IX

For a moment there was an acute, terrible silence. Mortlake's face was

that of a corpse; the face of the dead man at his side was flushed with

the hues of life. To the overstrung nerves of the onlookers, the brooding

eyes of the picture seemed sad and stern with menace, and charged with

the lightnings of doom.

It was a horrible contrast. For Wimp, alone, the painted face had fuller,

more tragical meanings. The audience seemed turned to stone. They sat or

stood--in every variety of attitude--frozen, rigid. Arthur Constant's

picture dominated the scene, the only living thing in a hall of the dead.

But only for a moment. Mortlake shook off the detective's hand.

"Boys!" he cried, in accents of infinite indignation, "this is a police

conspiracy."

His words relaxed the tension. The stony figures were agitated. A dull

excited hubbub answered him. The little cobbler darted from behind his

pillar, and leapt upon a bench. The cords of his brow were swollen with

excitement. He seemed a giant overshadowing the hall.

"Boys!" he roared, in his best Victoria Park voice, "listen to me. This

charge is a foul and damnable lie."

"Bravo!" "Hear, hear!" "Hooray!" "It is!" was roared back at him from all

parts of the room. Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes,

excited to the last degree.

"Boys!" Peter roared on, "you all know me. I'm a plain man, and I want to

know if it's likely a man would murder his best friend."

"No!" in a mighty volume of sound.

Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake's popularity. He stood on the

platform, pale and anxious as his prisoner.

"And if he did, why didn't they prove it the first time?"

"Hear, Hear!"

"And if they want to arrest him, why couldn't they leave it till the

ceremony was over? Tom Mortlake's not the man to run away."

"Tom Mortlake! Tom Mortlake! Three cheers for Tom Mortlake!" "Hip, hip,

hip, hooray!"

"Three groans for the police!" "Hoo! Oo! Oo!"

Wimp's melodrama was not going well. He felt like the author to whose

ears is borne the ominous sibilance of the pit. He almost wished he

had not followed the curtain-raiser with his own stronger drama.

Unconsciously the police, scattered about the hall, drew together. The

people on the platform knew not what to do. They had all risen and stood

in a densely packed mass. Even Mr. Gladstone's speech failed him in

circumstances so novel. The groans died away; the cheers for Mortlake

rose and swelled and fell and rose again. Sticks and umbrellas were

banged and rattled, handkerchiefs were waved, the thunder deepened. The

motley crowd still surging about the hall took up the cheers, and for

hundreds of yards around people were going black in the face out of mere

irresponsible enthusiasm. At last Tom waved his hand--the thunder

dwindled, died. The prisoner was master of the situation.

Grodman stood on the platform, grasping the back of his chair, a curious

mocking Mephistophelian glitter about his eyes, his lips wreathed into a

half smile. There was no hurry for him to get Denzil Cantercot arrested

now. Wimp had made an egregious, a colossal blunder. In Grodman's heart

there was a great, glad calm as of a man who has strained his sinews to

win in a famous match, and has heard the judge's word. He felt almost

kindly to Denzil now.

Tom Mortlake spoke. His face was set and stony. His tall figure was drawn

up haughtily to its full height. He pushed the black mane back from his

forehead with a characteristic gesture. The fevered audience hung upon

his lips--the men at the back leaned eagerly forward--the reporters were

breathless with fear lest they should miss a word. What would the great

labour leader have to say at this supreme moment?

"Mr. Chairman and gentlemen. It is to me a melancholy pleasure to have

been honoured with the task of unveiling to-night this portrait of a

great benefactor to Bow and a true friend to the labouring classes.

Except that he honoured me with his friendship while living, and that the

aspirations of my life have, in my small and restricted way, been

identical with his, there is little reason why this honourable duty

should have fallen upon me. Gentlemen, I trust that we shall all find an

inspiring influence in the daily vision of the dead, who yet liveth in

our hearts and in this noble work of art--wrought, as Mr. Gladstone has

told us, by the hand of one who loved him." The speaker paused a moment,

his low vibrant tones faltering into silence. "If we humble working men

of Bow can never hope to exert individually a tithe of the beneficial

influence wielded by Arthur Constant, it is yet possible for each of us

to walk in the light he has kindled in our midst--a perpetual lamp of

self-sacrifice and brotherhood."

That was all. The room rang with cheers. Tom Mortlake resumed his seat.

To Wimp the man's audacity verged on the Sublime; to Denzil on the

Beautiful. Again there was a breathless hush. Mr. Gladstone's mobile face

was working with excitement. No such extraordinary scene had occurred in

the whole of his extraordinary experience. He seemed about to rise. The

cheering subsided to a painful stillness. Wimp cut the situation by

laying his hand again upon Tom's shoulder.

"Come quietly with me," he said. The words were almost a whisper, but in

the supreme silence they travelled to the ends of the hall.

"Don't you go, Tom!" The trumpet tones were Peter's. The call thrilled an

answering chord of defiance in every breast, and a low ominous murmur

swept through the hall.

Tom rose, and there was silence again. "Boys," he said, "let me go. Don't

make any noise about it. I shall be with you again to-morrow."

But the blood of the Break o' Day boys was at fever heat. A hurtling mass

of men struggled confusedly from their seats. In a moment all was chaos.

Tom did not move. Half-a-dozen men headed by Peter scaled the platform.

Wimp was thrown to one side, and the invaders formed a ring round Tom's

chair. The platform people scampered like mice from the centre. Some

huddled together in the corners, others slipped out at the rear. The

committee congratulated themselves on having had the self-denial to

exclude ladies. Mr. Gladstone's satellites hurried the old man off and

into his carriage, though the fight promised to become Homeric. Grodman

stood at the side of the platform secretly more amused than ever,

concerning himself no more with Denzil Cantercot, who was already

strengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs. The police about the hall

blew their whistles, and policemen came rushing in from outside and the

neighbourhood. An Irish M.P. on the platform was waving his gingham like

a shillelagh in sheer excitement, forgetting his new-found respectability

and dreaming himself back at Donnybrook Fair. Him a conscientious

constable floored with a truncheon. But a shower of fists fell on the

zealot's face, and he tottered back bleeding. Then the storm broke in all

its fury. The upper air was black with staves, sticks, and umbrellas,

mingled with the pallid hailstones of knobby fists. Yells, and groans,

and hoots, and battle-cries blent in grotesque chorus, like one of

Dvorak's weird diabolical movements. Mortlake stood impassive, with arms

folded, making no further effort, and the battle raged round him as the

water swirls round some steadfast rock. A posse of police from the back

fought their way steadily towards him, and charged up the heights of the

platform steps, only to be sent tumbling backwards, as their leader was

hurled at them like a battering-ram. Upon the top of the heap he fell,

surmounting the strata of policemen. But others clambered upon them,

escalading the platform. A moment more and Mortlake would have been

taken. Then the miracle happened.

As when of old a reputable goddess _ex machina_ saw her favourite hero in

dire peril, straightway she drew down a cloud from the celestial stores

of Jupiter and enveloped her fondling in kindly night, so that his

adversary strove with the darkness, so did Crowl, the cunning cobbler,

the much-daring, essay to ensure his friend's safety. He turned off the

gas at the meter.

An Arctic night--unpreceded by twilight--fell, and there dawned the

sabbath of the witches. The darkness could be felt--and it left blood and

bruises behind it. When the lights were turned on again, Mortlake was

gone. But several of the rioters were arrested, triumphantly.

And through all, and over all, the face of the dead man, who had sought

to bring peace on earth, brooded.

* * * * *

Crowl sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese, with his head

bandaged, while Denzil Cantercot told him the story of how he had rescued

Tom Mortlake. He had been among the first to scale the height, and had

never budged from Tom's side or from the forefront of the battle till he

had seen him safely outside and into a by-street.

"I am so glad you saw that he got away safely," said Crowl, "I wasn't

quite sure he would."

"Yes; but I wish some cowardly fool hadn't turned off the gas. I like men

to _see_ that they are beaten."

"But it seemed--easier," faltered Crowl.

"Easier!" echoed Denzil, taking a deep draught of bitter. "Really, Peter,

I'm sorry to find you always will take such low views. It may be easier,

but it's shabby. It shocks one's sense of the Beautiful."

Crowl ate his bread and cheese shamefacedly.

"But what was the use of breaking your head to save him?" said Mrs.

Crowl, with an unconscious pun. "He must be caught."

"Ah, I don't see how the Useful _does_ come in, now," said Peter,

thoughtfully. "But I didn't think of that at the time."

He swallowed his water quickly, and it went the wrong way and added to

his confusion. It also began to dawn upon him that he might be called to

account. Let it be said at once that he wasn't. He had taken too

prominent a part.

Meantime, Mrs. Wimp was bathing Mr. Wimp's eye, and rubbing him generally

with arnica. Wimp's melodrama had been, indeed, a sight for the gods.

Only virtue was vanquished and vice triumphant. The villain had escaped,

and without striking a blow.

X

There was matter and to spare for the papers the next day. The striking

ceremony--Mr. Gladstone's speech--the sensational arrest--these would of

themselves have made excellent themes for reports and leaders. But the

personality of the man arrested, and the Big Bow Mystery Battle--as it

came to be called--gave additional piquancy to the paragraphs and the

posters. The behaviour of Mortlake put the last touch to the

picturesqueness of the position. He left the hall when the lights went

out, and walked unnoticed and unmolested through pleiads of policemen

to the nearest police station, where the superintendent was almost too

excited to take any notice of his demand to be arrested. But to do him

justice, the official yielded as soon as he understood the situation.

It seems inconceivable that he did not violate some red-tape regulation

in so doing. To some this self-surrender was limpid proof of innocence;

to others it was the damning token of despairing guilt.

The morning papers were pleasant reading for Grodman, who chuckled as

continuously over his morning egg, as if he had laid it. Jane was alarmed

for the sanity of her saturnine master. As her husband would have said,

Grodman's grins were not Beautiful. But he made no effort to suppress

them. Not only had Wimp perpetrated a grotesque blunder, but the

journalists to a man were down on his great sensation tableau, though

their denunciations did not appear in the dramatic columns. The Liberal

papers said that he had endangered Mr. Gladstone's life; the Conservative

that he had unloosed the raging elements of Bow blackguardism, and set in

motion forces which might have easily swelled to a riot, involving severe

destruction of property. But "Tom Mortlake" was, after all, the thought

swamping every other. It was, in a sense, a triumph for the man.

But Wimp's turn came when Mortlake, who reserved his defence, was brought

up before a magistrate, and by force of the new evidence, fully committed

for trial on the charge of murdering Arthur Constant. Then men's thoughts

centred again on the Mystery, and the solution of the inexplicable

problem agitated mankind from China to Peru.

In the middle of February, the great trial befell. It was another of the

opportunities which the Chancellor of the Exchequer neglects. So stirring

a drama might have easily cleared its expenses--despite the length of the

cast, the salaries of the stars, and the rent of the house--in mere

advance booking. For it was a drama which (by the rights of Magna Charta)

could never be repeated; a drama which ladies of fashion would have given

their earrings to witness, even with the central figure not a woman. And

there _was_ a woman in it anyhow, to judge by the little that had

transpired at the magisterial examination, and the fact that the country

was placarded with bills offering a reward for information concerning a

Miss Jessie Dymond. Mortlake was defended by Sir Charles Brown-Harland,

Q.C., retained at the expense of the Mortlake Defence Fund (subscriptions

to which came also from Australia and the Continent), and set on his

mettle by the fact that he was the accepted labour candidate for an

East-end constituency. Their Majesties, Victoria and the Law, were

represented by Mr. Robert Spigot, Q.C.

Mr. SPIGOT, Q.C, in presenting his case, said: "I propose to show that

the prisoner murdered his friend and fellow-lodger, Mr. Arthur Constant,

in cold blood, and with the most careful premeditation; premeditation

so studied, as to leave the circumstances of the death an impenetrable

mystery for weeks to all the world, though, fortunately, without

altogether baffling the almost superhuman ingenuity of Mr. Edward Wimp,

of the Scotland Yard Detective Department. I propose to show that the

motives of the prisoner were jealousy and revenge; jealousy, not only of

his friend's superior influence over the working men he himself aspired

to lead, but the more commonplace animosity engendered by the disturbing

element of a woman having relations to both. If, before my case is

complete, it will be my painful duty to show that the murdered man was

not the saint the world has agreed to paint him, I shall not shrink from

unveiling the truer picture, in the interests of justice, which cannot

say _nil nisi bonum_ even of the dead. I propose to show that the murder

was committed by the prisoner shortly before half-past six on the morning

of December 4th, and that the prisoner having, with the remarkable

ingenuity which he has shown throughout, attempted to prepare an alibi

by feigning to leave London by the _first_ train to Liverpool, returned

home, got in with his latch-key through the street door, which he had

left on the latch, unlocked his victim's bedroom with a key which he

possessed, cut the sleeping man's throat, pocketed his razor, locked the

door again, and gave it the appearance of being bolted, went downstairs,

unslipped the bolt of the big lock, closed the door behind him, and got

to Euston in time for the _second_ train to Liverpool. The fog helped

his proceedings throughout." Such was in sum the theory of the

prosecution. The pale, defiant figure in the dock winced perceptibly

under parts of it.

Mrs. Drabdump was the first witness called for the prosecution. She was

quite used to legal inquisitiveness by this time, but did not appear in

good spirits.

"On the night of December 3rd, you gave the prisoner a letter?"

"Yes, your ludship."

"How did he behave when he read it?"

"He turned very pale and excited. He went up to the poor gentleman's

room, and I'm afraid he quarrelled with him. He might have left his last

hours peaceful." (Amusement.)

"What happened then?"

"Mr. Mortlake went out in a passion, and came in again in about an hour."

"He told you he was going away to Liverpool very early the next morning?"

"No, your ludship, he said he was going to Devonport." (Sensation.)

"What time did you get up the next morning?"

"Half-past six."

"That is not your usual time?"

"No, I always get up at six."

"How do you account for the extra sleepiness?"

"Misfortunes will happen."

"It wasn't the dull, foggy weather?"

"No, my lud, else I should never get up early." (Laughter.)

"You drink something before going to bed?"

"I like my cup o' tea. I take it strong, without sugar. It always

steadies my nerves."

"Quite so. Where were you when the prisoner told you he was going to

Devonport?"

"Drinkin' my tea in the kitchen."

"What should you say if prisoner dropped something in it to make you

sleep late?"