
a specialist."
"Do you mean that she is mad?"
"I don't say that I mean anything at all; very shortly you will be
quite as capable of judging of the case as I am. I've no doubt that if
you wished to place her in an asylum, you would have no difficulty in
doing so. So much I don't hesitate to say."
"Thank you. I have no intention of doing anything of the kind. Can you
not suggest a cure?"
"I can suggest ten thousand, but they would all be experiments. In
fact, I have tried several of them already, and the experiments have
failed. For instance, I thought marriage might effect a cure. It is
perhaps yet too early to judge, but it would appear that, so far, the
thing has been a failure. Frankly, Mr. Burgoyne, I don't think you will
find a man in Europe who, in this particular case, can give you help.
You must trust to time. I have always thought myself that a shock might
do it, though what sort of shock it will have to be is more than I can
tell you. I thought the marriage shock might serve. Possibly the birth
shock might prove of some avail. But we cannot experiment in shocks,
you know. You must trust to time."
On that basis--_trust in time_--Mr. Burgoyne arranged his household.
The bag with its contents was handed to his solicitor. The stolen
property was restored to its several owners. It cost Mr. Burgoyne a
pretty penny before the restoration was complete. A certain Mrs. Deal
formed part of his establishment. She acted as companion and keeper to
Mr. Burgoyne's wife. They never knew whether that lady realised what
Mrs. Deal's presence really meant. And, in spite of their utmost
vigilance, things were taken--from shops, from people's houses, from
guests under her own roof. It was Mrs. Deal's business to discover
where these things were, and to see that they were instantly restored.
Her life was spent in a continual game of hide and seek.
It was a strange life they lived in that Brompton house, and yet--odd
though it may sound--it was a happy one. He loved her, she loved
him--there is a good deal in just that simple fact. There was one good
thing--and that in spite of Dr. Muir's suggestion that a birth shock
might effect a cure--there were no children.
CHAPTER II
THE CURE
They had been married five years. There came an invitation from one
Arthur Watson, a friend of Mr. Burgoyne's boyhood. After long
separation they had encountered each other by accident, and Mr. Watson
had insisted upon Mr. Burgoyne's bringing his wife to spend the
"week-end" with him in that Mecca of a certain section of modern
Londoners--up the river. So the married couple went to see the single man.
After dinner conversation rather languished. But their host stirred it
up again.
"I have something here to show you." Producing a leather case from the
inner pocket of his coat, he addressed a question to Mr. Burgoyne "Do
much in mines?"
"How do you mean?"
"Because, if you do, here's a tip for you, and tips are things in which
I don't deal as a rule--buy Mitwaterstraand. There is a boom coming
along, and the foreshadowings of the boom are in this case. Mrs.
Burgoyne, shut your eyes and you shall see."
Mrs. Burgoyne did not shut her eyes, but Mr. Watson opened the case,
and she saw! More than a score of cut diamonds of the purest water, and
of unusual size--lumps of light! With them, side by side, were about
the same number of uncut stones, in curious contrast to their more
radiant brethren.
"You see those?" He took out about a dozen of the cut stones, and
held them loosely in his hand. "Are you a judge of diamonds? Well,
I am. Hitherto there have been one or two defects about African
diamonds--they cut badly, and the colour's wrong. But we have changed
all that. I stake my reputation that you will find no finer diamonds
than those in the world. Here is the stone in the rough. Here is exactly,
the same thing after it has been cut; judge for yourself, my boy! And
those come from the district of Mitwaterstraand, Griqualand West. Take
my tip, Burgoyne, and look out for Mitwaterstraand."
Mr. Burgoyne did take his tip, and looked out for Mitwaterstraand,
though not in the sense he meant. He looked out for Mitwaterstraand all
night, lying in bed with his eyes wide open, his thoughts fixed on his
wife. Suppose they were stolen, those shining bits of crystal?
In the morning he was up while she still slept. He dressed himself and
went downstairs. He felt that he must have just one whiff of tobacco,
and then return--to watch. A little doze in which he had caught himself
had frightened him. Suppose he fell into slumber as profound as hers,
what might not happen in his dreams?
Early as was the hour, he was not the first downstairs. As he entered
the room in which the diamonds had been exhibited, he found Mr. Watson
standing at the table.
"Hullo, Watson! At this hour of the morning who'd have thought of
seeing you?"
"I--I've had a shock." There was a perceptible tremor in Mr. Watson's
voice, as though even yet he had not recovered from the shock of which
he spoke.
"A shock? What kind of a shock?"
"When I woke this morning I found that I had left the case with the
diamonds in downstairs. I can't think how I came to do it."
"It was a careless thing." Mr. Burgoyne's tones were even stern. He
shuddered as he thought of the risk which had been run.
"It was. When I found that it was missing, I was out of bed like a
flash. I put my things on anyhow, and when I found it was all
right"--he at that moment was holding the case in his hands--"I felt like
singing a Te Deum." He did not look like singing a Te Deum, by any
means. "Let's have a look at you, my beauties." He pressed a spring and
the case flew open. "My God!"
"What's the matter?"
"They're gone!"
"Gone!"
They were, sure enough. The case was empty. The shock was too much for
Mr. Burgoyne.
"She's taken them after all," he gasped.
"Who?"
"My wife!"
"Your wife!--Burgoyne!--What do you mean?"
"Watson, my wife has stolen them."
"Burgoyne!"
The empty case fell to the ground with a crash. It almost seemed as
though Mr. Watson would have fallen after it. He seemed even more
distressed than his friend. His face was clammy, his hands were
trembling.
"Burgoyne, what--whatever do you mean?"
"My wife's a kleptomaniac, that's what I mean."
"A kleptomaniac! You--you don't mean that she has taken the stones?"
"I do. Sounds like a joke doesn't it?"
"A joke! I don't know what you call a joke! It'll be no joke for me.
There's to be a meeting, and those stones will have to be produced for
experts to examine. If they are not forthcoming, I shall have to
explain what has become of them, and those are not the men to listen to
any talk of kleptomania. And it isn't the money they will want, it's
the stones. At this crisis those stones are worth a hundred thousand
pounds to us, and more! It'll be your ruin, and mine, if they are not
found."
"They will be found. It is only a little game she plays. She hides, we
seek and find. I think I may undertake to produce them for you in
half-an-hour."
"I hope you will," said Mr. Watson, still with clammy face and
trembling hands. "My God, I hope you will."
Mr. Burgoyne went upstairs. His wife was still asleep; and a prettier
picture than she presented when asleep it would be hard to find. He put
his hand upon her shoulder.
"Minnie!" No reply. "Minnie!" Still she slept.
When she did awake it was in the most natural and charming way
conceivable. She stretched out her arms to her husband leaning over
her.
"Charlie! Whatever is the time?"
"Where are those stones?"
"What?" With the back of her hands she began to rub her eyes. "Where
are what?"
"Where are those stones?"
"I don't know what--" yawn--"you mean."
"Minnie!--Don't trifle with me!--Where have you put those diamonds?"
"Charlie! Whatever do you mean?"
Her eyes were wide open now. She lay looking at him in innocent
surprise.
"What a consummate actress you are!"
The words came from his lips almost unawares. They seemed to startle
her. "Charlie!"
He--loving her with all his heart--was unable to meet her glance, and
began moving uneasily about the room, talking as he moved.
"Come, Minnie, tell me where they are?"
"Where what are?"
"The diamonds!"
"The diamonds! What diamonds? Whatever do you mean?"
"You know what I mean very well. I mean the Mitwaterstraand diamonds
which Watson showed us last night, and which you have taken from the
case."
"Which I have taken from the case!" She rose from the bed, and stood on
the floor in her night-dress, the embodiment of surprise. "If you will
leave the room I shall be able to dress."
"Minnie! Do you really think I am a fool? I can make every
allowance--God knows I have done so often enough before--but you must
tell me where those stones are before I leave this room."
"Do you mean to suggest that I--I have stolen them?"
"Call it what you please! I am only asking you to tell me where you
have put them. That is all."
"On what evidence do you suspect me of this monstrous crime?"
"Evidence? What do I need with evidence? Minnie, for God's sake, don't
let us argue. You know that you are dearer to me than life, but this
time--even at the sacrifice of life!--I cannot save you from the
consequence of your own act."
"The consequence of my own act. What do you mean?"
"I mean this, that unless those diamonds are immediately forthcoming,
this night you will sleep in jail."
"In jail! I sleep in jail! Is this some hideous dream?"
"Oh, my darling, for both our sakes tell me where the diamonds are."
"Charlie, I know no more where they are than the man in the moon."
"Then God help us, for we are lost!"
He ransacked every article of furniture the room contained. Tore open
the mattresses, ripped up the boards, looked up the chimney. But there
were no diamonds. And that night she slept in jail. Mr. Watson started
off to tell his story to the meeting as best he might. Mr. and Mrs.
Burgoyne remained behind, searching for the missing stones. About one
o'clock, Mr. Watson still being absent, a telegram was received at the
local police station containing instructions to detain Mrs. Burgoyne on
a charge of felony, "warrant coming down by train." Mr. Watson had
evidently told his story to an unsympathetic audience. Mrs. Burgoyne
was arrested and taken off to the local lock-up--all idea of bail being
peremptorily pooh-poohed. Mr. Burgoyne tore up to town in a state of
semi-madness. When Mr. Staunton heard the story, his affliction was at
least, equal to his son-in-law's. Dr. Muir was telegraphed for, and a
hurried conference was held in the office of a famous criminal lawyer.
That gentleman told them plainly that at present nothing could be done.
"Even suppose the diamonds are immediately forthcoming, the case will
have to go before a magistrate. You don't suppose the police will allow
you to compound a felony. That is what it amounts to, you know."
As for the medical point of view, it must be urged, of course; but the
lawyer made no secret of his belief that if the medical point of view
was all they had to depend on, the case would, of a certainty, be sent
to trial.
"But it seems to me that at present there is not a tittle of evidence.
Your wife, Mr. Burgoyne, has been arrested, I won't say upon your
information, but on the strength of words which you allowed to escape
your lips. But they can't put you in the box; you could prove nothing
if they did. When the case comes on they'll ask for a remand. Probably
they'll get it, one remand at any rate. I shall offer bail, which
they'll accept. When the case comes on again, unless they have
something to go on, which they haven't now, it will be dismissed. Mrs.
Burgoyne will leave the court without a stain upon her character. We
shan't even have to hint at kleptomania, or klepto anything."
More than once that night Mr. Burgoyne meditated suicide. All was over.
She--his beloved!--through his folly--slept in jail. And if, by the
skin of her teeth, she escaped this time, how would it be the next? She
was guilty now--they might prove it then! And when he thought of the
numerous precautions he had hedged her round with heretofore, it seemed
marvellous that she had gone scot free so long. And suppose she had
been taken at the outset of her career--in the affair of the jewels at
the Grand Hotel--what would have availed any plea he might have urged
before a French tribunal? He shuddered as he thought of it.
He never attempted to go to bed. He paced to and fro in his study like
a caged wild animal. If he might only have shared her cell! The study
was on the ground floor. It opened on to the garden. Between two and
three in the morning he thought he heard a tapping at the pane. With a
trembling hand he unlatched the window. A man stood without.
"Watson!"
As the name broke from him Mr. Watson staggered, rather than walked,
into the room.
"I--I saw the light outside. I thought I had better knock at the window
than disturb the house."
He sank into a chair, putting his arms upon the table, pillowing his
face upon his hands. There was silence. Mr. Burgoyne, in his surprise,
was momentarily struck dumb. At last, finding his voice, and eyeing his
friend, he said--
"This is a bad job for both of us."
Mr. Watson looked up. Mr. Burgoyne, in spite of his own burden which he
had to bear, was startled by something which he saw written on his
face.
"As you say, it is a bad job for both of us." Mr. Watson rose as he
was speaking. "But it is worst for me. Why did you tell me all that
stuff about your wife?"
"God knows I am not in the mood to talk of anything, but rather than
that, talk of what you please."
"Why the devil did you put that thought into my head?"
"What thought? I do not understand. I don't think you understand much
either."
"Why did you tell me she had taken the stones? Why, you damned fool, I
had them in my pocket all the time."
Mr. Watson took his hand out of his pocket. It was full of what seemed
little crystals. He dashed these down upon the table with such force
that they were scattered all over the room. They were some of the
Mitwaterstraand diamonds.
"Watson! Good God! What do you mean?"
"I was the thief! Not she!"
"You--hound!"
"Don't look as though you'd like to murder me! I tell you I feel like
murdering you! I am a ruined man. The thought came into my head that if
I could get off with those Mitwaterstraand diamonds, I should have
something with which to start afresh. Like an idiot, I took them from
the case last night, meaning to hatch some cock-and-bull story about
having forgotten to bring the case upstairs, and their having been
stolen from it in the night. But on reflection I perceived how
extremely thin the tale would be. I went downstairs to put them back
again. I was in the very act of doing it when you came in. I showed you
the empty box. You immediately cried out that your wife had stolen
them. It was a temptation straight from hell! I was too astounded at
first to understand your meaning. When I did, I let you remain in
possession of your belief. Now, Burgoyne, don't you be a fool."
But Mr. Burgoyne was a fool. He fell on to the floor in a fit; this
last straw was one too many. When he recovered, Mr. Watson was gone,
but the diamonds were there, piled in a neat little heap upon the
table. He had been guilty of a really curious lapse into the paths of
honesty, for, as he truly said, he was a ruined man. It was one of
those resonant smashes which are the sensation of an hour.
Mrs. Burgoyne was released--without a stain upon her character. She
never stole again! She had been guilty so many times, and never been
accused of crime,--and the first time she was innocent they said she
was a thief! Dr. Muir said the shock had done it,--he had said that a
shock would do it, all along.
Exchange is Robbery
CHAPTER I
"Impossible!"
"Really, Mr. Ruby, I wish you wouldn't say a thing was impossible when
I say that it is actually a fact."
Mr. Ruby looked at the Countess of Grinstead, and the Countess of
Grinstead looked at him.
"But, Countess, if you will just consider for one moment. You are
actually accusing us of selling to you diamonds which we know to be
false."
"Whether you knew them to be false or not is more than I can say. All I
know is that I bought a set of diamond ornaments from you, for which
you charged me eight hundred pounds, and which Mr. Ahrens says are not
worth eight hundred pence."
"Mr. Ahrens must be dreaming."
"Oh no, he's not. I don't believe that Mr. Ahrens ever dreams."
Mr. Golden, who was standing observantly by, addressed an inquiry to
the excited lady. "Where are the diamonds now?"
"The diamonds, as you call them, and which I don't believe are
diamonds, since Mr. Ahrens says they're not, and I'm sure he ought to
know, are in this case."
The Countess of Grinstead produced from her muff one of those flat
leather cases in which jewellers love to enshrine their wares.
Mr. Golden held out his hand for it.
"Permit me for one moment, Countess."
The Countess handed him the case. Mr. Golden opened it. Mr. Ruby,
leaning back in his chair, watched his partner examine the contents.
The Countess watched him too. Mr. Golden took out one glittering
ornament after another. Through a little microscope he peered into its
inmost depths. He turned it over and over, and peered and peered, as
though he would read its very heart. When he had concluded his
examination he turned to the lady.
"How came you to submit these ornaments to Mr. Ahrens?"
"I don't mind telling you. Not in the least! I happened to want some
money. I didn't care to ask the Earl for it. I thought of those
things--you had charged me L800 for them, so I thought that he would
let me have L200 upon them as a loan. When he told me that they were
nothing but rubbish I thought I should have had a fit."
"Where have they been in the interval between your purchasing them from
us and your taking them to Mr. Ahrens?"
"Where have they been? Where do you suppose they've been? They have
been in my jewel case, of course."
Mr. Golden replaced the ornaments in their satin beds. He closed the
case.
"Every inquiry shall be made into the matter, Countess, you may rest
assured of that. We cannot afford to lose our money, any more than you
can afford to lose your diamonds."
Directly the lady's back was turned Mr. Ruby put a question to his
partner. "Well, are they false?"
"They are. It is a good imitation, one of the best imitations I
remember to have seen. Still it is an imitation."
"Do you--do you think she did it?"
"That is more than I can say. Still, when a lady buys diamonds on
Saturday, upon credit, and takes them to a pawnbroker on Tuesday, to
raise money on them, one may be excused for having one's suspicions."
While the partners were still discussing the matter, the door was
opened by an assistant. "Mr. Gray wishes to see Mr. Ruby."
Before Mr. Ruby had an opportunity of saying whether or not he wished
to see Mr. Gray, rather unceremoniously Mr. Gray himself came in.
"I should think I do want to see Mr. Ruby, and while I'm about it, I
may as well see Mr. Golden too." Mr. Gray turned to the assistant, who
still was standing at the open door. "You can go."
The assistant looked at Mr. Ruby for instructions. "Yes Thompson, you
can go."
When Thompson was gone, and the door was closed, Mr. Gray, who wore his
hat slightly on the side of his head, turned and faced the partners. He
was a very young man, and was dressed in the extreme of fashion. Taking
from his coat tail pocket the familiar leather case, he flung it on to
the table with a bang. "I don't know what you call that, but I tell you
what I call it. I call it a damned swindle."
Mr. Ruby was shocked.
"Mr. Gray! May I ask of what you are complaining?"
"Complaining! I'm complaining of your selling me a thing for two
thousand pounds which is not worth two thousand pence!"
"Indeed? Have we been guilty of such conduct as that?" Mr. Golden
picked up the case which Mr. Gray had flung down upon the table. "Is
this the diamond necklace which we had the pleasure of selling you the
other day?"
Mr. Golden opened the case. He took out the necklace which it
contained. He examined it as minutely as he had examined the Countess
of Grinstead's ornaments. "This is--very remarkable."
"Remarkable! I should think it is remarkable! I bought that necklace
for a lady. As some ladies have a way of doing, she had it valued. When
she found that the thing was trumpery, she, of course, jumped to the
conclusion that I'd been having her--trying to gain kudos for giving
her something worth having at the cheapest possible rate. A pretty
state of things, upon my word!"
"This appears to be a lady of acute commercial instincts, Mr. Gray."
"Never mind about that! If you deny that that is the necklace which you
sold to me I will prove that it is--in the police court. I am quite
prepared for it. Men who are capable of selling a necklace of glass
beads as a necklace of diamonds are capable of denying that they ever
sold the thing at all."
"Mr. Gray, there is no necessity to use such language to us. If a wrong
has been done we are ready and willing to repair it."
"Then repair it!"
It took some time to get rid of Mr. Gray. He had a great deal to say,
and a very strong and idiomatic way of saying it. Altogether it was a
bad quarter of an hour for Messrs. Ruby and Golden. When, at last, they
did get rid of him, Mr. Ruby turned to his partner.
"Golden, it's not possible that the stones in that necklace are false.
Those are the stones which we got from Fungst--you remember?"
"I remember very well indeed. They were the stones which we got from
Fungst. They are not now. The gems which are at present in this
necklace are paste, covered with a thin veneer of real stones. It is an
old trick, but I never saw it better done. The workmanship, both in Mr.
Gray's necklace and in the Countess of Grinstead's ornaments, is, in
its way, perfection."
While Mr. Ruby was still staring at his partner, the door opened and
again Mr. Thompson entered. "The Duchess of Datchet."
"Let's hope," muttered Mr. Golden, "that she's not come to charge us
with selling any more paste diamonds."
But the Duchess had come to do nothing of the kind. She had come on a
much more agreeable errand, from Messrs. Ruby and Golden's point of
view--she had come to buy. As it was Mr. Ruby's special _role_ to act
as salesman to the great--the very great--ladies who patronised that
famed establishment, Mr. Golden left his partner to perform his duties.
Mr. Ruby found the Duchess, on that occasion, difficult to please. She
wanted something in diamonds, to present to Lady Edith Linglithgow on
the occasion of her approaching marriage. As Lady Edith is the Duke's
first cousin, as all the world knows, almost, as it were, his sister,
the Duchess wanted something very good indeed. Nothing which Messrs.
Ruby and Golden had seemed to be quite good enough, except one or two
things which were, perhaps, too good. The Duchess promised to return
with the Duke himself to-morrow, or, perhaps, the day after. With that
promise Mr. Ruby was forced to be content.
The instant the difficult very great lady had vanished, Mr. Golden came
into the room. He placed upon the table some leather cases.
"Ruby what do you think of those?"
"Why, they're from stock, aren't they?" Mr. Ruby took up some of the
cases which Mr. Golden had put down. There was quite a heap of them.
They contained rings, bracelets, necklaces, odds and ends in diamond
work. "Anything the matter with them, Golden?"
"There's this the matter with them--that they're all paste."
"Golden!"
"I've been glancing through the stock. I haven't got far, but I've come
upon those already. Somebody appears to be having a little joke at our
expense. It strikes me, Ruby, that we're about to be the victims of one
of the greatest jewel robberies upon record."
"Golden!"
"Have you been showing this to the Duchess?"
Mr. Golden picked up a necklace of diamonds from a case which lay open
on the table, whose charms Mr. Ruby had been recently exhibiting to
that difficult great lady. "Ruby!--Good Heavens!"
"Wha-what's the matter?"
"They're paste!"
Mr. Golden was staring at the necklace as though it were some hideous
thing.
"Paste!--G-G-Golden!" Mr. Ruby positively trembled. "That's Kesteeven's
necklace which he brought in this morning to see if we could find a
customer for it."
"I'm quite aware that this was Kesteeven's necklace. Now it would be
dear at a ten-pound note."
"A ten-pound note! He wants ten thousand guineas! It's not more than an
hour since he brought it--no one can have touched it."
"Ruby, don't talk nonsense! I saw Kesteeven's necklace when he brought
it, I see this thing now. This is not Kesteeven's necklace--it has been
changed!"
"Golden!"
"To whom have you shown this necklace?"
"To the Duchess of Datchet."
"To whom else?"
"To no one."
"Who has been in this room?"
"You know who has been in the room as well as I do."
"Then--she did it."
"She?--Who?"
"The Duchess!"
"Golden! you are mad!"
"I shall be mad pretty soon. We shall be ruined! I've not the slightest
doubt but that you've been selling people paste for diamonds for
goodness knows how long."
"Golden!"
"You'll have to come with me to Datchet House. I'll see the Duke--I'll
have it out with him at once." Mr. Golden threw open the door.
"Thompson, Mr. Ruby and I are going out. See that nobody comes near
this room until we return."
To make sure that nobody did come near that room Mr. Golden turned the
key in the lock, and pocketed the key.
CHAPTER II
When Messrs. Ruby and Golden arrived at Datchet House they found the
Duke at home. He received them in his own apartment. On their entrance
he was standing behind a writing table.
"Well, gentlemen, to what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?"
Mr. Golden took on himself the office of spokesman.
"We have called, your Grace, upon a very delicate matter." The Duke
inclined his head--he also took a seat. "The Duchess of Datchet has
favoured us this morning with a visit."
"The Duchess!"
"The Duchess."
Mr. Golden paused. He was conscious that this was a delicate matter.
"When her Grace quitted our establishment she _accidentally_"--Mr.
Golden emphasised the adverb; he even repeated it--"_accidentally_ left
behind some of her property in exchange for ours."
"Mr. Golden!" The Duke stared. "I don't understand you."
Mr. Golden then and there resolved to make the thing quite plain.
"I will be frank with your Grace. When the Duchess left our
establishment this morning she took with her some twenty thousand
pounds worth of diamonds--it may be more, we have only been able to
give a cursory glance at the state of things--and left behind her paste
imitations of those diamonds instead."
The Duke stood up. He trembled--probably with anger.
"Mr. Golden, am I--am I to understand that you are mad?"
"The case, your Grace, is as I stated. Is not the case as I state it,
Mr. Ruby?"
Mr. Ruby took out his handkerchief to relieve his brow. His habit of
showing excessive deference to the feelings and the whims of very great
people was almost more than he could master.
"I--I'm afraid, Mr. Golden, that it is. Your--your Grace will
understand that--that we should never have ventured to--to come here
had we not been most--most unfortunately compelled."
"Pray make no apology, Mr. Ruby. Allow me to have a clear understanding
with you, gentlemen. Do I understand that you charge the Duchess of
Datchet--the Duchess of Datchet!"--the Duke echoed his own words, as
though he were himself unable to believe in the enormity of such a
thing--"with stealing jewels from your shop?"
"If your Grace will allow me to make a distinction without a
difference--we charge no one with anything. If your Grace will give us
your permission to credit the jewels to your account, there is an end
of the matter."
"What is the value of the articles which you say have gone?"
"On that point we are not ourselves, as yet, accurately informed. I may
as well state at once--it is better to be frank, your Grace--that this
sort of thing appears to have been going on for some time. It is only
an hour or so since we began to have even a suspicion of the extent of
our losses."
"Then, in effect, you charge the Duchess of Datchet with robbing you
wholesale?"
Mr. Golden paused. He felt that to such a question as this it would be
advisable that he should frame his answer in a particular manner.
"Your Grace will understand that different persons have different ways
of purchasing. Lady A. has her way. Lady B. has her way, and the
Duchess of Datchet has hers."
"Are you suggesting that the Duchess of Datchet is a kleptomaniac?"
Mr. Golden was silent.
"Do you think that that is a comfortable suggestion to make to a
husband, Mr. Golden?" Just then someone tapped at the door. "Who's
there?"
A voice--a feminine voice--enquired without, "Can I come in?"
Before the Duke could deny the right of entry, the door opened and a
woman entered. A tall woman, and a young and a lovely one. When she
perceived Messrs. Ruby and Golden she cast an enquiring look in the
direction of the Duke. "Are you engaged?"
The Duke was eyeing her with a somewhat curious expression of
countenance. "I believe you know these gentlemen?"
"Do I? I ought to know them perhaps, but I'm afraid I don't."
Mr. Ruby was all affability and bows, and smiles and rubbings of hands.
"I have not had the honour of seeing the lady upon a previous
occasion."
The Duke of Datchet stared. "You have not had the honour? Then
what--what the dickens do you mean? This is the Duchess!"
"The Duchess!" cried Messrs. Ruby and Golden.
"Certainly--the Duchess of Datchet."
Messrs. Ruby and Golden looked blue. They looked more than blue--they
looked several colours of the rainbow all at once. They stared as
though they could not believe the evidence of their eyes and ears. The
Duke turned to the Duchess. He opened the door for her.
"Duchess, will you excuse me for a moment? I have something which I
particularly wish to say to these gentlemen."
The Duchess disappeared. When she had gone the Duke not only closed the
door behind her, but he stood with his back against the door which he
had closed. His manner, all at once, was scarcely genial.
"Now, what shall I do with you, gentlemen? You come to my house and
charge the Duchess of Datchet with having been a constant visitor at
your shop for the purpose of robbing you, and it turns out that you
have actually never seen the Duchess of Datchet in your lives until
this moment."
"But," gasped Mr. Ruby, "that--that is not the lady who came to our
establishment, and--and called herself the Duchess of Datchet."
"Well, sir, and what has that to do with me? Am I responsible for the
proceedings of every sharper who comes to your shop and chooses to call
herself the Duchess of Datchet? I should advise you, in future, before
advancing reckless charges, to make some enquiries into the _bona
fides_ of your customers, Mr. Ruby. Now, gentlemen, you may go."
The Duke held the door wide open, invitingly. Mr. Golden caught his
partner by the sleeve, as though he feared that he would, with undue
celerity, accept the invitation.
"Hardly, your Grace, there is still something which we wish to say to
you." The Duke of Datchet shut the door again.
"Then say it. Only say it, if possible, in such a manner as not to
compel me to--kick you, Mr. Golden."
"Your Grace will believe that in anything I have said, or in anything
which I am to say, nothing is further from my wish than to cause your
Grace annoyance. But, on the other hand, surely your Grace is too old,
and too good a customer of our house, to wish to see us ruined."
"I had rather, Mr. Golden, see you ruined ten thousand times over than
that you should ruin my wife's fair fame."
Mr. Golden hesitated; he seemed to perceive that the Duke's retort was
not irrelevant. He turned to Mr. Ruby.
"Mr. Ruby, will you be so good as to explain what reasons we had for
believing that this person was what she called herself--the Duchess of
Datchet? Because your Grace must understand that we did not entertain
that belief without having at least some grounds to go upon."
Mr. Ruby, thus appealed to, began to fidget. He did not seem to relish
the office which his partner had imposed upon him. The tale which he
told was rather lame--still, he told it.
"Your Grace will understand that I--I am acquainted, at least by sight,
with most of the members of the British aristocracy, and--and, indeed,
of other aristocracies. But it so happened that, at the period of your
Grace's recent marriage, I happened to be abroad, and--and, not only
so, but--but the lady your Grace married was--was a lady--from--from
the country."
"I am perfectly aware, Mr. Ruby, whom I married."
"Quite so, your Grace, quite so. Only--only I was endeavouring to
explain how it was that I--I did not happen to be acquainted with her
Grace's personal appearance. So that when a carriage and pair drove up
to our establishment with your Grace's crest upon the panel----"
"My crest upon the panel!"
"Your Grace's crest upon the panel"--as Mr. Ruby continued, the Duke of
Datchet bit his lip--"and a lady stepped out of it and said, 'I am the
Duchess of Datchet; my husband tells me that he is an old customer of
yours,' I was only too glad to see her Grace, because, as your Grace is
aware, we have the honour of having your Grace as an old customer of
ours. 'My husband has given me this cheque to spend with you.' When she
said that she took a cheque out of her purse, one of your Grace's own
cheques drawn upon Messrs. Coutts, 'Pay Messrs. Ruby and Golden, or
order, one thousand pounds,' with your Grace's signature attached. I
have seen too many of your Grace's cheques not to know them well. She
purchased goods to the value of a thousand pounds, and she gave us your
Grace's cheque to pay for them."
"She gave you that cheque, did she?"
Mr. Golden interposed, "We presented the cheque, and it was duly
honoured. On the face of such proof as that, what could we suppose?"
The Duke was moving about the room--it seemed, a little restlessly.
"It didn't necessarily follow, because a woman paid for her purchases
with a cheque of mine that that woman was the Duchess of Datchet."
"I think, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, that it did. At
least, the presumption was strong upon that side. May I ask to whom
your Grace's cheque was given?"
"You may ask, but I don't see why I should tell you. It was honoured,
and that is sufficient."
"I don't think it is sufficient, and I don't think that your Grace will
think so either, if you consider for a moment. If it had not been for
the strong presumptive evidence of your Grace's cheque, we should not
have been robbed of many thousand pounds."
The Duke of Datchet paced restlessly to and fro. Messrs. Ruby and
Golden watched him. At last he moved towards his writing table. He sat
down on the chair behind it. He stretched out his legs in front of him.
He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets.
"I'll make a clean breast of it. You fellows can keep a still tongue in
your heads--keep a still tongue about what I am going to tell you." His
hearers bowed. They were coming to the point--at last. "Eh"--in spite
of his announced intention of making a clean breast of it, his Grace
rather stumbled in his speech. "Before I was married I--I had some
acquaintance with--with a certain lady. When I married, that
acquaintance ceased. On the last occasion on which I saw her she
informed me that she was indebted to you in the sum of a thousand
pounds for jewellery. I gave her a cheque to discharge her liability to
you, and to make sure that she did discharge the liability, I made the
cheque payable to you, which, I now perceive, was perhaps not the
wisest thing I could have done. But, at the same time, I wish you
clearly to comprehend that I have every reason to believe that the lady
referred to is, to put it mildly, a most unlikely person to--to rob any
one."
"We must request you to furnish us with that lady's name and address.
And I would advise your Grace to accompany us in an immediate visit to
that lady."
"That is your advice is it, Mr. Golden? I am not sure that I appreciate
it quite so much as it may possibly deserve."
"Otherwise, as you will yourself perceive, we shall be compelled to put
the matter at once in the hands of the police, and, your Grace, there
will be a scandal."
The Duke of Datchet reflected. He looked at Mr. Golden, he looked at
Mr. Ruby, he looked at the ceiling, he looked at the floor, he looked
at his boots--then he looked back again at Mr. Golden. At last he rose.
He shook himself a little--as if to shake his clothes into their proper
places. He seemed to have threshed the _pros_ and _cons_ of the matter
well out, mentally, and to have finally decided.
"As I do not want a scandal, I think I will take your excellent advice,
Mr. Golden--which I now really do appreciate at its proper value--and
accompany you upon that little visit. Shall we go at once?"
"At once--if your Grace pleases."
CHAPTER III
The Duke of Datchet's brougham, containing the Duke of Datchet himself
upon one seat, and Messrs. Ruby and Golden cheek by jowl upon the
other, drew up in front of a charming villa in the most charming
part of charming St. John's Wood. The Duke's ring--for the Duke himself
did ring, and there was no knocker--was answered by a most
unimpeachable-looking man-servant in livery. The man-servant was not
only unimpeachable-looking--which every servant ought to look--but
good-looking, too, which, in a servant, is not regarded as quite so
indispensable. He was, indeed, so good-looking as to be quite a "beauty
man." So young, too! A mere youth!
When this man-servant opened the door, and saw to whom he had opened
it, he started. And not only did he start, but Messrs. Ruby and Golden
started too, particularly Mr. Golden. The Duke of Datchet, if he
observed this little by-play, did not condescend to notice it.
"Is Mrs. Mansfield in?"
"I believe so. I will enquire. What name?"
"Never mind the name, and I will make my own enquiries. You needn't
announce me, I know the way."
The Duke of Datchet seemed to know the way very well indeed. He led the
way up the staircase; Messrs. Ruby and Golden followed. The man-servant
remained at the foot of the stairs, as if doubtful whether or not
he ought to follow. When they had reached the landing, and the
man-servant, still remaining below, was out of sight, Mr. Golden turned to
Mr. Ruby.
"Where on earth have I seen that man before?"
"I was just addressing to myself the same enquiry," said Mr. Ruby.
The Duke paused. He turned to the partners.
"What's that? The servant? Have you seen the man before? The plot is
thickening. I am afraid 'the Duchess' is getting warm."
Apparently the Duke knew his way so well that he did not think it
necessary to announce himself at the door of the room to which he led
the partners. He simply turned the handle and went in, Messrs. Ruby and
Golden close upon his heels. The room which he had entered was a pretty
room, and contained a pretty occupant. A lady, young and fair, rose
from a couch which was at the opposite side of the apartment, and, as
was most justifiable under the circumstances, stared: "Hereward!"
"Mrs. Mansfield!"
"Whatever brings you here?"
"My dear Mrs. Mansfield, I have come to ask you what you think of Mr.
Kesteeven's necklace."
"Hereward, what do you mean?"
The Duke's manner changed from jest to earnest.
"Rather, Gertrude, what do you mean? What have I done that deserved
such a return from you? What have I done to you that you should have
endeavoured to drag my wife's name in the mire?"
The lady stared. "I have no more idea what you are talking about than
the man in the moon!"
"You dare to tell me so, in the presence of these men?"
"In the presence of what men?"
"In the presence of your victims--of Mr. Ruby and of Mr. Golden?"
Mr. Golden advanced a step or two.
"Excuse me, your Grace--this is not the lady."
"Eh?"
"This is not the lady."
"Not what lady?"
"This is not the lady who called herself the Duchess of Datchet."
"What the dickens do you mean? Really, Mr. Ruby and Mr. Golden, you
seem to be leading me a pretty fine wild goose chase--a pretty fine
wild goose chase! I know it will end in kicking--someone. You told me
that the person to whom I had given that cheque was the person who had
bestowed on you her patronage. This is the person to whom I gave that
cheque."
"This is not the person who gave that cheque to us."
"Then--then who the devil did?"
"That, your Grace, is the point--will this lady allow me to ask her one
or two questions?"
"Fire away--ask fifty!"
The lady thus referred to interposed, "This gentleman may ask fifty or
five hundred questions, but unless you tell me what all this is about I
very much doubt if I shall answer one."
"Let me manage it, Mr. Golden. Mrs. Mansfield, may I enquire what you
did with that cheque for a thousand which I gave you? You jade! To tell
me that Ruby and Golden were dunning you out of your life, when you
never owed them a stiver! Tell me what you did with that cheque!"
The Duke seemed at last to have said something which had reached the
lady's understanding. She changed colour. She pressed her lips
together. She looked at him with defiance in her eyes. A considerable
pause ensued before she spoke.
"I don't know why I should tell you. What does it matter to you what I
did with it--you gave it me."
"It does matter to me. As it happens, it matters also to you. If you
will take my friendly advice, you will tell me what you did with that
cheque."
The look of defiance about the lady's lips and in her eyes increased.
"I don't mind telling you. Why should I? It was my own. I gave it to
Alfred."
The Duke emitted an ejaculation--which smacked of profanity.
"To Alfred? And, pray, who may Alfred be?"
The lady's crest rose higher. "Alfred is--is the man to whom I am
engaged to be married."
The Duke of Datchet whistled. "And you got a cheque out of me for a
thousand pounds to make a present of it to your intended? That beats
everything; and pray to whom did Alfred give it?"
"He gave it to no one. He paid it into the bank. He told me so
himself."
"Then I'm afraid that Alfred lied. Where is Alfred?"
"He's--he's here."
"Here? In this room? Where? Under the couch, or behind the screen?"
"I mean that he's in this house. He's downstairs."
"I won't ask how long he's been downstairs, but would it be too much to
ask you to request Alfred to walk upstairs."
The lady burst into a sudden tempest of tears.
"I know you'll only laugh at me--I know you well enough to expect you
to do that--but--I--I know I've not been a good woman, and--and I do
love him--although--he's only--a--servant!"
"A servant! Gertrude! Was that the man who opened the door?"
Mr. Golden gave vent to an exclamation which positively amounted to a
shout. "By Jove!--I've got it!--I knew I'd seen the face before--I
couldn't make out where--it was the man who opened the door. Your
Grace, might I ask you to have that man who opened the door to us at
once brought here?"
"Ring the bell, Mr. Golden."
The lady interposed. "You shan't--I won't have it! What do you want
with him?"
"We wish to ask him one or two questions. If Alfred is an honest man it
will be better for him that he should have an opportunity of answering
them. If he is not an honest man, it will be better for you that you
should know it."
Apparently this reasoning prevailed. Mr. Golden rang the bell; but his
ring was not by any means immediately attended to. He rang a second and
a third time, but still no answer came.
"It strikes me," suggested the Duke, "that we had better start on a
voyage of discovery, and search for Alfred in the regions down below."
Before the Duke's suggestion could be acted on the door was opened--not
by Alfred; not by a man at all, but by a maid.
"Send Alfred here."
"I can't find him anywhere. I think he must have gone."
"Gone!" gasped Mrs. Mansfield. "Where?"
"I don't know, ma'am. I've been up to his room to look for him, and it
is all anyhow, and there's no one there. If you please, ma'am, I found
this on the mat outside the door."
The maid held out an envelope. The Duke of Datchet took it from her
hand. He glanced at its superscription.
"'Messrs. Ruby and Golden.' Gentlemen, this is for you."
He transferred it to Mr. Golden. It was a long blue envelope. The maid
had picked it up from the mat which was outside the door of that very
room in which they were standing. Mr. Golden opened it. It contained an
oblong card of considerable size, on which were printed three
photographs, in a sort of series. The first photograph was that of a
young man--a beautiful young man--unmistakably "Alfred." The second was
that of "Alfred" with his hair arranged in a fashion which was
peculiarly feminine. The third was that of "Alfred" with a bonnet and a
veil on, and a very nice-looking young woman he made. At the bottom of
the card was written, in a fine, delicate, lady's hand-writing, "With
the Duchess of Datchet's compliments."
"I knew," gasped Mrs. Mansfield, in the midst of her sorrow, "that he
was very good at dressing up as a woman, but I never thought he would
do this!"
* * * * *
The Duke of Datchet paid for the diamonds.
The Haunted Chair
CHAPTER I
"Well, that's the most staggering thing I've ever known!"
As Mr. Philpotts entered the smoking-room, these were the words--with
additions--which fell upon his, not unnaturally, startled ears. Since
Mr. Bloxham was the only person in the room, it seemed only too
probable that the extraordinary language had been uttered by him--and,
indeed, his demeanour went far to confirm the probability. He was
standing in front of his chair, staring about him in a manner which
suggested considerable mental perturbation, apparently unconscious of
the fact that his cigar had dropped either from his lips or his fingers
and was smoking merrily away on the brand-new carpet which the
committee had just laid down. He turned to Mr. Philpotts in a state of
what seemed really curious agitation.
"I say, Philpotts, did you see him?"
Mr. Philpotts looked at him in silence for a moment, before he drily
said, "I heard you."
But Mr. Bloxham was in no mood to be put off in this manner. He seemed,
for some cause, to have lost the air of serene indifference for which
he was famed--he was in a state of excitement, which, for him, was
quite phenomenal.
"No nonsense, Philpotts--did you see him?"
"See whom?" Mr. Philpotts was selecting a paper from a side table. "I
see your cigar is burning a hole in the carpet."
"Confound my cigar!" Mr. Bloxham stamped on it with an angry tread.
"Did Geoff Fleming pass you as you came in?"
Mr. Philpotts looked round with an air of evident surprise.
"Geoff Fleming!--Why, surely he's in Ceylon by now."
"Not a bit of it. A minute ago he was in that chair talking to me."
"Bloxham!" Mr. Philpotts' air of surprise became distinctly more
pronounced, a fact which Mr. Bloxham apparently resented.
"What are you looking at me like that for pray? I tell you I was
glancing through the _Field_, when I felt someone touch me on the
shoulder. I looked round--there was Fleming standing just behind me.
'Geoff.' I cried, 'I thought you were on the other side of the
world--what are you doing here?' 'I've come to have a peep at you,' he
said. He drew a chair up close to mine--this chair--and sat in it. I
turned round to reach for a match on the table, it scarcely took me a
second, but when I looked his way again hanged if he weren't gone."
Mr. Philpotts continued his selection of a paper--in a manner which was
rather marked.
"Which way did he go?"
"Didn't you meet him as you came in?"
"I did not--I met no one. What's the matter now?"
The question was inspired by the fact that a fresh volley of expletives
came from Mr. Bloxham's lips. That gentleman was standing with his
hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, his legs wide open, and his
eyes and mouth almost as wide open as his legs.
"Hang me," he exclaimed, when, as it appeared, he had temporarily come
to the end of his stock of adjectives, "if I don't believe he's boned
my purse."
"Boned your purse!" Mr. Philpotts laid a not altogether flattering
emphasis upon the "boned!" "Bloxham! What do you mean?"
Mr. Bloxham did not immediately explain. He dropped into the chair
behind him. His hands were still in his trouser pockets, his legs were
stretched out in front of him, and on his face there was not only an
expression of amazement, but also of the most unequivocal bewilderment.
He was staring at the vacant air as if he were trying his hardest to
read some riddle.
"This is a queer start, upon my word, Philpotts," he spoke in what, for
him, were tones of unwonted earnestness. "When I was reaching for the
matches on the table, what made me turn round so suddenly was because
I thought I felt someone tugging at my purse--it was in the pocket next
to Fleming. As I told you, when I did turn round Fleming was gone--and,
by Jove, it looks as though my purse went with him."
"Have you lost your purse?--is that what you mean?"
"I'll swear that it was in my pocket five minutes ago, and that it's
not there now; that's what I mean."
Mr. Philpotts looked at Mr. Bloxham as if, although he was too polite
to say so, he could not make him out at all. He resumed his selection
of a paper.
"One is liable to make mistakes about one's purse; perhaps you'll find
it when you get home."
Mr. Bloxham sat in silence for some moments. Then, rising, he shook
himself as a dog does when he quits the water.
"I say, Philpotts, don't ladle out this yarn of mine to the other
fellows, there's a good chap. As you say, one is apt to get into a
muddle about one's purse, and I dare say I shall come across it when I
get home. And perhaps I'm not very well this afternoon; I am feeling
out of sorts, and that's a fact. I think I'll just toddle home and take
a seidlitz, or a pill, or something. Ta ta!"
When Mr. Philpotts was left alone he smiled to himself, that superior
smile which we are apt to smile when conscious that a man has been
making a conspicuous ass of himself on lines which may be his, but
which, we thank Providence, are emphatically not ours. With not one,
but half a dozen papers in his hand, he seated himself in the chair
which Mr. Bloxham had recently relinquished. Retaining a single paper,
he placed the rest on the small round table on his left--the table on
which wore the matches for which Mr. Bloxham declared he had reached.
Taking out his case, he selected a cigar almost with the same care
which he had shewn in selecting his literature, smiling to himself all
the time that superior smile. Lighting the cigar he had chosen with a
match from the table, he settled himself at his ease to read.
Scarcely had he done so than he was conscious of a hand laid gently on
his shoulder from behind.
"What! back again?"
"Hullo, Phil!"
He had taken it for granted, without troubling to look round, that Mr.
Bloxham had returned, and that it was he who touched him on the
shoulder. But the voice which replied to him, so far from being Mr.
Bloxham's was one the mere sound of which caused him not only to lose
his bearing of indifference but to spring from his seat with the
agility almost of a jack-in-the-box. When he saw who it was had touched
him on the shoulder, he stared.
"Fleming! Then Bloxham was right, after all. May I ask what brings you
here?"
The man at whom he was looking was tall and well-built, in age about
five and thirty. There were black cavities beneath his eyes; the man's
whole face was redolent, to a trained perception, of something which
was, at least, slightly unsavoury. He was dressed from head to foot in
white duck--a somewhat singular costume for Pall Mall, even on a summer
afternoon.
Before Mr. Philpotts' gaze, his own eyes sank. Murmuring something
which was almost inaudible, he moved to the chair next to the one which
Mr. Philpotts had been occupying, the chair of which Mr. Bloxham had
spoken.
As he seated himself, Mr. Philpotts eyed him in a fashion which was
certainly not too friendly.
"What did you mean by disappearing just now in that extraordinary
manner, frightening Bloxham half out of his wits? Where did you get
to?"
The new comer was stroking his heavy moustache with a hand which, for a
man of his size and build, was unusually small and white. He spoke in a
lazy, almost inaudible, drawl.
"I just popped outside."
"Just popped outside! I must have been coming in just when you went
out. I saw nothing of you; you've put Bloxham into a pretty state of
mind."
Re-seating himself, Mr. Philpotts turned to put the paper he was
holding on to the little table. "I don't want to make myself a brute,
but it strikes me that your presence here at all requires explanation.
When several fellows club together to give another fellow a fresh start
on the other side of the world----"
Mr. Philpotts stopped short. Having settled the paper on the table to
his perfect satisfaction, he turned round again towards the man he was
addressing--and as he did so he ceased to address him, and that for the
sufficiently simple reason that he was not there to address--the man
had gone! The chair at Mr. Philpotts' side was empty; without a sign or
a sound its occupant had vanished, it would almost seem, into space.
CHAPTER II
Under the really remarkable circumstances of the case, Mr. Philpotts
preserved his composure to a singular degree. He looked round the room;
there was no one there. He again fixedly regarded the chair at his
side; there could be no doubt that it was empty. To make quite sure, he
passed his hand two or three times over the seat; it met with not the
slightest opposition. Where could the man have got to? Mr. Philpotts
had not, consciously, heard the slightest sound; there had not been
time for him to have reached the door. Mr. Philpotts knocked the ash
off his cigar. He stood up. He paced leisurely two or three times up
and down the room.
"If Bloxham is ill, I am not. I was never better in my life. And the
man who tells me that I have been the victim of an optical delusion is
talking of what he knows nothing. I am prepared to swear that it was
Geoffrey Fleming who touched me on the shoulder; that he spoke to me;
and that he seated himself upon that chair. Where he came from, or
where he has gone to, are other questions entirely." He critically
examined his finger nails.
"If those Psychical Research people have an address in town, I think
I'll have a talk with them. I suppose it's three or four minutes since
the man vanished. What's the time now? Whatever has become of my
watch?"
He might well ask--it had gone, both watch and chain--vanished, with
Mr. Fleming, into air. Mr. Philpotts stared at his waistcoat, too
astonished for speech. Then he gave a little gasp.
"This comes of playing Didymus! The brute has stolen it! I must
apologise to Bloxham. As he himself said, this is a queer start, upon
my honour! Now, if you like, I do feel a little out of sorts; this sort
of thing is enough to make one. Before I go, I think I'll have a drop
of brandy."
As he was hesitating, the smoking-room door opened to admit Frank
Osborne. Mr. Osborne nodded to Mr. Philpotts as he crossed the room.
"You're not looking quite yourself, Philpotts."
Mr. Philpotts seemed to regard the observation almost in the light of
an impertinence.
"Am I not? I was not aware that there was anything in my appearance to
call for remark." Smiling, Mr. Osborne seated himself in the chair
which the other had not long ago vacated. Mr. Philpotts regarded him
attentively. "You're not looking quite yourself, either."
The smile vanished from Mr. Osborne's face.
"I'm not feeling myself!--I'm not! I'm worried about Geoff Fleming."
Mr. Philpotts slightly started.
"About Geoff Fleming?--what about Fleming?'
"I'm afraid--well, Phil, the truth is that I'm afraid that Geoff's a
hopeless case."
Mr. Philpotts was once more busying himself with the papers which were
on the side table.
"What do you mean?"
"As you know, he and I have been very thick in our time, and when he
came a cropper it was I who suggested that we who were at school with
him might have a whip round among ourselves to get the old chap a fresh
start elsewhere. You all of you behaved like bricks, and when I told
him what you had done, poor Geoff was quite knocked over. He promised
voluntarily that he would never touch a card again, or make another
bet, until he had paid you fellows off with thumping interest. Well, he
doesn't seem to have kept his promise long."
"How do you know he hasn't?"
"I've heard from Deecie."
"From Deecie?--where's Fleming?"
"In Ceylon--they'd both got there before Deecie's letter left."
"In Ceylon!" exclaimed Mr. Philpotts excitedly, staring hard at Mr.
Osborne. "You are sure he isn't back in town?"
In his turn, Mr. Osborne was staring at Mr. Philpotts.
"Not unless he came back by the same boat which brought Deecie's
letter. What made you ask?"
"I only wondered."
Mr. Philpotts turned again to the paper. The other went on.
"It seems that a lot of Australian sporting men were on the boat on
which they went out. Fleming got in with them. They played--he played
too. Deecie remonstrated--but he says that it only seemed to make bad
worse. At first Geoff won--you know the usual sort of thing; he wound
up by losing all he had, and about four hundred pounds beside. He had
the cheek to ask Deecie for the money." Mr. Osborne paused. Mr.
Philpotts uttered a sound which might have been indicative of
contempt--or anything. "Deecie says that when the winners found out
that he couldn't pay, there was a regular row. Geoff swore, in that
wild way of his, that if he couldn't pay them before he died, he would
rise from the dead to get the money."
Mr. Philpotts looked round with a show of added interest.
"What was that he said?"
"Oh, it was only his wild way of speaking--you know that way of his. If
they don't get their money before he dies, and I fancy that it's rather
more than even betting that they won't, I don't think that there's much
chance of his rising from his grave to get it for them. He'll break
that promise, as he has broken so many more. Poor Geoff! It seems that
we might as well have kept our money in our pockets; it doesn't seem to
have done him much good. His prospects don't look very rosy--without
money, and with a bad name to start with."
"As I fancy you have more than once suspected, Frank, I never have had
a high opinion of Mr. Geoffrey Fleming. I am not in the least surprised
at what you tell me, any more than I was surprised when he came his
cropper. I have always felt that, at a pinch, he would do anything to
save his own skin." Mr. Osborne said nothing, but he shook his head.
"Did you see anything of Bloxham when you came in?"
"I saw him going along the street in a cab."
"I want to speak to him! I think I'll just go and see if I can find him
in his rooms."
CHAPTER III
Mr. Frank Osborne scarcely seemed to be enjoying his own society when
Mr. Philpotts had left him. As all the world knows, he is a man of
sentiment--of the true sort, not the false. He has had one great
passion in his life--Geoffrey Fleming. They began when they were at
Chilchester together, when he was big, and Fleming still little. He did
his work for him, fought for him, took his scrapes upon himself,
believed in him, almost worshipped him. The thing continued when
Fleming joined him at the University. Perhaps the fact that they both
were orphans had something to do with it; neither of them had kith nor
kin. The odd part of the business was that Osborne was not only a
clear-sighted, he was a hard-headed man. It could not have been long
before it dawned upon him that the man with whom he fraternised was a
naturally bad egg. Fleming was continually coming to grief; he would
have come to eternal grief at the very commencement of his career if it
had not been for Osborne at his back. He went through his own money; he
went through as much of his friend's as his friend would let him. Then
came the final smash. There were features about the thing which made it
clear, even to Frank Osborne, that in England, at least, for some years
to come, Geoffrey Fleming had run his course right out. He strained all
his already strained resources in his efforts to extricate the man from
the mire. When he found that he himself was insufficient, going to
his old schoolfellows, he begged them, for his sake--if not for
Fleming's--to join hands with him in giving the scapegrace still
another start. As a result, interest was made for him in a Ceylon
plantation, and Mr. Fleming with, under the circumstances, well-lined
pockets, was despatched over the seas to turn over a new leaf in a
sunnier clime.
How he had vowed that he would turn over a new leaf, actually with
tears upon his knees! And this was how he had done it; before he had
reached his journey's end, he had gambled away the money which was not
his, and was in debt besides. Frank Osborne must have been fashioned
something like the dog which loves its master the more, the more he
ill-treats it. His heart went out in pity to the scamp across the seas.
He had no delusions; he had long been conscious that the man was
hopeless. And yet he knew very well that if he could have had his
way he would have gone at once to comfort him. Poor Geoff! What an
all-round mess he seemed to have made of things--and he had had the ball
at his feet when he started--poor, dear old Geoff! With his knuckles Mr.
Osborne wiped a suspicious moisture from his eyes. Geoff was all
right--if he had only been able to prevent money from slipping from
between his fingers, had been gifted with a sense of _meum et tuum_--not
a nicer fellow in the world!
Mr. Osborne sat trying to persuade himself into the belief that the man
was an injured paragon though he knew very well that he was an
irredeemable scamp. He endeavoured to see only his good qualities,
which was a task of exceeding difficulty--they were hidden in such a
cloud of blackness. At least, whatever might be said against Geoff--and
Mr. Osborne admitted to himself that there might be something--it was
certain that Geoff loved him almost as much as he loved Geoff. Mr.
Osborne declared to himself--putting pressure on himself to prevent
his making a single mental reservation--that Geoff Fleming, in spite
of all his faults, was the only person in the wide, wide world who
did love him. And he was a stranger in a strange land, and in trouble
again--poor dear old Geoff! Once more Mr. Osborne's knuckles went up to
wipe that suspicious moisture from his eyes.
While he was engaged in doing this, a hand was laid gently on his
shoulder from behind. It was, perhaps, because he was unwilling to be
detected in such an act that, at the touch, he rose from his seat with
a start--which became so to speak, a start of petrified amazement when
he perceived who it was who had touched him. It was the man of whom he
had been thinking, the friend of his boyhood--Geoffrey Fleming.
"Geoff!" he gasped. "Dear old Geoff!" He paused, seemingly in doubt
whether to laugh or cry. "I thought you were in Ceylon!"
Mr. Fleming did exactly what he had done when he came so unexpectedly
on Mr. Philpotts--he moved to the chair at Mr. Osborne's side. His
manner was in contrast to his friend's--it was emphatically not
emotional.
"I've just dropped in," he drawled.
"My dear old boy!" Mr. Osborne, as he surveyed his friend, seemed to
become more and more torn by conflicting emotions. "Of course I'm very
glad to see you Geoff, but how did you get in here? I thought that they
had taken your name off the books of the club." He was perfectly aware
that Mr. Fleming's name had been taken off the books of the club, and
in a manner the reverse of complimentary. Mr. Fleming offered no
remark. He sat looking down at the carpet stroking his moustache. Mr.
Osborne went stammeringly on--
"As I say, Geoff--and as, of course you know,--I am very glad to see
you, anywhere; but--we don't want any unpleasantness, do we? If some of
the fellows came in and found you here, they might make themselves
nasty. Come round to my rooms; we shall be a lot more comfortable
there, old man."
Mr. Fleming raised his eyes. He looked his friend full in the face. As
he met his glance, Mr. Osborne was conscious of a curious sort of
shiver. It was not only because the man's glance was, to say the least,
less friendly than it might have been--it was because of something
else, something which Mr. Osborne could scarcely have defined.
"I want some money."
Mr. Osborne smiled, rather fatuously.
"Ah, Geoff, the same old tale! Deecie has told me all about it. I won't
reproach you; you know, if I had some, you should have it; but I'm not
sure that it isn't just as well for both ourselves that I haven't,
Geoff."
"You have some money in your pocket now."
Mr. Osborne's amazement grew apace--his friend's manner was so very
strange.
"What a nose you always have for money; however did you find that out?
But it isn't mine. You know Jim Baker left me guardian to that boy of
his, and I've been drawing the youngster's dividends--it's only seventy
pounds, Geoff."
Mr. Fleming stretched out his hand--his reply was brief and to the
point.
"Give it to me!"
"Give it to you!--Geoff!--young Baker's money!"
Mr. Fleming reiterated his demand.
"Give it to me!"
His manner was not only distinctly threatening, it had a peculiar
effect upon his friend. Although Mr. Osborne had never before shewn
fear of any living man, and had, in that respect, proved his
superiority over Fleming many a time, there was something at that
moment in the speaker's voice, or words, or bearing, or in all three
together, which set him shivering, as if with fear, from head to foot.
"Geoff!--you are mad! I'll see what I can find for you, but I can't
give you young Baker's dividends."
Mr. Osborne was not quite clear as to exactly what it was that
happened. He only knew that the friend of his boyhood--the man for whom
he had done so much--the only person in the world who loved him--rose
and took him by the throat, and, forcing him backwards, began to rifle
the pocket which contained the seventy pounds. He was so taken by
surprise, so overwhelmed by a feeling of utter horror, against which he
was unable even to struggle, that it was only when he felt the money
being actually withdrawn from his pocket that he made an attempt at
self-defence. Then, when he made a frantic clutch at his assailant's
felonious arm, all he succeeded in grasping was the empty air. The
pressure was removed from his throat. He was able to look about him.
Mr. Fleming was gone. He thrust a trembling hand into his pocket--the
seventy pounds had vanished too.
"Geoff! Geoff!" he cried, the tears streaming from his eyes. "Don't
play tricks with me! Give me back young Baker's dividends!"
When no one answered and there seemed no one to hear, he began to
searching round and round the room with his eyes, as if he suspected
Mr. Fleming of concealing himself behind some article of furniture.
"Geoff! Geoff!" he continued crying. "Dear old boy!--give me back young
Baker's dividends!"
"Hullo!" exclaimed a voice--which certainly was not Mr. Fleming's. Mr.
Osborne turned. Colonel Lanyon was standing with the handle of the open
door in his hand. "Frank, are you rehearsing for a five-act tragedy?"
Mr. Osborne replied to the Colonel's question with another.
"Lanyon, did Geoffrey Fleming pass you as you came in?"
"Geoffrey Fleming!" The Colonel wheeled round on his heels like a
teetotum. He glanced behind him. "What the deuce do you mean, Frank? If
I catch that thief under the roof which covers me, I'll make a case for
the police of him."
Then Mr. Osborne remembered what, in his agitation, he had momentarily
forgotten, that Geoffrey Fleming had had no bitterer, more out-spoken,
and, it may be added, more well-merited an opponent than Colonel Lanyon
in the Climax Club. The Colonel advanced towards Mr. Osborne.
"Do you know that that's the blackguard's chair you're standing by?"
"His chair!"
Mr. Osborne was leaning with one hand on the chair on which Mr. Fleming
had, not long ago, been sitting.
"That's what he used to call it himself,--with his usual impudence. He
used to sit in it whenever he took a hand. The men would give it up to
him--you know how you gave everything up to him, all the lot of you. If
he couldn't get it he'd turn nasty--wouldn't play. It seems that he had
the cheek to cut his initials on the chair--I only heard of it the
other day, or there'd have been a clearance of him long ago. Look
here--what do you think of that for a piece of rowdiness?"
The Colonel turned the chair upside down. Sure enough in the woodwork
underneath the seat were the letters, cut in good-sized characters--"G.
F."
"You know that rubbishing way in which he used to talk. When men
questioned his exclusive right to the chair, I've heard him say he'd
prove his right by coming and sitting in it after he was dead and
buried--he swore he'd haunt the chair. Idiot!--What is the matter with
you Frank? You look as if you'd been in a rough and tumble--your
necktie's all anyhow."
"I think I must have dropped asleep, and dreamed--yes, I fancy I've
been dreaming."
Mr. Osborne staggered, rather than walked, to the door, keeping one
hand in the inside pocket of his coat. The Colonel followed him with
his eyes.
"Frank's ageing fast," was his mental comment as Mr. Osborne
disappeared. "He'll be an old man yet before I am."
He seated himself in Geoffrey Fleming's chair.
It was, perhaps, ten minutes afterwards that Edward Jackson went into
the smoking room--"Scientific" Jackson, as they call him, because of
the sort of catch phrase he is always using--"Give me science!" He had
scarcely been in the room a minute before he came rushing to the door
shouting--
"Help, help!"
Men came hurrying from all parts of the building. Mr. Griffin came from
the billiard-room, where he is always to be found. He had a cue in one
hand, and a piece of chalk in the other. He was the first to address
the vociferous gentleman standing at the smoking-room door.
"Jackson!--What's the matter?"
Mr. Jackson was in such a condition of fluster and excitement that it
was a little difficult to make out, from his own statement, what was
the matter.
"Lanyon's dead! Have any of you seen Geoff Fleming? Stop him if you
do--he's stolen my pocket-book!" He began mopping his brow with his
bandanna handkerchief, "God bless my soul! an awful thing!--I've been
robbed--and old Lanyon's dead!"
One thing was quickly made clear--as they saw for themselves when they
went crowding into the smoking-room--Lanyon was dead. He was kneeling
in front of Geoffrey Fleming's chair, clutching at either side of it
with a tenacity which suggested some sort of convulsion. His head was
thrown back, his eyes were still staring wide open, his face was
distorted by a something which was half fear, half horror--as if, as
those who saw him afterwards agreed, he had seen sudden, certain death
approaching him, in a form which even he, a seasoned soldier, had found
too horrible for contemplation.
Mr. Jackson's story, in one sense, was plain enough, though it was odd
enough in another. He told it to an audience which evinced unmistakable
interest in every word uttered.
"I often come in for a smoke about this time, because generally the
place is empty, so that you get it all to yourself."
He cast a somewhat aggressive look upon his hearers--a look which could
hardly be said to convey a flattering suggestion.
"When I first came in I thought that the room was empty. It was only
when I was half-way across that something caused me to look round. I
saw that someone was kneeling on the floor. I looked to see who it was.
It was Lanyon. 'Lanyon!' I cried. 'Whatever are you doing there?' He
didn't answer. Wondering what was up with him and why he didn't speak,
I went closer to where he was. When I got there I didn't like the look
of him at all. I thought he was in some sort of a fit. I was hesitating
whether to pick him up, or at once to summon assistance, when--"
Mr. Jackson paused. He looked about him with an obvious shiver.
"By George! when I think of it now, it makes me go quite creepy.
Cathcart, would you mind ringing for another drop of brandy?"
The brandy was rung for. Mr. Jackson went on.
"All of a sudden, as I was stooping over Lanyon, someone touched me on
the shoulder. You know, there hadn't been a sound--I hadn't heard the
door open, not a thing which could suggest that anyone was approaching.
Finding Lanyon like that had make me go quite queer, and when I felt
that touch on my shoulder it so startled me that I fairly screeched. I
jumped up to see who it was, And when I saw"--Mr. Jackson's bandanna
came into play--"who it was, I thought my eyes would have started out
of my head. It was Geoff Fleming."
"Who?" came in chorus from his auditors.
"It was Geoffrey Fleming. 'Good God!--Fleming!' I cried. 'Where did you
come from? I never heard you. Anyhow, you're just in the nick of time.
Lanyon's come to grief--lend me a hand with him.' I bent down, to take
hold of one side of poor old Lanyon, meaning Fleming to take hold of
the other. Before I had a chance of touching Lanyon, Fleming, catching
me by the shoulder, whirled me round--I had had no idea the fellow was
so strong, he gripped me like a vice. I was just going to ask what the
dickens he meant by handling me like that, when, before I could say
Jack Robinson, or even had time to get my mouth open, Fleming, darting
his hand into my coat pocket, snatched my pocket-book clean out of it."
He stopped, apparently to gasp for breath. "And, pray, what were you
doing while Mr. Fleming behaved in this exceedingly peculiar way--even
for Mr. Fleming?" inquired Mr. Cathcart.
"Doing!" Mr. Jackson was indignant. "Don't I tell you I was doing
nothing? There was no time to do anything--it all happened in a flash.
I had just come from my bankers--there were a hundred and thirty pounds
in that pocket-book. When I realised that the fellow had taken it, I
made a grab at him. And"--again Mr. Jackson looked furtively about him,
and once more the bandanna came into active play--"directly I did so, I
don't know where he went to, but it seemed to me that he vanished into
air--he was gone, like a flash of lightning. I told myself I was
mad--stark mad! but when I felt for my pocketbook, and found that that
was also gone, I ran yelling to the door."
CHAPTER IV
It was, as the old-time novelists used to phrase it, about three weeks
after the events transpired which we have recorded in the previous
chapter. Evening--after dinner. There was a goodly company assembled in
the smoking room at the Climax Club. Conversation was general. They
were talking of some of the curious circumstances which had attended
the death of Colonel Lanyon. The medical evidence at the inquest had
gone to shew that the Colonel had died of one of the numerous, and,
indeed, almost innumerable, varieties of heart disease. The finding had
been in accordance with the medical evidence. It seemed to be felt, by
some of the speakers, that such a finding scarcely met the case.
"It's all very well," observed Mr. Cathcart, who seemed disposed to
side with the coroner's jury, "for you fellows to talk, but in such a
case, you must bring in some sort of verdict--and what other verdict
could they bring? There was not a trace of any mark of violence to be
found upon the man.
"It's my belief that he saw Fleming, and that Fleming frightened him to
death."
It was Mr. Jackson who said this. Mr. Cathcart smiled a rather
provoking smile.
"So far as I observed, you did not drop any hint of your belief when
you were before the coroner."
"No, because I didn't want to be treated as a laughing-stock by a lot
of idiots."
"Quite so; I can understand your natural objection to that, but still I
don't see your line of argument. I should not have cared to question
Lanyon's courage to Lanyon's face while he was living. Why should you
suppose that such a man as Geoffrey Fleming was capable of such a thing
as, as you put it, actually frightening him to death? I should say it
was rather the other way about. I have seen Fleming turn green, with
what looked very much like funk, at the sight of Lanyon."
Mr. Jackson for some moments smoked in silence.
"If you had seen Geoffrey Fleming under the circumstances in which I
did, you would understand better what it is I mean."
"But, my dear Jackson, if you will forgive my saying so, it seems to me
that you don't shew to great advantage in your own story. Have you
communicated the fact of your having been robbed to the police?"
"I have."
"And have you furnished them with the numbers of the notes which were
taken?"
"I have."
"Then, in that case, I shouldn't be surprised if Mr. Fleming were
brought to book any hour of any day. You'll find he has been lying
close in London all the time--he soon had enough of Ceylon."
A new comer joined the group of talkers--Frank Osborne. They noticed,
as he seated himself, how much he seemed to have aged of late and how
particularly shabby he seemed just then. The first remark which he made
took them all aback.
"Geoff Fleming's dead."
"Dead!" cried Mr. Philpotts, who was sitting next to Mr. Osborne.
"Yes--dead. I've heard from Deecie. He died three weeks ago."
"Three weeks ago!"
"On the day on which Lanyon died."
Mr. Cathcart turned to Mr. Jackson, with a smile.
"Then that knocks on the head your theory about his having frightened
Lanyon to death; and how about your interview with him--eh Jackson?"
Mr. Jackson did not answer. He suddenly went white. An intervention
came from an unexpected quarter--from Mr. Philpotts.
"It seems to me that you are rather taking things for granted,
Cathcart. I take leave to inform you that I saw Geoffrey Fleming,
perhaps less than half-an-hour before Jackson did."
Mr. Cathcart stared.
"You saw him!--Philpotts!"
Then Mr. Bloxham arose and spoke.
"Yes, and I saw him, too--didn't I, Philpott's?"
Any tendency on the part of the auditors to smile was checked by the
tone of exceeding bitterness in which Frank Osborne was also moved to
testify.
"And I--I saw him, too!--Geoff!--dear old boy!"
"Deecie says that there were two strange things about Geoff's death. He
was struck by a fit of apoplexy. He was dead within the hour. Soon
after he died, the servant came running to say that the bed was empty
on which the body had been lying. Deecie went to see. He says that,
when he got into the room, Geoff was back again upon the bed, but it
was plain enough that he had moved. His clothes and hair were in
disorder, his fists were clenched, and there was a look upon his face
which had not been there at the moment of his death, and which, Deecie
says, seemed a look partly of rage and partly of triumph.
"I have been calculating the difference between Cingalese and Greenwich
time. It must have been between three and four o'clock when the servant
went running to say that Geoff's body was not upon the bed--it was
about that time that Lanyon died."
He paused--and then continued--
"The other strange thing that happened was this. Deecie says that the
day after Geoff died a telegram came for him, which, of course, he
opened. It was an Australian wire, and purported to come from the
Melbourne sporting man of whom I told you." He turned to Mr. Philpotts.
"It ran, 'Remittance to hand. It comes in rather a miscellaneous form.
Thanks all the same.' Deecie can only suppose that Geoff had managed,
in some way, to procure the four hundred pounds which he had lost and
couldn't pay, and had also managed, in some way, to send it on to
Melbourne."
There was silence when Frank Osborne ceased to speak--silence which was
broken in a somewhat startling fashion.
"Who's that touched me?" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Cathcart, springing
from his seat.
They stared.
"Touched you!" said someone. "No one's within half a mile of you.
You're dreaming, my dear fellow."
Considering the provocation was so slight, Mr. Cathcart seemed
strangely moved.
"Don't tell me that I'm dreaming--someone touched me on the
shoulder!--What's that?"
"That" was the sound of laughter proceeding from the, apparently,
vacant seat. As if inspired by a common impulse, the listeners
simultaneously moved back.
"That's Fleming's chair," said Mr. Philpotts, beneath his breath.
Nelly
CHAPTER I
"Why!" Mr. Gibbs paused. He gave a little gasp. He bent still closer.
Then the words came with a rush: "It's Nelly!"
He glanced at the catalogue. "No. 259--'Stitch! Stitch!
Stitch!'--Philip Bodenham." It was a small canvas, representing the
interior of an ill-furnished apartment in which a woman sat, on a
rickety chair, at a rickety table, sewing. The picture was an
illustration of "The Song of the Shirt."
Mr. Gibbs gazed at the woman's face depicted on the canvas, with gaping
eyes.
"It's Nelly!" he repeated. There was a catch in his voice. "Nelly!"