PEOPLE DON'T DO THAT SORT OF THING
Lady Ryder was out of town. She was staying at a country house in the
Midlands, chaperoning her nieces--Louisa's twin-sisters--but Sir
Thomas Ryder was at home.
It was for him that Louisa had asked when the butler opened the door
in answer to her ring.
"Sir Thomas is in the library, miss," said the man. "Will you come
into the drawing room? and I'll tell Sir Thomas you are here, miss."
"No!" she said, "don't announce me. I'll go to the library."
Sir Thomas put down the paper which he had been reading, when his
niece entered. He did not seem at all astonished to see her. No doubt
the exercise of his profession had taught him never to be surprised at
anything in life. He rose when he recognized who it was, and carefully
folded his eyeglasses and slipped them into their case and into his
waistcoat pocket. Then he said:
"My dear Louisa, this is quite unexpected! Is your father with you?"
"No," she replied, "I came alone. May I sit down?"
"Certainly, my dear child," he said genially, and himself wheeled a
capacious arm-chair round to the fire.
"I am not disturbing you, Uncle Ryder?"
"No! no! Take off your cloak, won't you? I was only at the evening
paper, preparatory to turning in early."
She glanced at the paper on the table: that page was uppermost that
bore the startling headline, in unusually large type: "The Murder in
the Taxicab. Sensational Developments." The chief of the Criminal
Investigation Department studied the accounts in the newspapers, the
opinion of pressmen and reporters. Everything interested him: he
weighed everything in his mind; no silly advice, no empty
tittle-tattle, was ever dismissed by him without its due meed of
consideration.
Uncle and niece now sat opposite each other, facing the hearth. He
looked straight into the fire, knowing that she would not wish him to
see the misery in her face.
"Will you have something, Lou?" he asked kindly. "A cup of tea or
something?"
"No, thank you, uncle. We had dinner, and father has gone to the club.
I came to see you about Luke."
"Yes?" he said.
"All along," she continued, "ever since father saw you yesterday, I
wanted to speak to you. Silly conventionality kept me back."
"It certainly is not usual----" he began.
"No," she broke in quickly, "I know it is not. But this is an unusual
case, far too serious for silly ideas of tact or convention to creep
in. The man whom I love best in all the world is falsely accused of a
most abominable crime. He was arrested--by your orders I
suppose--about an hour ago."
He put up his hand in gentle deprecation.
"Stop a moment, my dear," he said quite kindly, but very decisively.
"If you have any idea at the back of your head, that I, personally,
have any influence at my command with regard to Luke de Mountford's
fate, then the sooner you get that idea out of your head the better.
If you came here to-night with the notion that by pleading with me you
could save Luke from the consequences of his crime, then get that
notion out of your head, my dear, and save us both from a very painful
interview. Luke de Mountford was not arrested by my orders: I am only
an automaton of the law, which takes its own course, without any
personal interference on my part. Officially I--as an automaton--did
just as duty and the law of this country directs. Personally, I sent
through your father some sound advice to Luke de Mountford."
She listened, impassive and silent, to his reproof, and then said
simply:
"I beg your pardon, Uncle Ryder: I must have expressed myself badly. I
knew quite well that you, personally, bear no animosity against Luke:
why, indeed, should you? I had no intention whatever, in coming to see
you to-night, of making a scene of lamentation and supplication. On
the contrary I knew quite well that--acting from the best of
motives--you advised Luke to fly from justice, since in your opinion
his condemnation is a foregone conclusion. Father hadn't the chance of
passing your advice on to Luke, because when we got to Fairfax
Mansions, Edie told us that he was packing up his things, meaning to
catch the night boat to Calais."
"Then why the dickens did he miss his train?" exclaimed Sir Thomas
gruffly.
"It was not altogether his fault," she replied. "Our arrival delayed
him a little, but he would have had plenty of time even then, only the
police came, you see, and it was too late."
"I know. It was silly, officious blundering on the part of one of my
subs. I meant de Mountford to have plenty of time to get away, and I
could have managed it somehow to leave him unmolested if he kept some
distance away from England. The whole thing has been most
unfortunate."
"I don't think so, uncle," she said quietly, "I am glad, very glad,
that Luke has been arrested."
"Are you?" he retorted dryly. "The outlook for him is not pleasant."
"I know that. But at any rate now there is a chance that he can prove
his innocence."
Sir Thomas Ryder gave a quick sigh of impatience.
"My dear child," he said gently, "do try and be reasonable about that.
You only lay up for yourself further stores of misery and of
disappointment. De Mountford is guilty, I tell you. He practically
confessed at the inquest, and he practically confessed to our fellows
after his arrest."
"Practically," she said with strong emphasis, "but not really. Luke
has never confessed that he committed a murder."
"Well, he admits that the stick with which the murder was done was his
stick; that he had it in his hand the night that the murder was
committed; that he went out, with it in his hand, five minutes before
the other man was murdered."
"I know all that," she rejoined, "but let me tell you this, Uncle
Ryder. Luke has admitted all that, as you say; but he has never
admitted that he killed Philip de Mountford--or Paul Baker--whoever he
may be. Luke, Uncle Ryder, is allowing the awful accusation to rest
upon him, because he wishes to shield the real perpetrator of the
crime."
"Nonsense!" broke in Sir Thomas curtly.
"Why nonsense?"
"Because, my dear Lou," he said slowly and firmly, "people don't do
that sort of thing. The consequences of having taken another person's
life--otherwise a murder--are so terrible that no one will bear them
for the sake of any one else on earth."
"Yet I tell you, uncle," she reiterated with firmness at least equal
to his own, "that Luke never killed that man, and that he pleads
guilty to the crime in order to shield some one else."
"Whom?" he retorted.
"That I do not know--as yet. But that is the reason why I came here
to-night, uncle: because you must help me to find out."
Sir Thomas abruptly rose from his chair, and took his stand on the
hearth rug, with legs apart, and slender hands buried in the pockets
of his trousers, in the attitude dear to every Englishman.
His eyes in their framework of innumerable wrinkles looked down, not
unkindly, at the pale, serious face of the girl before him.
He, who was accustomed to give every scrap of advice, every senseless
piece of title-tattle its just meed of attention, was not likely to
leave unheeded the calm assertions of a woman for whom he had great
regard, and who was the daughter of a brother officer and one of his
best friends. Of course the girl was in love with de Mountford, so her
judgment on him was not likely to be wholly unbiassed: at the same
time Sir Thomas--like all men who have knocked about the world a great
deal, and seen much of its seamy side--had a great belief in woman's
instinct, as apart from her judgment, and he was the last man in the
world to hold the sex in contempt.
"Look here, my dear," he said after a little while, during which he
had tried to read the lines in the interesting face turned up toward
him, "I honour you for your sense of loyalty to de Mountford, just the
same as I honour your father for the like reason. And in order to
prove to you that I, individually, would be only too happy to see the
man's innocence established beyond a doubt, I am going to argue that
soberly and sensibly with you. You hold the theory that Luke de
Mountford is shielding some one from the consequences of an awful
crime by taking the burden on himself. Now, my dear, as I told you
before, people don't do that sort of thing nowadays. In olden times,
the consequences of a crime--especially where the aristocracy was
concerned--were quite picturesque: the Tower, the block, and all that
sort of thing. But to-day the paraphernalia of vengeful justice is
very sordid, very mean, and anything but glorious. It means the
lengthy inquiry before a police magistrate, then the trial, the past
dragged up to the light, the most private secrets thrown to the morbid
curiosity of the million. In order to face that sort of thing, my
dear, a man must be either guilty--then he cannot help it; or
wrongfully accused--then he hopes for the establishment of his
innocence. But a man does not prepare himself to face all that out of
Quixotic motives alone, knowing himself to be innocent and because he
desires that another should be spared those awful humiliations and the
chance of a disgusting and shameful death."
"What do you mean by all that, Uncle Ryder," she asked.
"I mean that if we are going to admit this Quixotic motive in de
Mountford's attitude now, there can only be one mainspring for it."
"What is that?"
"It is perhaps a little difficult----" he said somewhat hesitatingly.
"You mean," she interposed quietly, "that if Luke is taking this awful
crime upon himself for the sake of another, that other can only be a
woman whom he loves."
"Well," retorted Sir Thomas, "it is not you, my dear, I presume, who
killed this bricklayer from Clapham."
She did not reply immediately: but her lips almost framed themselves
into a smile. Luke and another woman! To Sir Thomas Ryder that seemed
indeed a very simple explanation. Men have been known to do strange
things, to endure much and to sacrifice everything for the sake of
woman! But then Sir Thomas knew nothing of Luke, nothing more than
what the latter chose to show of his inward self to the world. The
memory of those few moments in the room in Fairfax Mansions laughed
the other man's suggestion to scorn. Louisa shook her head and said
simply:
"No, Uncle Ryder, I did not kill the Clapham bricklayer in the cab."
"And you won't admit that Luke may be shielding another woman?" said
Sir Thomas, with just the faintest semblance of a sneer.
"I won't say that," she replied gravely. "You see, I don't really
know. I would take a dying oath at this moment--if I were on the point
of death--that Luke never committed that abominable crime. I won't
even say that he is incapable of it. I'll only swear that he did not
do it. And yet he is silent when he is accused. Then, to me, the only
possible, the only logical conclusion is that he is shielding some one
else."
"Have you questioned him?"
"Yes."
"Put the question directly to him, I mean?"
"Yes."
"And what did he say?"
"That his own stick condemns him, and that he would plead guilty at
his trial."
"He never told you directly or indirectly that he killed the man?"
For the space of one second only did Louisa hesitate. She had asked
Luke the direct question: "Was it you who killed that man?" and he had
replied: "It was I." She had asked it then, determined to know the
truth, convinced that she would know the truth when he gave reply. And
she did learn the truth then and there, not as Luke hoped that she
would interpret it, but as it really was. He had never really lied to
her, for she had never been deceived. Now, she did not wish to hide
anything from Sir Thomas Ryder, the only man in the whole world who
could help her to prove Luke's innocence in spite of himself:
therefore, when her uncle reiterated his question somewhat sharply,
she replied quite frankly, looking straight up at him:
"He told me directly that it was he who had killed the man."
"And even then you did not believe him?"
"I knew that he tried to lie."
"You firmly believe that de Mountford knows who killed that Paul
Baker--or whoever he was?"
"I do."
"And that he means to go through his trial, and to plead guilty to a
charge of murder, so that the real criminal should escape."
"Yes!"
"And that he is prepared to hang--to hang, mind you!" reiterated Sir
Thomas with almost cruel bluntness, "if he is condemned in order to
allow the real criminal to escape?"
"Yes."
"And you yourself have no notion as to who this person maybe?"
"No."
"Is there anybody, do you think, who is likely to know more about Luke
de Mountford's past and present life than you do yourself?"
"Yes," she said, "Lord Radclyffe."
"Old Radclyffe?" he ejaculated.
"Why, yes. Lord Radclyffe adored Luke before this awful man came
between them. He had him with him ever since Luke was a tiny boy.
There's no one in the world for whom he cared as he cared for Luke,
and the affection was fully reciprocated. My belief is that Lord
Radclyffe knows more about Luke than any one else in the world."
"But old Rad is very ill just now, unfortunately."
"It would kill him," she retorted, "if anything happened to Luke,
whilst he was being coddled up as an invalid, almost as a prisoner,
and no news allowed to reach him."
Sir Thomas was silent for a moment, obviously buried in thought. That
he was still incredulous was certainly apparent to Louisa's
super-sensitive perceptions, but that he meant to be of help to her,
in spite of this incredulity was equally certain. Therefore she waited
patiently until he had collected his thoughts.
"Well, my dear," he said at last, "I'll tell you what I will do.
To-morrow morning I'll go and see if I can have a talk with old
Rad----"
"To-morrow morning," she broke in gravely, "Luke will be dragged
before the magistrate--the first stage of that awful series of
humiliations which you yourself say, Uncle Ryder, that no man who is
innocent can possibly endure!"
"I know, my dear," he said almost apologetically, "but I don't see now
how that can be avoided."
"We could see Lord Radclyffe to-night!"
"To-night?" he exclaimed. "Why, it's nearly ten o'clock."
"In matters of this sort, time does not count."
"But old Rad is an invalid!"
"He may be a dead man to-morrow, if he hears that Luke--Luke, who was
the apple of his eye, who is the heir to his name and title, is being
dragged in open court before a police-magistrate, charged with an
abominable crime."
"But the doctor, I understand, has forbidden him to see any one."
"I think that the matter has passed the bounds of a doctor's orders.
I would go and force my way into his presence without the slightest
scruple. I know that any news that he may glean about Luke, within the
next few days, will be far more fatal to him, than the few questions
which I want to ask him to-night."
"That may be, my dear," rejoined Sir Thomas dryly, "but this does not
apply to me. Old Rad is a very old friend of mine, but if I went with
you on this errand to-night, I should be going not as a friend, but in
an official capacity, and as such I cannot do it without the doctor's
permission."
"Very well then," she said quietly, "we'll ask Doctor Newington's
permission."
For a little while yet Sir Thomas Ryder seemed to hesitate. Clearly
the girl's arguments, her simple conviction, and her latent energy had
made a marked impression upon him. He was no longer the sceptical
hide-bound official: the man, the gentleman, was tearing away at the
fetters of red tape. All the old instincts of chivalry, which at times
might be dormant in the heart of an English gentleman--but which are
always there nevertheless, hidden away by the mantle of
convention--had been aroused by Louisa's attitude toward the man she
loved, and also by the remembrance of Luke's bearing throughout this
miserable business.
After all what the girl asked was not so very difficult of execution.
There are undoubtedly cases where the usual conventional formulas of
etiquette must give way to serious exigencies. And there was
unanswerable logic in Louisa's arguments: at any time in the near
future that old Rad--either through his own obstinacy, or the
stupidity or ill-will of a servant--got hold of a newspaper, the
suddenness of the blow which he would receive by learning the terrible
news without due preparation, would inevitably prove fatal to him. Sir
Thomas Ryder prided himself on being a diplomatist of the first water:
he did believe that he could so put the necessary questions to Lord
Radclyffe, with regard to Luke, that the old man would not suspect the
truth for a moment. The latter had, of course, known of the murder
before he had been stricken with illness; he had at the time answered
the questions put to him by the police officer, without seeming to be
greatly shocked at the awful occurrence; and it was not likely that he
would be greatly upset at a professional visit from an old friend, who
at the same time had the unravelling of the murder mystery at heart.
All these thoughts mirrored themselves on Sir Thomas's wrinkled face.
He was taking no trouble to conceal them from Louisa. Soon she saw
that she had won her first victory, for her uncle now said with sudden
determination:
"Well, my dear! you have certainly got on the right side of me. Your
aunt always said you had a very persuasive way with you. I'll tell you
what we will do. It is now a quarter to ten--late enough, by Jingo!
We'll get into one of those confounded taxis, and drive to Doctor
Newington's. I'll see him. You shall stay in the cab; and if I can get
his permission, we'll go and have a talk with old Rad--or rather I'll
talk first and you shall pretend that our joint visit is only a
coincidence. As a matter of fact he knew all about the murder before
he got ill, and he won't think it at all unnatural that I have
obtained special medical permission to question him myself on the
subject. Then you must work in your questions about Luke as best you
can afterward. Is that agreed now?"
"Indeed it is, Uncle Ryder," said Louisa, as she rose from her chair,
with a deep sigh of infinite contentment. "Thank you," she added
gently, and placed her neatly gloved hand upon his arm.
With a kind, fatherly gesture, he gave that little hand an encouraging
pat. Then he rang the bell.
"A taxi--quickly!" he said to his man. "My fur coat and my hat. I am
going out."
Louisa had gained her first victory. She had put forward neither
violence nor passion in support of her arguments. Yet she had
conquered because she believed.
A few moments later she and Sir Thomas Ryder were on their way to
Doctor Newington's in Hertford Street.