THE DEFEAT OF ROGUERY
In the course of the preceding month the apparition of the Grey Monk
had been seen on three different occasions after its first appearance
to Bessie Ogden, each time by one or another of the domestics at the
Chase. Bessie had been scouted and scolded both by Trant and Mrs.
Burton, the housekeeper, till at length she was almost ready to believe
that she must have been the victim of an optical delusion; and yet,
strange to say, it was to no less a person than Trant himself that the
Grey Monk next appeared. It was late at night—close upon midnight, in
fact—when Trant, who had been some time in bed, but was not yet asleep,
suddenly called to mind that he had inadvertently left his bunch of
keys downstairs in the servants’ hall. On no account was it advisable
that he should leave it there till morning; the other servants rose
before he did, and there was no telling, with his keys at their
command, in what way they might choose to take advantage of his
oversight. It would never do to leave such a temptation in their way.
Accordingly, he scrambled into a few clothes, thrust his feet into a
pair of slippers, and started to go downstairs.
He got as far as the gallery, and then stopped, suddenly frozen to the
spot. There, pacing slowly to and fro by the light of a half-moon,
which streamed in slantwise through the east window, with bowed head
and hands clasped in front of him, was the Grey Monk! Trant’s jaw fell,
and his eyes seemed to start from their orbits. A moment or two he
stared; then he turned and, without a word or a sound, made his way
back to his room, shaking in every limb like a huge jelly, and in
mortal dread lest a ghostly hand should clutch him from behind.
Next morning he sought an opportunity of unburdening his mind to Sir
Gilbert, only to be snapped at and told that he was an old fool for his
pains.
“Let me hear of your having whispered a word about this idiotic
rubbish, either in the servants’ hall or outside the house, and it will
be worse for you,” said the Baronet, in his most minatory tone. “I’m
ashamed of you, Trant, at your time of life.”
For all that, Sir Gilbert did not rest till he had told Lady Pell, who
in return confided to him his grandson’s adventure in the spinny, as
related to her by the latter.
“It is most annoying—most disturbing and annoying,” said the Baronet,
“and I don’t at all know what to do in the matter. Perhaps the best
thing will be to do nothing, but to keep on ignoring the whole business
as I have done from the first. How is it the apparition never troubles
me? I only wish it would! It would not escape me, I warrant you, till I
had found out something definite about it. Let us hope, however, that
we have heard the last of it for a long time to come.”
But it was a hope not destined to be fulfilled.
In the course of the following fortnight two more appearances were
reported to the Baronet, both coming from members of his own household.
In these cases the figure was avouched to have been encountered outside
the house and in two widely separated parts of the grounds.
When, on the morning to which we have now come, Mr. Lewis Clare failed
to make his appearance at the breakfast table, Sir Gilbert, in
something of a huff, sent a servant to his room with an ironical
inquiry whether they might expect to see him downstairs by luncheon
time. Presently the man came back with the news that Mr. Clare was not
in his room and that his bed did not appear to have been slept in.
Thereupon the Baronet’s eyes met those of Lady Pell. “What fresh folly
has he been guilty of? What further disgrace is he going to bring upon
himself and me?” were the questions they mutely asked. But to the
servant he merely nodded and said, “That will do.”
A little later, when her ladyship and Miss Thursby got up from table,
he remarked to the former, “I will see you in the course of the
morning”; which meant, “As soon as I have any news you shall be told
it.” Then to himself he added, “I suppose I must employ Lisle to hunt
him up again.”
He lingered over his breakfast this morning in a way very unusual with
him, as if hoping against hope that, from minute to minute, his
grandson might make his appearance.
He was leaning back in his chair, a prey to a host of bitter thoughts,
when Trant, looking at once mysterious and important, entered the room,
carrying in one hand a letter, and in the other a large key.
“If you please, Sir Gilbert,” he said, in deprecatory tones, for he
knew how ill his master brooked being disturbed when in a brown study,
“this letter, addressed to you, with the key of the strong room, has
just been found on your study table by the housemaid whose duty it is
to dust the room. As the letter is marked ‘Immediate,’ I thought that
perhaps——”
“The key of the strong room lying on my study table, do you say?” broke
in Sir Gilbert. “How could it possibly have got there?”
While speaking he had taken both the key and the letter. Having put on
his glasses he looked at the address on the letter and shook his head.
The writing was wholly strange to him. Wondering greatly, he laid the
key on the table in front of him and broke open the envelope. Trant
stole out of the room on tiptoe; he seemed to scent a mystery.
“Should Sir Gilbert Clare,” began the letter, “feel anxious as to the
whereabouts of his self-styled grandson he will find him locked up in
the strong room, the key of which accompanies this missive. It will be
for the young man to explain to Sir Gilbert’s satisfaction the nature
of the business which took him there between twelve and one o’clock
this morning.
“Further, it may be as well to open Sir Gilbert Clare’s eyes to a fact
in respect of which he seems to have been deliberately hoodwinked.
Luigi Rispani is _not_ his grandson, but merely a nephew of the woman
who married John Alexander Clare. The said John Alexander Clare had but
one child—a daughter—who died when a few months old. In accepting Luigi
Rispani as his grandson Sir Gilbert Clare has allowed himself to be
made the victim of a fraud.
“ONE WHO KNOWS.”
For full ten minutes after he had finished reading the note Sir Gilbert
sat without moving, his eyes closed and his chin sunk on his breast. So
old and worn and white did he look that he might have been taken for
one already dead. Many times in his life had he drunk deep of the
waters of bitterness, but perhaps never before had they tasted so
utterly bitter. For the moment his soul cried out, “I can bear no more!
Give me death—give me anything rather than this!” But presently the
strong man within him, which was not yet wholly overcome, began to
reassert itself, and a voice seemed to say to him, “If what you have
just heard be the truth, then is it better that the truth should be
known, at whatever cost to yourself and others. Anything is better than
that you should remain the unwitting participant in a living lie.” He
opened his eyes, sighed and sat up. What a change had come over his
life in a few short minutes!
Presently he touched the handbell on the table, to which Trant, who had
been listening for it, at once responded.
“Present my compliments to Lady Pell, and tell her that I am very
desirous of having a word with her here, and as soon as Mr. Lisle
arrives request him to come to me.” He felt that he must share his
burden with someone; it was too weighty to be borne alone.
Lady Pell was quickly on the scene.
“Sit down, Louisa, and oblige me by reading this, which was brought me
a few minutes ago,” said Sir Gilbert as he handed her the letter.
She took it without a word. When she had read to the end, she turned a
scared face on her kinsman.
“This is indeed terrible, if it be true,” she said as she gave him back
the letter.
“Here is the key of the strong room to confirm it.”
At this juncture Everard Lisle entered the room. At sight of Lady Pell
he was about to retire, but Sir Gilbert motioned to him to come
forward. “Read this, which was found on my study table about
half-an-hour ago,” he said.
Lisle, standing within a yard of his elbow, did as he was told. He,
too, was utterly dumbfoundered and for a few moments knew not what to
say. Then a thought struck him. “According to this, sir, Mr. Lewis is
still locked up in the strong room.”
“Aye—like a rat in a trap,” replied the Baronet grimly. “Suppose we go
and release him and hear what he has to say for himself. Do you take
the key, Lisle. Come, Louisa; I must ask you to keep us company. This
seems to me an affair which may necessitate the presence of witnesses.”
“Now, be good enough to unlock the door of the strong room,” he said to
Lisle when they had reached the study.
Everard did as he was told and pulled wide the heavy door.
“Anybody inside?” demanded Sir Gilbert sharply. He was standing just
behind Lisle, but his eyes failed to pierce the semi-obscurity of the
room.
“Mr. Lewis Clare, sir,” replied Everard.
“Ah, it _is_ true, then!” He drew in his breath like one suddenly
struck in a vital part and caught at Lisle’s shoulder. A shiver passed
over him from head to foot, but his voice was firm enough when next he
spoke.
“You there, come out—come out this instant,” he commanded.
Never was there a more abject-looking being than he who responded to
the summons, with his blanched face, his dishevelled hair, and his
fear-distended eyes. He seemed to crawl rather than walk into the outer
room. Sir Gilbert pointed to a chair. “Seat yourself there,” he said.
The look with which he regarded him was a mixture of pity, contempt and
scorn.
Then, in an aside to Lady Pell, he added: “I thank heaven that not a
drop of my ancestors’ blood runs in this craven’s veins. But pray be
seated. This may prove to be a lengthy business.” As he spoke, he drew
a chair forward near his own and they both sat down. Then turning to
Everard, he said: “Mr. Lisle, I think I have heard you say that you
write shorthand.”
“Yes, Sir Gilbert.”
“Then station yourself there opposite me. I want you to take notes of
the questions I am about to put to this wretched young man and of his
answers to the same.”
There were so many questions he wanted to ask that for a few moments he
seemed at a loss where or how to begin. Luigi, of course, knew nothing
about the letter which had reached him so mysteriously with the key of
the strong room, and was still unaware that Sir Gilbert had the
slightest suspicion of the gross imposition of which he had been made
the victim.
For a brief space Sir Gilbert seemed lost in thought, then lifting his
head and bending on Luigi from between his contracted lids a look which
caused the young fellow to shrink and cower even more abjectly than
before, he said: “Luigi Rispani, for that is your name, I know you at
last for the vile impostor and cheat that you are. Whether you are
aware of it or not, let me tell you this: you have been guilty of that
which would inevitably consign you to a felon’s cell should I decide to
proceed to extremities against you, and, indeed, you deserve nothing
less at my hands. But what I may decide to do in the matter will depend
in a great measure upon yourself. Answer the questions I am about to
put to you truthfully and without prevarication, and I may be induced
to deal leniently by you. Lie to me, or strive in any way to throw dust
in my eyes, and the moment I discover you in the attempt I will have
you given into the custody of the police and will proceed against you
with the utmost rigour of the law. What say you, sir? Are you prepared
to tell me the absolute and positive truth without a shadow of
concealment on your part, or are you not?”
“I _will_ tell you the truth, Sir Gilbert, and nothing but the truth; I
really will,” whined Luigi, who was seated sideways on a chair, huddled
up and with one leg crossed under him, his back arched and his head
sunk between his shoulders. Every minute or two he was seized with a
spasm of nervous trembling, resulting partly from fright and partly
from the chill due to his long imprisonment in the strong room.
“So be it,” replied Sir Gilbert grimly. “But bear this in mind, that I
know more, far more than you think I do.” He paused, cleared his voice
and then continued. “Luigi Rispani, you are _not_ my grandson—that I
know already. But tell me this: what relation are you to Captain
Verinder, and also to the widow of my late son, John Alexander Clare?”
“Captain Verinder is my great-uncle. Mrs. Clare is my aunt—my father
and she were brother and sister.”
“How, and with whom did the fraud originate, which led to your imposing
yourself on me as my grandson?”
“It was all my great-uncle’s doing. It was he who originated the
scheme, and it was he who persuaded my aunt and me to join him in
carrying it out.”
“After all, then, my instinct was not at fault,” murmured Sir Gilbert
to himself. “It was not prejudice, but Nature’s own monition that bade
me beware of Verinder.”
“You see, Sir Gilbert, this is how it was,” went on Luigi, who now
seemed eagerly anxious to unbosom himself. “When Mrs. Clare came to
London she knew nothing about her husband having been your son. He died
in America, and, as it would appear, without having told her anything
about his relatives in England. It was Captain Verinder who ferreted
out the facts of the case, and everything that followed was due to him.
Mrs. Clare’s only child had died when it was a few months old, but he
persuaded her that if she were to introduce herself to you, bringing a
son and heir with her, she would have a far greater claim on your
generosity, and might count upon a very different reception at your
hands, from any that would be given her as the childless widow she
really was. Of myself I can only say that I was weak enough to be
overborne by my uncle’s persuasions, and—and that I ultimately
consented to allow myself to be passed off as your grandson.”
Luigi ceased, and for a little while no one spoke. Sir Gilbert, in an
absent way, was rubbing his eyeglasses with his pocket-handkerchief,
and apparently turning over in his mind what had just been told him.
Looking up at length, he said: “You have been frank with me so far, or
so I have reason to believe. I hope you will not be less so in
answering my next question. Tell me, then, if you please, to what
circumstances it was owing that I found you locked up in my strong
room.”
Luigi hung his head in a way he had not done before, while two spots of
vivid red flamed out on his sallow cheeks. Then, flinging up his head
with a sort of half-defiant air, he said: “I promised to tell you the
truth, Sir Gilbert, and I will. Last night, after waiting till the
clock had struck twelve, I came here, picked the lock of your drawer,
found the key of the strong room, opened the door and went inside. My
intention was to abstract certain American bonds which I knew were
there, and pass them over to my uncle for him to dispose of.”
“This latter transaction, then, was one in which your uncle was also
mixed up?”
“It was his notion entirely, that I should get possession of the bonds.
We were both cornered. Nearly all the money you gave us for travelling
purposes, had been lost at a Brussels gaming-table. We succeeded in
borrowing a hundred pounds on our joint note of hand, which will fall
due about a week hence. In order to meet it and so keep the affair from
coming to your ears, which it otherwise inevitably would do, my uncle
egged me on to abstract four of the bonds in question, the proceeds of
the sale of which would have extricated us from our predicament.”
“As pretty a piece of villainy as I have heard tell of for many a long
day!” remarked Sir Gilbert. “But you were disturbed by someone when in
the midst of your nefarious work, otherwise I should not have found you
this morning under lock and key.”
Luigi nodded, and his eyes, shifting for the first time from Sir
Gilbert’s face, turned to Lady Pell and then to Lisle, with a look
which neither of them could fathom.
“And who was that someone?” demanded Sir Gilbert. “Some member of my
household, as a matter of course; still, I fail to understand why—eh,
what is that you say? I did not catch your words.”
The words uttered at first in little more than a whisper, were now
spoken so that all present could hear them.
“It was the Grey Monk who shut me up in the strong room.”