A DISCOVERY.
Jimmie's first move, on entering his chambers, was to lock the door
behind him and turn up the gas. Then he produced the envelope, and tore
it open, wondering as he did so what penalty the law would exact for
such an offense. The enclosure consisted of a dozen closely-written
pages of note-paper, dated two days before the murder. It was in the
nature of a statement, or confession, which some whim had prompted Diane
to put down in writing. Her motive became clearer to Jimmie as he read
on. She had meant no treachery to Jack in her letter. She had come to
London, a repentant woman, to do him a real service--to open his eyes to
various things--and for that purpose she had made the appointment at
Beak street on the fatal night. In all likelihood the document hidden in
the closet was due to a premonition of impending evil--a haunting dread
of the danger that was creeping upon the unfortunate woman.
The statement was in the form of a letter, addressed to Jack Vernon on
the first page, and signed "Diane Merode" on the last. It ended quite
abruptly, and did not refer directly to the mysterious stranger or to
Diane's early life, though it hinted at certain things of importance
which she was resolved to tell. But what she disclosed was astounding
in itself, and when Jimmie threw down the pages, after reading them
attentively, his face showed how deeply he was agitated. It took much to
rouse his placid nature to anger, but now his eyes blazed with rage and
indignation.
"By heavens, this is awful!" he said, hoarsely. "It is far worse than I
dreamed of! The consummate scoundrel! The treacherous blackguard! There
is no need to keep further watch on Victor Nevill. His record is
exposed. How true were my suspicions about that money-lending business!
He dropped some letters in Diane's room last spring, which she declares
proved him to be a partner in the firm of Benjamin and Company. I believe
her--I don't doubt it. The cursed tout! For how many years has he made
use of his social advantages to ruin young men--to decoy them into the
clutches of the Jews? It makes my blood boil! And the worst of it all is
the part he has played toward poor Jack--a false, black-hearted friend
from beginning to end; from the early days in Paris up to the present
time. If I had him here now--"
He finished the sentence by banging his clenched fist on the table with
a force that made it quiver.
Little wonder that Jimmie was indignant and wrathful! For Diane, weary
of being made a cat's-paw for an unscrupulous villain, remorseful for
the misery she had brought on one who once loved her, had confessed in
writing all of Victor Nevill's dark deeds. She had not known at first,
she said, that his sole aim had been to injure his trusting friend, else
she would have refused to help him. She had learned the truth since, and
she did not spare her knowledge of Nevill's dark deeds and cunning
tricks. She told how he had tempted her to desert her husband and flee
from Paris with him; how he had met her five years later in London, and
planned the infamous scheme which brought Jack and Diane together on
Richmond Terrace; and she declared that it was Victor Nevill also who
sent the anonymous letters to Madge Foster, the second of which had led
to the painful _denouement_ in the Ravenscourt Park studio. It was all
there in black and white--a story bearing the unmistakable evidence of
truth and sincerity.
"This is a private matter," thought Jimmie, when he had calmed down a
little, "and I'm bound to regard it as such. The statement can't affect
the case against Jack--it is useless to Mr. Tenby--and it would be
unwise to make it public for the purposes of denouncing Nevill--at least
at present. I will put it away carefully, and give it to Jack when his
innocence is proved, which I trust will be very soon. As for Nevill,
I'll reckon with the scoundrel at the proper time. I'll expose him in
every club in London, and drive him from the country. He shall not marry
Miss Foster--I'll nip that scheme in the bud and open her eyes--and I'll
let Sir Lucius Chesney know what sort of a man his nephew is. He'll cut
him off with a penny, I'll bet. But all these things must wait until I
find Diane's murderer, and meanwhile I will lock up the confession and
keep my own counsel."
Taking the letter, he reread the closing lines, studying the
curiously-worded phrases.
"I am not writing this to send to you," Diane concluded, "but to hide in
a secret place where it will be found if anything happens to me; life is
always uncertain. I have much more to tell, but I am too weary to put it
on paper. You will know all when me meet, and when you learn my secret,
happiness will come into your life again."
"It's a pretty clear case," reflected Jimmie. "The secret refers,
without doubt, to the man who murdered her. And the motive for it must
be traced back to her early life at Dunwold. She left a discarded lover
behind when she went to Paris. Ah, but why not a husband? Suppose she
was never really Jack's wife! In that case it is easy to see what she
meant by saying that she would make him happy again. By Jove, I'm
anxious to ferret the thing out!"
Jimmie looked at his watch; it was just seven o'clock. He put the letter
in his desk, safe under lock and key, and went straight to Morley's
Hotel. He dined with Sir Lucius Chesney, and told him what he had
learned from his visit to Mrs. Rickett. He made no mention of what he
had found in the secret closet, nor did he refer to Victor Nevill.
Sir Lucius was amazed and delighted, hopeful of success. He thoroughly
approved Jimmie's plan, and gave him a brief note of introduction to the
Vicar of Dunwold.
"I wish I could go with you," he said; "but, unfortunately, I have two
important engagements in town to-morrow."
The interview was a long one, and it was eleven o'clock when Jimmie left
the hotel. He went straight home to bed, and an early hour the next
morning found him gliding out of Victoria station in a South Coast
train.
* * * * *
On the previous night, while Jimmie and Sir Lucius were dining at
Morley's, Victor Nevill emerged from his rooms in Jermyn street, and
walked briskly to Piccadilly Circus. He looked quite unlike the spruce
young man of fashion who was wont to disport himself in the West End at
this hour, for he wore tweeds, a soft hat, and a rather shabby overcoat.
He took a cab in Coventry street, and gave the driver a northern
address. As he rode through the Soho district he occasionally pressed
one hand to his breast, and a bundle of bank notes, tucked snugly away
there, gave forth a rustling sound. The thought of them aggravated him
sorely.
"A thousand pounds to that black-mailing scoundrel!" he muttered. "It's
a steep price, and yet it means much more than that to me. There was no
other way out of it, and I can't blame the fellow for making a hard
bargain and sticking to it. If all goes smoothly, and I get possession
of the papers, it's ten to one I will be secure, with nothing more to
fear. It was fortunate that Timmins picked _me_ out. It would have meant
ruin to my prospects had he sold his knowledge elsewhere. He is a clever
rascal, and he knows that it will be to his interest to keep his mouth
shut hereafter. What risk there may be from other quarters is so slight
that I needn't worry about it."
It had not been an easy matter to find the thousand pounds, and in the
interval he had twice seen Mr. Timmins, and vainly tried to beat down
his price. The money was finally squeezed out of Stephen Foster, with
extreme reluctance on his part, and by means which he resented bitterly
but was powerless to combat. He had angrily upbraided his unscrupulous
young confederate, who would not even tell him for what purpose he
wanted the sum. Nevill was indifferent to Stephen Foster's wrath and
reproaches. He had accomplished his object, and he was too hardened by
this time to feel any twinges of conscience. He was now going to meet
the man Timmins by appointment, and buy from him the valuable papers in
his possession.
It was nine o'clock when the cab put him down in one of the noisy
thoroughfares of Kentish Town. He paid the driver, and entered a public
house on the corner. He ordered a light stimulant, and on the strength
of it he re-examined the rather vague written directions Mr. Timmins had
given him. He came out five minutes later, and turned eastward into a
gloomy and squalid neighborhood. He lost his bearings twice, and then
found himself at one end of Peckwater street. He took the first turn to
the left, and began to count the houses and scan their numbers.
While Nevill was speeding along the Kentish Town road in a cab, Mr.
Timmins, _alias_ Noah Hawker, was at home in the dingy little room which
he had selected for his residence in London. With a short pipe between
his teeth, he reclined in a wooden chair, which was tipped back against
the wall. On a table, within easy reach of him, were a packet of tobacco
and a bottle of stout. A candle furnished light.
"I wonder if the bloke'll turn up," he reflected, as he puffed rank
smoke from his mouth. "If he don't he knows what to expect--I ain't a
man to go back on my word. But I needn't fear. He'll come all right, and
he'll have the dust with him. Is it likely he'd throw away a fortune,
such as I'm offerin' him? Not a bit of it! I'll be glad when the thing
is done and over with. A thousand pounds ain't to be laughed at. I'll go
abroad and spend it, where the sun shines in winter and--"
At this point Mr. Hawker's soliloquies were interrupted by footsteps
just outside the room.
"That's my swell," he thought, "and he's a bit early. He must be in a
hurry to get hold of the documents."
The door opened quickly and sharply, and two sinewy, plainly-dressed men
stepped into the room. Hawker knew his visitors to be detectives.
His jaw dropped, his face turned livid with rage and fear, and he tried
to thrust one hand behind him. But the move was anticipated, and he
abandoned all thought of resistance when the muzzle of a revolver stared
him in the eyes.
"None of that, Hawker," said the detective who held the weapon. "You'd
best come quietly. Didn't expect to catch us napping, did you?"
"I ain't done nothin'," panted Hawker, who was breathing like a winded
beast.
"I didn't say you had," was the reply, "but you've been missing for a
few months. Last spring you stopped reporting yourself and went abroad.
We want you for that--nothing else _at present_."
The two final words were spoken with an emphasis and significance that
did not escape the prisoner, and brought a desperate look to his face.
He seemed about to show fight, but the next instant a pair of irons were
clapped on his wrists, and he was helpless.
A brief time was required to search the room, but nothing was found,
for all that Hawker owned was on his person. The bedding was pulled
apart, and the strip of ragged carpet was lifted up. Then the detectives
went downstairs with their prisoner, followed by the indignant and
scandalized Mrs. Miggs. She angrily upbraided Mr. Hawker, who received
her reproaches in sullen silence. Her breath was spent when she slammed
the door shut.
The affair had been managed quietly, without attracting public
attention, and the street was as lonely and dark as usual. One of the
detectives whistled for a cab, which he had in waiting around the
corner, and just then a man walked quickly by the house, glancing keenly
at the little group as he passed. He slouched carelessly on into the
gloom, but not until he had been recognized by Noah Hawker.
The cab came up, and the prisoner was bundled into it. He was apparently
very submissive and unconcerned as he sat with manacled hands between
his captors, but when the vehicle rolled into a more populous
neighborhood, the street lamps revealed the expression of burning,
implacable hatred that distorted his face.
"It was that swell who betrayed me to the police," he thought bitterly.
"I was a fool to trust him. I know his little game, but he'll be badly
mistaken if he expects to find the papers. They'll be safe enough till I
want them again. I'll get square in a way he don't dream of, curse him!
Yes, I'll do it! I'd rather have revenge than money. A few days yet, and
then--"
"What's that?" asked one of the detectives.
"Nothing," Mr. Hawker replied, in a tone of sarcasm. "I was thinkin' of
a friend of mine, what'll be sorry I was took."