As I have said, it was Fordham who laid stress upon the evidence

against himself, evidence of his own supplying. His silence, his long

concealment in London under an assumed name, the incriminating

articles in his possession, which he had given up to the police, were

strong points against him.

"If my innocence is not clearly proved," he said, "I shall not care to

be released."

"You can't compel a jury to declare you guilty," I urged, and I

confess to being angry with him.

"No," he replied, "but the doubt would remain and would darken my

days."

"Well," I said, "anyway, the police are not likely to let you go

without a searching inquiry. For the present we must be silent, and

bend all our energies to the discovery of Maxwell and Morgan."

It was a hard matter to convince Ellen of the wisdom of this course,

and indeed we did not succeed in convincing her; but she was compelled

to yield in the end, though she protested against the injustice of

Fordham being kept in prison. There is a reason of the heart and a

reason of the head, and when we are dealing with stern facts, we know

which is likely to come out the winner.

The position, you see, was one of great difficulty. I was pledged to

Jack, and to break my word would be to bring him immediately into

danger. This I determined not do until every other chance failed me.

It was a prudent as well as a just resolve. If Jack found himself

betrayed and brought to bay, it was as likely as not that he would

deny everything, or that he would commit himself to statements which

would place Fordham in jeopardy.

I met my card-sharping friend before the end of the week, when it had

been decided that he was to pay me a visit. I was on my way to

Highgate Cemetery, and I came across him in the N. W. district. He had

hired a donkey, and there was a gay show of flowers on his barrow.

Seeing me approach, he gave me a wink and an almost imperceptible

shake of the head. I inferred from the wink that business was

prospering, and from the nod that he did not wish to be spoken to. I

returned his wink and passed on.

My object in going to Highgate Cemetery was to ascertain if a lady of

the name of Fordham was buried there, as would certainly have been the

case if, as had been stated by Maxwell, Louis' mother was dead. As I

have already said, I did not believe he had spoken the truth, but if I

was mistaken I should be able to learn the address from which the

coffin was taken.

I was not mistaken. There was a family grave in the cemetery purchased

by John Fordham's father, but since his death no one had been buried

there. Undoubtedly Maxwell had lied, and Louis' mother was alive.

CHAPTER XXXI.

PAUL GODFREY, DETECTIVE, CONTINUES HIS NARRATIVE.

The motive--the motive. This was the subject of my thoughts as I

walked from the Cemetery. What possible motive could Maxwell have in

making John Fordham believe that his stepmother was dead? If she were

living, Fordham could have nothing to hope from her; if she were dead,

it was an obstacle removed from his path, a witness the less against

him. It was not likely that Maxwell was anxious to afford him this

satisfaction; there was a cunning motive for the deceit, but though I

twisted the question a dozen different ways, I could not make head or

tail of it.

Puzzling my head over the matter, I found myself in the neighborhood

of Soho.

It was not chance that directed me there. I had not forgotten the

woman, Annette Lourbet, who plays so important a part in John

Fordham's confession, and though she seemed to have passed out of the

story at about the time he left England for Australia, I had an idea,

if I succeeded in discovering her, that I might obtain some useful

information. I hardly knew in what shape, but in such a task as mine

the slightest clue frequently leads to a momentous result.

Up to this day my search for. Annette had been unsuccessful. Of

course, I had looked through the London Directory for the name of

Lourbet, but curiously enough, it did not appear there, and I

concluded either that the woman had married or had returned to her

native country. If she had married and was still in London, Soho was

the most likely neighborhood in which to find her, and I had already

spent several fruitless hours in those narrow thoroughfares. My

patience, however, was not exhausted, and I was now treading them

again in the hope of a better reward.

I think I may say that hitherto chance had not befriended me, but on

this day it did me a turn, and in a singular way. About to pass a

continental provision shop, of which there are a great many in Soho,

and in the windows of which was the usual display of German sausages,

pickles, potted meats, French mustard, pretzels, Dutch herrings,

cucumbers, etc., I was obstructed by a ladder, and had to cross the

road. A sign-painter was at work on the ladder, and glancing at the

board over the window, I saw that a name had been erased and was being

replaced by another, the first letter, L, having just been painted in

bright blue. I walked on, attaching no importance to the incident; but

when, half an hour afterwards, I passed the shop again, and saw that

the painter had got as far as L O U, something like an electric shock

darted through me.

L O U, the first three letters in the name of Lourbet.

I did not linger; the next minute I was in an adjoining street. The

shop would not run away, and the proprietor would not run away. I

could afford to wait.

I did wait for an hour and more before I sauntered again through that

particular street. The sign was finished, and stared me in the face. I

could have hugged myself when I saw the full name of Lourbet on the

signboard.

Now, was the name that of a woman, and was her Christian name Annette?

Half a dozen persons were looking up at it in admiration of the

painter's skill. One, however, a little man who appeared to have been

drinking was regarding it with wrath and dissatisfaction; he even went

so far as to shake his fist at it. He was a most disreputable looking

character, and evidently a confirmed toper. As he held up his fist a

woman darted from the shop, and standing at the door fired one word at

him.

"Pig!"

In response to which he directed his fist towards her face. This so

inflamed her that she flew at him, and, seizing him by the collar,

shook him with such violence that he fell to the ground the moment he

was released. By this time a crowd had gathered, whose sympathies were

entirely on her side. They jeered and laughed at the man, with whom

they appeared to be acquainted, and who lay in a state of collapse.

Not that he was hurt, except, as a matter of course, in his feelings,

but he was afraid to rise and risk a second shaking at the hands of

the woman, who seemed to be smarting under a sense of injury. To my

surprise she became suddenly quite calm and composed, and stood

looking down upon him with a disdainful smile on her thin, white lips.

"It is well done, Madame Lourbet," cried a Frenchwoman in the crowd.

"It is as he deserves. I would wring his neck if he had served me so."

"Thank you, madame," replied Madame Lourbet, "for the name. It is my

own. Behold it, pig!" Addressing her discomfited foe, and pointing to

the newly-painted sign. "I r-r-renounce you. Come to me no more.

Begone!"

There was a melodramatic touch in her words, but not in her utterance

of them. Had I not witnessed it I could hardly have believed that they

were spoken by the woman who had behaved with so much violence. The

cold, passionless voice was, in my judgment, the result of long

training, and I detected in her so many little resemblances to the

Annette portrayed by John Fordham in his confession that I did not

doubt I had found her at last. I was careful to keep out of her sight,

having determined to seek enlightenment first from the man, for I was

curious to learn the meaning of this singular scene.

The approach of a policeman put an end to it. The crowd dissolved,

Madame Lourbet returned to her shop, and the man, whose furtive looks

had followed her movements, slowly picked himself up. If he had been

inclined to appeal against the judgment which had been pronounced he

was manifestly not in a condition to do so just now; seemingly

recognizing this, he slunk off with the air of a whipped cur.

The policeman took no notice of him, and was soon out of sight; I kept

in his track till he halted at the door of a public-house and fumbled

in his pockets. Finding nothing there he relapsed into a state of

maudlin despair. This was my opportunity, and I took advantage of it.

Over a friendly glass or two, he drinking my share and his own with

cheerful alacrity, he ventilated his grievances.

Annette was his wife, so ne declared; they had lived together three

years; she had worshiped the ground he trod on, and his name had been

painted over the shop window. And now, after he had ruined himself for

her (he did not specify in what way) she turned upon him and cast him

adrift. He would not stand it--no, he was an Englishman, and he would

not stand it. She was tired of him, was she? She had another lover,

had she? He would have his blood. And so on, and so on.

The real fact was that there had been a trifling informality in the

marriage, the man I was pumping being married already when he went

through the ceremony with Annette. It was true that his first wife

died shortly after he married his second, but Annette had only lately

discovered that her own marriage was illegal, and being tired of the

rascal was glad to be quit of him. She had been prudent enough to

protect her savings; the business was hers, the stock was hers, and

she had turned him out with never a penny in his pockets.

"Not a penny, not one single penny," he whined. I sympathized with

him, of course, and I left him at his lodgings--a garret in the same

street as the shop--with a promise to call upon him the next night and

see if anything could be done to soften Annette's heart.

The information I had extracted from him was not of much present use

to me, but I saw the possibility of the acquaintanceship being of

service, and I was by no means dissatisfied with my day's work; but

the day was not yet over. I have good reason to remember it, and so

has every person associated with the mystery, so many strange things

occurred--the strangest of all (which at first seemed to have not the

slightest connection with the affair) leading to a most surprising and

unexpected discovery.

It was my intention to pay Madame Lourbet a visit, and I thought that

evening would be the best time. I had business to transact at my

office, for this Liverpool murder, though it occupied so much of my

time, was not the only thing I had to attend to. So to my office I

went and spent a useful hour in straightening my affairs and giving

instructions to my clerk. Then I sat down to catch up arrears of

correspondence, and by four o'clock I had everything in order. I had

put away my papers and stamped the last of my letters when my clerk

announced a lady--Mrs. Barlow, who was most anxious to see me. She was

shown in, an elderly lady, with a careworn face and ladylike manners.

She had been recommended to me, as a likely person to discover her

son, whom she had not seen for five or six years.

"Nor heard from him?" I asked.

"Not a line," she answered in a sad voice.

"Is he in England?"

"I do not know."

"Well, tell me all about it," I said, "and bear in mind that your time

and money will be thrown away if you keep anything in the background."

I condense what she related. She was a widow, with one child, this son

who had deserted her. He had always given her trouble. Not that he was

bad at heart, but so easily led away, believing in everybody, trusting

everybody. (Mother's love, here; I knew its value in a practical

sense.) Unfortunately he had fallen into bad company, and her belief

was that he was ashamed to return to her. Years ago they had been

fairly well off, but little by little he had got from her all she was

worth, and then he left her. She managed to rub along, however, being

assisted by Philip's uncle, her deceased husband's brother. This uncle

had lately died and left her a small legacy, which she had received. A

legacy of three thousand pounds was left to Philip; in case of his

death at the time of the testator's decease the money would go to a

charitable institution. Philip had not presented himself to claim the

legacy, and she was naturally anxious to discover him, so she had come

to me to assist her.

A simple story, before the end of which I had made up my mind about

the man. A thoroughly bad lot--an opinion I kept to myself, however.

I put a few questions to Mrs. Barlow.

"Can you think of any reason why your son should not come forward to

claim this fortune?"

"No."

She was afraid to express what must have been in her mind--that he was

dead.

"He fell into bad company, you say. What kind of bad company? I must

press for an answer."

"Unfortunately he was fond of cards."

"Blacklegs got hold of him, then?" She sighed. "Did he bet on horses?"

"Yes."

"That explains a great deal. He went to races and lost his money?"

"Everybody took advantage of him."

"I see. Now, Mrs. Barlow, if I take this matter up I must have a free

hand. Among other things I shall do I may have to advertise. If you

have any objection, you had best say so at once."

"You may do anything you like--only discover my son for me."

"Very well. Have you a portrait of your son?"

"Yes--a cabinet in a frame. I did not bring it with me."

"Send it immediately to my private address. I should like it soon."

"You shall have it to-night. I will bring it myself."

I gave her my private card, and took five pounds from her for

preliminary expenses.

She was about to leave, when she turned and said:

"Perhaps I ought to tell you that a friend mentioned that he thought

he saw Philip."

"Certainly you ought to tell me. The mischief of these cases is that

there is always something kept back. Where did he see him?"

"In Liverpool, but he is not certain it was Philip."

"Very stupid of him. How long ago was it?"

"Over a year ago."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all," she said, and bade me good-day.

Before I left my office I wrote an advertisement for the personal

columns of the daily papers, to the effect that if Philip Barlow

called upon or communicated with me, he would hear of something very

much to his advantage. Instructing my clerk to insert the

advertisement in three of the principal newspapers, I went to my

lodgings and made a change in my appearance, which I deemed prudent,

in view of my visit to Madame Lourbet.

That lady was not in her shop when I entered it. In response to a rap

on the counter, she issued from an inner room, and asked what I

required. There was a glass panel in the door of this room, across

which a green curtain was drawn. I have a faculty of observation which

enables me to see a great deal at a glance.

While I was making a few small purchases, I entered 'into conversation

with her. I said that I had been recommended to her shop, but had some

difficulty in finding it, in consequence of the name over the window

being altered. She admitted the alteration, and said that the business

would in future be conducted under the new name.

"Your own name, I presume, madame?" I said.

"My own name," she answered. "It makes no difference in what I sell."

"None at all," I said, briskly. "You were spoken of, I remember, as

Madame Annette."

"That, also, is my name. May I ask, monsieur, by whom you were

recommended?"

I watched her face keenly as I replied, "Madame, or rather, Mrs.

Fordham."

As I uttered the name I observed a slight disturbance of the green

curtain.

"Pardon me, monsieur," she said, and went into the private room, the

door of which she carefully opened and shut.

"Now," thought I, "what is the meaning of this, and will it make any

difference in Madame Lourbet's behavior?"

It made a perceptible difference. Something had passed between her and

the person in the inner room which had put her on her guard, and she

was watching me now as keenly as I was watching her.

"Madame Fordham," she remarked, with assumed indifference, continuing

our conversation. "Who is Madame Fordham?"

"I supposed she was a customer of yours," I answered.

"It may be," she said. "Oh, yes, it may be; but does one know all

one's customers?"

"That would be difficult," I said, laughing, "with such a connection

as you have, madame."

"You are right, monsieur, it would be difficult. Do you require

anything more?"

"Nothing more, thank you, madame."

She let an arrow fly. "I will send the articles home and the bill, if

monsieur will kindly give me his address."

"Much obliged, madame," was my reply: "I will pay for them, and take

them with me."

So the little passage at arms ended, and I walked away just a trifle

wiser than I came, for I had learned that Madame Lourbet did not

desire to talk about John Fordham's stepmother, and that there was

some person behind the green curtain who also had an interest in the

matter. Had I deemed it safe I would have kept watch for that person

outside Madame Lourbet's shop, but I felt that I was dealing with a

woman as clever as myself, and I recognized the necessity of caution.

It was annoying, but there was no help for it.

The day had been one of the busiest in my recollection, and I was glad

to sit down to a cup of tea in my own private apartment. During the

meal I was debating how the incidents I have recorded could be turned

to advantage, when the landlady came in and informed me that a man was

down-stairs who insisted on seeing me. She did not like to let him up,

she said, he was such a common-looking man; besides, he was the worse

for liquor. But he would not go away.

"I did all I could, sir," said my landlady, "but go he wouldn't. 'Tell

him it's Jack,' he said."

"Jack!" I cried, interrupting her. "Show him in at once, and don't let

us be interrupted; I have business with him."

Much astonished, she departed on her errand, and the next minute Jack

stood before me.

My first impression was that the landlady was right, and that Jack had

been drinking. His face was as white as a sheet, his eyes glared, and

his limbs shook like a man in a palsy.

"You're a pretty object," I said, sternly; but he did not seem to hear

what I said.

"Guv'nor," he gasped, in a horse voice, "is that tea? Will yer give me

a cup? My throat's on fire."

"Well it might be," I answered, filling a cup, "but I should have

thought brandy was more in your way. You'll come to a bad end, my

lad."

Still he did not seem to understand me, but took the cup with his

shaking hands, holding it in both lest it should slip to the ground.

As it was he spilled half of it before it reached his mouth. I took

the cup from him, and placing it on the table said:

"Now, what is the meaning of this? How dare you come here in such a

state?"

"Give me time, guv'nor, give me time," he croaked. "I shall be better

in a minute. Yer think I've been drinkin'. Yer wos never more mistook.

I 'ad a pint o' mild this mornin', but I 'ope I may drop down dead if

another drop 'as passed my lips the 'ole of this blessed day. I've 'ad

a scare, guv'nor--I've 'ad a scare." He dropped his voice, and bending

forward, said: "Did yer ever see a ghost?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Jack. You look as if you'd seen one."

"I 'ave, guv'nor."

"Ah," said I, becoming interested, in spite of my suspicion that he

was drunk, his manner was so earnest, "whose ghost?"

"The ghost of 'im as wos murdered. The ghost of Louis Fordham."

"You are dreaming, Jack," I said, staring at him.

"Not me, guv'nor. I'm wide awake, I am. Oh!" He gave a sudden start,

and turned his head over his shoulder, as though a spirit was standing

behind him.

"You see one now, perhaps," I said.

"No, guv'nor, but I don't know as 'e mightn't appear in this wery

room. Is there such things, or am I goin' mad?"

"Not unlikely, Jack, when you come to me with such a cock and bull

story. I recollect your saying that you'd seen the murdered man lying

on a green field and on a billiard table. This is something of the

same sort, I suppose."

"No, guv'nor, that was a wision, and I knew it wosn't real. But this

wos. I touched it as it passed."

"Oh, it passed you, did it? Come, my man, let us have the whole of it;

I may understand it better then. Where were you, what time of day was

it, and in what shape did it appear to you?"

"The shape wos 'is own, and the time o' day was four this arternoon,

and the place wos Finchley Road."

"Go on, Jack," I said, seeing that he believed in it.

"I was out with the barrer," he continued, "and was bargainin' with a

lady for some daisies. There they wos on the pavement, and she and me

lookin' at 'em. As I stooped to pick up a pot, somethink brushed by

me. We touched each other. Lookin' up I sor Louis, and the pot dropped

from my hand."

"Did you go after him?"

"Me go arter 'im. I'd 'ave run a 'undered miles the other way."

"Did he vanish in blue flames, Jack?"

"No, guv'nor. 'E turned a corner."

"But, consider, my lad. The man is dead."

"Don't I know it?" cried Jack, as if my remark exasperated him. "Is it

likely I should 'ave come to you if 'e'd been alive?"

"You looked up at him, you say. Did he look down at you?"

"No, guv'nor, not that I noticed. D'yer think I've been makin' up the

story?"

"No, I don't think that, because there's nothing to gain by it. What I

do think is that you've been scared by seeing some one who bears a

resemblance to Louis. It isn't at all an uncommon thing. Innocent men

have been hanged upon such evidence."

"Guv'nor," said Jack, impressively, "it wos 'im, I tell yer. There wos

'is 'eight, there was 'is build, and there wos the scar on 'is

fore'ead. I'll take my Bible oath it wos Louis' ghost."

"Even the scar may be on the other man's forehead," I persisted.

"There have been much closer resemblances. A dozen witnesses have

sworn to the identity of a man who was being tried for a crime of

which he was as innocent as I am, have sworn to his voice, to the

color of his eyes and hair, to secret marks upon his person, to a

missing tooth, to the peculiar shape of his fingers, and he has been

condemned upon their evidence. Only after his death has it been

discovered that the wrong man had been hanged. Wives themselves have

been taken in, and have lived for years with men they believed to be

their husbands. Go home, Jack, and think of these cases, much more

wonderful than your accidental resemblance, and don't make a fool of

yourself."

I might as well have spoken to a stone. Jack was not to be argued out

of his fright, and that it was genuine was proved by the startled

looks he cast behind him from time to time. A gentle tap at the door

sent his heart into his mouth. It was my landlady, who came with a

parcel that had been left for me by a lady, who wished to hand it to

me herself, but was told I was engaged and could not be disturbed. As

I had exhausted all my arguments upon Jack, and as he did not seem in

a hurry to go, I opened the parcel in his presence, and drew out the

cabinet portrait of Mrs. Barlow's missing son which she had promised

to bring to my lodgings.

"Send I may live, guv'nor!" cried Jack, peering at it over my

shoulder, his eyes almost starting out of his head, "where did you get

that from?"

"It's the picture of a missing man, Jack," I replied, "who has had a

lump of money left to him. I want to lay my hands on him." It was then

that I noticed the strange expression on Jack's face, and I added,

jokingly, "It isn't a ghost."

"No, it ain't a ghost," he said, "it's Morgan."

"Morgan!" I exclaimed. "Your card-sharping Liverpool friend?"

"That's 'im, guv'nor. A lump o' money left 'im! Why don't 'e come and

collar it?"

"Are you sure you are not mistaken?" I asked.

"'Ow could I be mistook?" he demanded. "Wosn't 'im and me together day

and night for weeks and weeks? I'd swear to 'im among a 'undered."

Reluctant as I was to take Jack's word for Louis' ghost, I could not

dispute with him as to Morgan's portrait. It was long before I could

get rid of him, and he went away as firmly convinced of one as he was

of the other. In such positive terms did he express his conviction on

the former subject that if I were not a hard-headed, practical man,

with very little sentiment in my nature, it is quite on the cards that

he would have shaken my belief that he was laboring under some

monstrous delusion in respect of the murdered man. At the same time I

confess to being curious about Louis' "double," and to having a desire

to see him with my own eyes. It was for this reason, on the chance of

being gratified, that I made an appointment to accompany Jack the next

day in his peregrinations through the N. W. district, in the disguise

of a brother coster. The hour of appointment was noon.

Meanwhile there was much to think of, much to do. Fortunately I am a

healthy man and can do with three or four hours' sleep, or I should

never have got through with it.

There was in my mind the design, not yet thoroughly planned out, of

having Louis' body exhumed, in order that its identity might be

established beyond the possibility of doubt. This would effectually

dispose of Jack's fancies, which, after further reflection, I set down

to the stings of conscience, and as properly belonging to that form of

imaginative creation which had conjured up the vision of Louis' body

lying on a billiard cloth and on green fields. To establish this

identity witnesses would be required. I could give evidence as to the

scar upon the forehead, but only from what I had been told; it would

be secondary evidence, and therefore not admissible. I mentally ran

through the names of the witnesses whose evidence, from personal

knowledge, would be of value.

John Fordham, for one. Though it might tell against himself, he would

be ready and willing to testify. I needed nothing to convince me that

he was a truthful and honorable man who would not palter with his

conscience even though it added to the peril in which he stood.

Then, Jack. But it would bring him into danger. A far different

character he from Fordham. He would be dragged forward against his

will, and in these circumstances his word could not be depended upon.

In the present aspect of the affair his was the only evidence upon

which Fordham's innocence could be to some extent proved. Believing

himself to be in danger such a man as Jack would be capable of

anything; he might deny all that he had admitted, he might even

concoct a story which would throw the entire guilt upon the man I was

trying to save. Therefore, Jack's evidence upon this question of

identity could not be reckoned with just now. For a time at least it

must be set aside.

Then, Louis' mother. But her son's name had appeared in the papers as

that of the man whom, by Fordham's confession, he had murdered. It

must not be forgotten that I was convinced she was living. That being

so, why was she silent? Why did she remain in hiding? That was one of

the unanswered questions in the Mystery.

Then, Maxwell. Also in hiding. He, of all who were associated in the

mystery, was the least likely to come forward of his own free will.

Then, Morgan----

At his name my reflections were diverted into another channel. Three

thousand pounds was a handsome sum--a Godsend to such a man. Why had

he not claimed it? There was more than one answer to the question. He

might not be aware of his uncle's death; as his own mother did not

know his address the solicitors to the will could not communicate with

him. He might be dead; he might have left the country. If he were

living would my advertisement in the personal columns of the

newspapers be successful in unearthing him? It occurred to me that it

would increase my chances of success if I advertised for him in his

assumed name, and I drew out the following advertisement:--

"A Large Sum of Money has been Bequeathed to ---- Morgan, who is

supposed to have been residing in Liverpool, where he was last seen

about a year ago. Full particulars will be given to him upon

application to Paul Godfrey, 719 Buckingham Palace Road."

To reduce the chances of receiving letters from every Morgan in the

kingdom, I wrote to Mrs. Barlow, requesting her to give me the date of

her son's birth, his age, and whether he had any marks on his person

by which he could be identified. Though it is running ahead of my

narrative, I may state here that Mrs. Barlow supplied me with the date

of her son's birth and his age (which particulars I inserted in the

advertisement), and informed me that there were two marks on him which

would render identification easy--a large mole on his left side, a

little above the hip, and a peculiar formation in the toe next to the

big toe on his right foot. It was bent completely under, she said, and

presented the appearance of having been cut clean off at the joint.

I went out at eleven o'clock that night to post my letters to Mrs.

Barlow, and was returning home, deep in thought, when a hand was laid

on my shoulder.

"Good evening, Godfrey."

The voice was Wheeler's, like myself a private detective, with whom I

had worked on two or three cases. There was a talk of our going into

partnership, but it had not yet come to a head. There are few smarter

men than Wheeler.

"Good evening," I said, and immediately began to consider whether he

could be of use to me. "Anything stirring?"

"Well," he answered, "I was coming to see you."

"What about?"

Instead of giving me a direct answer, he began to laugh, and said,

"You were in Soho this evening."

"Hallo," said I, interested immediately, "there's something in the

wind. Did you see me there?"

"No, but I saw you coming into Leicester Square."

"How did you find me out?" I asked, rather nettled. "I thought my

disguise a good one."

"So it was. There isn't one in a thousand who would have recognized

you. I happen to be that one. You see, Godfrey, when you are thinking

of something very particular, you have a nasty habit of stroking your

chin with the middle finger of your right hand."

"Good," said I, "you will never catch me doing that again when I'm

somebody else. Well?"

"Seeing that, I took special notice of you, and followed you home to

make sure. When you stopped at 719 Buckingham Palace Road, and let

yourself in, I was satisfied it was you."

"There's nothing very smart in that."

"I don't say there is. I kept myself out of sight, for a reason you'll

appreciate."

"Out with it."

"I wasn't the only one who was following you."

"You don't mean to say I was being shadowed?" I cried, excitedly.

"That is exactly what I do mean. 'I'll see this out,' said I to

myself."

"Man or woman?"

"Man."

"Did you catch sight of his face?"

"Yes. Tall, dark, beard and whiskers. Might have been false. When you

were in the house he passed the door, looked at the number and walked

away."

"And you let him go?" I said reproachfully. "I didn't think that of

you."

"You needn't. I followed him on your account."

"Bravo!"

"Had to be very careful. His eyes were in all directions."

"Did he go back to Soho?"

"No. He took a 'bus to Piccadilly Circus. I took the same 'bus. He got

down there, with a lot of others, and I slipped out among them. Then

he took an Atlas 'bus to the Eyre Arms. So did I. He walked towards

the Swiss Cottage, and my difficulties commenced. Not much foot

traffic between the Eyre Arms and the Swiss Cottage, you know. He went

on to Fitzjohn's Parade. More traffic there. The job got easier.

Beyond Fitzjohn's Parade, very little traffic indeed. I had to be more

careful than ever, so few people about. That was the end of it."

"You know the house he went into?" I cried.

"I don't," he answered. "I am ashamed to say he gave me the slip. I

don't know whether he suspected he was being followed, but the fact

remains that he gave me the slip. How he managed it beats me. I am

fairly ashamed of myself."

"You ought to be. Wheeler, you were on the track of a great mystery,"

and just at the very point---- I was so annoyed that I couldn't

finish the sentence.

"I remained in the neighborhood a couple of hours," he continued, "but

saw nothing more of the gentleman. If I had suspected there was

anything important hanging to it he would have had to be a great deal

smarter than he is to throw me off the track. However, it's no use

crying over spilt milk. I've nothing to do this week. Can I be of any

help to you?"

"I think so," I replied. "Come and see me at eight o'clock in the

morning, and I'll tell you all about it. I must have time to think

this out. Though you were not entirely successful you have done me a

great service, and I am obliged to you. Oh, Wheeler, if you had only

seen the house he went into!"

He shook his head mournfully, and left me, promising to call in the

morning.

I had, indeed, plenty to think about. It was in Finchley Road that

Jack fancied he saw the ghost of Louis. This man, following me from

Madame Lourbet's shop, where he had been hidden from my gaze by a

green curtain, had made his way to Finchley, where, presumably, he

lived. I might now almost call the case upon which I was engaged The

Mystery of the Green Curtain.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Punctually at eight o'clock the following morning Wheeler presented

himself, and under the seal of secrecy I gave him a fair insight into

the Mystery. He was greatly excited, and said if I succeeded in

bringing the truth to light I was a made man. I was beginning to think

so myself, but I did not underrate the difficulties with which I had

to contend. I seemed to be pulled in so many ways at once, and to have

so many things to look after, that I saw the danger of wasting my time

upon matters of no importance and allowing the leading strings to slip

away from me. I was glad, therefore, to obtain the services of a man

upon whom I could rely, and as I deemed it imperatively necessary that

I should remain in London, I explained to Wheeler my desire that

Louis' body should be exhumed and identified, and asked him if he

thought he could manage it. He was confident he could; he had friends

among the Liverpool police who would do all in their power for him; he

laughed at the suggestion of the difficulties that might present

themselves, and declared he would carry out his mission even if he had

to dig up the body himself in the dead of night. Knowing Wheeler to be

a bit of a bulldog, and daring as well as tenacious, I was more than

satisfied with his assurances.

"You will have a surgeon with you," I said, "whose evidence will be

conclusive as to the scar on the forehead. I understand the bone was

penetrated. Everything must be done quickly, and above all the affair

must be kept out of the newspapers."

I laid special emphasis upon this, because I did not intend that the

game should be taken out of my hands. We settled upon an address in

Liverpool to which I could write or wire any further instructions that

might be necessary, and he went off in high spirits to catch the ten

o'clock train.

Before proceeding to my office I paid a visit to my dram-drinking

friend who had been cast off by Madame Lourbet. His name, which she

had renounced, was Whybrow. I passed her shop on the way, having no

fear that I would be recognized, and taking particular care not to rub

my chin with the middle finger of my right hand. I saw Madame Lourbet

behind the counter, and caught a glimpse of that confounded green

curtain. It is curious how one thing suggests another. The moment my

eyes fell upon the curtain an idea suggested itself which set me

laughing, and which proved to be perhaps the most important step in

the elucidation of the Mystery. I will not mention it in this place,

but I determined to act upon it later on if I considered it advisable.

Clever as Madame Lourbet was I hoped to show that I was one too many

for her.

Mr. Whybrow was in bed, pining for liquor. I sent out for a quartern

of gin--that being the cheapest tipple--and under its influence, and

fortified by my saying that I thought I should be able to bring Madame

Lourbet to book in his interests, he became communicative. I learned

that she had two friends who visited her from time to time, and with

whom he was not allowed to strike up an acquaintance. One of these was

a man, the other a woman. I paid close attention to his description of

the man, whom he suspected had supplanted him in her affections. This

man was tall and dark; but he had no beard or whiskers. I thought of

Wheeler's words, "they might have been false," and I left Mr. Whybrow

with the conviction that it was the man who had followed me from Soho.

If that were so I had alarmed him by my reference to Louis' mother,

and he had signaled to Madame Lourbet to give her a warning that I

might be a spy; his beard and whiskers being false was another point

in my favor. I had sufficient confidence to introduce myself in my own

proper person to that lady and make a trifling purchase. She served me

politely, but there was trouble in her face, which rather pleased me

than otherwise. I was pleased, too, that she betrayed no recognition

of me, and did not connect me with the man who had paid her a visit

the night before.

Leaving her, I went on to John Fordham, who was still under remand,

and likely to remain so for some time yet, for the police had not

progressed in their inquiries, and Fordham had made no recantation of

the accusation he had brought against himself. Cheering him with the

news that I was gathering valuable information (of which I did not

give him the particulars) I obtained from him a description of

Maxwell's personal appearance. Tall and dark, wearing neither beard

nor whiskers. That settled it. Maxwell was the man who was stationed

behind the green curtain, who had shadowed me to my lodgings, and who

was so frightened by Fordham's public confession of the murder that,

for his own safety's sake, he went about now in a disguise. Good.

Then on to my office, where Mrs. Barlow was waiting to supply me with

a description of the birth marks of her missing son by which he could

be identified. These have already been recorded and need no further

mention here. Needless to say, I did not inform Mrs. Barlow that I had

already obtained a clue to the career of her son since she last saw or

heard from him.

I made short work of the business in my office which required

attention. So absorbed was I in this mysterious Murder Mystery that I

could not think seriously of any other subject. My advertisement for

Philip Barlow had thus early unearthed three men of that name, whom I

found in my office upon my arrival there. I confronted them with Mrs.

Barlow, and they were immediately dismissed, much to their

dissatisfaction. My second advertisement inquiring for Morgan, was

dispatched to the newspaper offices, and I left with my clerk a

memorandum of the age and birthday of Mrs. Barlow's son, which were to

be the first questions put to all applicants of either name who

presented themselves. Their answers not tallying with my memorandum,

they were to be sent to the right-about. By these means a great deal

of unnecessary trouble was avoided.

At a quarter to twelve I sallied forth to keep my appointment with

Jack, having first effected the requisite alteration in my appearance.

My own clerk was startled when I emerged from my private room in the

character of a costermonger, and was driven to say it was "the best

thing I had ever done in the way of disguise." He was not far from the

truth; I am always most successful when I depict the manners of the

lower class. Jack himself was taken in when I slouched up to him and

engaged him in conversation, and it was not till I spoke in my proper

voice that he recognized me.

"Well, I'm darned!" was his admiring exclamation. "Guv'nor, you ought

to go on the stage."

It was a genuine compliment, and I felt that I had achieved something

great. If I don't make a fortune as a private inquiry agent I will go

to the music halls and sing coster songs.

"Well, Jack," said I, "do you still believe in your ghost?"

"I'll take my oath on it," he replied.

Then we went boldly forth, on the road to Finchley. First, however, in

pursuance of the idea which set me laughing earlier that morning when

I passed Madame Lourbet's shop, I turned the donkey's head in the

direction of Soho, which was not much out of our way. I had the

temerity to enter her shop with a couple of fine ferns, which I

offered at so low a price that she was tempted to purchase them, but

not before she had baited me down twopence a pot. The price she paid

was eightpence. A shrewd woman at a bargain, this Madame Lourbet.

Laughing in my sleeve I rejoined Jack, and we pursued our journey in

search of Louis' ghost. It did not appear, and though I kept a sharp

lookout I saw nothing of Maxwell. The only satisfaction I obtained was

that the route taken by Jack was the same by which Wheeler had tracked

the tall, dark man who had been concealed behind the green curtain in

Madame Lourbet's shop. I returned home late at night, and completely

tired out. A costermonger's life is not an easy one; he truly earns

his livelihood by the sweat of his brow.

A telegram from Wheeler lay on my table: "All goes well. The body will

be exhumed to-night." My opinion of him was justified; he was not the

man to let the grass grow under his feet. Nothing more could be done

till I received his report. On the following morning I received

another telegram from him: "Will be with you at four this afternoon."

Not a word as to the result of the examination; but he certainly had

lost no time.

So impatient was I as the hour approached that I could not keep

indoors, but walked up and down the street, to hail him the moment he

appeared. A few minutes past four o'clock his cab rattled up to the

door, and out he jumped.

"I am a little behind time," he said as he paid the cabman, and I

could see that he was excited.

"Those confounded trains--they are always late."

"You have news," I said.

"Rather queer news," he replied. "Let us go in and talk."

He followed me to my room, the door of which he locked.

"Give me a bite first," he said, "and a drink; and then you shall hear

something startling."

I curbed my impatience while he ate and drank.

"That has done me good," he said; "I was almost famished. Before I

commence, Godfrey, I want to ask whether you deceived me."

"In what way?"

"In this. You told me that a man of the name of Louis Fordham was

murdered, and you described a certain mark by which his body could be

identified."

"Yes."

"The mark was a scar on his forehead, caused by a wound inflicted upon

him by a gardening tool. It penetrated to the bone, you said, and he

would carry the scar to his grave. If I misunderstood you, let me

know."

"You did not misunderstand me. The scar is as I described. I have

evidence that it turned blood-red whenever he was excited. I have not

misled you in the slightest particular."

"I am glad to hear it. His half-brother, John Fordham, who gave

himself up for the murder----"

"Of which we know him to be innocent," I interrupted.

"That is not the point I'm coming to," said Wheeler. "He gave himself

up for the murder, and he is positive that he left the dead body of

Louis in the Rye Street house when he left it on the morning of that

terrific snow-storm."

"He is quite positive."

"He recognized the body as that of Louis by the scar on the forehead?"

"Quite correct."

"Then all I can say is that there is another mystery to be unraveled.

Now, for what I did. I went down to Liverpool, determined to see this

matter through, and not to waste a moment over it. I may fairly claim

that not a moment has been wasted."

"Undoubtedly. I could not have done it more expeditiously myself."

"I 'pass over," he continued, "the preliminary steps I took to effect

my object. The police assisted me, and an order from a magistrate

armed me with the necessary authority. Accompanied by two of the force

and by a surgeon who knew what he was about, the grave was dug up at

eleven o'clock last night, and the coffin taken to the surgeon's

house. There an examination of the body was made. The upper portion of

the skull was perfect. Neither during the man's lifetime, nor after

his death, had the slightest injury been inflicted on a single bone in

it."

"Impossible!" I cried.

"Here is the surgeon's report. It leads to but one conclusion. If such

an injury as you described to me was inflicted upon Louis Fordham, the

body that was buried is not his, but another man's."

I gazed at Wheeler, open-mouthed. Here was another mystery, indeed, if

what he stated was true.

"You must have dug up the wrong grave," I said, when I recovered from

my astonishment.

"It occurred to me that it might be so," he said, "and I had it looked

into. No mistake has been made. The body the surgeon examined was that

of the man who had been murdered in Rye Street. Make up your mind to

that, or you will be thrown straight off the scent. The man we dug up

was murdered; his face had been smashed in, but as I have said, the

upper part of the skull was uninjured. What do you make of it?"

What could I make of it except that both John Fordham and Jack were

laboring under some monstrous delusion? But to establish that

hypothesis the conclusion must be drawn that these two men were in

collusion, and that an impossible story had been invented for some

hidden purpose. Now, except during the struggle on the night of the

murder, when Jack had dashed out of the house into the arms of John

Fordham, who was under the impression that a murderous attack was made

upon him, the men had never met, and each declared that he had not

seen the face of the other. How, then, could they have invented such a

story? I dismissed the idea as impossible. While I pondered over this

fresh mystery, Wheeler sat quietly looking at me and fingering the

surgeon's report, which I had not taken from him. Presently I found my

voice.

"Were there any other marks on the body by which it might be

identified?"

"Oh, yes," Wheeler replied, "two. On the left side, just above the

hip, is a small growth of bone, which in lifetime might have been

mistaken for a mole; and the bones of the toe next to the big toe on

the right foot are completely bent under."

I listened in silent amazement. These were the marks upon the

body of Philip Barlow, alias Morgan. Here, then, was the key to the

Mystery--here, to a certain extent, was an explanation of the ghost of

Louis that Jack saw in Finchley. For if only one body was found in Rye

Street, and only one body was buried (of which there was proof

positive), it was that of Maxwell's associate and confederate, Morgan,

and Louis Fordham must be alive. It was not Louis' ghost that Jack

saw, it was Louis himself, and the reason why Philip Barlow had not

come forward to claim the legacy left to him by his uncle was

satisfactorily explained. I declare, my breath was almost taken away.

But how had this substitution of bodies been effected? Everything

seemed to hang upon an answer to this question. It must be answered,

and answered soon, and now without delay must I put into execution the

idea that crossed my mind when I caught sight of the green curtain on

the morning of this very day. If any person could assist me that

person was Madame Lourbet.

In as few words as possible I explained to Wheeler the position of

affairs and my plan of action, in the carrying out of which his

assistance was necessary. He followed me with lively interest, and in

a few minutes we were on our way to Soho.

I entered the shop alone, Wheeler keeping watch in the street. I stood

at the counter while Madame Lourbet served a customer, and then she

turned to me.

"What do you require, monsieur?"

"A little information, madame."

"Well, monsieur?"

"In private, madame," I said, "unless you wish all the world to know."

She gathered from my tone that I had not come as a friend, and she was

instantly on her guard.

"What is it, monsieur, that I should not wish all the world to know?"

"I advise that we speak in private," I replied.

"If I r-refuse, monsieur?"

"You will take the consequences, and we will converse before your

customers."

"Ah," she said, playing a devil's tattoo on the counter with her

fingers, "if I mistake not, you were one of my customers this morning,

monsieur. I had the pleasure of serving you."

"I had also the pleasure of serving you this morning, madame."

"So!"

I assumed the voice of a costermonger, and inquired if she wished to

buy any more ferns. She caught her breath, and cried, "It was you!"

"It was I, madame. It was also I, madame, who purchased of you last

night and gave you a reference."

"A reference, monsieur?"

"A reference, madame--to Mrs. Fordham, Louis' mother, and stepmother

to John Fordham, now in prison for murder."

"You are clever, monsieur--very clever." I smiled. "What is your John

Fordham to me? And what are you?"

"I have the honor to be a detective. In that capacity behold me here."

I thought this rather dramatic and Frenchified, and I had the pleasure

of seeing her turn white to the lips. "A comrade is on watch outside,"

I continued. She slipped from the counter to the door, and peering

cautiously about, saw Wheeler, who, I being by her side, gave me a nod

of recognition. "Are you satisfied, madame?" I asked, when she had

taken her place again behind the counter.

"There is protection for women in this country," she said. "Are you

employed by the Government?"

"Fortunately for you I am not. You will, perhaps, understand when I

say I am a private detective. If a Government official were in my

place it would be with a warrant."

"A warrant, monsieur?"

"A warrant, madame--for your arrest. Shall we converse here or in your

private room?" She moved towards the green curtain. "A moment," I

said. "Last night, when I had the pleasure of purchasing some of your

very excellent provisions, and happened to mention that I was

recommended by Mrs. Fordham, you had a visitor in that room, who gave

you a signal. Is the gentleman there now?"

"There is no gentleman in the room," she said, throwing open the door.

"How know you there was one?"

"I shall surprise you, madame, with the extent of my knowledge. In

order that we may not be interrupted we will turn the key in the shop

door."

"You are not afraid?" she asked, and there was a look in her eyes

resembling that of a cat who is about to spring.

"Oh, no, madame," I replied, following her to the inner room, "the

English are not afraid of the French."

"Nor the French of the English," she hissed.

"You are a brave nation," I said, with a polite bow, "so are we. I

propose, in your interests, an alliance."

"Not in your own, monsieur?"

"Not in my own, madame. I am merely an agent, and am not in any

danger. You are a principal."

"A principal! What is that?"

"Your knowledge of our language, Madame Lourbet, is almost perfect;

one might take you for a native, you speak English so fluently. But at

your wish I will explain what I mean by my use of the word. It is that

of a man or a woman who, without actually committing a crime, aids in

its perpetration.

"I defy you to prove that I knew of it," she cried.

"I have not finished--though your denial, being in the past tense (a

point of grammar, madame), is partial proof that it does not apply to

the present. By the term 'principal' I mean also a man or a woman who,

not being a witness of the crime, assists afterwards in keeping those

who are guilty out of the hands of justice, and who, at the same time,

assists in fixing that crime upon the innocent. That affects you,

madame, and if you persist in shielding the guilty, you will see the

inside of a prison door. I am going to be quite plain with you. Some

years ago you, being then in Paris, entered the service of a gentlemen

who is now in prison on a charge of murder."

"I did not. I entered the service of a lady."

"John Fordham's wife. In English law it is the same. You were John

Fordham's servant. You came to England with him and his wife and

exercised authority in his house. I am acquainted with every

particular of your conduct during the years you remained with them.

You hated your master, and conspired against him. Your mistress was a

drunkard, and you secretly supplied her with liquor."

"She gave me orders, and I obeyed them."

"You went much further than that, madame. You invented lying stories

against your master, you gave secret evidence against him. I could

entertain you for an hour with the details of your treachery and that

of other enemies of his with whom you were in collusion. It succeeded

too well. It drove him from his home, it drove him from his country.

Confess, madame, that I am well informed."

"I confess nothing. I wait."

"Do not wait too long, madame. I pass over the intervening years, and

come straight to the peril in which you stand--a peril which, if you

do not avert it by your own action, your own immediate action, madame,

will make a convict of you. You know what that means, do you not? A

convict--so many years' imprisonment--hard labor--no more red wine, no

more nice French dishes. Somewhat over a year ago a brutal murder was

committed in Liverpool, and quite lately your former master, Mr. John

Fordham, laboring under a singular hallucination, accuses himself of

the murder of his half-brother Louis."

I kept my eyes on her face as I mentioned the name, but not a muscle

moved.

"It is his own business," she said, "not mine."

"I shall prove to you that it is yours in an indirect manner. You know

of this murder, you know that John Fordham is in prison on the charge

of committing it. It is my turn to wait now, madame."

"Say that I know of it. What then?"

"This. You are aware that Louis Fordham was not murdered, you are

aware that he is this day alive, and that John Fordham is innocent of

the crime of which he accused himself, and for which you would like to

see him hanged. You are intimately acquainted with Louis, you know

where he lives. Last night, when I was in your shop, a man was

concealed behind this green curtain."

"It was not Monsieur Louis," she cried, and then she bit her lip, as

though she had said too much.

"No, madame," I said, smiling, "it was not Monsieur Louis. The man was

your dead mistress' brother, Maxwell. You see, madame, we have been

keeping watch on you. We have even the evidence of the rascal you

married under a deplorable misrepresentation. I refer to Monsieur

Whybrow."

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "The ingr-rate!"

"He is a scoundrel, madame, but evidence is evidence, and we shall

take advantage of his if it be necessary. You can punish him--why do

you not? Is it that you fear he might blurt out something about your

present intimacy with Monsieur Louis' mother and with Maxwell, who

visits you disguised with false beard and whiskers? Is it that you

fear that this might lead the police to inquire into the reasons for

your association with the villain who murdered Monsieur Morgan?" And

now I had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch and of knowing that I

had hit the nail on the head. "It would make you in some sense an

accomplice in the crime. Do you perceive the danger that hangs over

you, madame? Do you perceive that your hatred of John Fordham may be

carried too far? Intensely disagreeable as it will be to you to assist

in proving his innocence, it is your only chance of safety. Decide for

yourself; I use no persuasion."

"No, you use threats," she said, and I think, if a look from a woman's

eyes could kill, I should not be here now to tell my tale.

"Hardly that. I have been very frank with you; if I have hurt your

feelings permit me to offer you my apologies."

"What do you require of me?" she asked.

"The address of Monsieur Maxwell, and of Louis Fordham and his

mother," I replied.

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more."

"And then you and your spies will trouble me no more?"

"No more than is necessary to protect ourselves from treachery."

"I will not be dragged into your witness box," she cried. "I will

not--I will not!"

I considered a moment. If success continued to attend me--and I

believed that it would--we could dispense with her evidence. To be

able to lay hands upon John Fordham's enemies this very night was the

all-important move in the game. To-morrow they might be out of our

reach, and I should be confronted with difficulties that might be

unsurmountable.

"Every effort shall be made," I said, "not to bring you forward as a

witness." And, indeed, as I spoke these words, I was penetrated by a

conviction that such evidence as she could give would be of little

value; but I kept this to myself. It is not wise to show your weak

cards.

"You promise it," she said, "on your honor as a gentleman?"

"On my honor as a gentleman, madame," I replied, with my hand on my

heart, and repressing a smile, "I promise it."

To my surprise she sprang to her feet; the devil within her obtained

the mastery, and I never heard the human voice express hatred so

vindictively and forcibly. The stories I had heard of the female fiend

in the French Commune came vividly to my mind; a representative stood

before me in the person of Madame Lourbet, as she hissed:

"No, I will not help him! I would go in my holiday clothes to see him

hanged!"

"You shall not have that pleasure, madame," I said. "I wish you good

evening."

Her fears returned. There is no weapon so effective as calmness in

dealing with hysterical natures. If you shriek, they shriek the

louder; if you stand firm, they quail.

"What to do?" she asked, showing in her face the conflicting emotions

by which she was torn.

"To obtain a warrant for your arrest," I answered boldly. "My spies

will take care that you do not escape."

I was half out of the room when she cried, "Stop! I will do it--I will

do it!"

"I do not know, madame," I said, appearing to hesitate. "We can manage

without your aid. You shall stand in the dock by the side of your

friend Maxwell."

And now she was thoroughly terrified; she wept, she implored, she fell

upon her knees. It was a great victory, but though I knew I could not

do without her I did not yield easily. When I had worked her up to a

proper pitch I said:

"Rise, madame, and write the address in Finchley where I shall find

your friends."

"They are not my friends," she cried, tottering to the table on which

lay writing materials. "They would ruin, they would destroy me! And

you, monsieur--you will save me? You have promised, on the honor of a

gentleman. You will save me--you will save me!"

"I will keep my promise, madame. Write--it is your only chance. You

allowed your hatred of John Fordham to carry you too far. Be thankful

that I came here as your friend."

"If I had never met these Fordhams," she said, her hands trembling as

she took up a pen, "it would have been better for me."

"It would have been better for you if you had been faithful to your

master, and not entered into a conspiracy against him. We English have

a proverb--honesty is the best policy. Take it to heart, and for the

future be content with making money out of us." I looked at the

address she had written, 23 Lethbridge Road, N. W. "Do they all live

together, madame?"

"I think so, monsieur," she replied, and even now she made a motion,

as though she would have liked to pluck the paper from me.

There was no fear of my forgetting the address, and I held it out to

her.

"Do you wish for it back?"

"No, no!" she said with a shudder.

"Very good. Just another word of sensible advice, madame. Keep in your

shop, and preserve silence until I bring this affair to a satisfactory

conclusion. If you stir you will be followed; if you write a letter of

warning it will fall into the hands of the police. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand.''

"It only remains to me to thank you for this very pleasant interview."

So I left her, saying to myself as I rejoined Wheeler. "Checkmate to

Madame Lourbet."

"Well?" said Wheeler.

"Success, my boy, success!" I replied. "The game is in our hands, but

not a moment must be lost. I am going in for desperate measures. Will

you back me up?"

"In anything."

"Do you carry a pistol?" I asked, grasping his hand.

"Colt's double action revolver, six chambers," he answered, tapping

the back of his waistband. "Took it to Liverpool with me."

"Good. I have mine on me. I want two more men. Jack for one. Can you

recommend another?"

"A capital man. Pick him up in five minutes. Sure to be at home. Just

married, and in want of a job. Name, Bob Garlick."

"He's the man for us." I hailed a growler, and Wheeler told the driver

where to go. "I have screwed Maxwell's address out of Madame Lourbet,"

I said, as we rattled along. "You would have laughed if you had heard

us argue--I fairly frightened her. I shouldn't be surprised if he and

Louis, and perhaps Louis' mother, are preparing for flight, and I hope

to catch the lot to-night. There's nothing in the last two that would

warrant us in arresting them, but it is on the cards that I shall

arrest Maxwell for the murder of Morgan, whose real name is Philip

Barlow."

"How do you know he murdered him? Best be sure of your ground,

Godfrey."

"I will make sure. The plan I have in my head will not fail. I never

in my life felt more confident, but everything, of course, depends

upon our coming face to face with the scoundrelly crew. We are going

straight to their house, you, I, Bob Garlick, and Jack, and then we

shall see what we shall see."

What my plan was will presently be made clear. Sufficient now to say

that we found our new recruit at home, and that he took it as a

compliment to be invited to work with me. Jack also joined us. He was

overjoyed to hear that it was not a ghost he had seen in Finchley

Road, but Louis himself in the flesh.

"You've lifted a ton weight off me, guv'nor," he said. "That clears

me, don't it?"

"You will come out of it with flying colors, my lad," I answered,

clapping him on the shoulder.

"But 'ow did it happen?" he asked, in wonder.

"We shall know soon," I said. "Only keep cool."

"Poor Morgan!" he sighed, with genuine feeling. "'E was worth a

'undered of sech stuck-up cads as Louis."

Over a hasty and ample meal, for a full stomach puts courage into a

man, I gave my recruits their instructions, and then the four of us

rattled on to Lethbridge Road. Night had fallen before we reached our

destination. A dark night, too, for which I was not sorry. Directing

the cab where to wait for us, we proceeded to the house.

"How are we to get in?" whispered Wheeler.

I did not answer him, but rang the bell, and gave the double rat-tat

of a messenger from the telegraph office.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Whenever a summons of this kind is answered quickly it betokens either

that the inmates are in a nervous state or are in dread or expectation

of important news. A peaceful household takes things more calmly, and

is content to let the telegraph messenger cool his heels on the

doorstep. I did not expect this household to be at peace with itself,

nor did I wish it, for such a state of things would have augured ill

for the success of my expedition. I was therefore pleased to hear a

rush of footsteps in the passage, followed by the swift opening of the

street door.

The woman who answered the summons held a candle in her hand, and

there was nothing particularly clever in my jumping at the conclusion

that Louis' mother stood before me. Until this night I had never seen

her or her son, nor, so far as I am aware, had they seen me. I had

counted upon this as of importance in the move I was about to take. We

being in the dark, and Mrs. Fordham in the light, we had the advantage

of her.

As she peered forward and held out her hand for the telegram, three of

us darted into the passage, Wheeler, Bob Garlick, and myself. Jack was

on the watch outside, to be called in by a whistle when he was

required. Mrs. Fordham fell back with a shriek of alarm, and a man ran

out of the nearest room, crying:

"What's the matter?"

This man had a scar on his forehead.

"Mr. Louis Fordham, I believe," I said, advancing, while Mrs. Fordham

continued to retreat.

"Yes." "No." The two answers came simultaneously from the man and the

woman, the man acknowledging his name, the woman denying it.

We were moving slowly towards the room from which Louis had emerged,

and now reached the door. Mrs. Fordham flung herself against it, and

crying, "You can't come in here--this is a private house," actually

had the boldness to blow out the candle. I could not but admire her

for it, for she must have seen that there were three of us, and pluck,

especially in a woman, always commands my admiration. But she reckoned

without her host, for two bull's eye lanterns instantly flashed their

light upon her face.

"Have you come to rob us?" she demanded. "I will call the police."

"Save yourself the trouble," I replied. "We are officers, and I warn

you not to resist. Here is a police whistle, if you would like to use

it."

She did not take it, and driving her and Louis before us we entered

the room. The gas was lighted there, and it was clear to see what was

going on. Trunks and bags were open, and the floor was littered with

clothing and traveling requirements, on the point of being packed

away.

"Preparing for a journey?" I remarked.

"That doesn't concern you," Mrs. Fordham retorted.

"No, it concerns you more than us," I said. "I am afraid your journey

will have to be postponed." I motioned to Wheeler, and pointed to an

inner door which communicated with another apartment. "See who is in

there."

"It is my bedroom," screamed Mrs. Fordham. "You ruffians--how dare

you?"

"See who is in there," I repeated.

"There is nobody there," she said.

We did not take her word for it. Wheeler examined the apartment, and

returning, said it was empty.

"Whom did you expect to find?' demanded Mrs. Fordham.

"Shall I give him a name?"

"You can do as you please about that."

"Oh, I thought you wanted to know."

"You shall suffer for this," she said, but curiosity was too much for

her. "Give him a name, then."

"What do you say to a party of the name of Maxwell?"

She made no answer, but I observed that her face grew suddenly white,

as had been the case with Madame Lourbet when I made a good shot. In

dealing with self-willed women this is always a satisfactory sign. My

observation of the tender sex leads me to another conclusion--the most

obstinate of them when the barriers are broken down show the most

fear, and are the most subservient and submissive, though I am bound

to say this was not exactly the case with Mrs. Fordham. But then she

was an exceptional woman, and she hated John Fordham as only a woman

can hate.

"Who is in the house besides yourselves?" I asked.

"You wouldn't have dared to molest us," she answered, "if we had

protectors."

"Answer the question," I said sternly.

"You know that we are alone in the house."

"Go and see," I said to my two assistants. "I can take care of these."

They departed on their errand, and until their return, when they

informed me that the house was empty except for those who were in this

room, not a word was exchanged between me and Mrs. Fordham. As for

Louis, he had taken no part in the conversation. He was evidently

ruled by his mother, for he kept his eyes upon her, and took his cue

for silence from her.

"Now," said I, "we are here upon very serious business, and I don't

want you to incriminate yourselves. I have had an interview with one

lady to-day--a friend of yours, Madame Lourbet, provision dealer,

Soho--. and after some stupid reluctance on her part, I put it to her

whether she would treat me as a friend or an enemy. If it had been as

an enemy she would have been in prison by this time. I should have had

her arrested. But she acted like a sensible woman, and accepted me as

her friend, recognizing that it was her only chance of being kept out

of the criminal dock. The consequence is, she is free--and safe." I

repeated the last two words. "And safe. I offer you the same chance.

If, without incriminating yourselves, you can do as she did, I advise

you to follow her lead. If it is to be the other way, blame yourselves

for the course I shall take."

Louis made a motion, as though about to speak, but his mother

restrained him.

"Be silent," she said. "Pray what course do you propose to take?"

"I shall arrest you, Mrs. Fordham, and you, Louis Fordham, on the

charge of complicity in the murder of a man known as Morgan, over a

year ago in Liverpool."

Louis staggered, and caught at the mantelpiece for support, and Mrs.

Fordham rushed to his side. I remembered what John Fordham wrote in

his Confession about the love she bore her son, and I now had evidence

of it.

"You are not very strong," I said, stating a palpable fact. "Probably

you still feel the effects of the wound you received on the night

Morgan was murdered."

And now Louis was not to be restrained. "What do you know of it?" he

screamed. "What do you know of it?"

"Up to a certain point," I replied, "I know everything. Of the company

you kept in Liverpool and elsewhere, of the way you spent your days

and nights, of the gambling that was going on, of your accusing

Maxwell that he cheated you at cards, of your being stabbed by him"--I

stopped here. I had given them an inkling of what I did know, but had

no intention of telling them what I did not know; so I branched off on

another tack. "You are both aware that John Fordham is in prison for a

murder he did not commit. Your presence alone in a criminal court will

prove him to be innocent. But we do not need that to set him free; it

can be accomplished without your aid. And for the rest--well, it is in

your hands. I shall not give you long to decide."

"My son was a victim," said Mrs. Fordham. "He is no murderer."

"You can prove that to a judge and jury instead of to me, if you

prefer it. I have a conveyance waiting for you. Be advised. Don't

trifle with me."

"You mentioned an alternative, but have not explained it."

"Ah, you are growing sensible. I must have plain answers to plain

questions, and a plain statement of facts."

"May I speak privately to my son?"

"I have no objection, but it must be in this room. We shall not let

you out of our sight. You can talk in the corner there, and we will

remain here by the door. If you speak low we shall not overhear you."

She dragged Louis into the corner, and there they held a whispered

conference. I did not seek to overhear them, but I saw that Louis,

overcome by fear, was ready, even eager, to unbosom himself. Such

opposition as was apparent to me came from her. She was the kind of

woman that hates to give in--she and Madame Lourbet would have made a

pretty pair--but in the end she allowed herself to be persuaded.

"We will answer your questions, such as we think fit to be answered,"

she said, "under compulsion. Understand that--under compulsion."

I shook my head and smiled. "That will not do. You will answer all my

questions of your own free will, or you will answer none; and your

desire is to assist the course of justice."

She shut her mouth with a snap, and I think she would have liked to

bite me.

"If you don't answer," cried Louis, "I will."

"Put your questions," she said, frowning at him and us.

"You wish me to do so?" I asked, knowing I had her in my power, and

she was forced to answer, "Yes." She did not exactly love me at that

moment.

I pointed to the litter of clothing and open trunks.

"You are packing up to go away?"

"Yes--we have a right to go where we please."

"To Paris?"

"Yes."

"And from there?"

"It is not decided."

"It was your intention to travel by the night train?"

"Yes."

"Who was to go with you?"

"A friend."

"He is not a friend," Louis exclaimed, "I don't care for your dark

looks, mother; I will speak! He has never been my friend. Didn't he

rob me--didn't he nearly murder me? And you stand up for him

because--because----"

"Hold your tongue!" she cried.

But though he did not finish the sentence I did, in my mind. She stood

up for Maxwell because there was a tie between them; he had obtained a

hold upon her through her affections--for even such women as she can

love. Conjectures, of course, but I afterwards learned that they went

straight to the bull's eye.

I continued. "Maxwell was to be your companion?"

"Yes."

"He is coming for you? You expect him here tonight?"

It needed but the slightest hesitation on her part to cause me to turn

to Louis, and when he answered, "Yes, he is coming for us," I thought

she would have struck him.

"Quarrel away," thought I, "it all makes for us."

It made for us also, that she was torn two ways at once--by her

undoubted love for Louis, and by what had taken place between her and

Maxwell.

"At what time do you expect him?"

"At ten."

I looked at my watch; there was nearly an hour to spare.

"When was it arranged that the three of you were to go together to the

continent?"

"Yesterday."

"Last night, you mean."

"Well, last night. That is yesterday."

"It was Maxwell who suggested it?"

"Yes."

"After he had followed a certain person home from Madame Lourbet's

shop?"

"You are well informed," said Mrs. Fordham, bitterly.

"There is very little in this rascally affair," I responded, "upon

which I am not well informed, but it is always satisfactory to receive

confirmation. I have no further questions to ask at present. What I

require now is a plain statement of facts. Relate what occurred after

Maxwell stabbed you."

I do not propose to set it down in Louis' own words. Mrs. Fordham

wished to give me the information, but I would not receive it from

her, although it was to her eagerness to prove Louis' innocence that I

was indebted for some part of the disclosure. For the filling in of

the narrative I am also indebted to the natural intelligence of a man

who knows his business, that man, without any affectation of false

modesty, being myself. The importance of this disclosure cannot be

exaggerated. It filled up the gaps of the mystery, and made the whole

thing clear.

I give the incidents in the consecutive order in which they occurred.

When Louis fell to the ground in the house in Rye Street, Maxwell and

Morgan, believing him to be dead, stood transfixed with fear, appalled

by the tragic termination to their plan of robbery. Jack had rushed

from the room in terror, but this they scarcely noticed, so engrossed

were they in fears for their own safety. What aroused them were the

sounds of a desperate fight in the passage below--the fight that was

going on between John Fordham and Jack. Their impression was that they

had been watched, and that the police were upon them. If that were

indeed the case, their peril could not have been greater, for, with

the body of their victim on the ground, they would be caught

red-handed. The conflict in the passage continued for several minutes,

and it seemed as if one or more of the combatants were endeavoring to

force their way upstairs. Suddenly there was a lull--they heard the

thud of a fallen body, and then the violent slamming of the street

door. Following that, a dead silence.

It was long before they could muster sufficient courage to go from the

room to ascertain what had taken place. They took a light with them,

and coming upon the body of a man, they stooped to see who it was.

"By God!" cried Maxwell. "It is my brother-in-law, John Fordham! How

did he come here?" and then, "What a slice of luck!"

I can almost hear him utter these words as I write them down--and if

he did not utter them he thought them, which I take it amounts to the

same thing.

Quick as lightning he saw the opportunity of diverting suspicion from

himself, and fixing the guilt upon an innocent man. Assisted by

Morgan, to whom probably he disclosed his plan, he carried Fordham's

body into the room, took the knife with which he had stabbed Louis,

and put in its place the gold-digger's knife he found in Fordham's

sheath, smearing it first with blood. Then he and Morgan removed every

article which would draw suspicion upon themselves, and stole from the

house to await the issue of events. Whether they kept watch upon the

house to see what John Fordham would do--for they had ascertained that

he had only been stunned by the fall, and was certain to soon recover

his senses--or went away and returned after an interval, is not

material. Sufficient that they did return--to find John Fordham flown,

and Louis still lying on the ground in a state of insensibility, and

apparently dead. But the wound he had received was not mortal, as we

know. He became conscious while Maxwell and Morgan were quarreling.

Morgan, it appears, was under the impression that Maxwell intended to

cheat him of his share of the spoil, and he was insisting upon a fair

division then and there. Maxwell refused, and a stormy scene ensued,

of which Louis was a witness, though he did not dare to stir lest they

should really make an end of him. From words, the two men came to

blows, and Maxwell was heard to threaten to serve Morgan as he had

served Louis. But Morgan, thoroughly enraged, was not to be

intimidated, and a savage struggle ensued--ending in Maxwell dealing

Morgan a death stroke with the knife with which he had stabbed Louis.

In a paroxysm of fury he battered the face of the dead man and stamped

upon it; and finally overturned the heavy table upon the body, and

fled. Then Louis, fearful lest the murder would be fastened upon him,

managed to rise and stumble from the house unobserved.

The violence of the storm, which was raging furiously without, favored

him, and he succeeded in making his way to a common lodging-house,

frequented by thieves and men of the worst character, to whom the

sight of a man who had been engaged in a desperate fight was familiar.

There he remained in hiding for a couple of days, by which time he was

strong enough to leave Liverpool and take train to London, where he

joined his mother and was nursed by her. Meanwhile Maxwell had also

returned to London, devoured by anxiety, and by curiosity to ascertain

what had become of John Fordham. After keeping quiet for a week he

paid a visit to Louis' mother, and was astonished to see Louis in her

house. As may be imagined he was not cordially received, for Louis had

given his mother a true account of what had occurred.

At this juncture Maxwell's natural cunning--of which there are so many

instances in John Fordham's Confession--came to his aid. He professed

the greatest delight at Louis' escape, and the deepest regret that he

had allowed his temper to master him in their dispute over cards.

Concerning Morgan's death he pointed out that Louis' peril was no less

than his own, and that, if the worst should happen, it was not he

alone who would be accused of the murder. Naturally, he argued, Louis

would throw the crime upon him, and naturally he would throw it upon

Louis. It was a fair assumption that his story would be believed

before Louis' because of the wound which the latter had received,

which people would say was inflicted by Morgan while defending himself

against the attack made upon him. These arguments were strong enough

to show the dangerous position in which Louis stood in relation to the

crime. Maxwell then went on to say that their safety lay in fixing the

guilt upon John Fordham, and he related to them how that unfortunate

man came to be entangled in the affair. The hatred they bore to John

Fordham induced them to listen with avidity to the villainous

proposal, and they hailed with pleasure the opportunity of being

revenged upon him.

"He believes you to be dead," said Maxwell to Louis. "Let him rest in

that belief. All you have to do is to keep quiet. If, as I suspect, he

is in London, I will track him down. By Barbara's death a large sum of

money has reverted to him. Let me but succeed in finding him, and I

will bleed him of every shilling. You need not be seen; I will do the

dirty work, and you shall share the plunder." The temptation was

irresistible, and a peace was patched up between them. By what means

Maxwell discovered John Fordham in hiding in London under an assumed

name, and how he worked upon the unhappy man's feelings till the poor

fellow was beggared, is fully explained by Fordham himself in his

Confession.

Thus, step by step, was the whole mystery revealed. I had good reason

to be satisfied with my work, though something still remained to be

done.

When his story was finished Louis looked anxiously at me, but I was

silent, having a mind to play with him a bit.

"It proves my innocence, doesn't it?" he asked at length.

"I believe it does," I answered. "The question is, will others believe

it? You see, Maxwell will stick to his story as you will stick to

yours. He is not likely to have any feeling of tenderness towards his

betrayers."

"Do you see what you have done, you fool!" cried Mrs. Fordham. "You

have set that beast John free, and you have put a halter round your

neck! We have been tricked--tricked!"

She looked about her wildly, and Louis trembled in every limb.

I smiled amiably at her. "In that nice Liverpool party of yours there

were four men--you, Maxwell, Morgan, and another."

"Jack!" he cried. "He can prove my innocence. He saw Maxwell stab me!"

"Yes," I said, "he is the only man who can back up your story and save

you from Maxwell. If he could be found now, and be induced to speak

the truth?"

"He must be found," screamed Louis; "he must be! For God's sake give

me something to drink, or I shall go into a fit!"

His mother flew to the sideboard, and poured brandy into a glass,

which she held up to his chattering teeth.

I enjoyed the sight--I don't deny it--and had it not been that the

time was drawing near for the appearance of Maxwell upon the scene, I

have no hesitation in admitting that I should have prolonged the

agony. My blood fairly boiled within me as I gazed upon the

terror-stricken wretches, and thought of the sufferings they had

inflicted upon John Fordham. I controlled my feelings, however, and

applied myself steadily to the business I had in hand.

"Talking is dry work," I said. "Being in a manner of speaking your

guests, it would be politeness on your part to pass the bottle round."

"I second that," said Bob Garlick, passing his tongue over his lips.

The woman took no notice of the hint, but Louis stumbled eagerly

forward and held out the bottle to me. If I had not taken instant hold

of it a lot of good liquor would have been wasted, his hand was so

shaky. We helped ourselves, and felt the better for it, and then I

said:

"I don't drink at any one's expense--except in the way of

friendship--without paying for it. I am going to pay for the drinks,

and to prove to you that you have acted wisely in trusting us. You

have called your son a fool, Mrs. Fordham, and it would be rude to

contradict a lady. Perhaps he is something worse than that, but at all

events he has not been a fool tonight. Had he followed your advice the

pair of you would have seen the inside of prison walls. As it is, he

has saved you and himself. Do you think we left Jack out of the

reckoning? Not a bit of it. At this present moment he is within twenty

yards of us, waiting for orders, and it is a good job that his account

of the stabbing tallies with that we have just heard. I shouldn't like

to have such a record as yours, Mr. Louis, to my score, but there will

be no charge of murder brought against you. That is all you care for,

I expect, never mind what happens to any one else."

His eyes literally flashed with joy when he heard this, and Mrs.

Fordham drew a long, deep breath of relief. She would have made almost

any sacrifice to save both men, but Louis came first. That is the way

with mothers, even when they are the worst of women.

"Is the liquor paid for?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," Louis replied. "Take some more."

I put the bottle aside, and held up my hand, for just then we heard

three single raps at the street door, a short interval between each.

Then, after a longer interval, three rapid knocks.

"Is that Maxwell's signal?" I whispered. "Speak low."

"Yes."

"Do you have to say anything? Must he hear your voice?"

"Yes. And I must hear his."

"Go and say it, and open the door, and leave the rest to us. We shall

be behind you."

I did not trust her even then, you see.

We stepped softly out of the room, Mrs. Fordham first, and we at her

heels. The passage was dark; I would not allow her to carry a light.

"Who is there?" she asked.

The answer came. "All right, M."

She was in such a state of agitation that she fumbled at the lock. I

put my hand warningly on her shoulder, and the door was opened.

"What did you keep me so long for?" cried Maxwell, as he entered. "Is

that you, Louis? Everything's ready. What the----"

Before he could get out another word he was seized and handcuffed. I

blew my whistle, and Jack came up. Directing him in an undertone to

remain in the passage till I called for him, I followed Wheeler and

Bob Garlick into the room where they had conveyed their prisoner, Mrs.

Fordham having run in first. She was panting as though she had lost

her breath. Maxwell had said nothing more in the dark passage, his

impression being, of course, that the police were upon him, and that

silence would best serve him. When I entered he was safe in the grasp

of my assistants, and was glaring at Mrs. Fordham and Louis, neither

of whom had the courage to meet his eye.

"Have you searched him?" I asked of my assistants. They shook their

heads. "Well, let us see what he has in his pockets."

We turned them out, the slight resistance he was able to make being of

no avail. There was a loaded pistol, money, keys, and other oddments,

and a pocketbook, containing letters and memoranda. Some of the

letters were old and some recently written. Among the old letters were

two signed by Morgan before the Liverpool affair, the contents of

which proved the association of the two men for the purpose of robbing

Louis. The recent letters were from Mrs. Fordham, and my hurried

perusal of them left no doubt as to the nature of the intimacy between

her and Maxwell. It was a ticklish position for a woman--on one side a

lover, on the other a son whom she worshiped; but she had made her

choice, and there was no retreat for her.

While I was examining the letters there was no sound in the room

except the rustling of the papers. The truth dawned slowly upon

Maxwell, and his face grew darker and darker as he gazed upon the

forms of his confederates. He could no longer control himself.

"----you all!" he cried. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You are charged with the murder of a man you knew by the name of

Morgan in Liverpool," I replied.

"It's an infernal lie!" he shouted. "And you--what have you to say to

it?" He addressed this question to Louis and Mrs. Fordham, but neither

of the two answered him. "So," he said, between his teeth, while a

deadly pallor spread over his features, "you have laid a trap for me,

after all I have done to save you. There stands the murderer"--with a

nod of his head towards Louis--"and I am ready to give evidence

against him."

"What kind of evidence?" I asked.

"The evidence of an eye witness," he said. "I saw him do it--saw him

strike Morgan down!"

"Ah," said I, and I stepped to the door, and beckoned Jack in. "What

do you think of your ghost now, Jack?" His face beamed, and then his

eyes wandered from Louis to Maxwell. "Don't you know an old pal when

you see him? But I forgot. He has something on him which does not

properly belong to him."

And as I spoke I plucked the false beard and whiskers from Maxwell's

face.

"Maxwell!" cried Jack.

Then the murderer knew that the game was lost.

* * * * * *

That very night, after lodging Maxwell in prison, and laying the

information against him, I paid a visit to Ellen Cameron. It was past

midnight when I reached her lodgings, but I knew she wouldn't mind

that when she heard the news I brought. Luckily the landlady of the

house was up, or I should have had some trouble in obtaining

admittance; she had a birthday party, and they were merrymaking. I

explained to her that I had some wonderfully good news to communicate

to her lodger, and she allowed me to go to her rooms. Ellen's voice

trembled as she answered my summons at her door, and trembled more

when she heard who her visitor was. I called to her not to be

frightened, but to dress herself quickly.

"Good news!" I cried. "The best of good news!"

I was soon admitted. What a picture of neatness that room was, and how

sweet and pretty Ellen looked, despite the trouble she had gone

through! I declare a lump rose in my throat as I looked at her--but

there! another man had got her, and he was worthy of her, and she of

him.

We spoke low because her boy was asleep in the next room, and as she

listened to the story I had to relate, tears of joy ran down her

beautiful face.

I finished, and rose to go.

"John is to be brought up to-morrow," I said, "and to-morrow he will

be free. Come to my office at half-past nine in the morning, and we

will go to the court together. I know you would like to be there to

welcome him. That is one of my reasons for coming here at such an

hour. Another reason is, that I thought it would be a sin if I lost a

single minute in giving you the good news."

She fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. Tears were

in my eyes, too, as I was stealing out of the room. But she sprang to

her feet and caught my hand, and kissed it.

"How can we repay you--how can we repay you!" she sobbed.

"I am repaid already," I said, and I pressed her hand and left her.

* * * * * *

And indeed in one way I was more than repaid. You know the stir the

case made in the papers, and the flattering things that were said of

my skill--which I am too modest to set down here. My proceedings were

not perhaps exactly regular, and it is quite likely that Scotland Yard

would rather have had the credit of bringing the Mystery to light. I

doubt if they would have succeeded had it been left to them. And as

for what I did, and the way I did it--well, nothing succeeds like

success.

I became famous--really. And the business that flocked upon me! I am

in a fair way of making my fortune. No need to go on the stage.

* * * * * *

All this happened twelve months ago. John and Ellen are in Australia

doing well, and as happy as birds in summer time. We write to each

other regularly, and they are continually sending me little presents.

Pleasant, isn't it, to feel that, though many thousands of miles are

between us, we shall hold one another in affectionate remembrance to

the last days of our lives?

And then, would you believe it, a week or two ago I was introduced to

a young lady so like Ellen that they might be sisters. The moment I

set eyes on her my heart went twenty to the dozen, and---- But that

has nothing to do with the story.

THE END.

* * * * * *

A Few Press Opinions on

A Little Wizard

By STANLEY J. WEYMAN

16mo, Cloth, 50 Cents

New York Times

"Mr. Weyman now builds his romance on English soil. The time is the

beginning of the Puritan uprising, before the firm establishment of

the Commonwealth, and the personages are Roundheads and Cavaliers.

That is to say, the small boy and his fugitive brother, who are the

most sympathetic characters in the story, represent the Royalist

class, and they are set among crack-brained fanatics, sniveling

hypocrites, and sturdy, well-meaning dissenters. There is a strong and

convincing sketch of Cromwell before he had reached the zenith of his

power, which is quite in Mr. Weyman's best vein.

"The little story, which seems to have been intended as a boys' book,

is well devised and the interest is maintained to an abrupt and

startling denouement. There are no battles, but there is an admirable

description of a march of Cromwell's troops across the wet moors, and

Mr. Weyman's strong feeling for landscape effects, which so greatly

helps the interest of all his romances, pervades this little story."

Christian Advocate

"A new historical tale by Stanley J. Weyman is set in the time of

Cromwell, just after the battles of Marston Moor and Naseby, and

before the surrender by the Scots' army of Charles I. It is called 'A

Little Wizard,' and recites incidents in the careers of two youthful

sons of a Cavalier gentleman who has sacrificed his life to the

Royalist cause, and one of whom--the Little Wizard--figures

pathetically in the story, under the care of a faithless family

servitor who has sinister connections with the Puritan Roundheads. The

story has much of the literary and historic charm which marks all of

Mr. Weyman's works, and it will find many interested readers. It is

illustrated, and has a portrait of the author."

Brooklyn Eagle

. . . . "'A little Wizard,' in a small volume, which will be found

just big enough for an evening's reading. The author has come back to

England in this narrative, which is of the time of Cromwell. It is a

fragment only, but it is like a remnant of some rich piece of tapestry

on which is found embroidered the story of some brave deed of an older

time, and so rich is it, so full of art, so vigorous with life, that

the finder mourns that the whole history is not before him. . . . It

is to be hoped that he will work this vein somewhat further. His

picture of Cromwell in the 'Little Wizard' is very lifelike. One

cannot help wishing that he would attempt the same drawing on a larger

canvas. It is time we had once more a story of romance and adventure

with English ground as its foothold. It would be a blessed relief

from some of the pictures of passion, pure and impure--chiefly the

latter--which of late has given rise to the question as to whether or

not English reserve and modesty has become a forgotten virtue in

literature."

The Outlook

"The artist is often revealed as strongly in small things as in great.

Mr. S. J. Weyman's 'The Little Wizard' is short and slight, but,

within its chosen limits, is a thoroughly artistic bit of fiction. Its

hero is a little Royalist lad of the times of Charles I., who falls

among rustic fanatics and, by an odd train of events, becomes

suspected of being endowed with witch powers and of bringing a storm

to hinder the march of Cromwell's army. The brief glimpse of Cromwell

himself is admirably given. The close is dramatically managed and

effective."

Cleveland Plain Dealer

"In 'A little Wizard,' Stanley J. Weyman leaves his familiar French

ground and locates his story in England during the war between the

Royalists and Roundheads, the tale reciting incidents in the careers

of two sons of a Cavalier gentleman who had fallen in the Royalist

cause. It is an interesting novelette that does not take long in the

reading and has no pages to be skipped on account of dullness."

* * * * * *

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY

112 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK

A Few Press Opinions on

A New Note

World

"The latest book of which people are talking; this new book is very

much up to date."

Daily Telegraph

"The book is really a remarkable one, of high literary quality,

replete with strong human interest and displaying masterly ability.

Widespread popularity awaits 'A New Note.' Ere long everybody who is

anybody will read it."

St. James's Gazette

"Eminently readable, and we should say will be read. The writing is

brisk and clever, and the character-drawing very good."

Manchester Guardian

"Its merits are far above the average, the characters are admirably

drawn, they are living people and stand out in solid relief amid the

shadowy unsubstantial hosts that people the pages of most modern

fiction. The authoress has knowledge of the human heart. There is much

cleverness and power in the book."

Saturday Review

"A promising story; the verdict on this must be decidedly favorable."

Guardian

"It is of an uncommon power and breadth, rare and vivacious humor. Its

incidents and _mise-en-scene_ are decidedly fresh, and the

conversations brisk and to the point."

St. Paul's

"Shows much knowledge of character and skill in portraiture. There is

scarcely a character that we might not single out for praise; the

dialogue, too, is excellent--smart without being flippant, and witty

without being labored."

Athenæum

"This cleverly written novel. . . . The book is written with

considerable alertness of style, and the sketches of the old maiden

aunt and half a dozen other minor characters are touched off with no

little skill and humor."

Post

"Its crisply rounded phrases, bright dialogues, and general knowledge

of the world, might be envied by many a practised writer. The book is

a novelty in the best sense of the term, vivacious and refined."

Academy

"The note in the book is struck well, and with a purpose--delicate

insight into shades of feeling and certain hold of human nature. The

characters the author has made her own she has made a distinct

success."

Post

"Combines adequate knowledge of the world with a high degree of

literary skill. The character of the heroine is admirably conceived

and managed. The situations are powerful without effort, and the

dialogue is often as brilliant as the reflections are shrewd. This is

one of the novels of the season."

Times

"It introduces to the novel reading public a writer of no mean powers.

A story of human interest, thoroughly bright and wholesome. The

heroine is a new conception. Every reader of the book will readily

recognise the genuine gifts of the author."

Speaker

"There is undoubted ability in 'A New Note.' The author is clever and

can write well; she can also draw accurate sketches of the better side

of social life."

Globe

"The author displays a feeling for character, skill in dealing with

the crises and events, and a pleasant style."

Mail

"A clever bit of literary work, well conceived and admirably

developed. The heroine is that extraordinary latter-day creation, 'a

new woman.'"

A Few Press Opinions on

The Professor's Experiment

By MRS. HUNGERFORD (The Duchess)

12mo, Cloth, $1.25; Paper Covers, 50 Cents

The Watchman

"The 'experiment,' which gives name to the story, is a weird one and

picturesquely presented, reminding one faintly of the old French story

of the 'Broken Ear.' It turns the red light briskly on the hero and

heroine, who, having been thus vividly introduced to us and to each

other, proceed to the business of the occasion by falling in love with

each other and entangling themselves in divers nets of embarrassing

circumstances, settling away from the storm to a peaceful horizon of

marriage at last. It has become necessary, in these days, to indicate

the exceptional and welcome fact that this is a pure story; painting

cheery pictures of normal domestic life, and opening no side doors to

encourage the stealthy adventures of a prurient fancy. It is a novel,

strictly speaking, involving neither sermon nor stump speech. It

offers entertainment only, but it gives what it offers; resting the

tired brain and leaving no poison in the blood."

Evening Bulletin

"It is a capital story of an Irish savant, who, like the magicians of

mediæval days, passed his years in concocting a draught to put his

subjects to sleep. Fortunately a beautiful girl of eighteen is found

insensible on the professor's doorstep. She becomes his patient,

enters upon a long sleep, and, in the 'large awakening,' learns

that she is heiress to an immense fortune and the professor's

grand-daughter."

Indianapolis Journal

"'The Professor's Experiment' is the title of a new book by Mrs.

Hungerford (The Duchess). It is of a somewhat more elaborate and

ambitious character than this writer's recent stories, and shows

a return to her earlier manner. The heroine is the impulsive,

warm-hearted young Irish girl with whom all Mrs. Hungerford's readers

are well acquainted, but of whom, in her various phases and

reappearances they do not tire."

* * *

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY, 112 Fifth Avenue, New York