ROSABELLE AND LANE CONFER
Dazed as she was, cast in a moment from a feeling of elation into one
of bitter disappointment, she saw the point at once. If the criminal
known as “Tubby” Thomas was safe under lock and key, he could not have
been the thief. They were as far from the solution of the mystery as
ever, in spite of those tell-tale finger-prints which, according to
orthodox belief, never lied.
Gideon Lane was bitterly disappointed too, but he had suffered so many
checks in his time that he never allowed his fortitude to desert him.
When he discovered those finger-prints he really thought the game was
in his hands, and that, with the aid of Scotland Yard, he could put
his hand on the actual thief, as he could have done had they been
those of a criminal actively pursuing his nefarious career. But the
incarceration of the man Thomas provided an _impasse_.
Narrowing the issue to the only two men who were supposed to be
acquainted with the complicated mechanism of this wonderful safe, he
had thought very deeply, twisting and turning about in his keen and
alert mind the possibilities that suggested themselves.
Taking the young man himself first. According to the flattering report
of Rosabelle, he led a perfectly blameless and open life. In his habits
he was temperate, almost abstemious, he never touched a card, he never
betted, the only gambling habit he indulged in was to take a ticket in
a couple of club sweepstakes. But, of course, Rosabelle’s report was
sure to be coloured a little on the favourable side. There are plenty
of young men who lead double lives; models of discretion and decorum
to all appearances, but secretly addicted to ruinous and discreditable
vices which are only brought suddenly to light by some accident or
fatal false step.
This young man might be one of these. He might be hard pressed for
money, the victim even of some blackmailer who had become possessed of
a terrible secret in his double life, and had risked all his bright
prospects on the chance that Morrice would disbelieve the evidence of
his senses, and accept his bare denial that he was innocent, in spite
of the damning evidence against him.
But if he was clever enough to scheme out such an artfully-planned
robbery, either alone or with the aid of a confederate, would he not
be clever enough to see that scrupulous honesty and fidelity to his
employer was the best policy? For Morrice, according to Rosabelle’s
account, had treated him like a son; there was little doubt that he
intended to take him into partnership at an early date, and would leave
him a considerable slice of his vast fortune. There was no doubt of
his wealth, for, by common consent, he was reputed to be amongst the
half-dozen richest men in England.
Then there was no doubt that the two young people were lovers. Would a
man, capable of a moment’s sane thought, put in certain jeopardy his
chances of happiness with this charming and lovable girl?
But then, of course, crimes would never be perpetrated if the criminals
could foresee all the consequences likely to flow from their yielding
to sudden impulses. At the fatal moment they appeared to be driven
forward by some blind force which, for the moment, they were unable to
fight against. And so it might have happened in the case of this young
man, who, according to Rosabelle’s testimony, had led such a regular
and blameless life.
Turning his attention to the other of the two men, Rupert Morrice
himself, the detective found the situation one of greater complexity.
Strange as it may sound, men have robbed themselves before now and done
their best to fix the guilt upon others, from more than one sinister
motive. For instance, a man knowing himself to be on the verge of
bankruptcy might, in desperation, purloin some of his own property to
put it in a safe place beyond the reach of his creditors. In the case
of this wealthy financier, whose credit stood so high, such a theory
might be at once dismissed.
At first blush, the refusal to apply to Scotland Yard might seem a
trifle suspicious, might suggest that he had a personal interest in
stifling independent investigation. But when one considered the unusual
circumstances, the action seemed only a natural one.
According to Rosabelle’s statement, Morrice had treated the young man
as a son; not only had he a great affection for him, but that affection
had been accentuated by the elder man’s passionate love for the mother.
However deep his belief in his guilt, a father does not hand over a son
to be dealt with by the stern processes of justice. He may dismiss him
from his house, he may refuse to hold further intercourse with him,
but he shields him, where possible, from the fatal consequences of his
rash act.
There was, however, one point on which he wished to be assured, and
which caused him to put a certain question to the girl.
“I am going to ask you something, Miss Sheldon, not, believe me, from
any spirit of impertinent curiosity, but because it is essential that
I should be acquainted with every little fact. I am assuming that your
interest in Mr. Croxton arises from a warmer feeling than that of mere
friendship. Am I not right in saying that there is a close bond between
you; that, to put it in plain words, you are lovers?”
Rosabelle admitted quite frankly that Lane was right in his surmise.
“Now for my next question. Did Mr. Morrice know of this understanding
between you, and if so, did he approve of it?”
To this the girl’s answer was equally frank. Up to the day of the
robbery she could not have been absolutely certain that her uncle did
know of it, although she was pretty sure he did. Their interest in each
other was so openly displayed, that it was almost impossible it could
have escaped his observation. If he had disapproved, he certainly would
not have hesitated to express his disapproval, being a man of the most
straightforward character, who never scrupled to express what was in
his mind, or take drastic action when he judged it necessary.
“All doubt, however, on this point was removed by what he said to
Richard on that terrible morning,” Rosabelle went on in a voice that
trembled a little. “After overwhelming him with his anger at what he
believed to be his baseness, he told him he knew we were attached to
each other, and that he would have put no obstacles in our way. It was
really as I thought. Richard was always a little dubious as to what
his attitude might be, while I never had the slightest fear. We were
both so very dear to him that I was always sure our marriage would have
given him the greatest pleasure.”
The detective considered her reply carefully, as was his invariable
custom. He never accepted any statement without probing it very deeply,
none knew better than he the futility of jumping to rash and hasty
conclusions.
“There would seem to be some reasonable ground for Mr. Croxton’s doubts
in the matter,” he said very quietly. “Kind and generous as Mr. Morrice
was to him, there was no actual blood-tie between them; you tell me the
young man had practically no money of his own, that his future depended
entirely on a continuance of his benefactor’s favour. You, on the other
hand, are a near relative and it is to be assumed that your uncle will
leave you a considerable sum. It would be a very natural thing that he
should have different views for you, should have wished you to look a
little higher than one who, after all, was not your equal in anything
but birth. At any rate, it is what the ordinary person might think, of
course; Mr. Morrice may be an exceptional man of liberal independent
views.”
“Oh, but that is just what he is,” cried the girl warmly. In spite
of her fervent belief in her lover, and perhaps a little natural
resentment against her uncle for his obstinate presumption of Richard’s
guilt, she loved him very dearly and thoroughly appreciated his
sterling qualities.
“That is just what he is, Mr. Lane,” she repeated. “Rich as he is, hard
as he works to make himself so, he does not love money for its own sake
or value the possession of it in others. One or two of his closest
friends are poor men, and he is happier in their society than in that
of millionaires like himself. He loves his business and his work, it
is true, but more for the mental excitement and stimulus they bring
than for their pecuniary results. And he doesn’t attach much importance
to birth or what the world calls position. At heart, I believe he is a
good bit of a democrat.”
“If a millionaire can be truly a democrat!” suggested Mr. Lane with a
smile. “Anyway, if he is one, there must be a good many reservations.”
The girl’s replies to his questions had rather disposed of a somewhat
fantastic theory that had formed itself in rather nebulous shape in
his astute brain, accustomed to weigh all sorts of possibilities and
probabilities, to search for unusual and far-reaching motives. Had
Morrice engineered this theft, not for the ordinary sordid reasons,
but with the object of fixing upon the innocent secretary a stigma
that would effectually remove him from his niece’s society? But then
again, a man who could in cold blood conceive such a scheme would be
more than the vilest criminal. It would be impossible that one of such
good repute, for even his enemies and rivals credited Morrice with the
highest integrity, should stoop to such sinister methods.
“Well, Miss Sheldon,” he said as the interview drew to a close, “I will
not disguise that I am very disappointed with the result of my visit
to Scotland Yard. When I found those strange finger-marks on the safe,
I thought we were on the right track. Now, I have got to start again
from the beginning, and I am afraid it will be a long time before I
shall make any considerable headway. I shall do my best, but it may be
that in the end I shall be beaten. I think you said you would be going
abroad very shortly.”
“Yes, we start for Mürren a week before Christmas for the winter
sports. I was so looking forward to it, but now——” The girl’s voice
faltered and she could not finish her sentence.
“I quite understand,” said Mr. Lane soothingly. “All the same it
will be better for you to get away for a time from these painful
associations. I will, of course, keep in touch with you to the day of
your departure, and communicate to you anything of importance. If you
don’t hear from me, you will know that so far I have nothing to tell
you. You will, of course, acquaint Mr. Morrice with the rather puzzling
information about the man Thomas, that while the finger-prints are
undoubtedly his, he is and has been for the last two years in prison.”
It all seemed very hopeless, she thought, as she rose to leave. It was
useless to ask Lane if he had formed any theory; she had seen enough
of the man to know that he would not say a word till he felt himself
justified in speaking.
“One little thing before you go, Miss Sheldon. Will you kindly let me
know your aunt’s maiden name, and, if you possess them, any particulars
of her family.”
Rosabelle did not know much beyond the fact that she was a Miss
Larchester; that her sister, no longer living, the mother of Archie
Brookes, had married a younger brother of Sir George. She was not quite
sure but she fancied that, as a girl, Mrs. Morrice’s home had been in
Sussex, but she did not know in what part. The lady very seldom alluded
to her past life. Her Christian name was Lettice.
Mr. Lane entered the scanty information in his notebook, then, after
Rosabelle’s departure, he rang up White’s Club and inquired for a Mr.
Sellars. In a few moments this gentleman was speaking to him.
“Good-day, Mr. Sellars. I should be obliged if you would come round to
me as soon as convenient.”
The reply was that the owner of the name would at once put himself in a
taxi and be there in a few minutes.