That curt sentence brought the rogue on his marrow-bones at once. He
clasped his hands and debated inwardly. "If I tell you all I know," he
said, at last, looking about him with an air of abject terror, as if he
thought Lord Southminster or Higginson would hear him, "will you promise
not to prosecute me?" His tone became insinuating. "For a hundred
pounds, I could find the real will for you. You'd better close with me.
To-day is the last chance. As soon as his lordship comes in, he'll hunt
it up and destroy it."
I flourished it before him, and pointed with one hand to the broken
desk, which he had not yet observed in his craven agitation.
"We do not need your aid," I answered. "We have found the will,
ourselves. Thanks to Lady Georgina, it is safe till this minute."
"And to me," he put in, cringing, and trying, after his kind, to curry
favour with the winners at the last moment. "It's all _my_ doing, my
lady! I wouldn't destroy it. His lordship offered me a hundred pounds
more to break open the back of the desk at night, while your ladyship
was asleep, and burn the thing quietly. But I told him he might do his
own dirty work if he wanted it done. It wasn't good enough while your
ladyship was here in possession. Besides, I wanted the right will
preserved, for I thought things might turn up so; and I wouldn't stand
by and see a gentleman like Mr. Tillington, as has always behaved well
to me, deprived of his inheritance."
"Which is why you conspired with Lord Southminster to rob him of it, and
to send him to prison for Higginson's crime," I interposed, calmly.
"Then you confess you put the forged will there?" Mr. Hayes said,
getting to business.
White looked about him helplessly. He missed his headpiece, the
instigator of the plot. "Well, it was like this, my lady," he began,
turning to Lady Georgina, and wriggling to gain time. "You see, his
lordship and Mr. Higginson----" he twirled his thumbs and tried to
invent something plausible.
Lady Georgina swooped. "No rigmarole!" she said, sharply. "Do you
confess you put it there or do you not--reptile?" Her vehemence startled
him.
"Yes, I confess I put it there," he said at last, blinking. "As soon as
the breath was out of Mr. Ashurst's body I put it there." He began to
whimper. "I'm a poor man with a wife and family, sir," he went on,
"though in Mr. Ashurst's time I always kep' that quiet; and his lordship
offered to pay me well for the job; and when you're paid well for a job
yourself, sir----."
Mr. Hayes waved him off with one imperious hand. "Sit down in the corner
there, man, and don't move or utter another word," he said, sternly,
"until I order you. You will be in time still for me to produce at Bow
Street."
Just at that moment, Lord Southminster swaggered back, accompanied by a
couple of unwilling policemen. "Oh, I say," he cried, bursting in and
staring around him, jubilant. "Look heah, Georgey, _are_ you going
quietly, or must I ask these coppahs to evict you?" He was wreathed in
smiles now, and had evidently been fortifying himself with brandies and
soda.
Lady Georgina rose in her wrath. "Yes, I'll go if you wish it, Bertie,"
she answered, with calm irony. "I'll leave the house as soon as you
like--for the present--till we come back again with Harold and _his_
policemen to evict you. This house is Harold's. Your game is played,
boy." She spoke slowly. "We have found the other will--we have
discovered Higginson's present address in Paris--and we know from White
how he and you arranged this little conspiracy."
She rapped out each clause in this last accusing sentence with
deliberate effect, like so many pistol-shots. Each bullet hit home. The
pea-green young man, drawing back and staring, stroked his shadowy
moustache with feeble fingers in undisguised astonishment. Then he
dropped into a chair and fixed his gaze blankly on Lady Georgina. "Well,
this is a fair knock-out," he ejaculated, fatuously disconcerted. "I
wish Higginson was heah. I really don't quite know what to do without
him. That fellah had squared it all up so neatly, don't yah know, that I
thought there couldn't be any sort of hitch in the proceedings."
[Illustration: "'WELL, THIS IS A FAIR KNOCK-OUT,' HE EJACULATED."]
"You reckoned without Lois," Lady Georgina said, calmly.
"Ah, Miss Cayley--that's true. I mean, Mrs. Tillington. Yaas, yaas, I
know, she's a doosid clevah person for a woman, now isn't she?"
It was impossible to take this flabby creature seriously, even as a
criminal. Lady Georgina's lips relaxed. "Doosid clever" she admitted,
looking at me almost tenderly.
"But not quite so clevah, don't yah know, as Higginson!"
"There you make your blooming little erraw," Mr. Hayes burst in,
adopting one of Lord Southminster's favourite witticisms--the sort of
witticism that improves, like poetry, by frequent repetition.
"Policemen, you may go into the next room and wait: this is a family
affair; we have no immediate need of you."
"Oh, certainly," Lord Southminster echoed, much relieved. "Very propah
sentiment! Most undesirable that the constables should mix themselves up
in a family mattah like this. Not the place for inferiahs!"
"Then why introduce them?" Lady Georgina burst out, turning on him.
He smiled his fatuous smile. "That's just what I say," he answered. "Why
the jooce introduce them? But don't snap my head off!"
The policemen withdrew respectfully, glad to be relieved of this
unpleasant business, where they could gain no credit, and might possibly
involve themselves in a charge of assault. Lord Southminster rose with a
benevolent grin, and looked about him pleasantly. The brandies and soda
had endowed him with irrepressible cheerfulness.
"Well?" Lady Georgina murmured.
"Well, I think I'll leave now, Georgey. You've trumped my ace, yah know.
Nasty trick of White to go and round on a fellah. I don't like the turn
this business is taking. Seems to me, the only way I have left to get
out of it is--to turn Queen's evidence."
Lady Georgina planted herself firmly against the door. "Bertie," she
cried, "no, you don't--not till we've got what we want out of you!"
He gazed at her blandly. His face broke once more into an imbecile
smile. "You were always a rough 'un, Georgey. Your hand did sting! Well,
what do you want now? We've each played our cards, and you needn't cut
up rusty over it--especially when you're winning! Hang it all, I wish I
had Higginson heah to tackle you!"
"If you go to see the Treasury people, or the Solicitor-General, or the
Public Prosecutor, or whoever else it may be," Lady Georgina said,
stoutly, "Mr. Hayes must go with you. We've trumped your ace, as you
say, and we mean to take advantage of it. And then you must trundle
yourself down to Bow Street afterwards, confess the whole truth, and set
Harold at liberty."
"Oh, I say now, Georgey! The whole truth! the whole blooming truth!
That's really what I call humiliating a fellah!"
"If you don't, we arrest you this minute--fourteen years' imprisonment!"
"Fourteen yeahs?" He wiped his forehead. "Oh, I say. How doosid
uncomfortable. I was nevah much good at doing anything by the sweat of
my brow. I ought to have lived in the Garden of Eden. Georgey, you're
hard on a chap when he's down on his luck. It would be confounded cruel
to send me to fourteen yeahs at Portland."
"You would have sent my husband to it," I broke in, angrily, confronting
him.
"What? You too, Miss Cayley?--I mean Mrs. Tillington. Don't look at me
like that. Tigahs aren't in it."
His jauntiness disarmed us. However wicked he might be, one felt it
would be ridiculous to imprison this schoolboy. A sound flogging and a
month's deprivation of wine and cigarettes was the obvious punishment
designed for him by nature.
"You must go down to the police-court and confess this whole
conspiracy," Lady Georgina went on after a pause, as sternly as she was
able. "I prefer, if we can, to save the family--even you, Bertie. But I
can't any longer save the family honour--I can only save Harold's. You
must help me to do that; and then, you must give me your solemn
promise--in writing--to leave England for ever, and go to live in South
Africa."
He stroked the invisible moustache more nervously than before. That
penalty came home to him. "What, leave England for evah?
Newmarket--Ascot--the club--the music-halls!"
"Or fourteen years' imprisonment!"
"Georgey, you spank as hard as evah!"
"Decide at once, or we arrest you!"
He glanced about him feebly. I could see he was longing for his lost
confederate. "Well, I'll go," he said at last, sobering down; "and your
solicitaw can trot round with me. I'll do all that you wish, though I
call it most unfriendly. Hang it all, fourteen yeahs would be so beastly
unpleasant!"
We drove forthwith to the proper authorities, who, on hearing the facts,
at once arranged to accept Lord Southminster and White as Queen's
evidence, neither being the actual forger. We also telegraphed to Paris
to have Higginson arrested, Lord Southminster giving us up his assumed
name with the utmost cheerfulness, and without one moment's compunction.
Mr. Hayes was quite right: each conspirator was only too ready to save
himself by betraying his fellows. Then we drove on to Bow Street (Lord
Southminster consoling himself with a cigarette on the way), just in
time for Harold's case, which was to be taken, by special arrangement,
at 3.30.
A very few minutes sufficed to turn the tables completely on the
conspirators. Harold was discharged, and a warrant was issued for the
arrest of Higginson, the actual forger. He had drawn up the false will
and signed it with Mr. Ashurst's name, after which he had presented it
for Lord Southminster's approval. The pea-green young man told his tale
with engaging frankness. "Bertie's a simple Simon," Lady Georgina
commented to me; "but he's also a rogue; and Higginson saw his way to
make excellent capital of him in both capacities--first use him as a
catspaw, and then blackmail him."
On the steps of the police-court, as we emerged triumphant, Lord
Southminster met us--still radiant as ever. He seemed wholly unaware of
the depths of his iniquity: a fresh dose of brandy had restored his
composure. "Look heah," he said, "Harold, your wife has bested me! Jolly
good thing for you that you managed to get hold of such a clevah woman!
If you hadn't, deah boy, you'd have found yourself in Queeah Street!
But, I say, Lois--I call yah Lois because you're my cousin now, yah
know--you were backing the wrong man aftah all, as I told yah. For if
you'd backed _me_, all this wouldn't have come out; you'd have got the
tin and been a countess as well, aftah the governah's dead and gone,
don't yah see. You'd have landed the double event. So you'd have pulled
off a bettah thing for yourself in the end, as I said, if you'd laid
your bottom dollah on me for winnah!"
[Illustration: "HAROLD, YOUR WIFE HAS BESTED ME."]
Higginson is now doing fourteen years at Portland; Harold and I are
happy in the sweetest place in Gloucestershire; and Lord Southminster,
blissfully unaware of the contempt with which the rest of the world
regards him, is shooting big game among his "boys" in South Africa.
Indeed, he bears so little malice that he sent us a present of a trophy
of horns for our hall last winter.
_A Town in the Tree-Tops._
By Ellsworth Douglass.
Everybody at the _pension_ had heard it, but Bayly has a circumstantial
and picturesque manner of narration, which gives old stories a new
interest.
"Wasn't it your American millionaire, Mr. Waldorf Astor," he said,
addressing me, "who made a wager that he would comfortably seat
thirty-two guests around the stump of a California big tree? And didn't
he do it? Brought a slice off the tree-stump more than 6,000 miles, and
had a grand dinner on it in London?"
"I must say I like your big tree stories better than your big tree
wines," put in Gaillet, a dashing young Frenchman, who spoke English
fluently; "but I don't think all that is so wonderful. I can show you a
place, within less than an hour of Paris, where more than thirty-two
persons can dine around comfortable tables high up in the branches of a
single tree!"
"That sounds interesting, Gaillet; to me it smells like 'good copy.'
Eating up in trees might make some novel photographs; what do you say,
Bayly?"
I purposely touched the young Englishman on his hobby. He was an amateur
photographer of the virulent and persistent type, and had recently
infected me with the contagion.
"If the sun looks promising we will ride down there on our wheels
to-morrow and have a look at them," he replied. "Can you go with us and
show us the way, Gaillet?"
And so, early the next morning, we went. It was a delightful two hours
on the wheel in early October. Just as the country began to grow more
broken and interesting, and chestnut trees began to strew the paths with
prickly burrs, we wheeled up a slight hill into a quaint village, and
dismounting, Gaillet exclaimed:--
"Here we are at home with Robinson Crusoe!"
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] THE VILLAGE OF ROBINSON. [_L.
Bayly._]
Had he told me that Robinson Crusoe really lived in the flesh and, after
returning from his lonely adventures, founded this little village, and
here attempted to bring into fashion his old habit of eating in the
trees, I would have believed it. For here is the village bearing his
name to this day; here also, as seen in our first photograph, is his
effigy in the principal street, under his rough, thatched umbrella, and
with his parrot seated upon his shoulder, as every schoolboy knows him.
Here, likewise, are a number of great trees, with two or three rustic
dining-huts built far up on the limbs of each; and, as Gaillet assured
us, here, for the last fifty years, men and their families have eaten in
the trees like squirrels.
As Bayly prepared to take the first photograph, he noticed that the
highest dining-stage in the tip-top of the biggest tree had curtains
drawn around it, which he asked to have pulled back. A waiter informed
him that this rustic hut was engaged by a party.
"Yes, I telephoned down yesterday afternoon, and reserved it for us,"
put in Gaillet. "I also ordered the _déjeuner_. I hope you will like it:
sole _au gratin_ and _chateaubriand aux champignons_."
At that moment the wind left the leaves and boughs at rest, and Bayly
snapped the shutter, regardless of the curtains. I made reply to
Gaillet:--
"I never heard of Crusoe's fare being quite so pretentious as all that.
He must have learned cookery since he came to France."
"It is M. Gueusquin _aîné_ who claims the credit for applying the tree
idea to modern dining. Doubtless he does it better than Crusoe could
have done. At any rate, he has made a large fortune out of the idea--far
more than Defoe made out of his story. It was just fifty years ago,"
continued Gaillet, "that the father of the present proprietor here was
struck with the clever idea, bought this picturesque plot of ground with
large trees on it, and built rustic dining-rooms on the strongest
branches. He called his lonely little country place Robinson, after the
Swiss family which figures in the French version of the romance, and
invited the patronage of the fun-loving Parisians who delight in
fanciful ideas of ibis sort. At that time it was a long coach ride from
the city, but it soon became the popular _rendezvous_ for a day's
outing. Since then Kings have dined here; thousands of wedding parties
have seen life rosy from the tree-tops, and nearly every Parisian boy
who reads the story of Robinson's adventures is taken to this quaint
little village as a realistic sequel. M. Gueusquin's success tempted
others into similar ventures here, so that now nearly every large tree
is utilized, and Robinson has grown into quite a respectable village,
whose name will always be associated in the French mind with breezy
dinners, family picnics, donkey-riding, bracing country air, and
charming scenery. The Ligne de Sceaux long ago built a branch line
terminating here, and a journey of forty minutes by train brings one
down from the Luxembourg Station in Paris."
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] THE LARGEST ROBINSON TREE. [_L.
Bayly._]
Bayly evidently cared little for these facts, for he had busied himself
getting a focus on the largest tree, which M. Gueusquin proudly
advertises as "_Le Vrai Arbre de Robinson_." You may see the result in
the accompanying photograph. Its massive trunk has not much increased in
size since the stairway was built around it half a century ago. There is
one thatched hut built at the first branch of the tree; another well out
on a higher limb on the other side of the trunk; and the third and most
desirable in the very tip-top, from which one sees an enchanting view of
all the pretty country lying towards Paris. A stairway connects all
these rustic huts with each other, and in the busy season a waiter is
stationed at each dining stage, and the wines and cooked foods are
hauled up to him from the ground by means of a rope and basket running
to each stage, as will be seen in most of the photographs. At wedding
parties these same baskets have more than once served to lower away some
bibulous guest whose frequent toasts to the bride have ended in a
decided disinclination to attempt the giddy and precipitous stairway.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] LARGE DINING-ROOM BETWEEN TWO TREES.
[_Ellsworth Douglass._]
Bayly went next to inspect a larger and more modern dining-room built
between two young trees, and I have caught him on the stairway in the
photograph above. But I was anxious to climb to some height and get a
good view of the nest in the tree-top where we were to breakfast. I
heard someone laughing at my first futile attempts at climbing, but at
last I gained a point of vantage which gave a view over the tops of the
trees to the indefinite stretch of pretty valley beyond.
While breakfast was preparing we visited the neighbouring inns to
photograph the trees. Just across the road we found one which claims the
distinction of being the tallest in Robinson. As will be seen in the
photograph, it has three dining stages one directly above another, so
that the same basket may serve them all. A waiter can be seen in the top
stage of this thrifty, sturdy chestnut, in which many generations may
yet dine.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] A THREE-STORY TREE. [_L. Bayly._]
Farther down the road is a place called the Maison Robin, possibly in
the hope that the kind public will believe that the "true Robinson" was
this Robin's son. Here is the "Great Chestnut," which truly looks as if
it might antedate Robinson Crusoe by centuries. Yet it still showers its
plenteous fruit upon the ground, and as we kicked about its bushels of
bursting burrs we wondered how "marron glacé" could be so expensive in
Paris. The next photograph shows how the walks were sprinkled with ripe
nuts; and also some pretty samples of the vine or ivy-covered _bosquets_
for those who prefer to dine on _terra firma_. These are numerous, and
charmingly pretty in the gardens of most of the inns here.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] THE GREAT CHESTNUT. [_Ellsworth
Douglass._]
Another great feature of Robinson is the family picnic, but the French
love ease and comfort too much to dine on the grass under the trees.
They prefer to sit properly at a table, and many of the inns recognise
the right of visitors to bring their own provisions, and are content
with serving them wines, coffee, and the like. When you go to Robinson,
you are sure to recognise this place at the turning of the road before
reaching the great trees.
[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] NEAR VIEW OF A HUT ON A BRANCH. [_L.
Bayly._]
I returned to our second stage with Gaillet, and found the table laid,
but not a scrap of food to be seen. The waiter was trotting up the
stairs with a heavily-loaded tray, on which was an enormous plate of
sole _au gratin_. Gaillet remarked that it looked as if the people in
the top hut had not only captured our place, but our breakfast as well.
He begged the waiter to hurry our order, and then asked me what I
thought might be going on up there behind the curtains. It was very near
us, and perhaps for this reason the young ladies refrained from audible
conversation. They only whispered among themselves and laughed at
intervals, but Gaillet thought he surprised one or two attempts to peep
around the curtain at us. I was ravenously hungry, and when the waiter
next went past up to the top story I seized a yard of bread from his
tray. Looking down at Bayly, who was focusing below, I cried out:
"Lancelot, if you are hungry, get a photograph of the only morsel of
food I have been able to secure before I devour it!" And our last
illustration bears witness that he did so. This detailed view of a
thatched, rustic hut perched upon a big limb finished his work.
Aunt Sarah's Brooch.
[Illustration]