DICK GARDEN TO THE RESCUE.
Aunt and Uncle Leth and their children sat in their once happy home in
Camden Town gazing at each other in mute despair. For them the tragedy
of life was complete and overwhelming, and their condition was such that
they could find no words to give expression to their horror and grief.
They were waiting for Fred Cornwall, who had obtained permission to see
Phoebe in prison. When he entered the room his face was white and
stern. He felt the terrible blow which had fallen upon them no less
poignantly than they; but he had not lost the power to act, nor, as with
them, had hope entirely deserted him.
"I have seen her," he said, in a low tone. "She sends loving messages to
you. I expected to find her heart-broken and prostrate, but she is
imbued with a strange strength and resignation. The worst is over, she
says she must not think of the past, but of the future. She is
sustained by a consciousness of innocence, and is inexpressibly
comforted by the thought that we know she is innocent. She begs that you
will not grieve too deeply for her." He paused a moment or two. "That is
the sense of her message to you. She is an angel and a martyr. I can
trust myself to say nothing more of my visit to the prison. I must not
remain with you now, unless you have something to communicate which may
help me in the task upon which I am engaged--of even yet clearing her
from the wicked charge. Yes, Aunt Leth, I will move heaven and earth to
establish her innocence. I will not rest, I will not sleep--" Again he
was compelled to pause; and when he could control himself he said: "I
must see Tom Barley. Has he been here to-day?"
"Yes," replied Aunt Leth; "but I fear it will be long before he comes
here again. There was a dreadful scene between him and 'Melia Jane. The
girl stormed at him for giving his evidence about seeing a woman in a
blue dress at Parksides on that fatal night. She said if it had not been
for him our poor Phoebe would have been set free; and when he asked
what else he could do but answer the questions they put to him, she
answered that he ought to have cut his tongue out first."
"'Melia Jane was right," said Fanny.
"I don't see that he could have acted differently," said Fred,
thoughtfully. "Without his evidence the case against my suffering angel
would have been incomplete; but there can be no question that he spoke
the truth. He did see a woman in a blue dress at Parksides; but it was
not Phoebe. The evidence relating to the dresses worn by Mrs. Pamflett
is not to be shaken, and it could not have been that she wore on that
night a blue dress in order to throw suspicion upon our innocent
darling."
"She could have worn such a dress," said Uncle Leth, "and afterward
destroyed it."
"That is possible enough; but she could have had no hope, supposing her
to be the guilty wretch--"
"Or her son," interposed Fanny.
"She could have had no hope of entangling our Phoebe by so doing. She
knew that Phoebe was living here, and the sudden visit our poor girl
paid to her father could not by any possibility have become known to
her beforehand. If the woman Tom Barley saw was neither Phoebe nor
Mrs. Pamflett, who is she? There are now two mysterious persons in this
horrible affair--the man who was in the habit of visiting Miser
Farebrother late at night and this woman whom Tom Barley saw, and who
was conspicuously anxious that he should not see her face. These matters
must be followed up; we can agitate, we can get time. I hear on all
sides nothing but sympathy expressed for our dear Phoebe, and the case
against her is so entirely circumstantial that I will not, I cannot,
give up hope. A friend of mine who has chambers next to mine is so much
interested in the case that he has offered to help me all he can. He is
clearer-headed than I am just now, and cleverer, and higher up the
ladder. He is convinced that Phoebe is innocent, and that there is a
mystery in the affair which, unravelled, would set her free."
"God bless him!" sobbed Fanny. "What is the name of this good friend,
that I may remember it in my prayers."
"Dick Garden. We are going to work together. He is waiting for me now in
my rooms. He is a good fellow--the best of friends; I rely greatly upon
him. Calm as I appear, I am burning with wrath and indignation, and I am
scarcely to be depended upon for a clear judicial reasoning upon
anything we may happily discover. I must go at once. Then you cannot
tell me where I can find Tom Barley?"
"I will find him for you," said Robert, starting up.
"Do; and send him on to my place immediately. Good-by--good-by. If you
hear anything, don't fail to let me know."
He drove rapidly to his rooms, where he found his friend Richard Garden
awaiting him. This friend was of about the same age as himself; an
ambitious, astute young fellow, determined to get along in the world,
and almost certain to succeed, for the reason that he had brains and
indomitable courage and industry.
He looked up from the paper upon which he was writing when Fred entered.
Upon a smaller table in the room some food was spread: a plate of ham
and beef, a cold pie, and bread; also a jug of ale.
"You have had nothing to eat?" said Garden. Fred shook his head
impatiently. "Of course you haven't; and you think that we can go into
an affair like this with empty stomachs. No, old fellow; we must assist
ourselves like sensible men. A craving stomach is a bad mental
foundation. Come, tuck away; force something down. That's right. Just
taste this cold pie--good, isn't it? A pint of ale between us--here's
your half, no more and no less. You feel better, don't you? Now we are
fit to set to work. You saw her?"
"Yes."
"Did you get her to talk calmly?"
"She was calmer than you are, Dick. She has made up her mind to die."
"Not for many a long year yet. Here's a letter I've written to the
papers, signed 'A Lawyer,' showing up the weak points in the case, and
appealing for sympathy and a surer kind of justice. Just finished the
fourth copy as you came in. My lad is down-stairs; he will take the
letters to the newspaper offices, and to-morrow they will be all over
the country. Don't lose heart, Fred; there is some infernal mystery at
the bottom of this affair, and I mean to get at it. You asked the poor
girl about the dresses Mrs. Pamflett was in the habit of wearing?"
"Yes; and she said she never saw the woman in a blue dress."
"Is she still positive about the brooch?"
"She has not the slightest doubt. When her father turned her from his
house she left the brooch behind her."
"Then it must have been placed in the grounds by some
person--deliberately placed there."
"Unless it was dropped by accident."
"If so, it must have been a female who dropped it. Either way, the
person who dropped or placed it where it was found can be no other than
Mrs. Pamflett. Let us suppose that. If dropped by accident, it proves
that she must have been near the spot where the miser was murdered; if
placed there by her, it must have been placed there for a motive. Miss
Farebrother adheres to the truth of her story as to what occurred on the
night of her visit to Parksides?"
"Yes."
"She did not see Mrs. Pamflett?"
"No."
"But Mrs. Pamflett may have seen her. Let us assume that she or her son
committed the deed. She sees Miss Farebrother in the grounds, and
overhears, perhaps, what passes between the poor young lady and her
father. She witnesses Miss Farebrother's departure from Parksides. After
that the murder is committed. Then, seeing Miss Farebrother's veil on
the ground--in Miss Farebrother's condition there are a thousand
reasonable hypotheses to account for its having become detached from her
hat--the idea presents itself to Mrs. Pamflett to strengthen the case
against Miss Farebrother by placing the brooch also near the dead body."
"You do not forget the female in a blue dress that Tom Barley saw in the
grounds?"
"I do not; and I cannot account for it. Did you ask Miss Farebrother
anything about the man who, according to Mrs. Pamflett, had been in the
habit for years of visiting Miser Farebrother secretly at night?"
"To her knowledge, no such man ever presented himself, and no such
visits ever took place."
"She has no remembrance of anything of the kind occurring?"
"Not the slightest."
"It is inexplicable. There's some one at the door. Come in!"
It was Robert Lethbridge, who came to say that Tom Barley was on duty,
and would not be able to visit Fred Cornwall before the morning; but if
they wished to speak to him at once they would find him on his beat.
"No," said Garden; "we will not go to him. I want him when his time is
his own, so that we can talk quietly and uninterruptedly. Go and tell
him to come and see us at nine o'clock in the morning."
"He can be here earlier, Dick," said Fred Cornwall.
"Nine o'clock is early enough. It will give us time to sleep and rest. I
am physician as well as lawyer in this case, it seems."
Robert Lethbridge departed with the message, and he was barely gone
before two other visitors presented themselves. These were Kiss, the
comedian, and Mr. Linton, the dramatic author. They looked very grave as
they entered. Fred Cornwall introduced them to Richard Garden, who cast
a shrewd glance at them, and then said, quietly:
"You have something to tell us?"
"You can speak freely," said Fred. "Mr. Garden and I are working
together in this terrible matter."
"A terrible matter indeed, Mr. Cornwall," said Kiss, with deep feeling
in his voice, "and Mr. Linton and I are responsible for it." The young
lawyers looked at their visitors in surprise at this statement. Kiss
continued: "It is the melancholy truth that if it had not been for us an
innocent young girl, an angel of sweetness and purity, would not be
lying at death's door as we stand here. Unless we can prove her
innocence it will haunt us to our dying day."
"Why do you accuse yourselves?" asked Garden.
"Was it not through our folly that Mr. Lethbridge was plunged into
difficulties? Believing that my friend Linton had written a play which
would make all our fortunes, did we not go to Mr. Lethbridge and by our
plausible statements induce him to sign a bill for three hundred pounds
which that infamous scoundrel, Jeremiah Pamflett, discounted? You will
remember the play I refer to, Mr. Garden; it was _A Heart of Gold_,
which, because of an extraordinary first-night speech made by Mr.
Linton, blazed up for a fortnight or so, and then spluttered out like a
tallow candle with a damp wick. It was in the hope of helping her uncle
out of his difficulties--for which we, and we alone, were
responsible--that Miss Farebrother paid a visit to her father on the
night he was murdered. Had she not gone he would have been murdered all
the same--there is no doubt in our minds as to that--and, safe and happy
at home with her aunt and uncle, by no possibility could suspicion have
been cast upon her. But she _did_ go, because none of us were able to
pay the money which Mr. Lethbridge borrowed for us. Do you see now how
it is that we are responsible for what has occurred? It is Linton and I
who ought to have been placed in the dock instead of that sweet,
unfortunate young lady. Since the lying accusation was brought against
her, we have not been able to sleep. If exhausted nature compels us to
go off in a doze, we start up in affright and horror. There will never
again be rest for either of us until Miss Farebrother is set at liberty
and her honourable name restored to her."
"Your feelings do you credit," said Garden; "but it is not alone to say
what you have said that you have come here to-night?"
"No; but it leads up to what may be of importance. God knows whether it
will or not, but drowning men catch at a straw. I am glad you are
working with Mr. Cornwall, sir; it is easy to see how he is suffering,
and you must be a comfort to him--if," he added, feelingly, "anybody
_can_ comfort him at such a time as this. Well, sir, Linton and I have
also been putting our heads together, and we decided to set a watch."
"Upon whom?"
"Upon that image of wickedness, Jeremiah Pamflett, and his equally
wicked mother. Sir, that tale of hers as to what took place between her
and Miss Farebrother on the night of the murder is false as--Never mind;
it will not do to be profane."
"That is to say, you believe it to be false? You have no direct evidence
to the contrary?"
"No, sir; unfortunately we have not. It is our belief, as you say, but
none the less incontrovertible. It is not because we have dramatic ideas
that we determined to watch this precious pair. It seemed to us to offer
a chance of discovering something; therefore we set practically to work,
Linton watching the son, I watching the mother. Until this evening we
saw nothing that could be turned against them. You are probably aware
that Mrs. Pamflett left Parksides shortly after the murder?"
"She had to leave," remarked Fred; "as Miss Farebrother's legal
representative, I saw to that before the trial took place."
"Quite proper. And her son had to leave the London office and seek
lodgings elsewhere?"
"Yes; that was also effected through me."
"Being thrown upon their own resources, they took two rooms in
Knightsbridge. We tracked them there. Sometimes they went out together,
sometimes alone. When they were together they scarcely spoke to each
other, and it seemed to us as if this silence had been determined upon
between them; what they said might have been overheard, and they might
have said something injudicious. It almost appeared as if nothing was to
come of our watch. There was a monotony in it which weighed upon us, and
we were almost in despair. We tried to get a room in the house they
lodged in, but there was none to let. The day before yesterday, however,
something occurred to rouse us. We saw a woman watching the house they
lived in. She knocked at the street door, and received an answer to her
questions from the landlady. Then she retired, and from a short distance
kept watch upon the house--you may imagine how excited this made
us--until Jeremiah Pamflett came out alone. He walked along apparently
with no suspicion in his mind that he was being followed by the woman,
and certainly with no suspicion that Linton and I were walking behind
them both. You may be certain that we were very careful. It is excusable
in me as an actor, and in Linton as a dramatic author, that we should
adopt some slight disguise, altered from day to day under my direction,
to lessen the chances of our being detected in case Jeremiah Pamflett
should happen to see us. Well, sir, as the four of us were walking along
in Indian file, what did the woman suddenly do but go up to Jeremiah
and accost him! And what did he do but start violently, turn round to
look at the woman, and then, without saying one word to her, walk
rapidly away with the conspicuous intention of getting rid of her. From
a rapid walk he got into a run, and the woman and we lost sight of him.
So far as that incident was concerned, there was an end of it. We lost
sight, too, of the woman; but not before we saw sufficient of her to be
able to recognize her if we should see her again. Yesterday we were
again in view of the house in which these Pamfletts lodged, and there
again was the same woman watching, as we judged, for her friend
Jeremiah. But he did not make his appearance, and after remaining in the
neighbourhood for nearly an hour, we saw the landlady put a card in her
front window, 'Rooms to let.' Across the road went the woman; she
knocked at the door, made some inquiries of the landlady, and came away
with a spiteful, disappointed expression on her face. I told Linton to
follow her, and find out where she lived. Meanwhile I myself went across
to the home, and inquired about the rooms to let. It was as I suspected:
the Pamfletts had left--'quite sudden,' the landlady said. Putting this
and that together, I came to the conclusion that they had left their
lodgings, and most probably the neighbourhood, because of the discovery
by the woman of their whereabouts. This looked so much like fright on
the part of Jeremiah Pamflett that it stirred me up and made me hopeful.
But where had he and his mother flown to? Sir, this very evening chance
has befriended us, and we are again on the track. Give me, if you
please, your closest attention; I am approaching something rather
startling."
"Stop a moment," said Garden, rising and going to the side-board, from
which he took a bottle of apollinaris and a bottle of brandy, "you seem
rather faint."
"To tell you the truth," said Kiss, "I have scarcely tasted food to-day,
I have been that anxious and distressed."
"We are all engaged in the same good cause," said Garden, smiling, "and
every one, with the exception of myself, seems bent upon starving
himself. Take a slice of this pie; Mr. Linton will join you. You don't
object to brandy and apollinaris?"
"Not at all," said Kiss, speaking with his mouth full; "split it
between Linton and me. Mr. Garden, you are a wise gentleman and a
capable chief. If we are happily successful in the end we have in
view--and I pray God we shall be!--we shall have you to thank for it. Do
you not think with me, Mr. Cornwall?"
Fred pressed Garden's hand with emotion, and Garden, shrewd, cool,
self-possessed, and with all his wits about him, returned the pressure,
and gave Fred a look of encouragement. It was like wine to Fred. His
hopes grew stronger. Perhaps, after all, his dear, suffering girl would,
by the mercy of God, be rescued from her dread peril, and be spared to
brighten his life and the lives of those who held her dear. His eyes
grew dim, and he pressed his hand across them.
"Do not overrate my services," said Garden, in his clear strong voice.
"I am only a moderately skilful engineer, and my hardest task, it
appears to me, is to keep the machinery of which I have direction in
fair workable order. Now, then, Mr. Kiss, you look double the man you
were. We are all attention."