THE AUTOGRAPH ALBUM
Mr. Hooper, leaning back in his chair, surveyed his cousin as if he
were some strange animal.
"Although your conduct strikes me as--shall I say?--abnormal, I don't
wish to insinuate anything disagreeable, my dear Frank; still, if you
are sane I wish you'd prove it."
Mr. Clifford passed his handkerchief across his brow, as if he found
the temperature trying.
"It's all very well to laugh--if you're supposed to be laughing--but,
if you were in my position, you'd find it no laughing matter. I'm to
be married next week."
"That is a prospect calculated to turn the strongest brain; granted!"
"Look here, Jack, I'll throw something at you if you talk like that;
I've come for sense, not idiocy. Under the circumstances Mr.
Oldfield's continued absence--and silence--was pretty bad to bear; and
now to be told he's dead----"
"Dead? you don't mean to say that Oldfield's dead!"
"So I was informed last night by two men, one named Nash, and the
other Morgan. Nash introduced himself as Oldfield's solicitor, and
Morgan said he was his sole executor. A more unclubable man than
Morgan I never met; he's not even a good imitation of a gentleman; how
Oldfield came to appoint him as his sole executor is beyond my
comprehension."
"What can you expect from a pill-man? I should take anything as a
matter of course from the proprietor of Peter Piper's Popular Pills."
"They're a sound, wholesome medicine."
"Of course; we won't flog a dead donkey. And when did Oldfield die?
and what of? did you know that he was ill?"
"I hadn't the ghost of a notion. And the best--or rather the worst--of
it is that Messrs. Nash and Morgan seem to take it for granted that I
knew all about it; especially the man Morgan."
"Why should he do that? And what's the harm if he does?"
Clifford was drumming on the table with his finger-tips, nervously; as
a rule he was one of the coolest and most collected of men; now his
embarrassment was obvious.
"That's one of the charms of the position; showing that one man may
know another for a long time, and yet know nothing at all about him.
According to the two gentlemen Joseph Oldfield lived a double life,
and his name wasn't Oldfield at all."
"There you are again, the pill-man! It at least looks as if he had the
saving grace of being ashamed to have it known that he was connected
with his own pills."
"I admit it does make it look as if he were ashamed, though I don't
see why he should have been; since, as I say, they are a sound and
wholesome medicine."
"No doubt; the elixir of life; cure all ills; see advertisements."
"There is no reason why a man should be more ashamed of being
associated with an honest medicine than with the profession of the
law, which is not all honesty."
"True, O king! Still, however, let's pass on. If his name wasn't
Oldfield, what was it?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Can't I--would you mind saying that again; only let me warn you that
if you've come here to ask riddles there'll be ructions."
"Don't be an ass, if you can help it! I saw the girl who's in the next
room in his room, yesterday."
"You saw her? I don't believe it."
"At least I saw her likeness; it was on his writing-table. She seemed
to be looking at me during the whole of a very unpleasant scene; it
was odd how the feeling that she was looking at me affected me; the
excellence of the likeness is proved by the fact that I recognized her
as the original the moment I saw her."
"Then do you mean----"
"I mean that, according to Messrs. Nash and Morgan, Oldfield's real
name was Lindsay, Donald Lindsay, of Cloverlea. What's Miss Lindsay
doing here?"
It was Mr. Hooper's turn to look surprised. As was his custom, when at
all moved, getting up from his chair, he began to wander about the
room.
"Why--she's typing, very badly, some absolutely worthless rubbish, for
the magnificent payment of two guineas a week, which I can't afford to
pay her."
"That sounds involved. Do you mean that she acts as your typewriter?"
"No, sir; she's my jobbing secretary; though I don't know what that
is; nor does she. And in that position she's earning two guineas a
week; which is more than I am."
"What's the idea?"
"The idea is that she's a lady; and that she wanted to earn her daily
bread, desperately badly. Mind, you're not to breathe a word of this
to her, or she'll go away at once, and probably never forgive me into
the bargain."
"It strikes me that you've been entertaining an angel unawares. She
says she's the daughter of Donald Lindsay, of Cloverlea."
"What she says goes. That girl wouldn't tell a lie--well, she
wouldn't."
"Then in that case she must be worth piles of money. I don't
understand why she's here; unless---- Is it possible that she doesn't
know of the connection between Lindsay and Oldfield?"
"Frank, there's a mystery about that girl; I've suspected it all
along; now suspicion's growing to certainty. Let's ask her to come in,
and we'll put her in the box. I'd give--more than I am ever likely to
have, to be to her a bearer of good tidings."
"Jack! Is it like that?"
"You idiot! I've only known her about two minutes; besides, she'd
never look at the likes of me; I feel it in the marrow of my bones.
But that's no reason why, if you have good news for her, she shouldn't
know them."
"One moment! The point on which I've come to consult you I haven't yet
reached; and a very nasty one it is; all the same, my dear Jack, we
must leave Miss Lindsay till we've discussed it. I'm accused of having
committed forgery."
"Frank! you're jesting!"
"It would be a grim jest if I were; but I'm not. Yesterday Mr. Morgan
charged me, point-blank, with having forged--and uttered--bills, for
over forty thousand pounds; more, he seemed amazed because I did not
at once confess my guilt and throw myself upon his mercy."
"The man's a lunatic!"
"Mr. Nash did not directly associate himself with Mr. Morgan's
charges; on the other hand, he did not dissociate himself. His
attitude puzzled me. I fancy that he had no doubt about my guilt until
he met me, and that, afterwards, his judgment was in suspense."
"But what foundation had either of these men for such a monstrous
accusation?"
"That's the difficulty; Morgan professes to believe he has a sound
one."
"Whose name are you supposed to have forged?"
"Donald Lindsay's."
"But you never heard it till yesterday."
"That is so; but Morgan called me a liar, right out, when I said so;
and appearances may be against me. Jack, I'm in an awkward position."
"I don't see why; you can bring Mr. Morgan to book, and there's an end
of him."
"There's more in it than you suppose; it's not so simple. Let me
explain; or at least try to. You've heard me speak of a man named
Trevor, Harry Trevor?"
"I know! Sir Henry Trevor! He's a blackguard!"
"I'm afraid he's not all that he might be, but that has only begun to
dawn upon me lately. At one time he and I were intimate. When I was
last in Paris I met him one day on the Boulevard. Although, somehow,
we'd drifted apart; our paths in life lay in different directions;
still I was very glad to see him, and we chummed up at once. He was
living in Paris; had an apartment on the Champs Elysee, at the top
there, near the Arch. He knew everybody; took me about; I had a royal
time. One night I dined with him in his rooms, he and I alone
together. Now I'm reluctant to make a direct charge, because I've no
proof to offer, but I wondered then, and I've wondered still more
since, if he hadn't done something to his wine."
"How--done something?"
"You know I'm an abstemious man, I don't care for wine; as a rule I
drink nothing at meals, not even water. But on an occasion like that
it was different. I had one glass of champagne, one of those small
tumblers; when the servant began to fill it up I stopped him; not that
there was anything wrong with the champagne, I feel sure there wasn't.
After dinner, with our fruit, we had some port; I wanted neither the
port nor the fruit, but Trevor insisted. The servant had left the
room; he himself took a bottle out of a cupboard; he laid it in a
cradle; he drew the cork; you know the fuss some men make about
drawing a cork of what they allege is a remarkable bottle of wine. He
made all that fuss, he insisted upon my sampling it; of course after
all the business he had gone through, I had no option; he poured me
out a glassful. Now I believe that wine was not all he pretended."
"What makes you think it?"
"As soon as I tasted it I didn't like it, I told him so. He said
I should change my opinion by the time I'd finished the glass;
so--merely to get rid of it--I finished the glass in a hurry, and I
liked it less than ever."
"How did it affect you?"
"It upset me; I was conscious that I was not in a condition in which I
should care to do business."
"Did you say anything?"
"I told him that I thought the wine had a very funny taste; but he
only laughed and said it was evident that I was no judge of port."
"You only had one glass?"
"One only; nothing short of physical force would have induced me to
touch another drop."
"Then what did you do?"
"We went into the other room, his sitting-room. He took out an
autograph album, it seemed that he collected autographs; though that
was the first I'd heard of it. He began to talk about imitating
people's handwriting, how good some were at it. Now it's a fact that
I've always had an unfortunate facility for imitating handwriting."
"It is, as you say, an unfortunate facility; one not overmuch to be
desired."
"When I was at school I used to imitate the masters' writing, the
other fellows' writing, anybody's writing; it used to give me a sort
of importance in the eyes of the other boys, and I'm afraid I
sometimes used my gift in ways which weren't altogether to my credit;
you haven't forgotten what boys are. Trevor was at school with me, so
he knew all about it. As he turned over page after page of his album,
he kept saying that I couldn't imitate this writing, and I couldn't
imitate that; I hadn't tried my hand since I had left school; I didn't
know if he was right or wrong, and I didn't care. Finally he came to a
signature which, so far as I remember, was on a scrap of paper which
might have been torn off the bottom of a letter; the name itself was
recalled to my memory with unpleasant vividness yesterday--it was
Donald Lindsay."
"Frank!"
"We are fearfully and wonderfully made. It had gone clean out of my
mind till Mr. Morgan showed it to me yesterday on a bill of exchange;
then it came back with a rush of recollection which frightened me.
Wasn't that an extraordinary thing?"
"Go on; I don't see yet what you are coming to."
"Trevor made a special point of this signature. He sat down and
imitated it himself, and then challenged me to do better. His
imitation was a bad one; and--I did better."
"What did you write on?"
"I have a vague impression that it was on a blank sheet of paper; but
I was in such a state of muddle that I couldn't positively affirm. Had
I been myself I should have changed the conversation before, but I was
in such a condition that I could only sit and listen, with but a dim
appreciation of his meaning."
"But you do remember copying Donald Lindsay's signature on what you
believe was a blank sheet of paper?"
"Unfortunately I do; the name meant nothing to me; I had never heard
of such a person; I acted on Trevor's persistent suggestion
practically like a man might do who was in a mesmeric trance. When I
had finished, Trevor, taking it up, declared it wasn't a bit like,
and, if I couldn't do better than that, he'd beaten me. So I tried
again."
"You mean that you copied Donald Lindsay's signature a second time?"
"I did."
"On the same sheet of paper?"
"I couldn't positively say, but it wouldn't surprise me to be told
that it was on a fresh sheet. I've a hazy notion that I copied it a
third and fourth time; Trevor each time declaring that it was not a
bit like. By that time my brain was torpid, all I could do was move my
fingers; presently I could no longer move those. I lost consciousness.
The next thing I can recollect is waking up in bed at my hotel feeling
very ill. I rang for the waiter. When he appeared he told me, with a
grin, that I had been brought to the hotel in a cab; that I had had to
be carried out, borne up-stairs, undressed, and put to bed; the
inference being that I was drunk. But I knew better. There happened to
be staying in the hotel a doctor who practises at Karlsbad, with whom
I had some acquaintance, Dr. Adler, a man of cosmopolitan reputation.
I sent for him, and when he came he at once pronounced that I had been
poisoned."
"Poisoned? Actually poisoned?"
"Actually poisoned. Adler saved my life; I believe that without him I
should have died. It was three days before I could get out of bed; and
then I was so weak that I had to be helped across the room."
"What did you do?"
"I sent a note to Trevor, by hand. The messenger returned with it,
saying Trevor had left Paris the day after I had dined with him, and
his apartment was shut up."
"And then?"
"I returned to London. I had already overstayed my time; I was wanted
at the office; I resumed my duties, and forgot all about it; or, at
least, I tried to. What could I do? The conclusion to which I came was
that there had been something wrong with the wine. I had known Trevor
the greater part of his life; I had never known him to be guilty of a
disreputable action; I could conceive of no motive which might induce
him to play tricks with an old friend, at his own table; I resolved
that, when occasion offered, I would tell him the tragic tale of how
his port had affected me; until yesterday I supposed that it was by
sheer accident that so far an opportunity had not arisen, and that I
had heard and seen nothing of Trevor from that day to this; and there
you are!"
"That's not all the story."
"So far as I've actual knowledge it is; the rest is mere surmise,
based on what Mr. Morgan told me yesterday. He says that bills for
over forty thousand pounds, purporting to be signed by Donald Lindsay,
have been discounted by Trevor, who asserted that he had them from me.
If that's true it looks as if those pieces of paper on which I copied
Lindsay's signature were bill stamps."
"Have you no recollection of them whatever?"
"None. If that is so then the possibility is that Trevor knew of the
connection between Lindsay and Oldfield; and that that is why he
hocussed me--Oldfield's managing man--into copying Lindsay's name;
which points to a plot, on Trevor's part, of the most iniquitous
kind."
"Where is Sir Henry Trevor now?"
"That I don't know. After leaving Morgan last night I hunted for him
everywhere; wired to Paris, searched all over London. Nothing has been
heard of him at any of his old haunts for at any rate the last three
or four months; he seems to have vanished."
"Who discounted the bills?"
"That, also, I can't tell you; we shall probably hear all about that
from Mr. Morgan. What I want to learn is, legally, in what position do
I stand?"
"It's not easy to say. To begin with they'll have to prove that the
bills were forged."
"And then?"
"Then they'll have to produce Trevor. A man who is capable of behaving
as he has done is quite likely to be willing to swear that he received
the bills in their completed state from you."
"Which means?"
"Your word against his; to clear yourself you'll have to convict him,
which mayn't be easy, or agreeable for you."
"Sounds cheerful; especially as I'm to be married next week!"
"There's one hope for you."
"Only one? Let's have it."
"The fact that Miss Lindsay is in the next room. If she has anything
to do with it she'll even forgive you for allowing yourself to get
mixed up with such a scamp as Trevor; I know more about him than it
seems you do. That girl could forgive anybody anything, she's a saint
in embryo. I suggest that we invite her to come in here, and that we
then put to her some leading questions."