RICHARD IS CLEARED
When Morrice returned to Deanery Street about four o’clock he went
straight up to Rosabelle’s room. The girl was seated in a chair, trying
to read; he noticed that she looked very sorrowful and that she had
been crying. She had a most sympathetic nature, and although she could
find no excuse for Mrs. Morrice, she could not but feel a certain
compassion for the wretched woman who in the course of a few hours had
lost home and husband, all that seemed to make life worth living.
“Has she gone?” asked the financier in a hard voice.
“Yes, she came down to lunch a few minutes after you went out. She
spoke hardly a word while the servants were present, but when we had
finished she asked me to come up to her boudoir, and in a broken voice
and with many tears she told me what had happened, that you had ordered
her to be out of the house before you came back to it.”
“Did she tell you the reasons that impelled me to that apparently harsh
step?”
Rosabelle nodded. “Yes, she told me that she was very fond of Archie
Brookes and that he traded upon her affection for him; that it was
owing to his influence she was forced to lead this double life, to sell
her valuables and replace them by spurious substitutes; that she was
weary and tired of the deception, and was almost glad that it had come
to an end; that she would not be sorry to go away and hide her head
from everybody.”
“Did she tell you that this so-called Archie Brookes was an impostor,
that he is nephew to neither her nor her confederate in the fraud, that
infamous scoundrel, George Clayton-Brookes?”
Yes, Mrs. Morrice had told her that, but had said very little on
the subject, only narrating the bare fact that the secret had been
discovered.
“Did you urge her to tell you who the man really was?”
“In a rather feeble way, yes,” was the girl’s answer, “for in her
heart-broken state it occurred to me that she might be more ready to
confess her secrets to one of her own sex than to a man. But she evaded
what little attempts I made in that direction. And to tell you the
truth, dear uncle, she was so overwrought and seemed so near the verge
of an utter collapse that I had not the heart to persevere.”
The face which had maintained its hard expression for so long softened
as he looked at the pretty girl, whose compassionate soul shone through
her beautiful eyes, now dimmed with tears. He laid his hand very kindly
on her shoulder.
“Ah, my little Rosabelle, your heart will ever guide that pretty little
head of yours. Well, I would rather it were so. Men have to be hard,
but we don’t want our women to lose their softness. And tell me, you do
not, you cannot blame me for what I have done? You do not think I could
have endured her presence in the house after I had discovered her two
acts of treachery, the motives of one of which have yet to be found?”
The girl kissed him tenderly. Upright and honourable herself, she could
not but sympathize with him in his drastic action, even while she
was not without compassion for the wretched victim of his righteous
justice. And as she bestowed on him that affectionate caress, she could
not but think miserably of the havoc that had been wrought in that
small household in such a brief space of time.
Her memory went painfully back to that night in December when they had
sat in a secluded corner of one of the pretty rooms, and she had urged
her lover to screw up his courage to approach Morrice on the subject
of their marriage. They had then been a happy family of four, always
together, taking their pleasures, their amusements in common. And now
that joyous little band had been reduced to two. Mrs. Morrice, the aunt
for whom she had always entertained a sincere affection, was exiled,
justly exiled, from the home that had sheltered her for so many years.
And Richard, the lover in whose innocence she so firmly believed, was
another exile, lying under the ban of his benefactor’s displeasure, and
eating his heart out in that little cottage at Petersham.
“You do not blame me for what I have done, my little Rosabelle,”
repeated her uncle, as he held her slender form against his. “We have
both had a great sorrow in our lives, my poor child, we must be all in
all to each other now.”
“Oh, no, dearest uncle, I do not blame you. In her case, you had proved
everything up to the hilt. I do not see that you could have taken any
other course. If there had been the slightest room for doubt I should
have taken her part against you, I should have held that you were bound
to believe her innocent until you proved her guilty.”
He winced a little at those words, for he knew what was at the back of
her mind. He had tried and condemned Richard Croxton, the son of his
old sweetheart, on suspicion only—strong suspicion, it is true, but not
strong enough to justify absolute conviction.
They were interrupted by the entrance of the butler, a staid person who
had been in the financier’s service for over twenty years.
“A Mr. Lane rang up for you about half an hour ago, sir, and wished you
particularly to ring him up as soon as convenient to yourself.”
He went down to his room and was soon in communication with the office
in Shaftesbury Avenue. Lane’s measured tones came over the instrument.
“Good-day, Mr. Morrice. Am I right in concluding that a certain person
has left your house by now?”
“Quite right; has been gone since shortly after lunch,” was the
financier’s reply.
“Has not yet taken away any private property—trunks, boxes or that sort
of thing, I suppose?” was the next question.
“No; these are to be sent when we receive an address.”
“Good! Then I may run round to you at once? There is a little business
I want to embark on without delay.”
Morrice readily gave his consent; he had a shrewd inkling of the nature
of that business, and thought what a smart fellow Lane was. He never
let the grass grow under his feet. A few moments after he had hung up
the receiver a taxi deposited the detective in Deanery Street.
Uncle and niece were sitting together when he entered; they had been
talking on the old subject. Lane came to the point at once.
“Mrs. Morrice has left, you say, sir. Has she taken her maid with her?”
He was informed that she had. They did not know where she had gone
to. Rosabelle had said good-bye to her aunt in her own room, had not
accompanied her down the staircase into the hall. They had left very
quietly, letting themselves out. Presumably they had hailed a passing
taxi in the street.
“Do you know what they carried with them?” asked Lane sharply.
“Yes,” answered Rosabelle. “I went to the top of the stairs with them.
Mrs. Morrice would not let me come farther. I think she wanted to slip
away as quietly as possible, not to be seen by any of the servants. She
had a small attaché-case; her maid carried a similar one.”
“Of course, you don’t know what was in those cases?”
Rosabelle’s answer seemed to please him. “I was in my aunt’s room while
she packed hers. I don’t know what was in the one the maid carried.
Mrs. Morrice just put in a few things for the night, saying that she
would send instructions for the dispatch of the rest of her private
property in a day or two.”
“Thank you, Miss Sheldon.” The detective turned briskly towards
her uncle. “Well, Mr. Morrice, we have proceeded so far in our
investigations into this very painful drama. I want now, with your
permission, to proceed a step farther.”
Morrice looked at him gravely, and Rosabelle too. In the minds of both
had flashed a swift idea of what he had come for.
He produced from his pocket a small bunch of skeleton keys, and held
them in his hand.
“These will open everything in this house that has an ordinary lock,
Mr. Morrice. Before this lady’s property is sent to her—and I think she
will want it very soon—I wish to examine every box and trunk belonging
to her. I cannot, of course, do this without your permission, and I
would not ask it if I did not consider myself justified.”
For a few seconds Morrice hesitated. Espionage, even practised in a
rightful cause, was abhorrent to him, and, base as she was, the idea
of ransacking this woman’s property the moment her back was turned
repelled him.
Lane observed his hesitation and struck in swiftly. “We have discovered
so much, Mr. Morrice, that we may as well investigate a little farther.
It is in the interests of _everybody_ for whom I act”—he laid a strong
emphasis on the everybody—“that we should leave no quarter unexplored.”
Those significant words decided the hesitating man. “Do as you wish,
Mr. Lane. I am sure you would take no action that did not justify
itself to your own conscience.”
Lane bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. “I would be glad if
Miss Sheldon would accompany me in my search. I am not known to all
your servants, and if one of them happened to intrude and find me
alone, it might be awkward and entail troublesome explanations.”
Together the detective and Rosabelle left the room, leaving Morrice to
his bitter and humiliating thoughts. To think that his house should be
the hunting-ground of a private inquiry agent, even such a courteous
and urbane member of his calling as Lane.
A long time passed, half an hour, three-quarters, and still they did
not return. The search was evidently a very thorough one. Then the door
opened, and they came in, the girl’s face flushed with excitement,
and on the detective’s usually impassive countenance an expression of
triumph. Once again he had had one of his flashes of inspiration.
In his hand he held some sheets of paper which he handed to the master
of the house.
“Here is the memorandum which you lost of the mechanism of the safe,
I think you said about a couple of years ago, Mr. Morrice,” he said.
“I dare say you remember you made rather light of it at the time;
you told me that you had mislaid it, and you thought it might turn up
any day. In the case of its not doing so, you suggested that, in all
probability, it had been thrown away by some careless servant along
with other rubbish and had passed into the hands of the dustman.”
Yes, Morrice remembered that conversation well. It was one in which he
had obstinately maintained his belief in Richard Croxton’s guilt, and
had shown some annoyance at Lane’s rather neutral and judicial attitude
in the matter.
“To me the loss of that memorandum assumed considerable significance,”
the detective went on in grave, convincing tones, “and I was by no
means ready to subscribe to your theory of the dustman. Personally,
I was convinced that this paper was still in existence, and of
considerable use to some person unknown. I have had a long search, as
you can tell by the time we have been absent. I found it in the most
securely-locked box amongst Mrs. Morrice’s collection; it took me a
considerable time to open it.”
A duller man than Morrice could have experienced no difficulty in
realizing the situation, suddenly as it was presented to him.
“Then this woman, not contented with realizing everything of her own
she could put her hands upon, has gone farther afield. She is the
actual——” He paused, and a low groan escaped him; he could not bring
his lips to utter the hateful word.
“I am afraid there is no longer any possible doubt,” was Lane’s
uncompromising answer. “For some time, I may tell you, my suspicions
have been tending in that direction—from the day, in fact, that I
knew she was abetting this young impostor in his career of unbridled
extravagance. We have yet got to find the real reasons of his sinister
influence over her; they were more than those of ordinary womanly
weakness.”
Morrice hardly heard those last few words. He was humbled beyond
expression by the knowledge that, in his arrogant belief in his own
infallibility, he had committed a grave injustice towards an innocent
man.
“And I branded Richard Croxton, who was the son of the woman dearer to
me than anything on earth, a thief,” he cried in a voice of anguish.
“It is always a mistake to form hasty judgments, Mr. Morrice,” said
Lane soothingly. “But I admit your error was a quite natural one; it
would have been committed by nine persons out of ten on such strong
circumstantial evidence. I will confess that, at the beginning, I kept
quite an open mind on the subject, if Miss Sheldon will forgive me for
saying so.”
The girl flashed an indignant glance at him. “Would he have been such a
fool as to consent to my calling in your services, Mr. Lane, if he had
not been sure of his innocence?”
Lane, unmoved by her angry outburst, bestowed an indulgent smile upon
her. “Ah, my dear young lady, your heart spoke there rather than
your head. But I will not enter into any lengthy defence of myself,
and explain to you why I sometimes am compelled to suspect my own
clients. Well, happily there is no longer any question of Mr. Croxton’s
vindication. The fact that this memorandum was found securely locked
in the least accessible of Mrs. Morrice’s boxes, conveys enough to the
mind of any reasonable man.”
Morrice rose up, his face working with the intensity of his emotion.
“She must be made to confess, in justice to the innocent. I will go to
her at once and wring the truth out of her.”
“But you do not know where she is,” cried Rosabelle swiftly.
The tortured man made a gesture of despair. He was longing to confront
again this woman who was callous enough to let another suffer for
her own black deeds. “True, I must wait till we hear from her. Great
heavens, how can I have the patience to wait?”
The grave, resolute man, who never lost his head under the most
perturbing circumstances, interposed:
“Pardon me, Mr. Morrice, but if you are agreeable, I should be pleased
to act for you in this matter. I have had unfortunately such a long
experience in this kind of case that I am rather successful at bringing
an obstinate person to confession. I assume that you are making some
provision for Mrs. Morrice’s future?”
“Yes, through my solicitors.”
“But, of course, nothing as yet has been absolutely fixed in that
direction.”
Morrice nodded assent. “That gives me a very powerful weapon, then,”
said Lane. “Are you disposed to entrust the matter to me? It is not as
if I were unacquainted with these painful details.”
Yes, the financier thought he was. He was beginning to have a little
less confidence in himself, and to think that the acute and diplomatic
Lane might achieve better and speedier results.
“Yes, take it in hand, please. But you have got to find her first.”
Lane smiled. “I don’t think I shall find much difficulty in that. In
fact I fancy I could put my hands on her now.”
“She would naturally go to some small hotel, till she had arranged her
future plans, not, of course, to any big one where she would be likely
to come across people she knew,” suggested Rosabelle.
“I think not, Miss Sheldon,” answered the wise Lane. “In this crushing
hour of her misfortunes, instinct will lead her to the friend of her
youth, whose connection with her up to now has, without doubt, been a
very close one. For a time, till she has got used to the situation, she
will avoid even the smallest publicity.”
“You mean the woman, Alma Buckley,” cried Morrice, appreciating this
capable man’s acumen.
Lane nodded. “It is much more than an even chance. Well, I will set
about it early to-morrow morning. I will give her to-day to recover
from the first effects of the shock. Now, Mr. Morrice, I have never
seen the lady. I should be glad if you would show me her photographs
and entrust me for a brief space with the memorandum. I expect I shall
have to flourish that in her face just at the beginning.”
Three photographs were shown him, one in ordinary dress, one in evening
attire, one in outdoor costume.
The detective impressed the features of the wretched woman on his
retentive memory. He would recognize her in any garb. He also carried
away with him the important memorandum, the loss of which the financier
had treated so lightly.
Rosabelle accompanied him into the hall for a few last words.
“Up to quite recently, Mr. Lane, you have not been very frank with me,”
she said. “I think now you might try to make amends, and let me know
what led you to fix upon Mrs. Morrice as the guilty party.”
“Well, I could hardly explain very clearly. I began of course with a
general distrust of everybody in the house, for I was sure the thief
was of the household.”
“Including myself, I suppose?” suggested the girl.
“Present company always excepted,” replied the detective with a low
bow. “But seriously, Miss Sheldon, well-brought-up young ladies of your
tender age do not take to burglary as a general rule. Well, as I said,
I suspected from the beginning it was somebody in the house. I fear I
must touch upon rather delicate ground for a moment. Reasoning from my
theory, Mr. Croxton might as well be the criminal as anybody else, more
so because collateral evidence was certainly very strong against him.”
“You thought, in other words, his employing you through me might have
been a bit of audacious bluff?”
“I reckoned it amongst the possibilities of the case,” was the frank
answer. “Then came the second robbery when Mr. Croxton was no longer
an inmate. This fact gave rise to fresh speculations, for I did not
greatly believe in the theory of an outside confederate, although
I know Mr. Morrice held to it. Then I learned that the original
memorandum of the mechanism was lost; it was no longer possible to
say for certain that the knowledge it contained was confined to two
people, it might have been acquired by more than one other party, and,
of course, from that my area of suspicion was extended. What, however,
finally clinched the matter in my mind, Miss Sheldon—and this is a
feather in your cap—was that conversation which you overheard and
reported to me.”
“It was quite good of you not to give me away, when uncle wanted to
know the source of your information.”
“I am not quite such a brute as I seem, my dear young lady, I assure
you. When I can do a good turn to anybody I like and respect, believe
me it gives me pleasure. With regard to my general reticence which
I know must have offended you very much, you must remember I have
moved so much amongst mystery that I have become more than a little
mysterious myself.”
“And you believe Mrs. Morrice committed these burglaries alone?” asked
Rosabelle.
“I am inclined to think so, although we are quite certain where the
proceeds went to.”
“And what about those finger-prints of the man who was in Dartmoor at
the time of the first burglary?”
“That, no doubt, was an invention, employed more for purposes of
devilment, to lead a detective a useless dance and make a fool of him.
In the second robbery the same game was played, but when the safe was
opened a third time, it was dropped. There were no finger-prints then,
they had been carefully rubbed out.”
“How she could have had the courage,” exclaimed Rosabelle, “and you
know I should not have considered her a very strong-minded or resolute
woman.”
Lane shrugged his shoulders. “Evidently she was in mortal terror of
these two scoundrels, hypnotized by them in a sense. Those restitutions
that were made had certainly a feminine touch. A man would never have
ventured back for such a purpose, anything that was useless to him he
would have destroyed.”
“It is all very horrible and tragic,” said Rosabelle in a sad voice.
“My heart bleeds for my dear uncle. Thank heaven he will have Richard
still left to comfort him.”
“Yes, I am very glad the young fellow is cleared,” said Lane heartily.
“Well, I must be off. Before long I hope to get the whole details of
this miserable affair out of Mrs. Morrice. Good-bye for the present.”