Late on the evening of Senator Sherman's arrival at Prior's Tarrant he
was alone with General Sadgrove in the smoking-room, the Duke of
Beaumanoir and Forsyth having avowedly gone up to bed. Under the
influence of the genial American, and with the Duke himself in a more
expansive mood, dinner and the subsequent reunion in the tapestry-room
had been prolonged later than recently, and the chiming clock on the
mantelpiece tinkled out the hour of midnight as the Senator put the
question:
"Who the dickens is that Talmage Eglinton woman, Jem?"
The General started, but affected a carelessness which he was far from
feeling in the trite reply that "Goodness only knew." He proceeded,
however, to temper the crudity of the remark with the information that
the lady in question was staying in London for the season, professed to
hail from Chicago, and was reputed wealthy.
"She is hardly the type of American one expects to meet in such a house
as this--or wants to meet anywhere," said the Senator. "And," he added,
poising the match with which he was about to light another of his own
green Havanas, "she is the cause of prejudice in a usually unbiased
mind. She has the misfortune to be fashioned in the likeness of one Cora
Lestrade, a person of note in my country, whom I once saw in my capacity
of Visiting Prison Commissioner. That was three years ago, but of course
it can't be the same woman."
"It would be a curious coincidence," was all the General would admit.
"She was taken up by Lord and Lady Roseville, impecunious folk who would
take up anyone for value received. What was this Cora Lestrade's
particular line of business?"
The Senator reflected for a moment.
"I don't think she specialized herself," he said. "Her forte was
organization, and I heard that at the time she was taken she bossed a
complete outfit, comprising forgers, confidence-men, train-robbers, and
high-grade criminals of all sorts, who operated over the entire
universe. They used to regard her as a queen. It was hinted at her trial
that they were all fascinated by the spell of her charms, though she
would never favor any of the crew in that way. Probably that was the
secret of her power over them."
"You don't happen to know when her sentence expired?" the General asked,
after a pause.
"It didn't expire; she broke jail--an easy matter for one as well served
as she was by a clever crowd with unlimited financial resources."
The two old cronies relapsed into a thoughtful silence, neither of them
showing a disposition to retire for the night, though the intense
stillness prevailing in the great house implied that everyone else was
asleep. Yet it was not so, for Alec Forsyth was at that moment
uncommonly busy before the looking-glass in his bedroom. On the
toilet-table there lay open a theatrical "make-up" box, from which he
was putting the finishing touches to a very creditable transformation of
himself into a semblance of the Duke. His deft usage of the various
pigments revealed him as no tyro at the task, for which, indeed, his
proficiency as an amateur actor had inspired the idea.
"That will do, I think," he said to himself after a final survey. "It is
a good thing that the scene is to be played without limelight effects;
but it is my voice that will give me away if anything does."
He rose and crossed the room once or twice, copying Beaumanoir's slight
limp to the life. Then, having consulted his watch, he took from his
pocket-book a letter, addressed to the man he was about to personate,
and refreshed his memory.
"I congratulate you on this return to your senses," the writer began.
"My agents inform me that the gentleman in whom we are interested is
expected to stay at Prior's Tarrant as your guest on arrival, being due
on Tuesday. On Tuesday night you will leave unfastened the door leading
into the crypt from the Dutch garden, so that I and my assistants may
obtain access secretly. You will come down into the crypt an hour after
midnight, when I will hand you the documents for substitution. Do not
fail to make your arrangements so that the exchange may be effected
without a hitch, and as rapidly as possible. As host you should have no
difficulty in inspiring the necessary confidence to put the business
through, and you will then be troubled no further by us.--C. Z."
"Poor old Beau! He's played up as well as if we had told him all about
our plan," Forsyth muttered as he replaced the letter and took another
look at himself in the glass. "I trust they won't call me 'your Grace,'
and make me laugh."
But it was in no laughing mood that he switched off the electric light,
listened at the door for fully a minute, and then softly opened it. His
room, as it had been in the London house, was next to that of the Duke,
and, satisfied that there was no one in the corridor, he slid out softly
and shut the door behind him. A few natural steps having brought him
opposite the Duke's room, he fell at once into Beaumanoir's limp, and so
continued his way to the head of a secondary staircase that led down to
the service rooms on the ground floor.
At the foot of the stairs, never forgetting his limp, he traversed
several passages in which at long intervals only had a light been left
burning, and at length he came to a massive oak door. Opening this, he
found himself at the top of a flight of straight stone steps, running
down into the blackness of the great subterranean chamber, which had
been used as a crypt in the old monastic days. The shutting of the door
cut off the last ray of light, and there being no rails to the steps he
struck a wax match in order to make the descent in safety. But the
feeble flame had hardly flickered out when it was rendered useless by a
dazzling beam of white effulgence that suddenly sprang into being and
shone upon him from below.
"Hang it all, I didn't allow for this!" he thought uneasily. "They have
brought one of those wretched portable electric lamps, and I doubt if
the disguise will stand. However, here goes."
Nerving himself for the ordeal, he went slowly down the steps, and so
limped across the stone floor towards a spot in the very center of the
crypt where five figures were grouped under the groined roof. He had
only time to observe that one figure--that of an old man with snow-white
beard and puffed, purple cheeks--stood slightly in advance of the rest,
when on his near approach an order was given in a queer, parrot-like
squeak to switch out the lamp. The crypt was windowless, but it was
conceivable that a light in the interior might be seen from outside
under the door leading into the gardens. Hence, doubtless, the
precaution.
"You have made all preparations above, Duke?" was queried in the same
piping voice.
"The bonds are in my own safe, and I obtained the key of the Senator's
despatch-box by a trick--picked his pocket, in fact--after dinner,"
Forsyth replied, in a perfect imitation of Beaumanoir's tone. He was
beginning to feel more confident in being able to sustain his part; he
would not, he thought, have lived to reach this parley if his disguise
had been penetrated.
"Then," the unseen spokesman proceeded, "all you have to do is to take
this bundle of papers and place them in the box, extracting the
originals, and returning here at once with them. It will then give me
pleasure to absolve you from further service."
Forsyth felt a large packet pressed into his grasp, and he instantly
turned with it to go towards the steps, expecting that the lamp would be
switched on to guide him. This proved to be the case, and he was glad
that those five scoundrels only had a back view of him as he limped
across the floor and laboriously climbed the steps. Nor when he had
passed through the door out of their sight was there any quickening of
his halting gait to show that he was exulting in that he had so far
successfully risked his life for his friend. And it was well that he
kept up his part, for as he crossed under the well of the staircase to
the servants' bedrooms he caught a glimpse of Rosa, Mrs. Talmage
Eglinton's French maid, watching him over the banisters.
Mounting to his own room he locked the bundle of papers he had received
away in one of his trunks, from which he first took a packet of similar
dimensions, formidably sealed. Without wasting a moment he placed this
packet under his arm, and, falling once more into Beaumanoir's limp,
retraced his steps to the crypt, where, as soon as he had passed through
the door, a beam from the portable lamp shed a glare on his descent to
the level of the floor. The five figures, with the white-bearded old man
in advance, awaited him as before.
As Forsyth approached he hoped every moment to hear those parrot-like
tones order the light to be cut off, but this time no such welcome sound
fell upon his ears. He had to advance quite close with the full radiance
of the lamp shining on him. The light, he soon perceived, had been
retained for the purpose of examining the packet, which Ziegler snatched
from him with impatient vehemence; and suddenly Forsyth was confronted
with a situation not wholly unforeseen, but which he had hoped to avoid
in the haste of the gang to make off with their plunder. Not content
with a scrutiny of the carefully taped and sealed dummy package, Ziegler
was about to undo the fastenings and look at the contents, which
consisted of nothing more valuable than tissue paper.
It seemed an age while the lithe white fingers broke the seals and
disarranged the tape, and Forsyth steadied himself for the inevitable
discovery. He was not prepared to lose his life at the hands of this
murderous crew without a fight for it, five to one though they were; and
it occurred to him that at the first sign of violence his best plan
would be to smash the electric lamp with a well-directed kick, and then
try and elude them in the dark. Ziegler's face was in shadow, the
miscreant holding the lamp being behind him; but Forsyth saw at last, by
the swift upward jerk of the arch-robber's head, that the worthlessness
of the bundle was known to him. It was probable, too, from the prolonged
silent stare with which he gazed and gazed at the Duke's counterfeit,
that the latter's identity was no longer a secret.
With quite a natural movement Forsyth edged a little nearer to the man
with the lamp, and the movement seemed to break the spell which held
Ziegler speechless. The chief turned abruptly to his followers.
"I must have a word with this gentleman--with the Duke--alone," he
squeaked. "Go out into the garden and await close outside--within call.
Here, I will keep the lamp." Forsyth noticed that the well-shaped hand
with which he grasped the contrivance was shaking violently--so
violently, that the ray with which he guided his four subordinates
through the groined arches to the door wavered like a will-o'-the-wisp.
He waited till the last one had filed out before he turned again to the
man who had baffled him.
"Well, Mr. Forsyth?" he piped, and the high-pitched note quivered and
trembled as the lamp-ray had done.
"Well, sir?" Forsyth repeated, in blank amazement at the sparing of his
life, for unless some hidden treachery beyond his fathoming was afoot,
he could not doubt that it was spared. He was more than a physical match
for the aged evil-doer in front of him, and before the others could be
recalled he could make good his retreat into the house by the way he had
come. The quiet acceptance of defeat by the bloodthirsty old schemer was
a puzzle beyond solution, if it was not a veil for some further
villainy.
"You have beaten me, Mr. Forsyth--you and General Sadgrove," Ziegler
went on. "I don't suppose it's of any use my offering you a bribe to
bring me back the package you have obtained so smartly? I would make it
a very large one."
"Not the slightest use," Forsyth answered, almost laughing, yet more
than ever puzzled by the _naivete_ of the question. "I have been at
considerable pains to deprive you of your bogus bonds, and it is hardly
likely, Mr. Ziegler, that I am going to restore your power over the Duke
of Beaumanoir. He is a brave man, and doesn't fear death. You can't hurt
him that way; but with these forgeries in your possession you might make
some sort of a story good against him. Without them, anything you could
say would be an idle tale."
"That is not the point, believe me, Mr. Forsyth," the shrill voice
quavered almost pleadingly. "The contents of that package took three of
my most skilled colleagues months to prepare. They are proud of their
work--love those forged bonds as if they were their children. To their
pride in their work I should owe my life, if you would give them back to
me."
Forsyth could hardly believe his ears. Could this tremulous dotard be
the redoubtable master of crime whom he and his uncle had been fighting
throughout the last crowded week? "I really don't see how your not
particularly valuable life can depend on your possession of a lot of
bogus bonds," he said, with genuine curiosity. The appeal to his pity
filled him with vague uneasiness, the alleged reason for it being so
utterly absurd. Yet Ziegler was ready with an explanation, more or less
plausible.
"My associates will kill me for being duped out of their handiwork," he
answered, glancing fearfully to the garden entrance. "They would perhaps
pardon the miscarriage of the main scheme, but to have parted with
material which might yet have been turned to account will seal my
doom--that, and having allowed you to survive your triumph over us."
Forsyth saw now--or thought he saw--why the murderous crew had been
ordered off in ignorance of the miscarriage. It was to enable Ziegler to
make this desperate appeal for the restitution of the bogus bonds, so
that he might "save his face" with his comrades. It would be ample
excuse in their eyes--flatter their vanity, as their tottering chief had
hinted--if he had himself been deceived by the fabricated securities.
But they had seen him examine the parcel; they would know that he had
made the discovery on the spot, and yet had not decreed instant death to
their successful opponent. One flaw in this chain of reasoning Forsyth,
himself no casuist, overlooked. It did not occur to him that the old
practitioner with the white beard and the squeaky voice could have put
himself right with his companions if he had hounded them on to him the
moment he knew he was fingering tissue-paper and not United States
Treasury bonds, good, bad, or indifferent.
"Well, Mr. Clinton Ziegler," said Forsyth, eager now to have done with
the matter in the only possible way, "your appeal is dismissed with
costs--on the higher scale. What does it matter to me what happens to
you? If you had had your way you would have earned a legal hanging four
times in the last week. If your friends save the common hangman the
trouble, so much the better for all concerned, especially as they would
thereby get themselves hanged also."
"Nothing will move you?"
"Absolutely nothing; and now I'll trouble you to clear off the premises
if you and your gentlemen outside don't want to be treated as ordinary
burglars."
"What if I call them back and have you strangled?"
With the way of escape open behind him Forsyth laughed at the futile
threat, and to the group outside in the Dutch garden it must have
sounded like a friendly laugh of mutual satisfaction and farewell, for
he gently pushed the old man before him to the garden door and shut it
on him. Then, having carefully shot the heavy bolts, he groped his way
back to the stone steps leading up into the house, triumphant, yet not
wholly convinced. The ignominious collapse of Mr. Clinton Ziegler was
almost too good to be true, and he was painfully conscious that such an
astute antagonist was not likely to have thrown all his cards on to the
table.
The fact, however, remained that the schemers had been deprived of their
spurious bonds, without which their carefully planned design to obtain
possession of the genuine ones fell to the ground.
"And their blood-feud against the poor chap will surely cease, now that
there is no crime, past or contemplated, for which he can denounce
them," Forsyth comforted himself as he stepped from the door at the head
of the stone stairs and hastened along the dimly lit corridor, limping
no longer. His destination was the smoking-room, where he guessed that
the General would be eagerly awaiting news.