Mr. Johnson, that same evening, was smoking the cigar of discontent,
drinking the coffee of bitterness, and sipping the brandy of fire.
Around him was all the stillness and the sweetness of the summer
twilight which he loved so much; stars burning in a violet sky, the
breath of roses in the air, the peaceful village sounds in his ears,
more lulling and soothing than absolute silence. Yet he was filled with
disquietude. He rose and, with his hands in his pockets, paced the long
strip of velvety lawn. What he had done, what he had worked for, seemed
to him to be a simple act of justice, yet with its accomplishment he was
acutely conscious of an intense isolation. No one was in sympathy with
him. Every one loved the wicked Ballastons. Even Katherine Besant had
left him, her eyes streaming with tears. Madame had sent imploring but
vain messages. In the village he felt that it was barely safe to show
himself. Then, when he was wondering where to look for consolation, the
postern gate opened quickly. Two women entered--Katherine Besant and
Claire. He moved forward to welcome them.
"Miss Endacott," Katherine explained, "wants to see you immediately and
talk to you. Take her away somewhere. I will wait."
"I am pleased to talk to Miss Endacott anywhere she wishes," Mr. Johnson
acquiesced.
"In the study, quickly," Claire begged.
She swung round upon him as soon as they had entered the room--superb,
beautiful but furious.
"Mr. Johnson," she began, "I have come to beseech you, to insist that
you move no further in this horrible affair. Nothing can bring my uncle
back to life; nothing can ever still the remorse of whoever killed him.
Beyond that, let it rest. I implore you, Mr. Johnson, to do nothing
more."
"My dear young lady," he replied gravely, "think of what you are
proposing. You can scarcely be content to let your uncle's murderer go
scot free."
"That is just what I do want," she persisted. "He gained nothing by it,
and--I am quite sure that, whoever it was, he was not altogether sane.
Even on the steamer--Mr. Johnson, I beg you to believe me--Gregory
Ballaston was under the influence of that horrible Image. All the time
he behaved quite strangely. As soon as he had parted from it, he was as
different as possible. If whoever killed my uncle came from the house
where that Image is--it's a terrible thing to say, but I honestly
believe it--they couldn't help it, they weren't responsible."
The tenant of the Great House shook his head.
"It is too late," he said.
"What do you mean, too late?" she demanded, with a sudden fear in her
eyes. "What have you done? What right have you to interfere, anyway?
Gregory Ballaston is going abroad to-night. That is the best thing that
could happen."
"It is nevertheless too late," Mr. Johnson declared. "The local police
have consulted with Scotland Yard by telephone, and they have decided
that the evidence they hold at present against Gregory Ballaston is
sufficient for them to stop his going abroad. They have issued two
warrants to-night. He will be arrested, I should say, within the next
few minutes."
She seemed suddenly to tower above him; white, passionate, menacing. Her
eyes blazed, her fingers seemed to seek a weapon. It was the first vital
fury of youth.
"You brute!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Gregory!"
For a moment the earth seemed to darken around her. Mr. Johnson groaned
as he led the half-fainting girl to a couch.
"Miss Endacott," he said, "this is a terrible business, but believe me,
justice must be done. Murder is an unforgivable crime. To take another
man's life--have you thought what it means?"
"What about my life?" she moaned. "Don't you understand? I was content
never to see him again. I lied about the Image to save him, but I love
him. If this horrible thing happens, I think that I shall kill you. I
shall either do that or die myself. I can't bear it, I tell you! I can't
bear it!"
She leaned forward in her chair and began to sob. Mr. Johnson mopped his
forehead feverishly. It was perhaps in his eager desire to escape from
the horror of the moment that he took particular note of the long key
which was attached to the chain which hung around her neck, and which
had temporarily escaped its resting place.
"What key is that?" he asked her sharply.
She took no notice at first. He repeated his question. She looked as
though she could have struck him.
"Key!" she echoed scornfully. "What does it matter? Why do you ask me
about keys at a moment like this? There's only one thing that
matters--he must be saved. You must do something. Take back something
you have said. Of course, I know he did it, or I should be with him at
this moment. He's not bad. He mustn't be killed. I--oh, my God!"
She began to sob again. He laid his hand upon her shoulder.
"Listen," he said, "I will do all that I can, I promise you, but you
must tell me what this key is. I have a reason for asking."
"It came from some safe-makers about eleven months ago," she answered
wearily. "They said it was the duplicate which my uncle had ordered the
last time he was in London."
He removed the chain from her neck, crossed the room and entered the
little annex, the door of which, since the burglary, had stood open, and
where, in a corner, a rusty old safe had been fitted into the wall. At
the first turn the key slipped in and the lock yielded. He swung the
door open. In the darkness there was the gleam of a bulky white
envelope. He took it out. It was addressed to Claire Endacott. He
examined it for a moment. Then he closed the safe and returned to the
library.
"Miss Endacott," he announced, "that key of yours has solved something
which has puzzled me for a very long time. It has opened the old safe
here. The other key to it was inside. This letter, as you see, is for
you. I have always felt convinced that your uncle, before his death, had
succeeded in making some sort of a translation of the document which he
possessed, indicating the whereabouts of the jewels. This is probably
the solution."
She flung the letter away and, but for his intervention, would have
trampled it with her foot upon the floor.
"Do something!" she begged. "You must stop what is going to happen. It
isn't fair. It isn't right!"
He rescued the letter and himself broke the seal. She snatched it from
his fingers.
"Don't waste time," she pleaded. "Do something! Letters! What does it
matter about letters?"
"It is from your uncle," he told her solemnly. "Probably the last thing
he ever wrote."
She tore open the envelope with quick, nervous fingers, anxious yet
reluctant. She began to read with a sort of sullen indifference. Then
she seemed suddenly galvanised into a new and amazingly altered state of
living. Mr. Johnson, as he watched her, was terrified. She sprang to her
feet and shrieked out at the top of her voice.
"Read it! Read it yourself!" she cried, gripping him by the arm, so that
her fingers bored their way into his flesh. "Read it and tell me that it
is the truth! Let me see too. Spell it out! Read it!"
Their heads touched. Her breath came hot upon his cheek. She grasped the
letter as though afraid it might be torn from her.
The Great House,
Saturday night.
MY DEAR CLAIRE,
I went to London this morning with the shadow of a fear--no
more. I come back--doomed. You can hear all about it, if you
like, from Sir Francis Moore, 18 Harley Street. Three months to
live and much suffering! I think not. I shall end it to-night.
You will be rich--much richer than you think. Malcolm's have my
will. You and your aunt will share alike. I enclose in this
letter a translation of a document which will tell you, unless
the document lies, how to obtain the treasure in the Images. Use
it as you will. I have no interest. I should have liked a year
or two here, but I prefer what is to come to an increase of the
agony of which I have already had a foretaste. I hope that you
will be happy.
RALPH ENDACOTT.
He read it through word by word. She repeated them after him. Then a
calm seemed to come upon her which was almost unnatural.
"Take care of the letter," he enjoined. "Don't lose it."
He rushed out across the lawn and through the postern gate. Down the
great avenue from the house he could see the lights of two cars
flashing. He ran on to the crossroads and stood there with arms
extended. Presently they swung round the corner, and at the sight of him
were brought to a standstill with a grinding of the brakes. In the front
one were Major Holmes, Sir Bertram and Gregory, in the rear one Cloutson
and Henry Ballaston. Mr. Johnson gripped Major Holmes by the arm.
"Major," he exclaimed, "an amazing thing has happened. You must come
round to the Great House at once."
Major Holmes frowned.
"I am afraid, Mr. Johnson," he said, "it is too late for any sort of
intervention. The criminal has confessed."
Mr. Johnson was staggered, but still frantically eloquent.
"There can be nothing to confess," he insisted. "Come and I'll show you
the letter. I'll show you where I found it. You must come. You're in
charge of this case. I'm sane. It was I who wanted justice done. You
must see what has happened--see the open safe--read the letter!"
Major Holmes descended and gave an order to the sergeant behind. Both
cars were driven to the Great House. Almost pushed in by Mr. Johnson,
they crowded into the library. He pointed to the open safe, visible
through the door of the annex.
"Miss Endacott had the key," he explained. "I noticed it round her neck
to-night. It came a month after Mr. Endacott's death. I opened the safe
and found this letter that you must all read. I will swear that it is in
Ralph Endacott's handwriting. His niece will swear it. I took it from
the safe. Ralph Endacott shot himself. He was dying."
"He shot himself!" Gregory gasped.
"There isn't a doubt about it," Mr. Johnson declared. "The name of the
doctor is there. He was a dying man."
Across the room their eyes met--Gregory's and Claire's. It seemed as
though nothing could keep them apart. Without conscious movement he was
by her side, her hands in his. All the time, with slow, deliberate
emphasis, Major Holmes was reading the letter aloud, reading the words
penned by a dying man, the supreme yet ghastly irony of which no one
properly apprehended in those few minutes of immense relief.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Claire faltered, as soon as she could find
words.
Gregory glanced behind at the little group and drew her nearer and
nearer. A nightmare was passing from his brain.
"I thought it was Dad," he whispered, under his breath. "What could I
do?"
"The letter appears to be genuine," Major Holmes decided, looking up
with an air of great relief, "and the name of the doctor fortunately
provides us with corroborative evidence, but under the circumstances I
must confess that I fail to understand Mr. Henry Ballaston's position,"
he added, turning towards him.
The latter coughed a little nervously.
"It has never been my custom," he declared, "to countenance any
deviation from the truth in others or to indulge in anything approaching
a falsehood myself. I have to admit, however, that on the present
occasion I made a false statement, which I beg leave to withdraw. The
fact is," he confided, with a touch of that ingenuousness which was one
of his characteristics, "I never doubted for a moment that my nephew
Gregory, in the interests of the family, was guilty of this
misdemeanour. I am a useless person in this world. He is a young man and
our direct heir. I did what I thought best."
"But the Image?" Sir Bertram demanded in bewilderment--"the second Image
of the Soul? How on earth did that get to the Hall?"
"I brought it," was Henry's complacent reply.
"But when?" Gregory asked helplessly.
"On the night of Mr. Endacott's unfortunate decease," Henry replied. "I
must confess that on the previous evening I paid a surreptitious visit
here. I had no idea on that occasion of purloining the Image, but I was
anxious to secure, if possible, a translation of any of the Chinese
documents which Mr. Endacott was known to possess which might assist us
towards the recovery of the jewels. I found Mr. Endacott, however, at
work, and I was unfortunate enough to disturb him. During his brief
absence in the garden I endeavoured to peruse his papers, but his
unexpectedly prompt return forced me on that occasion to abandon the
enterprise. On the following evening I saw Gregory leave the house----"
"I came to see if you were still in the garden," Gregory interrupted,
turning to Claire.
"Precisely," Henry acquiesced, "but I was not at that time aware of
your--er--attachment, nor did I attribute any sentimental purpose to
your nocturnal excursion. I followed you--and at the side gate here,
after some considerable interval, I heard what I imagined to be a
muffled revolver shot. I crept from my place of concealment and entered
the library. Mr. Endacott was lying there, quite dead. I listened for a
moment. I was perhaps unnerved. I imagined that I heard your retreating
footsteps from the anteroom into the courtyard. I listened again. There
was nothing to be heard. The Image was lying on the floor by Mr.
Endacott's side. He had probably been examining it prior to his lamented
action and the fall of his body had displaced it. I considered. I
decided that your nerve, Gregory, had failed you, that having committed
the preliminary--er--misdeed, you had hurried away without the Image. I
accordingly picked it up and brought it home. I placed it by the side of
the other in my room. It has been there ever since. I saw the shock
which its presence caused you, my dear brother--you too, Gregory--but I
did not think an explanation advisable."
Sir Bertram laid his hand upon his son's shoulder.
"My God, Gregory," he muttered, "I thought--I thought, of course, that
it was you."
Gregory groaned.
"And I," he explained--"as I knew it wasn't I--thought it must be you."
"My God, these Ballastons!" Major Holmes exclaimed, with amazed fervour.
* * * * *
A wonderful half-hour! Sir Bertram had slipped away and was on his knees
by Madame's couch. Mr. Johnson, whilst every one else was talking
confusedly, hastened down to the cellar. Gregory led Claire out into the
garden. In his hand was the paper she had passed over to him.
"The Images," he whispered; "let's go and find them."
They drove in the limousine car, still laden with his luggage, through
the scented darkness, back to the Hall, his arms around her, her head
resting contentedly upon his shoulder. Whilst she waited, he ran
upstairs, to the amazement of Rawson and the footman who had admitted
him, and presently returned with the two Images. Rawson met him at the
foot of the stairs. His face was full of astonishment and piteous
appeal.
"You will excuse me, Mr. Gregory, sir," he begged. "If there's any
news----"
Gregory staggered past him, borne down by his burden.
"Everything's all right, Rawson," he exclaimed. "Mr. Endacott shot
himself--found out he was going to die, anyway. We shall be back, all
three of us, to sleep. I may not be going abroad at all. Get yourself a
bottle of wine, Rawson. Tell you more about it when we get back."
Another drive which seemed to pass like a dream; a dream during which
the agony of the last hour appeared to fade into nothingness. Then the
Great House again, the Images upon the library table, and a little crowd
gathered around. Mr. Johnson, to whom Gregory had passed the paper,
called out the instructions.
"You press the right eye of the Body," he directed, "and press at the
same time the inner lobe of the left ear. Then you move the Image
forward three times slowly, pressing most at the lowest point. Now
then!"
Gregory obeyed the instructions. At the end of the third movement there
was a slight noise inside like the whirring of a spring. A ticking
began. They stood a little distance away. Suddenly the right eye opened
and a stream of what seemed to be red and crystal and green fire came
out and discharged itself upon the tablecloth. Every one drew closer,
fascinated, breathless, until with a final whirring the shower ended.
Mr. Johnson passed his hands over the stones.
"The finest emeralds I ever saw," he declared. "There is one diamond
there I wouldn't dare to value.--Now for the Soul! You reverse the
process. Press the left eye and the lobe of the right ear."
This time, after the whirring ended, the left eye opened, and a slow
stream of pink and white pearls fell on to the table.
"The tears of Buddha," Mr. Johnson exclaimed. "It's the oldest
superstition on the river. 'When Buddha weeps, the tears are pearls.'"
Again they watched, spellbound. This stream continued even longer than
the other one. Then there was a little click and all was over. The eye
slipped back. The Image seemed to smile in beneficent fashion. Claire's
fingers tightened upon Gregory's arm.
"Without expert advice," Mr. Johnson pronounced, in an awed tone, "I
wouldn't take less than a million for them."
"They belong to you, every stone," Gregory whispered to his companion.
She laughed up at him.
"Does it matter?" she murmured.