CHAPTER XXVI.

In sight of this new danger I was speechless. I had no power to define

its nature or to examine it with a clear mind, but I could not resist

the foreboding that a grievous burden was added to my pack of woe.

There was an airy insolence, a light-hearted mockery in Maxwell's

voice which betokened that he had reached a haven for which he had

been searching; and I knew from old experience that this was a sign of

evil.

"You don't appear to recognize me, dear John. Am I so changed, or is

it that you have not recovered from the shock of the loss we have

sustained? Our poor Barbara! Lost to us forever. She had her faults,

but she has atoned for them, and is now in a better world. Let that be

our consolation. Find your voice, old man, and bid me welcome."

"You are not welcome," I said, endeavoring to keep command of myself.

"You have brought misery enough upon me. No living link gives you now

a place in my life."

"True; but dead links are stronger and more binding. How they drop

away, those who are dear to us! One burnt to death, another murdered

in cold blood!"

Everything swam before me. The paper rustled in my trembling hand; the

shouts of the newsboy: "Horrible discovery in Liverpool! Horrible

murder!" fell upon my ears with a muffled sound, though he was but a

few yards away, charged with dread import. I knew that Maxwell

continued to speak, but I did not hear what he was saying till he

shook me by the shoulder.

"You are inattentive, dear John. The latest murder the newsboy is

calling out fascinates you. I see you have bought a newspaper

off him; they are selling like wildfire. All over London they are

screaming--'Murder, murder; horrible murder!' But you are shaking with

cold. It will be better--and safer--to converse in your room, where we

can read the news you have waited for so long. How true is the old

adage, 'Murder will out!' After you, brother-in-law. The host takes

the lead, you know. Tread softly, softly!"

He spoke with the air of one who holds the man he is addressing in the

hollow of his hand, but he was always a braggart. In the midst of my

terror and despair that thought came--this man Maxwell was always a

braggart. I would hear what he had to say, and speak myself as little

as possible till he was done. Thus much made itself intelligible to my

dazed senses. So I led the way into the house, and up the stairs to my

room, Maxwell following at my heels. Safe within, he turned the key

gently in the lock.

"We can't be too careful, John, when life and liberty are at stake.

And you would have sent me away--me, your only friend, the one man in

the world who can save you from the gallows!"

"You speak in enigmas," I managed to say.

"Nonsense, brother-in-law--nonsense. Drop the mask; you are not in the

criminal court; the police are not yet on your track. Your voice is

husky. Are you still a teetotaller? Yes? Astonishing. Drink this glass

of water--it will clear your throat. But, as my host, you will allow

me something stronger. If I ring the bell the slavey will come, I

suppose. I must trouble you for a few shillings, John. I am in my

chronic state, dead broke, as usual. Bad luck sticks to me, but I

would not change places with you for all that. My pockets are empty,

but my neck is safe. What does the paper say about it?"

He took it from my hand, and took also the purse I had thrown on the

table. The servant had answered the bell, and was waiting in the

passage. He opened the door, and giving her money sent her for a

bottle of brandy.

"Any other lodgers on this floor, John? No? That's fortunate. The less

risk of our being overheard. What name do you go by here? Your own?

No? What then? Tush! You can't conceal it from me; I have but to ask

the slavey or the landlady. There is no need even for that, except by

way of confirmation. Shall we say Fletcher--John Fletcher? A great

mistake. Will tell fatally against you if they run you down, or if you

make me your enemy. You should have kept to Fordham; it would have

been a point in your favor. Poor Louis! He wasn't half a bad sort of

fellow; but you never loved him. You almost killed him when you were

boys together, and you only waited your opportunity to finish him.

Well it's done, and badly done. I don't set myself up as a

particularly moral or virtuous party, but my hands are free from

blood. Ah, there's the slavey with the liquor, and I'm perishing for a

drink."

I kept my eyes from him while he helped himself and drank; my fear was

lest some look in my eyes should betray me; my cue was to ascertain

from his own lips the extent of his knowledge, and how he came by it.

His thirst assuaged he re-locked the door, and drew a chair close to

that in which I was sitting at the table. Then he spread the newspaper

upon the table, so that the revelation I dreaded could be read by both

at the same time.

"Shall I read it aloud, John?"

"No."

"As you please."

We bent our heads over the paper, and this is what I read. I copy it

from the cutting I have kept by me since that night:

"HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN LIVERPOOL."

"A horrible discovery was made last night in an empty house in Rye

Street, Liverpool. A couple of years ago the house was taken on lease

by a corn merchant, who used the lower floors for storage, and let the

upper floors for residence. Five or six months afterwards the tenants

left, the reason being that they considered the building unsafe. Then

the merchant furnished the first floor, and occasionally slept there.

At the end of the year he had no further occasion for it, and he gave

the keys to a house agent, with instructions to let the whole or part

of the house to the best advantage, in order that he might be relieved

of some portion of the rent, for which he was responsible. For eleven

months it remained uninhabited, and then a gentleman giving the name

of Mollison offered to take it for a month to see if it would suit him

to become a permanent tenant. The agent closed with the offer; a

month's rent was paid in advance, and the keys delivered over. It may

be mentioned that Mr. Mollison was a stranger to the agent, who saw

him only once, the arrangement being made at the first interview

between them. A London reference was given, and the agent received a

reply in due course which he considered satisfactory. Meanwhile,

although the month's rent had been paid, the house seemed to remain

uninhabited, no persons being seen to enter or issue from it, but

there is some kind of circumstantial evidence that on one or more

occasions the new tenant was there, either alone or with companions,

there being a back entrance in a blind alley which after sunset was

practically deserted. Candles and lamps have certainly been burnt in

the room on the first floor facing the front entrance, but these were

not seen from the street, for the reason that well-fitting shutters

masked the windows, and that over the shutters hung heavy tapestry

curtains.

"For some time past the Liverpool police have been seeking a clue

towards the discovery of a gang of coiners who were supposed to be

carrying on their unlawful occupation in that city, and two or three

days ago their attention was directed to this house, which, from its

situation and circumstances, offered facilities for these breakers of

the law. A close watch was set upon the front and back entrances, but

no one was observed to enter the premises. There being a likelihood

that coiners' implements, if not the coiners themselves, might be

found in the house, it was decided to break into it last night. This

was done at midnight, but no implements of any kind were found. The

efforts of the police, however, were not unrewarded, and a horrible

discovery was made. In the passage from the street door to the first

flight of stairs traces were seen of some frightful struggle having

taken place there. Proceeding upstairs were further traces of the

struggle, and upon the floor of the first floor front room--the

shutters of which were closed and the curtains drawn across--was

discovered the body of a man who had been ruthlessly murdered. It was

not a quite recent murder; at least a fortnight must have passed

between its perpetration and discovery. The room was in great

disorder. The furniture was thrown in all directions, and proved the

desperate nature of the struggle. Upon the face of the victim a heavy

table had fallen or been dashed, with the evident intention of

rendering the features unrecognizable.

"That this object was accomplished will not, perhaps, increase the

mystery which surrounds the affair, for the clothes of the murdered

man should provide means of identification. No cards or documents of

any kind were found upon the body. In one of the pockets was an empty

purse. A watch chain was found on the floor, but no watch. The chain

appeared to have been torn away, and the absence of watch, money, and

jewelry points to robbery. Death was caused by a stab in the heart,

but a careful search through the house failed in the discovery of the

weapon. The house agent states that the deceased is not the man to

whom the place was let, of whom he has furnished a description to the

police, but he seems not to be confident as to its correctness. From

the stale remains of food and the lees of liquor at the bottom of

glasses and bottles in the apartment it is presumed that the murder

was committed thirteen or fourteen days ago, probably on the night of

the snowstorm which did so much damage in the city. The police are

busy investigating the horrible affair, which is at present enveloped

in mystery. A subsequent additional statement has been made by the

house agent, who says, though still speaking with uncertainty, that

there are points of resemblance in the body to the man to whom the

house was let."

Maxwell finished the reading of this, to me, fatal news, before I had,

and when I looked up from the paper he was smoking one of my cigars,

to which he had helped himself from my cigar case. What now remained

was to hear from him how he had learned of my connection with the

murder. He was sitting with folded arms, a glass of liquor before him,

puffing at the cigar, and with his eyes fixed on my face.

"Rather startling, John," were his first words.

I returned his gaze without answering, and so we sat for several

minutes, staring at each other. At length he spoke again.

"I am waiting, John."

"For what?" I asked.

My voice was strange to me; it was as if another man had spoken.

"Well, I thought you would like to make some comment on this newspaper

report of the discovery of the crime. I do not wish you to incriminate

yourself. No need for that. Any fool looking at you now, would jump at

the right conclusion. We know who the murdered man is; the police

don't, and may never discover. It depends upon me."

"Upon you?"

"Upon me. I hold the threads, and the evidence upon which you would be

convicted. I make a shrewd guess that there is other evidence in your

possession which would bring the guilt home to you." He rose and went

into my bedroom; I followed his movements with my eyes, and made no

effort to arrest them. Presently he returned. "I have taken the

liberty to look over your clothing. There is no mistake about one

article--Louis' ulster. Why do you keep it by you? Man alive, it is

fatal--fatal!"

"How do you know it is his ulster?"

"Well, it may not be, but the last time I saw the poor fellow--let me

see, it was about five weeks ago, here in London--he wore one

suspiciously like it. Of course, it is easy of proof. Do you deny it

was his?"

"I deny nothing; I admit nothing."

"Politic, but weak and useless. I will make another shrewd guess. The

missing watch--Louis's watch. A search warrant would probably find it

on your person or in these rooms. It may be difficult to identify

unmarked clothing--I beg your pardon, you were about to speak."

I drank a second glass of water to clear my throat.

"It does not state here," I said, pointing to the newspaper, "that the

clothing is unmarked."

"No, it does not, but I assume it, for if his handkerchief, or shirt,

or any of his underclothing, bore his initials, the fact would be at

once made public to expedite discovery. The reasonable conclusion,

therefore, is that there are no initials on his clothing to assist the

police. A fortunate thing for you. L. F. It would be all over the

country. Some woman with whom he is connected--not his mother--would

say to herself, 'L. F., Louis Fordham.' For the best of all reasons

the man she is interested in does not make his appearance. Away she

goes to the police, examines the clothes, examines the body, and

declares the name of the murdered man."

"Why would not his mother do this?"

"Again, for the best of all reasons. She is dead."

"My stepmother dead!"

"As a doornail. You are in luck. Alive, and the body proved to be

that of her son, she would argue it out. 'Who was my son's bitterest

enemy--who has always been his bitterest enemy? Who but John Fordham?'

She would swear to bring the murderer to justice; she would leave no

stone unturned; she would hunt you down, John; she would tell the

story of your life, with embellishments, in the public court, and make

your very name infamous. Lucky for you, therefore, that she is dead.

As I was saying, it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing,

but not so with a watch. It is almost a living witness, and found in

your possession would send you to the gallows without a tittle of

other evidence. What on earth made you run off with it, and what on

earth made you leave your own behind? Your health, John. Talking is

dry work. Wouldn't you like to ask me a few questions?"

"Tell me what you know, and how you know it. I cannot ask questions."

"Anything to oblige, and in any way you please. I will a round,

unvarnished tale deliver. These are capital cigars of yours; you were

always a good judge of tobacco. Well, then, to begin, with the

prefatory remark that one part of it might be called a chapter of

accidents. I won't dwell much on the past; it isn't by any means an

agreeable subject, and I am quite aware that there was no love lost

between us. But one thing I will say--I think we were all unjust to

one another, all a little too hard on one another, making the worst of

everything instead of endeavoring to smooth it over. You had

provocation; Barbara had hers. She got the idea of another woman in

her head, and it drove her to excesses. You can't deny that she was

mistaken in her idea; another woman there was, another woman there

is--and then, there's the child. That sort of thing is enough to drive

a wife mad, so you can't call yourself blameless for poor Barbara's

death, because you see, John, one thing leads to another. By a process

of reasoning you might be proved to be the direct cause of your wife's

death, and therefore her murderer. No doubt you can justify yourself

to your own satisfaction, and I am not going to argue with you, but as

Barbara's brother it is due to her memory that I should say a few

words on her behalf. Of course you know, through your solicitor, that

when you disappeared I tried to discover your whereabouts. You were

too clever for me, and for some time I was at fault; at length I found

out--never mind how--that you had gone to Australia. Then came the

question, had you taken the other woman with you? I found an answer to

it. You had not."

I pause here to say all the time Maxwell was speaking he was watching

my face, as if for confirmation of certain of his statements. I did

not observe it during the interview; it occurred to me afterwards

when, in a calmer mood, I thought of what had taken place between us.

He continued:

"Of your life in Australia I know little or nothing. It is more

than likely you made a fortune there; you were always a lucky devil,

with a handful of trumps in your hand that ensured a winning game.

Even now--with me for a partner--the game is not lost. Now let us see

what brought you back to England. It was not, perhaps, because you

were tired of Australian life and longed for London pleasures, though

that motive is sufficiently strong. But there was Barbara to reckon

with. What an encumbrance! Too bad altogether. (Your way of thinking,

John; it is your point of view.) By a fortunate fatality--your view

again, John--the encumbrance is removed. Barbara is dead; the road is

cleared for you. The winning game is in your hand. You lose no time;

home you come--to marry the other woman. Am I right? Silence gives

consent."

He threw away the stump of his cigar and lit another.

"Now begins the chapter of accidents. On the 30th of November I

happened to be in Liverpool; business called me there for just one

day, and of all days in the year just that day. In the night my

business finished, and not to my satisfaction (all my life I have been

robbed right and left, but that's a detail which will not arouse your

sympathy), I walked back to my hotel in no very agreeable frame of

mind. What a night it was! You remember it, John--you will remember it

all your life. It was the most awful snowstorm in my recollection--a

record. My way to my hotel lay through Rye Street. The wind cut me in

pieces, the snow blinded me; I give you my word I could not get along.

I was literally blown back every step I took, actually and literally

blown into a house the street door of which was open when I was trying

to pass it. I stood in the passage to recover my breath, and then

going to the door saw the madness of endeavoring to reach my hotel

through such a frightful storm. I did the sensible thing.

"'Here is a house,' thought I, 'the street door of which has been

accidentally left or blown open; the inmates will surely accord me

shelter for the night; if not a bed, at least a seat by the fire."

"I was so nipped and frozen with cold, that after closing the door, it

took me some time to get my matchbox from my pocket and strike a

light, for the passage was in intense darkness. Then the fear came

over me that I might be mistaken for a burglar. So I called out at the

top of my voice without receiving a reply. Thinking it very strange I

made my way upstairs to the first floor, and entered a room in which

there was no light. I called out again, and still received no reply. I

must make the people hear, thought I, and I left the room and ascended

the second flight of stairs. To cut a long story short, I went all

over the house, and came to the conclusion that it was uninhabited.

But I had observed in the room on the first floor signs of some person

having been there, but whether recently or not I could not judge

without further examination. So I groped back to that room, and by

good luck happened to put my hand on a small piece of candle on a

sideboard. This I lighted, and you will understand how startled I was

at what I saw.

"The furniture seemed to have been violently hurled in all directions,

a table at the further end of the room was upset, and an object which

I did not immediately distinguish lay beneath it. My first impulse was

to fly from the house; there had evidently been a desperate fight in

the room, and I might be implicated in what had taken place. Upon

second thoughts I became reassured. I could account for every minute

of my time during the day and night, up to the moment I had entered

this strange house; and my curiosity led me to ascertain the nature of

the proceeding which had brought about such confusion. That done I

could proceed to the police station and report what I had seen. I will

not attempt to describe my horror when I saw the body of a dead man

beneath the table, and when, examining the mutilated features, I

discovered that the murdered man was Louis Fordham. It makes me sick

to think of it. I must have another drink."

He tossed off a full glass of brandy and water, and rose and paced the

room. I sat in silent agony, waiting for what was to come.

"Let me make an end of it as quickly as possible," he said. "Louis lay

there before me, stone dead. Who was the murderer? At whose cowardly

hand had he met his death? The newspaper report says that his features

were unrecognizable, but though his face, when I saw it, was

dreadfully disfigured, I could not mistake it. Then, the fortnight

that has elapsed may have made some change in him; then again, there

may be some exaggeration in the report. Such sensations are always

made the worst of; newspaper writers like to pile up the agony. I

searched for some evidence that would help to bring the guilt home to

the murderer. It is curious, John, that they generally leave something

behind that proves fatal. You did. The first thing I found was the

knife with which the deadly stab had been inflicted. There was blood

upon it. Now, why should the discovery of that knife have directed my

thoughts in your direction? A kind of lame explanation can be given,

but it doesn't quite account for it. Perhaps it was what we call

Providence, perhaps it was because the knife was not one which a man

living in England ordinarily carries about with him. It was such a

knife as gold-diggers use, and carry in a sheath. Do you see the

connection? A gold-digger's knife. You have been in Australia, and

most likely on the goldfields. A steamer from Australia had that very

day arrived at Liverpool. That formed a sequence, which I accepted all

the more readily because I had no cause to love you. I am frank, you

see; I am always frank. I detest duplicity.

"Continuing my search I found a watch. It was like a watch you used to

wear in happier days, but of this I could not be sure. However, as I

have said, the history of a watch can be traced. It was not such a

watch as Louis was in the habit of wearing. Still continuing my

search, I found a matchbox, and on the lid the initials, J. F. They

stand for John Fordham. They stand also for John Fletcher. Did it

strike you when you assumed that name that the initials were the same?

Your having been in Australia, the arrival of an Australian vessel,

the gold-digger's knife, the watch, the matchbox with the initials, J.

F., formed a complete chain. I said to myself, 'My brother-in-law,

John, is the murderer.'"

He had spoken all through with zest, and as he went on his enjoyment

of the story he was relating seemed to increase. Having now reached a

dramatic point he paused again to give it greater weight.

"What now remained to me to do?" he continued. "To denounce you--to

put the rope round your own neck? Undoubtedly that would have been the

right course, and had I acted upon the impulse of the moment the whole

country would be howling at you for a cold-blooded monster, who had

since boyhood nursed his vindictive hatred of his brother, and only

waited a favorable opportunity to barbarously murder him. For it was a

murder of the most savage kind, John; poor Louis' body was frightfully

battered and bruised. But second thoughts deterred me. You were

related to me by marriage; disgrace to you meant, in some small

measure, disgrace to me; I might, after all, be mistaken in the

conclusions I had drawn; it would only be fair, before proceeding to

extremities, to give you a chance of saying a word in your own

defense; and, though it may be hard to believe, I have really a

sneaking regard for you. Upon the top of this came the reflection that

you might invent some sort of story, upon the strength of which you

would give yourself up and take the chances of the law. A voluntary

surrender would go far in your favor, and you might issue from the

trial a free man, or if not free, with a nominal punishment for

manslaughter. It was perhaps foolish of me to allow these

considerations to prevail, but it was the course I adopted. So,

bearing away with me the articles which prove your guilt, I stole from

the house unobserved. The next day I was in London. A week passed by,

and no news relating to the murder appeared in the papers, nor was

there any notice of your giving yourself up. This deepened my

conviction that you were the murderer. Innocence proclaims itself,

guilt hides its head. And every hour that was passed fixed the rope

more firmly round your neck in case of discovery. Then I set myself to

the task of finding you, and here you behold me with my round,

unvarnished tale delivered. I think I am entitled to ask a question.

Innocent or guilty, John?"

"Both," I answered.

"Ah. You have heard my story. Let me hear yours."

I related it to him without distortion or exaggeration. As I related

the events of that fatal night I was filled with dismay at the

weakness of the only defense I could make. Conscious of my innocence,

I recognized that my silence and concealment had made the web in which

I was entangled so strong that there was no human hope of escape. At

the conclusion of my tale Maxwell shook his head and smiled.

"It won't do, John. You will have to invent something more plausible

than that."

"You don't believe me?"

"Ask yourself whether a jury would. The clumsiest lawyer would sweep

away such a cobweb. 'Your story true,' he would say, 'why did you not

come forward immediately and relate it?' Your answer,' I was afraid it

would not be believed.' 'Exactly,' he would say, 'it would not be

believed.' I see the jury putting their heads together; I hear the

judge pronouncing sentence, 'to be hanged by the neck till you are

dead, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!' No, no, John, it will

not hold water. Capital cigars, these of yours; wish I could afford to

buy a box or two. Well, it may be. I am a very worldly man, John; I

sigh for the fleshpots of Egypt. You would like to know, perhaps, how

I found you out. It wasn't easy. I may thank your lawyer for the

information."

"Did he give you my address?"

"Oh, no. I have held no communication with him. He hasn't a high

opinion of me, I am afraid. Believing that you were in London, and

that you had business to transact with him in connection with

Barbara's money, which ought to have been settled absolutely upon

her, and which, by her will, would have fallen to me--we were very

short-sighted not to have insisted upon the settlement--I kept watch

upon him, and followed him, among other places, to this house. He paid

his second visit to you this evening, but I was not sure you were here

till you made your appearance at the door to purchase a newspaper. The

rest you know."

"Is it the first time you have seen me?"

"The first time since you left England."

It was a great relief to hear this, and to be convinced--as I

was--that he spoke the truth. I was afraid he might have followed me,

earlier in the day, to Ellen's lodgings. He would not spare her;

whether he intended to spare me I had yet to learn. It was to this end

I now spoke.

"Having tracked me down," I said, "what do you intend to do?"

"It depends upon you, John," he answered. "I am disposed to stand your

friend."

"In what way?"

"By keeping silence. It is just on the cards that the body may not be

identified, in which case the secret is yours and mine. If I don't

appear against you, if I destroy the evidence in my possession, you

are safe."

I did not stop to consider. My one, my only thought, was how to secure

Ellen's peace of mind. The means were at my disposal, the opportunity

was offered to me, and I availed myself of it. It was cowardly, the

confession I have made now might as well have been made then, but I

did not foresee the use which Maxwell made of the power he held over

me. He needed money; I gave it to him. He needed more money; I gave it

to him; more, and I still gave it to him. At first I submitted to his

exactions without remonstrance, but as they became more oppressive I

offered resistance. Then he threatened, and I became a coward again.

The honest course was before me and I stepped aside. At all hazards I

should have taken it, and submitted to the ordeal. Too late I see my

error.

Alas, those fatal words--too late! How often have they wrecked life

and honor and happiness; how often have they brought misery and shame

not only upon the cowardly doer of wrong, but upon those who trusted

and believed in him! And yet it was to save Ellen and my son from the

misery and shame which my punishment would have brought to them that I

did as I have done. I have no other excuse to offer.

Again and again has Maxwell pointed out that the arguments he used

were not fallacious, and in this he was right. Up to the present

moment the body of Louis has not been identified. For a few weeks

after the discovery of the murder the newspapers continued to give

their readers such information as was supplied by the police--meagre

and unsatisfactory enough, and leading to no solution of the

mystery--until another tragic sensation thrust it from the public

mind. All this time I have been in hiding, with Maxwell ever dogging

and robbing me; all this time I have been sending letters to Ellen in

the care of my solicitor, making false excuses for my detention in

Australia; all this time I have been receiving letters from her, every

line in which proved the faith and trust she had in me, and her

confidence that what I did was right. The sweetest, the dearest

letters! With eyes over-brimming I have read and re-read them--read

them with shame, with terror, with remorse, with the distracting

thought eternally in my mind, "If she but knew--if she but knew!"

Would it have been better for me had Louis' mother been alive? This

reflection has frequently occurred to me. She loved him and hated me,

and this love and hate linked us together in her mind. His

disappearance would have brought into play the full power of her

malignity and love. She would have moved heaven and earth to unravel

the mystery, and I do not doubt that she would have dragged me from

the frightful haven of unrest in which I have been lurking. Would it

have been better for me? Perhaps.

Not much that Maxwell says deserves to be remembered, but certain

words he spoke have burnt themselves into my heart. "Innocence

proclaims itself; guilt hides its head." It is not always true.

Proclaiming myself guilty I protest my innocence of evil intent.

And now I am ruined and a beggar. Maxwell's exactions have brought me

to this pass; all that remains is Ellen's pitiful allowance. Maxwell,

by some means, has discovered this, and has repeatedly threatened to

denounce me if I do not hand it over to him. If I were weak enough to

yield he would devise some new form of torture when that small sum was

squandered.

It shall not be. Hope is dead; my life is desolate. Despairing days,

sleepless nights--I live in purgatory. The end has come, my confession

is made. Solemnly I declare that every word I have written is true.

Dear Ellen, forgive me, comfort me, console me!

PART II.

CHAPTER XXVII.

RELATED BY PAUL GODFREY, PRIVATE DETECTIVE.

It is not often that a private detective--that is my occupation, and I

am not ashamed of it--takes up a case for love, but that is what I did

when I took up the great Rye Street murder. I don't deny that

professional pride had something to do with it, for any man would have

been proud to be employed in putting together the pieces of so

celebrated a mystery. It was love that gave me the command, and that

is not the least curious part of an affair which filled the newspapers

for weeks, and puzzled the cleverest heads in Scotland Yard. The way

of it was this. A few years ago business took me to Swanage, where I

met Miss Cameron, her Christian name, Ellen. She and her mother (since

dead) had gone there for Mrs. Cameron's health. I was, and still am, a

bachelor, and I fell in love with Miss Cameron. I proposed and was not

accepted, and I left Swanage a sadder, but I can't say a wiser man.

Proverbs and popular sayings don't always apply.

In such circumstances some men are angry; others pretend not to care,

and say there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.

Others are sorry for a week or so, and then see another girl who takes

their fancy. It was not the case with me. I knew I had lost a prize,

and that it would be a long time before I got over it. Between you and

me I don't think I have got over it to this day, and that, perhaps, is

a thing I ought not to say. It is down, however, and there it shall

remain.

Before I bade Miss Cameron good-bye in Swanage I couldn't help saying

that if it was ever in my power to serve her I would do so willingly.

I hadn't the least idea that I should ever be called upon, and I

should have called the man a fool who said, "One of these days you

will find yourself engaged in a murder case that has set all the

country ringing, and in which the happiness of the woman you love is

at stake." Clever writers say it is the unexpected that always

happens. It happened to me.

On the morning of my introduction into the case I was sitting in my

office, idling away my time. I had nothing particular to do, and was

waiting for something to turn up in the way of business. It seemed as

if I should not have long to wait, for my clerk came in and said that

a lady wished to see me. I brisked up. Ladies don't come to a private

detective for nothing. "Divorce case," thought I.

"What name?" I asked.

"Name of Cameron," my clerk answered. "Lady didn't have a card."

I jumped up, all my nerves tingling, and told the lad to show the lady

in. I didn't wait for him to do it, though; I pushed past him, and

there stood Ellen Cameron, the woman I loved and had never forgotten.

I held out my hand with a smile, and she took it with a sigh. Her sad

face showed that she was in trouble; her lips quivered as she asked

whether I could give her a few minutes of my time, and her hand was

cold as ice.

"If any one calls," I said to my clerk, "I am busy." And I led Miss

Cameron to my private room.

"You want my advice," I said, drawing a chair up to the table; "sit

down and tell me all about it. How did you find me out?"

"I saw your advertisement in the paper," she answered; "and I thought

you would be willing to assist me."

The newspaper in which I advertise twice a week was on the table.

"You thought right," I said, and would have said more if I had not

observed that her eyes were fixed with fear upon the newspaper. I

looked over her shoulder, and saw that she was gazing upon a paragraph

headed, "The Rye Street Murder."

It will clear the ground if I give the substance of this paragraph,

which I had already read with great interest.

On the previous evening John Fordham presented himself at the

Marylebone Police Court, and had charged himself with the murder,

stating that the murdered man was his half-brother, that the name (up

till then unknown) was Louis Fordham, and that he had acted in

self-defense. According to his tale this John Fordham landed in

Liverpool from an Australian vessel on the night of a great snowstorm,

and being anxious to get to London without delay, was walking to the

Lime Street station to catch a train. Passing through Rye Street, a

man rushed out of a house and attacked him. A desperate struggle

ensued, in the course of which he was dragged into a house and up the

stairs into a room on the first floor, where he fell down in a state

of unconsciousness. When he came to his senses he saw the body of the

man by whom he had been attacked, and was horrified by the discovery

that it was his half-brother, Louis Fordham. Distracted, and scarcely

knowing what he was about, he left the house and took a morning train

to London, where, living under an assumed name, he had been in hiding

ever since. He made no disclosure of the motive which had induced him

to give himself up after this lapse of time. His statement was taken

down by the inspector; who, of course, asked him no questions.

This was the bare story, and I attached no credence to it, having made

up my mind at once that John Fordham was guilty, and that he had been

driven by remorse to take the last step.

"What will be done to him?" asked Miss Cameron, in a trembling voice,

pointing to the paragraph.

Surprised at the question I drew the newspaper away, saying it was of

no importance what became of this John Fordham, and that she had

better proceed to the business she had called upon.

"But what will become of him?" she asked again.

I shrugged my shoulders, and to satisfy her said he would be brought

up at the police court, and would be remanded.

"And then?"

"He will be remanded two or three times to enable the police to make

inquiries, after which he will be committed for trial."

"And acquitted?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and with such an

appealing look in her eyes--as though I were the judge who was trying

the man--that I held my breath and made no reply. The suspicion that

flashed upon me--that she had come to ask my assistance in this very

murder--staggered me; but I steadied myself, and inquired if it really

was the case.

"Yes," she answered. "You believe him guilty?"

"From what is stated here I can come to no other conclusion."

At this she fairly broke down, and I sat staring open-mouthed at her

tears and misery. Dropping her veil over her face she tottered to the

door, and was about to leave when I stopped her.

"No, Miss Cameron," I said; "you must not go away like that. You have

come to ask my assistance, and I will give it you. There may be some

mystery here which needs unraveling. I place myself honestly and

unreservedly at your service. But you must be absolutely frank with

me; to enable me to serve you nothing must be concealed--understand,

nothing."

Let me confess, though the stronger reason for this offer was to be

found in the interest I took in Miss Cameron, in my sympathy for her,

that I was urged thereto by a less powerful motive. My professional

pride was aroused by the suggestion of a mystery which I might be the

means of bringing to light. To a man like myself, nothing more

attractive could present itself.

She turned to me with a gasp of thankfulness.

"I will conceal nothing," she said. "You will condemn me, perhaps, but

I must not allow that to stand in the way. There is no other man I can

trust, there is no other man that can serve me, there is no other man

who can prove John Fordham to be innocent of the crime of which he

accuses himself."

"You believe him to be innocent."

"To believe him otherwise would be to lose my faith in the goodness of

God. This will explain all. When you have read it you will know what

John Fordham is to me, and whether there is any chance of proving his

innocence. You have used the word 'mystery.' There is a mystery here

which only a man in your profession can solve, which only a true

friend would take the trouble to solve. How thankful, how thankful I

am that I came to you!"

She took a large packet from beneath her mantle, and placed it in my

hands; then, giving me her address, and saying she would always be at

home, or would call upon me at any time I might appoint, she left me

to the perusal of the manuscript. But I did not apply myself to it

immediately, beyond glancing at the opening words. Thinking I might be

in time to see John Fordham brought up at the police court, I posted

off to Marylebone, and there I found the case proceeding. Fordham was

in the dock, a pale, worn man, with an expression on his face of one

who had undergone much suffering. He looked like a gentleman, but I

did not allow that to influence me, for I put no trust in appearances.

There are men standing high in public esteem whose faces would condemn

them if they were charged with a criminal offense; and guilt itself

too often wears the aspect of innocence. Asked if he had anything to

say, Fordham replied that he hoped to be able on his trial to make a

statement, which would be accepted in extenuation of his crime; until

that time arrived he would be silent, but if he could assist the

police in any way, he was ready to do so. This unusual reply awoke

within me a stronger interest in him, and I studied his features

carefully; there was stamped upon them the expression of a man who had

prepared himself for the worst. The police asked for a remand, which

was granted, and he was taken back to the cells. As I issued from the

court a cab drove up, and Miss Cameron alighted; she had taken a

four-wheeler, and was too late for this preliminary examination. I

hastened to her, and told her what had taken place.

"Shall I be allowed to see him?" she asked.

I said there would be no difficulty, but that it would be best to

consult a solicitor. She mentioned the name of one who had acted for

Fordham for several years, and I advised her to go to him. She thanked

me and drove off, and I returned to my office to read John Fordham's

Confession.

If I were to attempt to describe at any length the impression it

produced upon me I should fail. I am very fond of fiction, and I have

read most of the leading novels of my time, but I doubt if I have ever

read anything in which a man's trials and sorrows were more powerfully

portrayed. I do not speak in a literary sense, for in that respect I

am a poor judge, but the effect of this Confession upon me was

startling. I seemed to see the man's heart and soul, and sometimes I

lost sight of the fact that I was perusing a story of real life. The

kind allusion to myself and the thoughtful suppression of my name

affected me strongly, and John Fordham's description of the character

of Ellen Cameron showed me what a treasure I had lost. But I should

have been a despicable fellow to bear him any animosity for having won

the love I sought, and I thought none the worse of him or Ellen

Cameron for having thrown their lots together.

So much for my private feelings and for the small part I had played in

Miss Cameron's life. I set them aside entirely, and threw myself heart

and soul into the mystery which surrounded the murder.

It was plain enough to me that the Confession was worthless as

evidence; a clever writer might have invented and written it for the

purpose of exculpating himself, and by Fordham's own admission he was

a writer of great power. I had read the articles he wrote on

drunkenness, and I knew that the pictures he presented were drawn from

life. But if they were cited at his trial they would tell against

instead of for him, and would serve to discount the speech he might

make in his defense. The mystery must be grappled with in a more

practical manner, and I was the more determined to grapple with it

sensibly and with as little sentiment as possible, because, when I

finished the Confession I was convinced that Fordham was quite

truthful in all he had set down. It would be hoping too much to hope

that the judge and jury would think so, but I might succeed in

discovering something that would lead to a verdict of manslaughter,

and the passing of a light sentence; and it was not altogether

impossible that a verdict of complete acquittal might be compassed. In

which case what becomes of the censure passed by Fordham's solicitor

upon the class to which I belong? I cast the word "vermin" in his

teeth. He and others are glad enough to avail themselves of our

services when they need them.

Fordham says that to establish his innocence (or bring about his

acquittal, which I suppose means the same thing) a miracle is needed.

Not at all. If it is done, common sense will do it. So, to work.

How many persons in the drama? Leaving out Ellen Cameron, who is not

connected with the mystery, six.

Mrs. Fordham, John Fordham's stepmother. Dead.

Louis Fordham. Dead.

Barbara, wife of John Fordham. Dead.

Annette, the French maid. Disappeared. No mention of her.

Maxwell. Alive. Where was he?

John Fordham. In prison.

There remained, therefore, only one person upon whom there was a

likelihood of laying hands. Maxwell. I must see him. John Fordham

would be able to give me his address. I decided to seek an interview

with John Fordham early in the morning.

But would it be easy to find Maxwell? He was accessory after the

fact. John Fordham seems not to have thought of that. Maxwell, with

better knowledge of the law, undoubtedly thought of it. Natural

conclusion--Maxwell would keep out of the way. No reason why he should

not be tracked. It was something in my line.

About the house in Rye street, in which Louis Fordham met his death,

and the circumstances of the fatal struggle. Was it likely that Louis

alone knew of the house and had no confederates? Not at all likely.

Who were his confederates? I put the name of one on paper--Maxwell.

Good! A ray of light. Like looking through a chink in the floor. I saw

possibilities.

Who took the house, and for what purpose was it taken? Certainly not

for the purpose of killing John Fordham. I dismissed the idea

instantly. The confederates, even if they knew the name of the vessel

in which John Fordham was traveling, could not have known that it

would arrive at such and such an hour on such and such a day; could

not have known that he would walk through Rye Street on his way to the

railway station; could not have known that a great snowstorm would

arise to cloak their proceedings; could not have timed the moment that

he would pass the house. Natural conclusion that the meeting between

him and Louis was accidental, and that during the struggle, Louis was

as little aware as John of the identity of his assailant.

And here I was confronted with those elements of the affair which

added to John Fordham's danger. His taking Louis' ulster to hide the

stains of blood on his clothes, his accidental picking up of Louis'

watch, believing it to be his own, his assumed name, and his remaining

in hiding for so long a time. To all these I had satisfactory answers,

but no jury in the world would entertain them. My hopes fell almost to

zero.

I was setting these details down in the order of their occurrence. Of

the strange discoveries I subsequently made I will make no mention

till the proper time arrives. Before I went to bed I posted a

comforting letter to Miss Cameron, in which I said much of my hopes

and nothing of my fears.

On the following day I paid a visit to John Fordham. He looked at me

suspiciously, and was not satisfied with my friendly professions until

I related the manner of my introduction into the business. When I

mentioned Miss Cameron's name his eyes became suffused with tears.

"What do you expect to do for me," he asked, "when my own evidence

proves my guilt?"

"Do you believe yourself to be guilty of murder?" I asked in return.

"No," he answered.

"Would it not be a good thing to convince others of that?"

"Indeed it would," he said, but shaking his head at the same time, as

though it were not possible.

"At all events," I continued, "it is your clear duty to do all you can

to remove the stigma from those you love. There is a mystery to be

solved; at Miss Cameron's request I have undertaken the task--with

what success remains to be seen. If you will have confidence in me it

will make the task all the easier. Surely it is not for you to throw

difficulties in the way of your friends."

"Forgive me," he said. "I am ungrateful. I will tell you anything you

wish to know."

"First, as to Maxwell. Had he any suspicion of your intention to give

yourself up?"

"I do not think so."

"It will come upon him as a blow. Can you give me his address?"

"I do not know it."

"Since your arrival in England have you never visited him?"

"Never."

"Nor written to him?"

"No."

"He visited you frequently?"

"Two or three times a week for the purpose of obtaining money from

me."

"He wrote to you?"

"Occasionally."

"Was there no address on his letters?"

"None."

"Did it not strike you as somewhat singular?"

"I never gave it a thought."

"And of course you did not examine the postmarks on the envelopes?"

"I did not."

"Did you destroy his letters?"

"Not all. There may be one or two in a desk in my lodgings."

I scribbled an order which he signed. It gave me authority to enter

his rooms and look through the desk, the lock of which he informed me

was broken. He then furnished me with a precise description of the

personal appearance of Maxwell.

"Your wife's maid, Annette, had another name?"

"Her full name was Annette Lourbet."

"Have you any idea what has become of her?"

"No."

"I want you now to take your mind back to the night of the struggle. It

appears very strange to me that in the course of the fight you should

both have ascended a flight of stairs. Much more likely to have

stumbled down than up. Can you account for it?"

"No."

"When you finally left the house, Louis Fordham's body was lying at

the end of the room opposite the door. Can you be sure of that?"

"I am quite sure."

"The table was in the middle of the room?"

"Yes."

"Some significant details have escaped your notice. Do you not

recollect that in the newspaper reports it was stated that Louis' body

was beneath the table?"

He started at this, and I perceived that he was becoming more

interested.

"I recollect it, but it did not strike me at the time, my mind being

occupied by but one thought. Louis was dead. I had killed him."

"It appears strange to you now?"

"Very strange," he answered, thoughtfully.

"In order to argue this out," I continued, "I will suppose that when

you left the house, you were mistaken in your belief that Louis was

dead. Shortly afterwards he came to his senses. Getting upon his feet

he staggered about the room in the dark till his hands touched the

table. In his endeavors to reach the door the table was upset."

"Yes, that explains it."

I smiled at his readiness and simplicity. "But the fairer assumption

is that he would have fallen upon the table, not under it."

He stared at me; a light seemed to be breaking upon him. In an

unsteady voice he asked, "What deduction do you draw from that?"

"That another person entered the house after your departure; that

another person hurled the table--a massive oak table, according to the

newspaper reports--upon the body in such a way as to purposely

mutilate the features."

"Another person did enter," said John Fordham.

"I know. Maxwell."

"Yes, Maxwell. He happened, as he said, to be passing through the

street on the night of the snowstorm, and found the street door open."

"I have read the particulars in the document you sent to Miss Cameron.

Do you believe his statement?"

"What reason is there for disbelief?" he asked, "when he was

acquainted with so many things which I thought no one knew but

myself?"

"Which you thought. It would, perhaps, be more correct to say that you

accepted his statement without thinking. Mr. Fordham, it is not my

habit to throw discredit upon coincidences; at the same time I do not

accept them blindly, and I decline to accept this. In an inquiry such

as this upon which I am engaged my mind is open not only to

probabilities but to possibilities; everything humanly possible must

be taken into account. Let one of the reins slip through your fingers,

and you upset the coach. Maxwell says he found the street door open;

you state that when you left the house you closed it behind you. I

range myself on your side. The street door was shut."

"Then to enter the house Maxwell must have had a key?"

"Exactly. He had a key, and he and your half-brother were accomplices.

From your experience of them, probable or possible?"

"Probable. But this will not exculpate me."

"I do not know where it will lead, but I intend to follow it up if I

can. By the way, where was your wife buried?"

"In the Highgate Cemetery," he answered, with a look of surprise,

"where my father lies. We have a family grave there."

"Your stepmother must have been buried in that grave."

"Very likely--but these are idle questions."

"Not so idle as they seem, perhaps. Another question, more to the

point. Maxwell states that he found three articles belonging to you in

the Rye Street house--your watch, your gold-digger's knife, and your

matchbox. Did he return them to you?"

"No. He retained them as evidence against me."

"I shall be astonished if they are ever brought against you. My

impression is that he will keep out of the way. I may not have time to

see you again this week. If you have anything to communicate--if

anything occurs to you that may assist me--write to my office."

I proceeded immediately to John Fordham's lodgings, where he was known

as John Fletcher, and had a chat with the landlady. She spoke in the

highest terms of her lodger; he was polite and civil, "a perfect

gentleman," and gave no trouble; but she knew "all along that there

was something on his mind." He always paid in advance, and there was a

fortnight of his last payment still to run. In his desk I found only

one letter from Maxwell; the envelope had been destroyed. It was

friendly, and contained nothing incriminating. There was a reference

in it to "low spirits" from which "dear John" was suffering, and the

writer, who signed himself "M.," could not understand why John Fordham

should be so melancholy. "Cheer up, old fellow," said "M.," "I shall

come and see you tomorrow, and shall try to put some life into you." I

understood why the letter was so carefully worded; Maxwell was

guarding himself against the chance of his correspondence falling into

other hands. Before I left the house, with the letter in my pocket, I

inquired of the landlady whether she had seen Maxwell and had spoken

to him.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Mr. Maxwell is a very pleasant gentleman,

and often asked me if I knew what made Mr. Fletcher so low-spirited,

but of course I couldn't tell him."

Maxwell had evidently acted with great caution.

A few hours afterwards I got out at the Liverpool station. My business

in that city did not take me long, but it led to something of the

greatest importance.

In Fordham's written story of his life which he had sent to Miss

Cameron he says he is uncertain whether the man who attacked him

rushed out of a courtway or a house. There is no court near the house

in which the struggle took place, therefore that point is settled. The

house is still uninhabited, and I had no difficulty in obtaining

admission. Mentally following the course of the fatal struggle between

John and Louis Fordham from the street door to the room on the first

floor in which Louis' body was found, I was struck by the peculiar

formation of the staircase. There were two sharp turns in it, one of

them being nearly an acute angle. That two men striking blindly at

each other, and fighting for life or death in dense darkness, should

have ascended this staircase, seemed to me exceedingly improbable, and

the doubt presented itself whether John Fordham's account of the

conflict was to be depended upon. When a man's sober senses are at

fault, he is apt to be misled by his imagination. Was it so in this

instance?

I examined the oak table in the room. It is of unusual size, six feet

square, exceedingly heavy, and set on four massive legs. All the

pressure I could bring to bear upon it was ineffective in tilting it,

and I came to the positive conclusion that it could only have been

overturned by a powerful effort from beneath. This proved that neither

John nor Louis was responsible for the position in which the table was

found by the police. I was convinced that a third person was

implicated in the tragic affair; but though it was inevitable that my

suspicions should point to Maxwell, I did not pledge myself to it.

There might have been a fourth.

My interview with the agent who had let the house to a "Mr. Mollison"

for a month upon trial opened up the field of conjecture, and was the

means of leading to a direct clue--in fact, to two. He had seen Mr.

Mollison on one occasion only, and he gave me such a confused and

bungling description of that person that I felt it would be foolish to

place any dependence upon it. In relation to this description I put

but one question to him.

"Did you observe a scar upon Mr. Mollison's forehead?"

"No," he answered, after a little hesitation: "I do not think there was

any scar."

We then spoke of the London reference which Mr. Mollison had given

him, and he produced the letter he had received in reply to his own.

It was signed "R. Lambert," and addressed, 214 Adelaide Road, N. W.

From subsequent inquiries I learned that this house had been inhabited

for only a few weeks during the last six or seven years, and then not

by a person of the name of Lambert.

Now, I do not profess to be an expert in handwriting, but placing F.

Lambert's letter by the side of Maxwell's, which I had taken from John

Fordham's desk, a certain resemblance (by no means perfect) forced

itself upon my attention. Accompanied by the agent, I went to the

office of an expert, who partially confirmed my suspicion, but

declined to pledge himself to it without a more minute examination. I

left the letters with him, and directed him to forward them to London

with his report. This was one of the clues I obtained during my brief

stay in Liverpool. The more important one (which led to a startling

result) was obtained in the following manner:

On our way from the office of the expert in handwriting to that of the

agent, the latter mentioned that, although he had seen Mr. Mollison

only once, a clerk in his employ had met him in the street after the

house was taken. Without delay I interviewed this clerk, who admitted

that he had seen Mr. Mollison a fortnight after the agreement was

signed. Having taken no particular notice of that gentleman, he could

furnish me with no better description of him than his master had

supplied, except that he looked like a gentleman.

"Which was more than the man who was with him did," he added.

"Oh," I said, "he was not alone?"

"No," was the reply, "he was walking with a friend."

"With a friend?" I said. "Though one was a gentleman and the other was

not?"

"Well, I suppose they were friends, because they were laughing at

something."

"What did the other man look like?"

"A common sort of man; but he was dressed well enough. I can't say he

seemed easy in his clothes."

"What made you notice him particularly?"

"As I came up to them Mr. Mollison said, 'You did it cleverly, Jack.'

'Oh, I can show 'em a trick or two,' said the man he called Jack; and

then they burst out laughing. That made me turn round and look at the

clever one."

"What did you notice in him?"

"That his face was pock-marked, and that he had a club foot."

"Was he tall or short?"

"Short."

"Did they see you looking at them?"

"I think so, because just then they turned the other way."

"And did you not follow them?"

"What should I follow them for?"

I pressed him hard, but he could tell me nothing more.

All the way back to London my thoughts ran chiefly on this

club-footed, pock-marked Jack. Such a business as mine brings a man

into queer company, and, without boasting, I may say that I am

acquainted with half the bad characters in London. Some years ago I

was a detective in the police force, but thinking I could do better, I

said good-bye to Scotland Yard, and started a private office of my

own. I like a free hand, and I got it and have done well with it.

Jack. With a club foot. A short man, who did not seem easy in good

clothes. His face pock-marked. What better marks of identification

could a detective desire? I was on the threshold of discovery, and yet

some perverse streak kept me from seeing it. Not till the train was a

mile from St. Pancras did I suddenly cry aloud--for all the world as

though the name flashed itself out on one of the advertisements in the

carriage--"Jack Skinner!"

Yes, Jack Skinner. He answered the description perfectly. He was

short, he was pock-marked, he had a club foot, he was accustomed to

wear fustian. I was really annoyed with myself that I had not thought

of him at once. But it happens so sometimes.

Jack was his proper name. I dare say. Skinner was a nickname, bestowed

upon him for certain peculiarities by which he was distinguished. The

house-agent's clerk heard him say, "I can show 'em a trick or two." I

should think he could. No man better. But for all that, he hadn't done

any good for himself. Jack and I were old friends. I nicked him once

as clean as a whistle, and got him three months. "You're too much for

me, guv'nor," he said with a grin. He had a wholesome fear of me, but

it was a long time since I had set eyes on him.

The board was before me, with a lot of pieces on it. My next move was

to hunt Jack down. I will not waste time by relating how I did it. A

fortnight it took me before I had him under my thumb. I don't mind

confessing (I didn't tell him as much) that I was not prepared for the

disclosures he made. They took me fairly by surprise, and let a lot of

light upon the Rye Street Mystery.

I shall let Jack speak for himself. The story he related shall be told

in his own words.

PART III.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

JACK SKINNER MAKES A STATEMENT.

Look 'ere. It ain't a plant, is it? I'm a bad lot, I know, about as

bad as they make 'em, but when it comes to committin' a murder, it

ain't in me to do it. If I 'ad the 'eart to kill a man, I ain't got

the pluck--Wot's that yer say? I 'ad a 'and in it? I'll take my oath

on my mother's Bible I 'adn't. I don't remember my mother--I wos

chucked on the world wery young, guv'nor--and I don't know as she ever

'ad a Bible, but that don't make no difference, do it? If she did 'ave

a Bible, and it was afore me now, I'd take my oath on it. I can't

speak fairer nor that, can I? I wos there--I don't deny I wos there

when it wos done but I 'adn't no more to do with it than the babby

unborn. If it wos the last word I 'ad to speak with my dyin' breath,

I'd swear I didn't 'ave no 'and in it, and I couldn't prevent it no

more nor you could, guv'nor, bein', as I dessay you wos, a 'undered

mile away at the time. Why, it come upon me like a clap of thunder,

and upon Mr. Louis, too, pore chap, and there 'e wos--good Lord! I can

'ardly bring my tongue to say it--there 'e wos, layin' on the flore,

stone dead, and the blood porein' out of 'im.

'Ere, I can't stand it no longer, I can't. From that night to this

I've never 'ad a easy minute. 'Underds and 'underds of times since

then I've seed 'im layin' afore me as 'e laid that night. It wos only

yesterday, while I wos playin' a game o' pyramids, and the red balls

wos scattered all over the table, that all of a suddent there wos the

pore chap layin' on the green cloth in the middle of a dozen large,

round clots o' blood. It was only a wision, I know, like any number of

others I've 'ad, but it turned me sick, and put me off my play so that

I couldn't pot a ball all through the game. Never a green field I see

but there 'e is, layin' in the middle of it, with the grass all red

about 'im. It ain't a pleasant sight, guv'nor, is it? It sets me all

of a tremble, and over and over again I've sed to myself, "Make a

clean breast of it, Jack, and bring it 'ome to the man wot done the

deed. You can't be 'ung for it, you can't, Jack," ses I to myself,

"cos your 'and wos never raised agin 'im. Make a clean breast of it,

wunst and for all, and get rid of the wisions that's a 'aunting of yer

day and night." And now, on the top o' that, you come to me, guv'nor,

and ses, "Yer've got to tell me everythink, Jack, about that there

murder. Prove to me yer didn't do it, and not a 'air of your 'ead

shall be touched. Scot free yer shall go, and for wunst in your life

yer'll 'ave the satisfaction of bein' on the right side o' justice."

Ses you to me, "Keep yer mouth shut, and yer'll find yerself in a

'ole. Queen's evidence is your game, Jack, if yer know wot's good for

yerself."

Well, guv'nor, when I put alongside o' that wot I've read in the

papers about somebody givin' of 'isself up for the murder, it makes me

think I'd best accept yer orfer. Guv'nor, I do accept it. 'Ere's my

'and. But there's somethink you've got to do fust. You've got to take

yer Gospel oath that yer'll be as good as yer word, and that I sha'n't

be 'urt for wot I didn't do. You're willing? Well, take it.

That's bindin', mind yer, and don't forgit yer'll be burnt in 'ell

fire if yer've swored false. 'Ave yer got anythink else to say afore I

start? I don't want to be meddled with once I begin, 'cause it'd be

bound to muddle me, and I should git off the track. I must tell

everythink I know about myself and my pals and Mr. Louis? It's a large

order, but all right. A clean breast I've promised to make, and a

clean breast it shall be. 'Ere goes.

There wos three of us, outside of 'im that's gone. Maxwell (that's the

only name I knowed 'im by), and Morgan (that's the only name I knowed

'im by), and me. They called me Jack, and if yer don't mind I'll call

the other Louis. It saves a lot of time to drop the misters.

There ain't much to tell about myself up to the time I fust set eyes

on Maxwell and Morgan. I never learnt a honest trade, and in course I

'ad to do somethink for a livin'. I've been a billiard marker, a

race-course runner, a ticker snatcher, a crossin' sweeper (not longer

at that nor I could 'elp, it wos playin' it so low), a tout for

sharps, a decoy for mugs, a thimble-rigger, a tipster, a nigger

minstrel, and I don't know what else. Wunst I wos that 'ard up that I

carried a Punch and Judy for a showman mean enough to skin a flint; 'e

wouldn't pay me wot wos doo, so me and Toby took our 'ook together.

There wos a week I run arter cabs from the railway stations on the

chance of a job to carry the luggage in. Yer can't play it much lower

nor that, can yer, guv'nor? The things I could tell 'd fill a book if

I 'ad the gift to set 'em down. If I'd been eddycated up to it I might

'ave done well among the swells, I'm that neat with the pasteboards. I

can shuffle 'em in any way I want, kings at top, aces at bottom, in

the middle, anywhere you like. My fingers wos made for it. Set down at

all-fours with me, and I'll tell yer every card in yer 'and. With

three peas and a thimble I've earnt many a thick 'un. And now yer've

got my pickcher. If open confession's good for the soul, I ought to

feel comfortable about mine.

It wos billiards as fust brought me and Maxwell and Morgan together. I

wos marker at the Jolly Ploughboy under a false name, and when they

come in I wos practising the spot stroke, no one else bein' in the

room. I'd made thirteen spots, and wos well set for a run, but the

minute I set eyes on 'em I began to kid, and missed a lot of winnin'

'azards. I wosn't born yesterday, yer know. They stood watchin' me a

little till I laid down my cue and arst 'em if they wanted a game.

They looked at each other, and larfed. "O-ho," sed I to myself,

"'untin' for mugs."

"If he ain't 'ere at four o'clock," sed Maxwell to Morgan, "we needn't

egspect 'im till five."

"That's so," sed Morgan.

They waited till five minutes past four, but the party they wos

egspectin' didn't turn up.

"We'll secure the table," sed Maxwell, and arst me 'ow many I'd give

'im in a 'undered.

"'Ow many 'll yer give me?" wos the question I put to 'im.

"That's cool," sed 'e, "a billiard marker wantin' points."

"I ain't been long at the game," sed I, by way of apology.

"We want the table till seven," sed Maxwell, "to play with a friend

wot's comin' to see us, so you and me 'll 'ave a game even."

"I'll try my luck," sed I, and we set to work, Morgan bein' so

obligin' as to mark for us.

"Let's 'ave a bet on it," sed Maxwell.

"I'm agreeable, as fur as a shillin' goes," sed I; "it's as much as I

can afford to lose."

It wos a funny game. 'E 'adn't taken 'arf-a-dozen shots afore I sor 'e

wos kiddin', missin' easy shots, and makin' difficult ones, and

pretendin' they wos flukes. But I could kid as well as 'im, and I

don't think 'e suspected my play 'arf as much as I suspected 'is. We

passed each other over and over agin; now 'e wos a'ead, now me. Morgan

seemed to be amused at the game, and wos wery free with 'is remarks.

At 'arf-past four Maxwell wos eighty-two, and I was twelve behind.

"Let's make it two 'undered," 'e sed, "and double the stakes."

"All right," sed I, "we ain't dabs either of us."

We went on with the game, scorin' wery slow. At ten minutes to five we

wos "140 all," neck and neck. Maxwell looked up at the clock.

"Our friend 'll be 'ere in ten minutes," sed 'e; and I'm blest if 'e

didn't set to work and score fifty-eight off the balls, within two of

the game.

"Ten to one in shillin's you lose, marker," sed Morgan, when 'is pal

commenced 'is big break.

"Done with you, sir," sed I, but I didn't like the bet a bit when I

sor wot Maxwell could do with the balls. Luckily for me 'e missed 'is

last shot, a loser off the white, and I knew it wos all up with me if

I give 'im another chance. So I pulled myself together, and played up

in real earnest. I wanted sixty to win, and I run 'em out jest as the

clock struck five. They looked staggered a minute, and then they bust

out larfin', and threw me my winnin's. As I wos pocketin' the twelve

bob with a innercent look (the money come wery 'andy jest then,

guv'nor) the friend they wos waitin' for pops 'is 'ead in. It was pore

Louis. I can't say I ever took to 'im, 'e wos that stuck up, but when

a cove comes to sech a end as 'e come to it sorftens the 'eart.

The minute I sor 'im I spotted wot they wos up to. Maxwell and 'im wos

old friends accordin' to their talk, but Morgan wos a new pal, and it

wos 'im as tackled Louis at billiards. Louis had plenty of money to

sport; e'd been backin' winners, and 'ad pulled off a double event,

two thousan' to twenty. It made my mouth water to 'ear 'em talk about

it. Maxwell 'ad been nicked the other way through backin' losers.

"Wot does it matter?" 'e cried. "Every dawg 'as 'is day. It'll be our

turn next."

"You think yerself clever, you do," sneered Louis. "You've only got to

touch a thing to make a mess of it."

"You're the clever one," sed Maxwell, but I sor 'e didn't like the

slap.

"Wot do you think?" said Louis, rattlin' the money in 'is pocket.

Morgan and 'im played pyramids at fust, a dollar a ball. Louis fancied

'isself a bit, and they kep' praising 'is good shots, but 'e wos as

much a match for the man 'e wos playin' with as a mouse is for a cat.

It didn't take me long to see that Morgan could give Louis four balls

out of fifteen, and beat 'is 'ead off. But the way 'e kidded! I never

sor anythink like it. 'E let Louis win three games right off, and then

they played a match at billiards, five 'undered up. Maxwell backed

Louis, and they 'ad any amount of larfin' and charfin' over the game.

It wosn't my place to say anythink; it's a marker's business to 'old

'is tongue if e' wants to keep 'is place. Besides, wosn't I as bad as

they wos, and wouldn't I 'ave won money of Louis if 'e'd give me 'arf

a chance? Not that Morgan took any of 'is tin that afternoon. 'E won

five pound, and so did Maxwell, and 'e chuckled over it as if 'e'd won

a 'atful. They went away when the game wos over, and didn't come into

that billiard room agin while I wos marker there.

"I didn't stop long, it's true. There was a devil of a row one night,

and a man who knew me rounded on me and called me a thief. While the

row wos goin' on in come the landlord with 'is fightin' potman, and I

was bundled out neck and crop. It ain't easy to get a honest living,

guv'nor. I wasn't flush of tin, when I lost my situation; 'arf a quid

was all I 'ad, and that was soon blooed. Then I 'ad sech a spell o'

bad luck that it drove me fairly wild. Windsor races wos on, and I

thought I'd try my luck there, so I borrowed a old pack o' cards, a

deal board, and a couple of tressels, and tramped it to the course,

startin' in the night to get there in time. I give yer my word I wos

'most starved, and as for my togs--well, I 'ad to tie the soles of my

boots to the uppers with bits of string. Between the races I set up my

table, and begun to show my card tricks. Unfortunately I ain't wery

good at patter, and you know, guv'nor, no one better, wot a long way

that goes with a crowd. I tried to make clever speeches, but couldn't,

and the consekence wos that the day wos nearly over, and eightpence

was all I managed to screw out o' the mangy lot. A tanner o' that went

in 'ard-biled eggs, and bread, and a go o' stooed eels, and there wos

I with tuppence left to take me back to London. It wos Saturday, and

there wos no chance of gittin' anythink to-morrer. A tight 'ole,

wasn't it? A life like mine ain't all beer and skittles, I can tell

yer.

"Down-'earted as I wos, I went on with my tricks, and never did 'em

better in all my life. But it wos no go; them as gathered round

wouldn't part. I wos beggin' of 'em to chuck in their coppers when who

should I see among 'em but Maxwell. 'E didn't speak to me jest then

and 'e didn't give me nothink; presently 'e went away, and come back

with Morgan, and they stood watchin' me shuffle the pasteboards. Then

they looked at each other, and sed somethink I didn't 'ear. Morgan

walked off, leavin' Maxwell be'ind. 'E took me aside.

"Yer down on yer luck," said 'e.

"Never 'ad sech a cussed run in all my born days," sed I, showin' my

rags.

"You're clever with the pasteboards," sed 'e.

"Wish I could git my livin' out of 'em," sed I.

"Per'aps yer can," sed 'e. "If I orfer yer a job will yer take it?"

"Will a duck swim?" I answered.

'E scanned me all over, jest as if 'e was measurin' me for somethink,

and sed, "You ain't over-partickler, I suppose?"

"Me over-partickler!" I cried. "That's a good 'un. Wot sort of a job?"

"Pickin' feathers," he said, as serious as a judge.

"Wot sort of bird?" I arst.

"Pigeon," he answered. "A fine fat 'un."

"I'm yer man," sed I, and then 'e took a card from 'is pocket, and

told me to call at the address to-morrer at one o'clock. 'Is rooms wos

on the fust flore, 'e said, and I was to march straight into the 'ouse

and up the stairs, and say nothink to nobody. As 'e wos tellin' me

this Morgan came runnin' up to 'im and whispered somethink about a

'orse that wos goin' to run in the next race, and they made off

together.

"Mean cuss!" thought I, for the least 'e could 'ave done wos to give

me a bob or two on account, seein' the state I wos in. 'Owsomever, the

chance of a job cheered me up a bit.

When the races wos over I looked about for Maxwell or Morgan, but they

wosn't in sight, and there wos nothink for it but to shoulder my traps

and tramp it to London. Not a pleasant journey, guv'nor, with the rain

comin' down in torrents. Past five in the mornin' when I got back, and

I wos that 'ungry I could have eat a brick if I could 'ave got my

teeth in it. I ain't tellin' yer this to egscuse myself for wot I did

afterwards, only I want yer to know that I wos never in my life so

desperately 'ard up as I was that night when I footed it from Windsor

to London through the peltin' rain. I wouldn't like a dawg belongin'

to me to go through wot I did, and if it 'adn't been for a woman

givin' me the best part of 'er mug of corfey at a night stall at two

in the mornin' it's my opinion I should 'ave 'ad to throw up the

sponge.

The address on the card was Newman Street, Soho, and I wos there to

the minute. Up I limped--I'd run a nail into my foot--to the fust

flore, as Maxwell told me to do, the street dore bein' on the swing.

If anybody 'ad opened it to me they'd 'ave slammed it in my face, and

small blame to 'em, I wos sech a scarecrow. The landin' was so dark

that I could 'ardly see, but my 'and touched a knocker, and I used it

free. Maxwell 'imself answered it, and I follered 'im to 'is room.

"By gum," said 'e, "you've got yerself up for egshibition! 'Ave yer

spent that twelve bob yer won of us at billiards?"

"Give me somethink to eat," sed I. "I'm 'arf starved."

He took a pie of some sort out of a cupboard, and I made short work of

it.

"Beer or whisky?" 'e sed, when I wos arf way through.

"Both," I answered, and 'e laughed as 'e put a bottle o' beer and 'arf

a tumbler of whisky afore me. I finished the beer and put the whisky

atop of it. It warmed me, I can tell yer.

"Now for business," he sed; "but fust go into that bath room, and wash

the dirt off your 'ands." I got 'em as clean as I could, and then 'e

sed, "There's a pack o' cards on the mantelshelf. Let's 'ave a game o'

piquet."

I stared at 'im, and sed I didn't know the game.

"I'll learn it yer," he sed. "You beat me at billiards; I want to see

if yer can beat me at piquet."

"I ain't got no money to lose," sed I.

"We'll play for nuts," sed 'e with a wink.

'E told me all the pints of the game, and in 'arf-a-hour I 'ad it at

my fingers' ends, and knew as much about it as 'e did 'isself.

"D'yer want me to play on the square?" I arst.

"I want to see 'ow yer can palm the cards," he answered. "I told yer

at Windsor yesterday that the job I 'ad to orfer yer wos to pick

feathers. A fat pigeon, with feathers of gold. Do yer twig?"

"Yes," I sed.

"I can palm the pasteboards pritty well myself," he went on, "but I

ain't allus to be depended on. Morgan's a muff, 'is fingers are all

thumbs. 'Old up yer 'ands. Good--as steady as a rock. Come on; it's

your deal."

We played, and I 'ardly ever dealt myself a 'and without four aces, or

four kings, or a point of sixteen or seventeen from the ace. In less

than a hour I won nigh upon a thousand points of 'im. 'E watched me

close, but 'e couldn't find out 'ow it wos done, and 'e said with a

sour grin that I wos the prince o' sharps, and that 'e wouldn't like

to play me for money.

Then 'e let me into the secret. There wos a young feller 'im and

Morgan wos wery intimate with; 'e 'ad money of 'is own, and 'ad won

more at the races, where the three of 'em went together. They'd won a

little off 'im at cards, but they 'ad a notion e' wos gettin'

suspicious of 'em, though they wosn't sure. Per'aps 'e wos, per'aps 'e

wosn't. Their scheme was to introduce a fourth gentleman who'd jine

the game.

"You're the fourth gentleman," sed Maxwell.

"Me!" I cried. "Why, I've only got to open my mouth to show wot I am."

They 'ad considered that. I wos a common, ignorant man, with a good

'eart--I wos to be sure to 'ave a good 'eart--as 'd made a fortune on

the goldfields. I wos to lose money as well as the pigeon, and that'd

make 'im less suspicious. The difference atween me and 'im wos that he

paid in good money and I paid in flash notes.

"One night," sed Maxwell, "arter yer've lost double as much as 'im

yer'll set down with me while 'e's in the room, and in an hour or

two yer'll win back double as much as yer've lost. That'll egg 'im

on, and 'e'll try to do the same with me or you--it don't matter

which--and then we'll clean 'im out. We'll 'ave every shillin' 'e's

got. We play for ready money--no infernal cheques--and when we've done

with 'im 'e can go to the devil. See?"

I did see. It wos a artful plot, and like enough to turn out jest as

'e calkylated.

"Wot am I to gain by it?" I arst.

"A reg'lar swell rig-out," 'e answered, "fine togs, a gold watch and

chain, and a ring, and two pound a week to keep yerself. When the

job's finished yer'll get a fourth of the winnin's."

I didn't throw away the chance--not me! Fine togs, a gold watch and

chain, a ring, and two pound a week--why, it wos a reg'lar slice o'

luck, with me starving, and not knowing where to git my next meal

from!

"I'll jine yer," said I. "'Ere's my 'and on it. Who's the pigeon?"

"D'yer remember that friend of our'n as Morgan played billiards with

at the Jolly Ploughboy?" arst Maxwell.

"Send I may live!" I cried. "If that's 'im we're done! 'E'll know me

agin as sure as guns."

"I'll eat my 'ead if 'e does," sed Maxwell. "You 'ad a mustarsh and a

pair o' whiskers, and you've got 'em now. Shave 'em off, and slip into

yer new togs, and yer own mother wouldn't know yer."

He wos right. Yer wouldn't believe the difference it made in me. When

I looked in the glass I thought I wos some one else.

Louis never suspected, and Maxwell sed I played my part tip-top. 'E

acted square as fur as 'is fust promises went. The watch and chain wos

only silver gilt, and the ring was Abyssinian gold and sham stones,

but the togs wos all right, and so wos the two quid a week. I told 'im

if 'e did me in the end when the job was finished, I'd make it warm

for 'im.

I've come across some bad 'uns in my time, but I never come across

sech a scoundrel as that Maxwell. 'E'd 'ave skinned 'is own mother if

'e could 'ave made anythink out of it and if 'e could 'ave put the

skinnin' on a pal. For that's where 'e beat us--'e knew 'ow to make

'isself safe if we wos blown on. Louis wos mad on 'orse-racin', and so

wos all of us, for the matter of that, but 'e took the cake. We went

all over the country, whenever there wos any sport on, and yer may bet

yer life we never give our own names nowhere. I think that Louis stuck

to us because 'e wos mad to git back the money 'e'd lost to Maxwell

and Morgan; 'e wos regularly pricked, and sometimes went for Maxwell

like a mad bull. But Maxwell kep' cool; 'e only lost 'isself once, and

you'll 'ear of it presently. 'E couldn't keep wot 'e won; 'e dashed it

down on the race-course, and wos more orfen stone broke than not. 'E

wos allus goin' to win a pot on the next race, and it never come

off--never once. 'E knowed sech a lot, yer see. That's wot's the

matter with most of us. We're so clever.

There wos 'ardly a night as we didn't end up with a gamble. Louis kep'

on droppin' 'is money, and the more 'e dropped the closer 'e stuck to

us. I dropped twice as much as 'e did, but then it made no difference

to me, one way or the other. When 'im and me wos pardners agin Maxwell

and Morgan, we lost four times out of five. It wos allus settled

before'and if 'e wos to win or lose, and the cards wos dealt

accordin'. If they'd been dealt fair 'e'd 'ave lost, but not as much.

'E reckoned 'isself the best player in the crowd, and it 'appened 'e

wos the wust. A barn-door fowl wosn't in it with 'im for crowin'.

"Never say die," I sed, when we wos reckonin' up our losses. "Luck

must turn. Maxwell don't play a bit better nor you or me. I'll git all

my money back, and a bit over, afore I've done with 'im."

It turned out that way 'cause it wos part of the plot.

We'd jest come to Liverpool, and it wos bitter weather. It was snowin'

all day and freezin' all night, and the racin' 'ad to be postponed.

"We'll finish the job 'ere," sed Maxwell.

So as to keep ourselves to ourselves a 'ouse 'ad been taken near the

docks; it wos only 'arf furnished, but that didn't matter. Morgan took

it for a month on trial, and give the name o' Mollison. The agent arst

for a reference, and one wos sent 'im from London, I don't know by

who. We took possession without anybody noticin' us. There wos a room

on the fust flore pritty well stocked with chairs, tables, sideboard,

lamps, lookin' glass over the mantelpiece, and all that. We smuggled

in grog, and wine, and cigars, and when we built up a big fire the

room looked cosy and comfortable. We used to go there after dinner,

and smoke, and drink, and play. One night I told Louis that I meant to

have a dash at Maxwell single-'anded.

"We ain't lucky as pardners," I sed, "I'm goin' to tackle 'im alone."

By that time Louis 'ad dropped a matter of three thousand quid,

accordin' to 'is reckonin', and 'e wos mad to git it back. I never

found out where the money went to; Maxwell wos always swearin' 'e

'adn't a shillin'. I'll do 'im the justice to say that 'e threw it

away right and left at the races, but 'e never showed us any account

of 'ow 'e got rid of it.

"Yer'll give me my revenge, yer'll give me my revenge!" That wos allus

Louis's cry when 'e settled up.

"Give yer yer revenge!" said Maxwell. "In course we will. We don't

want yer tin."

And perhaps the next time Louis 'ud win two or three pound. That wos

the way 'e wos led on. Maxwell knew 'ow to play 'is fish.

Well, Maxwell took up my challenge to play single-'anded, and we set

down to our match. Louis and Morgan wos playin' the same game--piquet

it wos--in another part of the room, but 'earin' the big talk atween

me and Maxwell they left off and come to our table.

"D'yer mind my lookin' over yer 'and?" sed Louis to me.

"Not a bit," I answered. "I'm winnin', and I ain't sooperstitious."

In course I palmed the cards, but it'd 'ave took a cleverer chap nor

Louis to ketch me. I ought to be rollin' in money.

"Rubicon'd agin!" cried Maxwell with a oath, dashin' 'is fist on the

table.

"Keep yer 'air on," I said with a larf as I picked up the cards. "I'll

give yer a chance. What d'yer say to two-pound points?"

"Done with you," sed Maxwell, wery eager.

"'Ow much 'ave yer won?" arst Louis.

"Count it up for me," sed I, givin' 'im the paper where the score was

marked down.

"It's over a thousand," 'e cried with blazin' eyes.

"It's my night," I sed. "Didn't I tell yer? I've got 'im on toast."

"'Oller when yer out o' the wood," growled Maxwell.

We went on playin', and I kep' on winnin'. Over two thousand wos now

the figger. Louis could 'ardly keep still. There was no mistake about

'is bein' in dead earnest, but as for us--well, we wos all larfin' in

our sleeves at 'im. It didn't turn out a larfin' matter in the end.

It was gittin' late, and I orfered to leave off.

"Wot d'yer mean?" cried Maxwell. "Do I ever orfer to leave off when

I'm winnin'? Let's 'ave six games at five-pound points. It'll take a

denced sight more nor that to break me."

"Would yer?" sed I, lookin' up at Louis.

"Let me take yer place," sed 'e; "I'll play 'im for any points 'e

likes."

"No," I answered, "I'll see it out with 'im."

So we resoomed the game, and at the end I'd won a matter of five

thousand pound. Didn't I wish it was real instead o' gammon?

"Now I'm on welwet," sed I, grinnin' and rubbin' my 'ands.

"Fortune o' war," sed Maxwell, takin' out a pocketbook stuffed with

flash notes. "Who cares? My turn yesterday, yourn to-day."

"Plenty more where that comes from, I 'ope," sed I.

"Don't you be afeerd," sed Maxwell, "if yer won ten times as much off

me yer'd git every farthin' of it."

"That's a comfort," sed I, countin' out the money as 'e passed it over

to me.

The wonder wos that Louis took it all in, but I never did see sech a

migsture as 'e wos. One minute 'e could be as cunnin' as a fox, and

the next as soft as butter. There was somethink atwixt 'im and Maxwell

I never got to the bottom of, a sort o' relationship through a sister

as wos dead, and they talked sometimes of some one abroad, and sed if

they got 'old of 'im they'd make it warm for 'im. But all that wos

nothink to me.

eg

If Louis 'ad 'ad a chance of 'andlin' the flash notes as I counted 'em

out it'd been all up the orchard with us, but we took care that 'e

never at any time 'ad one in 'is fingers. 'E wos short-sighted, and at

a little distance the flimseys looked all right. The notes of some o'

the country banks, yer know, ain't as spick and span as Bank of

England paper, but there' a lot o' that sort knockin' about in the

ring, and the bookeys pay 'em out free to them as 'll take 'em. The

biggest part of the wonder wos that Louis should 'ave believed we

carried sech large sums o' money about us. 'E wos jest the sort o'

chap that's took in with the confidence trick, and you read of 'em

pritty orfen in the papers. There's more o' that goin' on nor people

think of. For one case as comes afore the beak there's twenty that's

never 'eard of. If ain't a bad payin' trade, I can tell yer.

As I pocketed the notes Maxwell arst if I'd play 'im another match

to-morrer.

"No, no," cried Louis, all of a tremble; "it's my turn now. Yer've got

to give me my revenge!"

The fish wos 'ooked.

"That's only fair," sed I. "You 'ave a shy at 'im, Louis."

"I will--I will!" 'e cried. "If 'e's game."

"Game!" sed Maxwell. "We've seed a lot of each other, and when did yer

see me show the white feather? But I'm too tired now to go on playin',

I want to git to bed."

"To-morrer night, then," sed Louis. "It shall be make or break."

"All right," sed Maxwell.

"We'll begin at nine."

"Agreed. At nine o'clock."

So it wos settled, and wot we'd been workin' for so long wos comin'

off at last.

CHAPTER XXIX.

At nine o'clock we all met together in that room, and if any one 'ad

seed our faces 'e'd 'ave guessed there wos serious business on 'and.

It comes over me now to say as there wos a green carpet on the flore,

and I dare say that's the reason why I sor the wision of Louis

yesterday on the billiard table, and why it comes so orfen when I'm

crossin' a green field. I never noticed the color o' the carpet afore

that night.

We settled it atween us--that is, me and Maxwell and Morgan did--that

when the night's work wos over we'd clear out o' Liverpool immediate,

and make tracks separately for London, where we wos to meet at

Maxwell's rooms.

And wot a night it wos! The snow wos comin' down enough to blind yer,

and it wos as much as a man could do to stand agin the wind.

"All the better for the job we've got to do," sed Maxwell; "nobody'll

notice us goin' in or out."

Morgan and me set down at one table, and Louis and Maxwell at another.

Our chairs wos placed so as we could see the others without turnin'

round. We didn't pay much attention to the game we wos playin', though

we pretended to be in earnest over it. But we couldn't keep our eyes

off the other two. We wosn't as careful as we might 'ave been, for all

of a sudden the man as wos bein' rooked cried savagely:

"Wot are you fellers watchin' me for?"

"We ain't watchin' yer," growled Morgan.

"You are, and yer know you are," sed Louis. "Keep your eyes off me, or

I'll wash my 'ands of the 'ole crew."

"'Ow am I to take that, Louis?" arst Maxwell, speakin' very quiet.

When 'e spoke like that, with the look on 'is face 'e 'ad then, 'e wos

a dangerous man to tackle.

"Take it as yer please," Louis answered. "You and me 'ave knowed each

other a goodish long time now, and I've been thinkin' it ain't been

much in my pocket. From fust to last it's been a case o' shell out,

shell out."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" sed Maxwell, getting white about the gills.

"Yes, that's it," sed Louis. "Let's see. Wot am I winnin'?" He counted

up. "Six 'undered. Shall we leave off?"

"It ain't wot we arranged," sed Maxwell, pullin' in 'is 'orns. "I say,

you fellers--Louis is right. We don't want none o' your interference,

so keep yerselves to yerselves."

"And I'll 'ave no lookin' over our 'ands," said Louis. "Some people

don't mind it. I do. Stick to yer own table, and show us yer backs."

"Wot are yer makin' a row about?" arst Morgan. "We don't want ter 'ave

nothink to do with yer."

Upon that we turned our chairs so as we couldn't ketch sight of the

other table, and it wos only when Louis and Maxwell spoke out that we

could 'ear what wos goin' on.

"I sha'n't be sorry when it's over," whispered Morgan to me.

"More shall I," sed I.

If Louis'd carried out 'is threat of washin' his 'ands of us then and

there, it'd been better for 'im. But 'e couldn't guess wot wos going

to 'appen no more nor we could.

We all went on playin', and sometimes the room wos so quiet that you

could 'ave 'eard a mouse walk across the flore. We wosn't surprised

when Louis sed 'e'd won six 'undered; it wos part of the plot to let

'im win at fust. It's an old trick, yer know. From chance words we

caught now and then, we knew the luck 'ad turned, and that it wos

Maxwell now as wos winnin'.

"That makes five 'undered. Eight fifty. Double the stake if you like.

Thirteen 'undered. Another rubicon. Twenty-four 'undered. Luck wos

agin me last night; looks as if it wos turning. Your deal. I've got

six from the king! Good! And sixteen's twenty-two. And four queens,

ninety-six."

It wos Maxwell as spoke from time to time, and we knew that things wos

goin' on the way they'd been planned to. Later on, from wot we could

make out, Louis got tired of piquet. 'E cussed the cards, and cussed

'is luck, and cussed the company 'e wos in; and then proposed to play

cribbage, the best two games out of three, and go double or quits.

Maxwell, arter objectin' to sech a 'eavy stake, give in, and they got

out the cribbage board.

"It'll soon be over," whispered Morgan.

I nodded, and he looked at my watch. I can't be sure o' the time, but

I think it wos about eleven o'clock.

"Fust game to me," sed Maxwell.

They went on with the second, when all of a sudden Louis cried,

"Stop!" so loud that we 'eld our breaths, wonderin' wot was comin'.

"Wot's the matter now?" arst Maxwell, as gentle as a lamb.

"Wot's the matter now!" screamed Louis. "You're an infernal scoundrel,

that's wot's the matter. I've done with yer--and my mother shall be

done with yer. I sor yer palm them two fives. And look 'ere--and 'ere!

The cards are marked. That's 'ow you've been swindlin' me all along!"

Morgan put one of 'is 'ands on mine, and the other on 'is lips, as

much as to say, "Let 'em alone. We shall make it wuss if we put our

spoke in."

"You're out of yer senses," sed Maxwell, without raisin' 'is woice.

"I've won the money fair."

"You're a common cheat," cried Louis, "and you lie!"

"Don't say that agin," sed Maxwell.

"You lie--you lie--you lie!" screamed Louis.

Morgan and me both started to our feet, but we wos afraid to turn

round. I wos so scared that I wished myself well out of it, and from

Morgan's face I guessed he wished the same. No one spoke for a little

while, and then it wos Maxwell wot led the way.

"Yer'll 'ave to apolergize to me for this," 'e sed; "I'll wait till

yer cool."

"Yer'll wait till yer in yer grave, then," sed Louis, "and I'll see

yer in ---- fust."

"Are yer goin' to pay wot yer owe me?" arst Maxwell.

"Not one brass farden," Louis answered, "and I'll see if I can't git

back wot yer've robbed me of already. I'll have my revenge on yer

some'ow; I'll make a public egshibition of yer. You're a blackleg and

a swindler, and I'll take these marked cards to prove wot I say."

"Drop 'em," sed Maxwell, "or it'll be wuss for yer."

"Try and make me, yer blackleg!" cried Louis. "You low-bred thief, you

shall die in the 'ulks!"

"You fool," sed Maxwell, "take that for yer pains!"

And then there come a scream that curdled my blood. Morgan and me

turned and rushed towards 'em, and at that moment Louis dropped to the

flore with a knife in 'is 'eart.

"Good Gawd!" cried Morgan. "Wot 'ave yer done?"

Them was the last words I 'eerd, for I run like a madman to the door,

and flew downstairs quick as lightnin'. Wot I wanted wos to git out of

the 'ouse and 'ide myself somewhere. I'd never been mixed up with

anythink like that afore, and I wos frightened out of my life.

We usen't to 'ave a light in the passage, so it wos quite dark; but I

made my way to the street door, threw it open, and rushed out. I

'adn't time to take a step afore I found myself in the arms of a man

who was just outside, and there I wos, strugglin' and fightin' with

'im for dear life. Wot flashed through me wos that Louis' scream 'd

been 'eard, and that I should be taken up for murder. The man I wos

fightin' with sed somethink under 'is breath, but I didn't ketch the

words. I struck into 'im, and 'e struck into me, and the snow seemed

to be the color o' blood. Then 'e dragged me back into the passage,

and we went on fightin' like wild cats. 'Ow long it lasted I can't

say. My 'and was on 'is throat, and 'is 'and on mine, and there we

kep' on tearing at each other in the dark passage till I 'eerd 'im

give a groan. Then I flung 'im off, and 'e fell agin the stairs, I

think, and laid there quiet.

I didn't stop, yer may bet yer life. The minute I wos free I run out

of the 'ouse and through the snow, as if a 'undered devils wos at my

'eels. The next thing that I remember wos that I wos at the railway

station, taking a third class for London.

That's all I know about it, guv'nor. Wot I've sed I'll swear to. It's

the truth, the 'ole truth, and nothink but the truth, so 'elp me Gawd!

PART IV.

CHAPTER XXX.

PAUL GODFREY, PRIVATE DETECTIVE, CONTINUES HIS

NARRATIVE.

I did not doubt it. I believed every word that dropped from Jack's

lips, and it set me thinking. The extraordinary turn which his

disclosure had given to the Mystery opened up so many channels of

conjecture, some of which would assuredly be misleading and likely to

throw a man off the track, that I recognized the imperative necessity

of proceeding with the utmost care. To avoid falling into a pit of

confusion, system was no less necessary; the threads must be

disentangled; Jack's statement and John Fordham's Confession must be

studied and compared and discrepancies accounted for, not by the light

of any extraordinary agency, but by that of common sense; and when all

this was done the principal difficulties had yet to be encountered.

There were many doors in the Mystery, two or three of which were now

either quite or partially open; the others were locked, and it was for

me to find the keys.

Partly for John Fordham's sake, and chiefly for the sake of Miss

Cameron, I was elated by the discovery that it was not he who had

killed his half-brother Louis. It gave me the greatest pleasure to

think of the exquisite feeling of relief she would experience when I

supplied her with proof of his innocence--sufficient for her and for

me, but not sufficient, perhaps, in a legal sense. Considering the

feelings I entertained for Ellen Cameron, it may appear strange that I

should have become so zealous in the cause of the man who had

supplanted me, but there is nothing in the world so enthralling as the

gradual unfolding of a mystery such as this; there is no task so

absorbing as that of following it up step by step, and of at length

piercing the darkness which at first seemed impenetrable. There are

higher callings than mine, but I doubt if there are any more

interesting; and if you think it is one which does not demand fine

powers of reasoning, as well as the exercise of physical courage, you

are greatly mistaken. As for the hold it has upon the public, there is

no question about that. It is easily to be accounted for. If a simple

puzzle which is sold in the streets for a penny will interest

thousands of 'people, how much more so will a puzzle so intricate and

mysterious upon the unraveling of which the lives and happiness of

human beings depend? You may run us down as much as you like (I have

just been reading something of the kind), but you can't do without us,

and will never be able to; and without us, many and many a wrong would

never be righted. And after all, what are your finest lawyers, and

judges, and Lord Chief Justices but a superior kind of detective?

There are black sheep among us, and there are black sheep among them.

There are black sheep everywhere. So, having had my say, I will go on

with my story.

To my mind, nothing was more natural than the encounter between John

Fordham and Jack, nothing more natural than the instantaneous

conclusions drawn by the combatants--Jack believing his antagonist to

be an officer of the law, and Fordham believing his to be a ruffian,

bent upon robbery or murder. In many respects Jack's disclosures

corroborated the account written by Fordham, but there were important

gaps that required to be filled in. Jack did not admit any lapses of

memory; he went straight on from beginning to end without hesitation.

Fordham was less confident, and his admission of a failure of memory

at a vital point of his story would lead to the presumption that his

memory was not to be depended upon in other points. Whether judge and

jury would accept Jack's evidence with as much faith as I did remained

to be seen. He was a tainted witness, and an accessory to the fact of

the murder. Then, again, I had pledged myself that he should not be

harmed. If he were brought forward in the present position of the case

he would certainly come to grief. For a time, therefore, he must be

kept in the background. Only through the principal being charged with

the crime could he be accepted as Queen's evidence, and even then his

statements would require corroboration. Morgan could corroborate them,

but would he, being himself in danger? And before Morgan could be

produced, he had to be found. Maxwell, also. It was not likely that

either of them would present himself of his own accord. Well, they

must be hunted down.

Before I left Jack I questioned him upon various matters, testing him,

as it were, and putting him in the witness-box. There was one

statement especially which emphatically needed confirmation or

refutation, and this I did not introduce till the end. There was no

prevarication in his answers; his description of Louis' personal

appearance, with the scar on his forehead which flushed and reddened

when he was excited, tallied with that given by Fordham, and he

adhered unflinchingly to his account of the last scene of the tragedy.

A few of my questions were such as would be put to him in the

witness-box under the fire of cross-examination.

"You say your back was turned during the altercation between Louis and

Maxwell?"

"Yes."

"And Morgan's also?"

"Yes."

"You heard them threaten each other!"

"Yes."

"Then you heard a scream?"

"Yes."

"And turning, saw Louis fall to the ground with a knife sticking in

him?"

"Yes."

"But you did not see the blow struck?"

"No."

"It might have been done by himself?"

"Now, look 'ere, guv'nor," said Jack, slipping out of the imaginary

witness-box, "is that likely?"

"Why not, Jack? I will put it in this way. They quarrel and threaten

each other. 'You low-bred thief,' cries Louis, 'you shall die in the

hulks!' 'You fool,' cries Maxwell, 'take that for your pains!' And he

lets drive with his fist at Louis' face. At that precise moment Louis,

with a knife in his hand, makes a drive at Maxwell. The collision

diverts his aim, and the knife is jammed into his own breast instead

of Maxwell's. How does that strike you?"

"It won't wash," answered Jack, "'cause I say it wos the other way."

"Because you say! You're a creditable kind of witness, you are--such a

respectable character--you can show such a clean record, you can--and

as for telling a dozen or two lies, who would believe you capable of

such a thing, Jack?"

"All very true, guv'nor, wuss luck--but it don't make black white,

'cause I'm a wrong 'un."

"Doesn't it? There's no telling what a smart lawyer can do with a

witness like you in the box. You'd twist and squirm like a skinned

eel. But we'll pass that for the present, and come to something more

important. You say that at the commencement of the quarrel Louis

cried, 'I've done with you, and my mother shall be done with you.' Are

you positive he said just those words? Be very careful about this,

Jack."

"If 'e didn't say jest them words," Jack replied, "'e sed somethink so

near to 'em that yer couldn't tell the difference. But I don't see

wot's that got to do with it."

"It isn't for you to see. Make up your mind to one thing--that I know

a good deal more about the affair than you do. You are positive he

said, 'My mother shall be done with you?'"

"I'll swear to it, guv'nor. Wot should I 'ave knowed about 'is mother

if 'e 'adn't spoke about 'er, 'isself? 'Ow wos I to guess 'e 'ad a

mother when I didn't know who 'e wos or where 'e come from?"

"That seems conclusive," I said. "By the way, did you happen to hear

Maxwell or Louis mention the name of Annette?"

"Not as I remember."

"Annette Lourbet," I said, to jog his memory. "A Frenchwoman."

"No, guv'nor, I never 'eerd the name."

"Thank you. What are you doing for a living just now?"

"I can't say I'm doin' anythink pertic'lar. Pickin' it up any'ow."

"Well, look here, I can put something in your way. I want you to keep

your eyes open and to go about London--especially about the suburbs."

"Wot's the little game, guv'nor?"

"Don't be a dull boy, Jack. You might come across Maxwell or Morgan.

I'd like particularly to have a little chat with Maxwell."

"I shouldn't mind it myself," said Jack, with a kind of growl.

"Do I understand you have seen either of them since you left

Liverpool?"

"Never set eyes on 'em."

"As to the best chance of coming across them now? Can you suggest

anything?"

"To keep on the trot, in course," he said, reflectively. "But it ain't

to be done by a man like me without a object. If I went about without

a object the coppers 'd say, 'Allo! Wot's 'e up to?'"

"Naturally. But if you kept on the trot with an object, they wouldn't

think of following you. Eh?"

"No, they'd let me alone. There's one way it's to be done, guv'nor."

"Name it."

"A barrer, with or without a moke."

"And on the barrow?"

"Flowers in pots, all a'blowin' and a'growin'."

"Capital," I said, admiringly. "How much would the stock-in-trade

cost?"

"The barrer and moke could be 'ired by the day. Yer'd go as fur as a

moke, guv'nor, wouldn't yer? It's killin' work draggin' a barrer full

o' flower pots up and down 'ill. There's 'Ampstead way, now. Think o'

wot it means, from Coven' Garden to 'Ampstead 'Eath."

"I'd go as far as a moke, Jack." His face brightened. "And the flowers

would cost?"

"A thick 'un 'd do it, guv'nor, and I don't know but wot it wouldn't

pay."

"Let us hope it will. Here's twenty-five shillings to set you up."

I gave him the money and my address, and telling him to call upon me

at the end of the week, or earlier if he had anything to communicate,

I bade him good day--with an impression that he was really pleased at

the prospect of earning an honest livelihood. As he himself had

pathetically said, such a life as his wasn't all beer and skittles.

Let me state here why I was so anxious with respect to his allusion to

his mother which, according to Jack, was made by Louis during his

quarrel with Maxwell. The apparently unimportant words, "My mother

shall be done with you," assumed intense significance when placed side

by side with the information volunteered by Maxwell a fortnight

afterwards, that John Fordham's stepmother was dead. Jack, being

unacquainted with Louis' family connections, could not have invented

Louis' mother--therefore the words were certainly spoken by Louis,

establishing without a shadow of a doubt that at that time his mother

was living. Only a fortnight intervened before Maxwell declared that

she was dead. I dismiss the hypothesis that the woman--I will not call

her a lady--died during the interval. Setting that aside, I come face

to face with the question, "For what reason did Maxwell wish John

Fordham to believe that his stepmother was dead?"

I was fairly puzzled; I could find no answer to the question.

Next, I turned my attention to a consideration of the state and

progress of affairs when Jack, in a frenzy of fear, rushed from the

house in which the murder was committed. The fight between him and

Fordham is going on in the street; the street door is dashed open and

the combatants stumble into the passage, where the savage conflict is

continued. In the room above Louis lies dead, and Morgan and Maxwell

stand in terror, listening to the sounds of the struggle below. What

does it portend--what, except that they are in deadly peril? They are

too terrified to move. If they open the door, they will be pounced

upon and arrested for the crime, for they do not doubt that the police

have been watching their movements, and have obtained entrance to the

house. Suddenly the sounds cease. Fordham lies senseless on the

stairs, and Jack is speeding to the railway station. All is quiet

without and within, for the partners in crime are too frightened to

move. At length they venture to speak, but in a whisper, for they

still fear that officers are lurking outside to secure them. After a

long interval of time they pluck up sufficient courage to open the

door. No one molests them. They creep out into the passage, and down

the stairs, and are stopped by the body of Fordham. Maxwell recognizes

him, and a devilish plot suggests itself. John Fordham and Louis are

old enemies--how easy to fasten the murder upon John! He and Morgan

carry the body of the unconscious man into the room, and place it near

the dead body of Louis. They find a knife upon him--they dip it in

Louis' blood. Maxwell takes Fordham's watch, and finds his matchbox on

the stairs. He has an idea that they may come in useful to fix the

murder upon Fordham. He leaves the knife. Then he and Morgan steal

from the house.

Thus far did I trace the probable course of action. If it were

anywhere near the truth, it established a binding link between Maxwell

and Morgan, each of whom, from that night, held the other in his

power. I asked myself whether Maxwell confided to Morgan the existence

of the family connection which existed between him and John Fordham.

To this question I found an answer. No. It was not in Maxwell's nature

to impart to any one a confidence which might result to his

disadvantage. Without having met the man, I seemed to see him, so

graphically was he portrayed by Fordham and Jack. He was one who kept

his own secrets.

What followed on their departure is related by Fordham up to the

moment of his own departure, when he fled from the house, leaving the

dead body of Louis as its only occupant. Possibly he was watched and

seen by his enemies, who re-entered the house after he was gone. They

feel in Louis' pocket for his watch. "He has stolen it," they say.

They look round for Louis' overcoat. "He has run off with it," they

say. And then their eyes fall upon Fordham's blood-stained knife,

which he foolishly left behind him. I can imagine their fiendish glee

at these discoveries. "He has convicted himself," they say. But there

is still a possible danger. Louis might have been seen in their

company. If his features were mutilated so that it would be difficult

to establish his identity, it would afford them an additional element

of safety. The heavy oak table is dashed upon his face, and their work

is complete. Once more the house of death is left in possession of its

ghastly occupant.

While I was following out these conjectures (for of course they were

nothing more, and it will be seen in time whether they were correct) I

received a report from the Liverpool expert to whom I had entrusted

the two letters. It confirmed my suspicions, and furnished me with

another link to the chain I was weaving. Although an attempt had been

made to disguise the writing of the letter sent by "Mr. Lambert" to

the house agent, the expert stated that both letters were written by

the same hand. Scoundrel as Maxwell was, he would have been more

careful had he imagined that the plot to fleece Louis would have ended

so tragically.

Now, of what legal value was all this evidence? A skillful lawyer

might do something with it, but I doubted whether, unsupported and

uncorroborated, it would establish John Fordham's innocence. In this

view Fordham himself concurred; indeed, it was he who first laid

emphasis upon it. I have seldom seen a man more agitated when he

learned from me that there was no guilt of blood upon his soul. For

several minutes he could not speak. He sat with his face buried in his

hands, and when he raised his head the tears were still running down

his cheeks.

"I can bear the worst now," he said; and I knew from the remarks he

made, that he was more grateful for Ellen's sake than for his own. I

shall call her Ellen; surely I have the right, working as I was for

her and for the man who had, in a sort of way, supplanted me. Had she

seen me first--but of what use is it to speculate upon what might have

been?