GIDEON LANE TAKES A HAND
“What an awful day!” she cried when Richard had calmed her a little,
not that he was in much of a mood to administer consolation to others.
“And last night, when we talked of our future, and I told you to pluck
up your courage, I felt so gay and light-hearted. Oh, Dick dear, it
will kill me; but no, I must not let it do that. We must both be brave,
and strain every nerve to prove your innocence.”
“It is indeed a tragic day,” corroborated her lover. “And, my darling,
but for this inexplicable mystery, it would all have been such
plain-sailing. In the midst of his reproaches, he paused to tell me
that he knew of our love for each other, and that he would have put no
obstacles in the way.”
The poor girl sobbed afresh at this. To have the cup of happiness
dashed down when it was so near her lips—could there be a more poignant
disappointment? But presently, she rallied and dried her tears, and
inquired his plans for the future. Morrice had ordered him to quit
the house before he returned to it. There could be no disobeying that
command.
“I have often spoken to you of the dear old soul who was first my
mother’s nurse and then mine. My grandfather left her a small annuity
as reward for her faithful services to his family. She has a tiny
little cottage at Petersham, near Richmond. She will take me in until
I have collected my thoughts sufficiently to decide upon my future.”
“And I shall come and see you there, Dick,” cried the girl eagerly,
“even though you are forbidden this house.”
“My darling, you must not do anything without your uncle’s sanction. In
certain moods, he is a stern and hard man.”
Richard felt that life, in a way, was over for him, but for this
brilliant young creature it was only just beginning. Touched as he was
by her faith in him, he knew that it would be folly for her to cling to
a man over whom hung the shadow of disgrace. As yet, he could not wound
her feelings by telling her so. But presently, when he had recovered
himself sufficiently to think and plan, he would pass quietly out of
her life.
“He may be stern and hard at times, but he is always just,” said
Rosabelle. “He will not think the less of me because I refuse to
believe you guilty. Why, Dick, I know you so well,” she added
impetuously. “I would not credit the evidence of my own eyes against
your word. If these things had been found in your pockets and you had
denied you stole them, I would have believed you, and known the real
thief had put them there for the purpose of incriminating you.”
Young Croxton smiled a wan smile at his sweetheart’s vehemence. Can
anything equal the blind faith of a woman in the man she loves? It is
one of those qualities amongst many which they must surely derive from
a divine source.
“He is sore and angry over his loss now,” went on the beautiful girl.
“In a day or two he will calm down, and see that he has been too hasty
in his judgment.”
“I have never known him angry over losses, and hardly a year goes by
that he does not make heavy ones,” answered Richard sadly. “No, to do
him justice, what has cut him to the quick is the supposed discovery of
my unworthiness.”
Half an hour later, Richard Croxton had left the familiar house in
Deanery Street which had sheltered him so long. His sweetheart bade
him a tearful farewell, and Mrs. Morrice, to whom the young couple
explained the terrible happenings of the morning, showed considerable
emotion. In her heart, she would have preferred her nephew, Archie
Brookes, as a husband for Rosabelle, but she had always been very fond
of Richard, and stoutly expressed her belief in his innocence.
A taxi bore him swiftly to the neat little ivy-covered cottage at
Petersham, where he received a hearty welcome from his old nurse,
a comely old woman verging upon her seventieth year, but hale and
vigorous for her age. To her he did not explain the actual truth, but
simply stated that circumstances had suddenly arisen which rendered
necessary the severing of his connection with Mr. Morrice.
The good, simple old soul said little, but she was very upset at the
news. She knew very well that the great financier had treated him like
a son, and that this sudden separation meant the ruin of his bright
prospects.
“And Miss Rosabelle?” she inquired anxiously. Hitherto he had kept few
secrets from the faithful and sympathetic old woman, who had long ago
learned the history of his love affair.
“She will come and see me, dear old nurse, that is to say, if her uncle
does not expressly forbid her.”
Mrs. Hart, such was the name of this faithful old servant, made no
comment upon this significant remark. It crossed her mind that it was
more than probable Richard’s departure had been caused by this very
love-affair; that fond as he was of him, the wealthy financier had
resented his attentions to his niece, who, in the course of time, would
be a considerable heiress.
It may be observed in passing that the same opinion was held in the
servants’ hall at Deanery Street, where the young man’s sudden exit had
naturally aroused a tremendous amount of interest. It had also occurred
to Morrice, desirous of keeping the true facts to himself, more perhaps
from respect for the dead than tenderness to the living, that he might
get his wife to give some hints which would produce the same impression
amongst their acquaintances.
True to her promise, in a few days Rosabelle arrived at the ivy-covered
cottage, having warned her lover, in a letter received by the first
post in the morning, of her visit.
He noticed that she drove up in a taxi, not, as was usual, in one of
her uncle’s cars. He was, of course, overwhelmed with joy at seeing her
so soon, but he was very anxious that the fidelity to himself should
not entail disastrous consequences to her own fortunes. So the first
question he asked was whether Mr. Morrice knew of her visit.
“Everything is straight and above-board, dear Dick,” was the girl’s
answer. “I had a long talk with him yesterday morning at his early
breakfast. I got up early myself in order to seize a chance of finding
him alone. He seemed very sad and preoccupied, but he was not as stern
and harsh as on that dreadful day. I told him a lot of things as they
came into my head, how dearly we loved each other, how we had fallen in
love from the first day we met—that no matter if all the world turned
against you, I should still be faithful, that my one great object was
that you should take steps to get yourself cleared and discover the
real criminal.”
“And what did he say to all this?” asked the young man eagerly. “I can
guess, my darling, that you pleaded very well.”
“He listened very attentively, and was very quiet for a long time. When
I had finished, he asked me if I wished him to send for detectives
from Scotland Yard. I hastily said that I did, and that I was sure you
would wish it too. ‘My poor child, you don’t know what you are talking
about,’ was his answer. ‘The certain result of that would be that the
man in whom you believe would be arrested, and once having taken the
case up, I could not drop it, I should be bound to prosecute.’ That
scared me dreadfully, you may be sure. His final words were spoken in
a very sad voice. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie, my poor wronged Rosabelle.
Richard Croxton through his own act has passed away from my life, as he
must pass away from yours. You are young, and in time your grief will
heal, and some day you will meet a man worthy of your love.’”
The young man’s head sunk on his breast. Yes, Mr. Morrice was right.
Appearances were too black against him; if the authorities were called
in, arrest would be sure to follow.
The girl went on in a low, tearful voice. “I told him that the day to
which he looked forward would never come, that if I could not marry
you, no other man should be my husband. And then, Dick, I ended with
the boldest thing I had said yet—I am pretty brave as a rule but I own
I trembled as I said it—I told him I was coming to see you here, that I
would no more forsake you in your trouble than your mother would have
done. She would have clung to you in your darkest hour because she
loved you, and that I did not love you less.”
“And he did not forbid you?” cried the young man in amazement. He knew
Rupert Morrice so well, of a nature singularly kind and generous, but
hard as flint to evil-doers, to those who betrayed his trust.
“No, he did not forbid me, Dick, and I am almost as amazed as you
are, but I think that reference to your mother softened him. It was a
long time before he spoke, and then his words came very slowly. ‘If I
allow you to do this, at any rate for the present, till I have thought
matters out further, will you give me your solemn promise that you will
only play the rôle of consoler, that you will do nothing rash?’ Of
course I knew what he meant, that we might get secretly married. So I
gave him that promise, Dick; do you blame me?”
“A thousand times No, my darling,” cried Croxton, as he took her in
his arms and kissed away the tears on the sweet face. “And considering
what he believes me to be, nay more, what he is sure I am, I cannot but
marvel at his giving his consent.”
For a long time the young people talked together, and all through their
conversation the one thought uppermost in Rosabelle’s mind was that her
lover should take steps to clear himself, that he should not be content
to rest under the unmerited stigma, that he should not meekly consent
to pass out of their lives.
“If you do not act, I shall act myself,” she told him finally.
The young man listened attentively, and hope and resolution began
to stir in him. He had been so stunned by the damning nature of the
evidence against him, by the stern attitude of his once benevolent
protector, that he had been crushed almost into insensibility, into
a benumbing of his faculties. But, as the girl spoke in her bright,
incisive way, the clouds about his brain seemed to melt. He seemed to
see himself rehabilitated, able to prove to those whom it concerned
that he was the honest man they had always believed him to be.
“The question is how to go to work,” he said gravely. “Mr. Morrice
is right when he says that to call in Scotland Yard might lead to
disastrous consequences. But we could employ a private detective to
probe the mystery to the bottom. Even if he could not lay his hands on
the actual thief, he might be able to prove my innocence.”
Rosabelle caught eagerly at the idea. “And where can we find the sort
of man we want?”
“One of the cleverest is Gideon Lane; his office is in Shaftesbury
Avenue. I know him a little, and Mr. Morrice knows him too. We employed
him to watch a suspected clerk in our office, and he trapped him very
cleverly.”
“Would it cost much to employ him?” asked the girl anxiously. She knew
that Richard’s capital, like her own, was very small, and it was hardly
likely that Morrice would spend any money on a case he had already
pre-judged. It was not possible for her to help, for her uncle was her
trustee and not likely to allow her to adventure a penny in such a
cause.
But Croxton’s small amount of capital was entirely under his own
control, and now that he was recovering from his despairing mood,
he was fired with the desire to establish his innocence, and had no
hesitation in employing some of it for the purpose.
After a great deal of discussion as to the initial steps to be taken,
it was decided that Rosabelle should visit the detective, tell him the
whole facts, and commission him to undertake the investigation on her
own behalf. Richard would give her a brief letter of introduction to
Gideon Lane, and furnish her with money to pay a preliminary fee.
The enthusiastic girl did not allow the grass to grow under her
feet. Two days later she was seated in the waiting-room of the small
suite of offices in Shaftesbury Avenue. She had sent in her letter
of introduction and was waiting to be summoned to the presence of
the well-known detective who was, fortunately for her impatience,
disengaged. He was not many seconds reading the letter, but it seemed
hours before the restless Rosabelle saw the inner door open, and was
asked by a smart young typist to step in.
Mr. Gideon Lane rose to receive her, a tall, good-looking man with
nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance; with his
clean-shaven face and strong, resolute expression he might have been
taken for an actor, there was certainly nothing about him to suggest
an unraveller of mysteries. The most striking features in an agreeable
countenance were his eyes, which were piercing and brilliant.
“I remember Mr. Croxton perfectly,” said the detective. “He was the
confidential secretary of Mr. Morrice, and struck me as much above the
ordinary young man in intelligence and quickness of perception. I hope
he is quite well,” he finished politely.
This remark gave Rosabelle an easy opening. “He is quite well in
health, Mr. Lane, but exceedingly unhappy, lying as he is at the moment
under the stigma of a terrible accusation.”
Mr. Lane gathered from these serious words that the girl had come upon
a grave errand. His face reflected her concern at once.
“I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Sheldon. I took rather a liking to
the young man, he seemed so open and frank. Well, please tell me all
the details, I take it you want my assistance in the matter. And please
conceal nothing from me, if you want me to give you of my best. Let me
know everything that tells against him, you will naturally inform me of
everything in his favour.”
The shrewd man of the world divined immediately that there was a close
bond between this charming girl and the accused man, and he put her at
once at her ease by adding: “I need hardly tell you that what you say
will never be divulged; you are as safe with me as if you were in the
confessional.”
He had a very ingratiating manner with him, this calm, self-possessed
man who looked more like an actor than a detective. Rosabelle felt very
much at home with him, and at once launched forth in her narrative of
the details of that eventful morning, as they had been told her by her
lover.
Mr. Lane listened to her attentively without interruption. He judged
it best to let her tell her story her own way, more particularly as
she told it very well, without redundance or repetition. His questions
would come later.
When she had finished, he sat silent for some time, while the girl
regarded him anxiously. “It is, of course, too early for you to form
any opinion?” she asked in a faltering voice, feeling the prolonged
silence somewhat of a strain upon her nerves.
He shook his head. “A great deal too early, Miss Sheldon. Of course,
it is easy to say at first blush, upon the evidence before us, those
articles could only have been abstracted by one of two persons, Mr.
Morrice or his secretary.”
“And it would be absurd to think that my uncle stole his own property,”
cried the girl swiftly.
A rather non-committal smile illumined the calm face of the detective.
“From your point of view, it would be absurd, as you most rightly say.
From mine, it would be so very difficult to discover a plausible motive
for such an act.”
She could not follow him in this subtle explanation, and waited in
silence till he began to put certain questions to her. First, with
regard to the servants, would she give him full particulars of their
number, the nature of their duties, their length of service and so on?
She supplied him with the requested information. He entered all this in
a private notebook, in a shorthand of his own invention which nobody
could read but himself.
What did the family consist of? was his next question.
“My uncle and aunt, Richard Croxton and myself. Two other people
came to the house who were practically of the family, Sir George
Clayton-Brookes, my aunt’s brother-in-law, and young Archibald Brookes,
his nephew and the son of my aunt’s sister.”
These particulars went into the notebook. “I have heard of Sir George,
he is well known on the turf, and reputed to be a man of substance.
I know nothing of the young man. Has he means of his own, or is he
dependent upon his relatives?”
“Dependent upon Sir George, I believe,” answered Rosabelle. “We have
always understood his uncle makes him a handsome allowance, and will
leave him his property.”
Mr. Lane asked a few more questions and then closed his notebook.
“Well, Miss Sheldon, that is as far as we can go at present. Before I
start, I must visit the scene of operations and take a look at this
wonderful safe. I take it that will not be easy to accomplish without
Mr. Morrice’s knowledge and permission. Is he likely to refuse it?”
Rosabelle, needless to say, was a little dismayed. He had refused to
call in Scotland Yard, would he peremptorily refuse admission to a
private inquirer?
She hazarded her fears to Mr. Lane, who thought that he would yield
in the matter. The fact that Richard Croxton was prepared to break
into his small capital for the purpose of establishing his innocence,
should make a favourable impression upon Mr. Morrice, however firmly he
believed in the young man’s guilt. If Morrice obstinately refused, he
would be forced to revise his opinion of that gentleman, although he
was too diplomatic to say as much to Rosabelle.
“I will tell you the principal object of my visit, Miss Sheldon. The
theft would have to be committed in a great hurry, and there are sure
to be finger-marks on the safe. I want to take a photograph of them.
If Mr. Morrice does refuse, for reasons sufficient to himself, I shall
have to get a photograph of them somehow, and in this I dare say I
shall have to avail myself of your co-operation.”
He smiled a little as he spoke. It was not the first time by many
dozens that he had gone in at the back door where he had been refused
entrance at the front, or obtained information he required in spite of
every obstacle being put in his way.
Rosabelle was quite sure she understood what he was driving at. She
would have dared anything for her lover, and if it was a question of
smuggling Mr. Gideon Lane into her uncle’s room while he was in the
city, her woman’s wit, sharpened by her love, would find a way.
“Now we will not waste time,” said the genial Mr. Lane as the excited
girl rose to take her leave. “Pending the obtaining of your uncle’s
permission to do the thing openly, I want you to co-operate with me in
a little matter. Pay Mr. Croxton a visit as soon as possible and get
him to give you an impression of his fingers. If you tell him what you
want it for, he cannot refuse.”
“But, of course, he will not refuse,” cried the girl a little
indignantly. “Would he have let me come to you if he was not prepared
to face the ordeal? And if you find, as you will, that the finger-marks
on the safe are not his, that will establish his innocence once and for
all, will it not?”
Mr. Lane seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question. “It will go a
long way,” he said, speaking with some hesitation.
“Why not the whole way?” demanded Rosabelle, and her eyes flashed a
little.
“Miss Sheldon, it is better you should not ask me too many questions
till we are more sure of our ground. We experts require a great deal
of evidence before we venture to say of any accused man that he is
absolutely innocent or absolutely guilty.”
“But if the finger-marks are proved not to be his, how can he be
guilty?” she cried obstinately.
“You force me to say what I would rather leave unsaid. But our
investigations would not be very useful if we refused to weigh not only
every probability, but also every possibility. You say that your uncle
firmly believes in this young man’s guilt, although he loved him and
treated him like a son. If he still maintains that belief, is it not
open to him to say that if Richard Croxton was not the actual thief, he
was an accomplice or an accessory? How otherwise could the actual thief
have got the necessary knowledge of that safe’s complicated mechanism?
Please understand I am not advancing this as my own opinion, but as one
that might be entertained.”
And for the first time poor Rosabelle began to see how very hard was
the task before them. The tears came into her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Lane, what
will be wanted to prove his absolute innocence? I see too clearly the
terrible difficulties in our way.”
The great detective spoke very gravely. “The surest way of proving Mr.
Croxton’s innocence is by discovering beyond any possibility of doubt
the person who opened that safe, and proving that that person, whoever
it may be, had no connection with him. To that point my investigations
will tend, with what results it is impossible for me to foresee.”
Mr. Morrice gave his permission for the detective’s visit more readily
than Rosabelle had hoped. His attitude towards young Croxton now seemed
to be more one of sorrow and disappointment than of the deep anger
he had at first displayed. But he expressed to her his sense of the
futility of the task on which she was engaged.
She thought she knew what was passing in his keen and analytical
mind. Croxton was playing a game of bluff, perhaps for the purpose of
establishing himself firmly in the esteem of his sweetheart. And if the
finger-marks were those of somebody else, he would fall back on the
theory that Gideon Lane had already anticipated.
With Richard, her task was easy. He gave an impression of his fingers
without a moment’s hesitation, and Rosabelle carried it to Lane with a
certain sense of triumph, which would have been complete but for those
last damping words of the cautious detective.
In due course the visit was paid to the house in Deanery Street;
Rosabelle and her uncle were present. Sure enough in addition to the
recent finger-prints of Morrice and young Croxton, there was a third
set, equally recent.
The development of the photographs proved that Croxton’s finger-prints
were totally different from the third set. Lane announced his intention
of taking them to Scotland Yard in order that a search might be made
amongst their voluminous files.
His investigations on this subject completed, Lane dispatched a brief
telegram to Rosabelle asking her to call at his office. A few minutes
after its receipt, she was seated in his room feverishly awaiting his
news.
“It promises to be a deeper mystery than I thought, Miss Sheldon.
There has been some very clever and deeply thought-out work here. I
have identified the finger-prints, they are those of a well-known
professional thief named Thomas, known amongst his confederates
as ‘Tubby’ Thomas. He is an expert safe-breaker, the cleverest in
England.”
The girl’s eyes sparkled. “An expert safe-breaker!” she repeated
joyfully. “Does one want to pursue the inquiry any further? Is it not
obvious who was the thief?”
But the next moment came the slow words which fell like ice on her
heart.
“Unfortunately, the mystery is deepened, not solved. The finger-prints
are those of ‘Tubby’ Thomas, for finger-prints never lie. _But ‘Tubby’
Thomas himself has for the last two years been serving a sentence for a
similar offence in Dartmoor, and he is still there._”