FOUND.
On the eve of his departure for Pembridge, Gerald Warburton had
promised Ambrose Murray that immediately after his return he would
consult with him as to the steps which it would be advisable to take
in furtherance of that quest on which the mind of the elder man was so
firmly bent, but which to the younger one looked, at that time, so
thoroughly hopeless. The momentary glimpse which they obtained of
Jacoby while standing on the platform of Welwyn Station, happening
just then, came like an apt and singular confirmation of the story
told by Murray. It acted as a spur to Gerald's flagging purpose, and
would have served as an additional incentive to Murray, had any such
been needed, to press forward unflinchingly towards the end he had in
view. From that day forward no one could accuse Gerald of any want of
enthusiasm for the cause he had adopted as his own. He put his hand to
the plough, and he never looked backward again.
The first, and perhaps the most difficult, move in the game they had
set themselves to play, had been solved for them by the merest
accident. Jacoby was still alive. There was no need for them to
trouble themselves further on that score. The next move, and one
hardly less difficult than the first one, was to find out where Jacoby
was now living; and the question that Gerald at once set himself to
answer was this: What is the likeliest and readiest mode of
discovering the whereabouts of this man?
Among the papers which had come into the hands of Miss Bellamy at the
death of Ambrose Murray's wife, were certain verbatim accounts of the
trial for the Tewkesbury murder. These papers Miss Bellamy had
carefully preserved, and they were now handed over by her to Gerald,
who proceeded to read them carefully through three or four times, by
which means he made himself master of all the details of the case as
they had presented themselves at the trial. A certain Mr. Frodsham had
been Murray's counsel on that occasion, and very admirable had been
the speech, and very cogent the arguments, employed by him in his
attempt to prove the innocence of his client--an attempt which, as we
have already seen, did not succeed. To Gerald, turning the whole case
over in his mind, it seemed that the first thing to do was to find out
this Mr. Frodsham, see him, consult with him, tell him in confidence
of Murray's escape, and ascertain whether, after so long a time, his
experience could suggest any feasible plan for proving, or even
attempting to prove, the innocence of a client for whose sake, twenty
years ago, all his eloquence had been exerted in vain.
In setting about the task which he had thus taken in hand, and which
he was thoroughly determined to go through with, Gerald did not expect
to derive much assistance from Murray himself, nor, in fact, did he.
Murray was altogether too unpractical; he had been shut up too long
from the busy, struggling world around him to enable him to cope with
it face to face, or to grope his way through such a blind man's maze
as his own case necessarily involved, at every step of which a knot
would have to be disentangled, or a difficulty of some kind
encountered and overcome. He could asseverate earnestly enough that
Jacoby was the murderer, and that the sole object for which he now
lived was to bring the crime home to him; but when asked by what means
that was to be done, he was like a child who had lost itself in some
dark place. He could only cling to Gerald, and ask him to think, to
devise, to scheme for him. "I have faith--faith the most intense," he
would sometimes say, "that the world will know me for what I am before
I die. Why else was my reason given back to me? why else was a way of
escape shown me? why else am I here, except to prove this thing? And,
oh, Gerald! why has an over-ruling Intelligence sent to me you, the
son of my lost darling's oldest friend--you, with your kind heart, and
clear brain, and knowledge of the world and its ways--except to assist
me, to give to my forlorn weakness that strong helping hand, without
which I can do nothing! Other men might ask: Why should I help this
escaped lunatic? Why should I trouble myself about this criminal
madman, on whose head the guilt of blood still rests? But not you--not
you! You and I, Gerald, have been mysteriously drawn together by the
bonds of an invisible sympathy. We have been brought together, not
that we may be to each other as mere touch-and-go acquaintances, but
for the working out of some hidden purpose. For good or for evil, the
issues of your life and mine are inextricably mingled; like streams
from two distant sources, they have met, never again to be disunited,
till they fall into the far-off Hidden Sea!"
Mr. Frodsham had been too well known in the legal profession for
Gerald to experience much difficulty in obtaining answers to his
inquiries respecting that gentleman. It did not take him long to
ascertain that Mr. Frodsham had been dead for several years. But from
the same source whence he derived this positive information, came
another piece of information not quite so positive, which, being of no
apparent use, was thrown in gratis, as it were, to the effect that
although Mr. Frodsham was dead, Mr. Peter Byrne, who had been his
confidential clerk for many years, was supposed to be still alive.
To Gerald this extra piece of information seemed of no use whatever.
His idea in wanting to see Mr. Frodsham had been, not to obtain
facts--those he had already--but to seek his advice, his counsel,
perchance his assistance. But of what use or assistance Mr. Frodsham's
confidential clerk could be to him, he could not for the life of him
see. Still, as it behoved him to neglect no source of information,
however trivial or apparently unimportant it might seem to be, and as
he was rather nonplussed for the time being as to what was the next
step which it behoved him to take, he decided to have this Mr. Byrne
hunted up, if it were possible to find him, and then see him in
person, on the very faint chance that something might be elicited from
him which would tend to show what line of action it would be advisable
to adopt next.
Five days later Gerald received Mr. Byrne's address by post. It was
No. 2, Amelia Terrace, Claridge Road, Battersea, which place Gerald
next day made it his business to go in search of.
Amelia Terrace was in a desolate locality enough, being shut out from
the world by wide intervening stretches of market garden, very useful
and very productive, no doubt, but which seemed to lack every pleasant
attribute with which a garden is usually associated in one's mind. The
particular house that Gerald was in search of was one of twenty others
exactly similar to it in pattern and design. Little shabby-looking
six-roomed houses, the cheap stucco with which their fronts were
plastered peeling off already in great ugly blotches, the yard of
"garden" on to which their windows looked protected by cheap railings,
broken away in many places, and thick with rust, or twisted out of
shape in others. Inside, the rooms were close and frowsy, with doors
and windows that in some cases would not shut, and in others left
crevices that in this wintry weather had to be stuffed up with rags,
or old newspapers, or even here and there with an old bonnet. At one
corner was a flaring gin-palace, and at the other a huckster's shop,
only its proprietor did not call it a shop, but an "emporium."
Yes, Mr. Byrne was at home, said the slatternly servant who answered
Gerald's knock at No. 2.
Before more could be said, some one called out from the parlour, "Walk
in, sir, walk in, if it's me you are in want of. I saw you when you
were over the way, but I didn't know that you were looking for No. 2."
Gerald accepted the invitation and walked into the parlour, a
shabbily-furnished little room, pervaded by a vile odour of stale
tobacco-smoke. Mr. Byrne, in red morocco slippers, a Turkish cap, and
a faded dressing gown of a flowery Chinese sort of pattern, rose from
the sofa to receive him.
Peter Byrne was a man of sixty, but looked quite ten years younger
than that age, thanks to his dyed hair, his artificial teeth, and the
faintest possible suspicion of rouge, without which, when got up for
the day, he never ventured abroad. But so deftly and artfully was the
hare's foot applied, that not one out of a dozen of his acquaintances
accepted as other than genuine that pleasant, healthy colour which,
whatever the season might be, Peter Byrne's cheeks never failed to
display. He was rather under than over the medium height, was lightly
built, and was very active for his age. His head was large, and
somewhat disproportionate to the size of his body. He had large, but
regular features, and had doubtless thought himself very good-looking
when a young man; but the lines of his face were now coarse and
fleshy, and seemed to indicate a too free indulgence in the good
things of the table, and possibly too great a fondness for
after-dinner potations. He had clear grey eyes, with a keenness and a
steadfastness in them that Gerald liked; and yet there seemed
something factitious about his smile--it came and went too readily to
seem altogether genuine.
Gerald having introduced himself and taken a chair, proceeded at once
to the object of his visit.
"In my search for certain information," he said, "I have been
recommended to call upon you as having been the confidential clerk of
the late Mr. Frodsham."
"I certainly was Mr. Frodsham's confidential clerk for several years,"
said Byrne, "and any information that may be in my power I shall be
happy to afford you--provided, of course, that such information
involve no breach of business confidence."
"You need be under no apprehension on that score," answered Gerald. "I
must ask you, in the first place, to let your memory travel back for
twenty years, and then to tell me whether you have any recollection of
a somewhat remarkable case in which Mr. Frodsham was engaged for the
defence. It was a murder case, and was tried at the Gloucester Spring
Assizes. The crime was committed at Tewkesbury, the murdered man's
name was Paul Stilling, and the prisoner's name Ambrose Murray."
"I remember the case in question quite well," answered Byrne. "In
fact, I was in court when the trial took place. Mr. Frodsham was
busier than usual that circuit, and he took me with him."
"So far that is fortunate," said Gerald. "Then you will probably
recollect that one of the chief witnesses at the trial was a Dutch or
German Jew of the name of Max Jacoby?"
"I recollect distinctly the man to whom you refer."
"My object in coming to see you to-day is to ask you whether you can
in any way assist me to discover the present whereabouts of this man,
Max Jacoby?"
Byrne gave vent to a long, low whistle.
"It's a hard nut, sir, that you've set yourself to crack--the finding
of a man like that after twenty years; and--and really I hardly know
in what way I can help you."
Gerald was silent. He had no intention of accepting Byrne's answer as
final.
"Why don't you apply to Scotland Yard for assistance?" asked Byrne,
after a pause.
"I have private reasons for not doing so," answered Gerald. "But there
is no reason why you should not treat me as your client in this
matter, and endeavour to obtain this information for me either from
Scotland Yard or elsewhere."
"Hum! Such inquiries, whether successful or unsuccessful, cost money."
"Get me the information I ask for, or even show me that you have done
your best to get it but have failed, and we shall not quarrel about
the price."
"But the man may have died years ago, or, being a foreigner, he may be
living in some little town on the continent, in which case our
inquiries could hardly hope to be successful."
"Jacoby was alive, and well, and in London only three weeks ago."
"Oh, come, there's something tangible about a fact like that. And you
know nothing more concerning him?"
"Absolutely nothing."
Mr. Byrne, with due solemnity and deliberation, proceeded to charge
and light a long-stemmed pipe with a painted China bowl, which stood
propped against the chimney-piece ready to his hand.
"I will be candid with you, Mr. Warburton," he said, after a few
preliminary puffs. "I don't anticipate that there will be so much
difficulty in tracing this man Jacoby as there might be in the case of
a great many other people."
"Why should there be any difference in his case?" asked Gerald.
"Because he is a man with whom the police have had dealings, directly
or indirectly, not on one occasion only, but several times. There is
no need for me to say more at present, except this, that such a man is
seldom altogether lost sight of, unless he leaves the country and goes
to live abroad. Still, I should not advise you to be too sanguine."
Gerald promised not to be too sanguine, but still had good hopes of
success. He then went into some monetary details with Mr. Byrne, and
after that he rose to go.
"I dare say you wonder a little to find a man like me living in a
dog-kennel of a place like this," said Byrne, with his expansive
smile, as he stood for a moment or two airing his back at the fire.
"I have seen too much of the world to wonder greatly at anything,"
said Gerald, ambiguously.
"You see, this is how it was," said Byrne, confidentially. "I was Mr.
Frodsham's clerk for a great number of years--not that I ever liked
the profession, but my bread and cheese was dependent on it, and I was
bound to stick to it. By the death of a relative, I came in for ten
thousand pounds, and I at once retired to live on my means. I had
always been fond of the turf, I had always fancied that I knew
something about that noble animal, the horse, and I now determined to
turn my knowledge to account. I made up my mind that I would turn my
ten thousand pounds into thirty thousand. Sir, I did not turn it into
thirty thousand pounds, but into thirty thousand pence. In fact, I
lost the whole of it. I was too old to re-enter the profession, and
having an income of eighty pounds a year for life, I determined to
settle down upon it, and make the best of a bad job. This locality, if
not the most genteel in the world, is cheap and salubrious, and here
Miriam and I have pitched our tent for a little time, while waiting
for summer weather. Relatives, sir, can't live for ever, especially
when turned eighty years of age, and asthmatical into the bargain."
"At the risk of being thought impertinent, may I ask who Miriam is?"
"Miriam, sir, is my daughter--an only child, and a jewel of a girl,
though I say it who ought not. Nature, sir, has been liberal to her,
having endowed her with beauty and talents that would fit her to adorn
a sphere far superior to this one. I hope and trust that there is a
brilliant future in store for her."
This interview with Mr. Byrne took place between the time of Gerald's
first visit to Pembridge and that second visit which resulted from his
acceptance of the position of secretary to Sir Thomas Dudgeon. He gave
Byrne Miss Bellamy's address, to which any communication for him was
to be sent. Such communication would be re-addressed and forwarded to
him at Stammars by Miss Bellamy. He had been at Sir Thomas Dudgeon's
about a week, when he received the following brief note from Byrne:--
"Dear Sir,
"With reference to the subject respecting which you spoke to me a few
days ago, no time has been lost in taking the preliminary steps, and I
am happy to inform you that I believe we are already on the right
track. I hope in a week at the most to be able to supply you with some
positive information. But we must not be too sanguine.
"Faithfully yours,
"P. B."
A few days later Gerald went up to town to transact certain business
for Sir Thomas Dudgeon, and having some spare time on his hands, he
spent most of it either with Miss Bellamy or Ambrose Murray. It was
while they were all three sitting together one afternoon, that the
postman brought a second note from Byrne to Gerald.
"Dear Sir,
"The person respecting whom you spoke to me at my house is now, I
believe, passing under another name. If you will meet me either this
or to-morrow evening at seven on the steps of the General Post Office,
I will take you to a place where--yourself unseen--you can see the man
to whom I allude, and so have the means of identifying him. Should he
prove to be the person you want, I will afterwards furnish you with
his address. If you decide upon meeting me this evening, wire me to
that effect.
"Yours faithfully,
"P. B."
At seven o'clock that evening, Gerald Warburton and Ambrose Murray
found themselves at St. Martin's-le-Grand, where, two minutes later,
they were joined by Mr. Byrne.
"As I myself am totally unacquainted with the person we are in search
of, never to my knowledge having seen him," said Gerald to Byrne, "I
have been compelled to bring this gentleman with me. Jacoby was well
known to him by sight many years ago, and he does not doubt his
ability to identify him now."
Byrne bowed slightly, and threw a keen glance at Murray; but the
evening was cold, and the latter was so muffled up that very little of
his features could be seen.
They were still standing on the post-office steps, when Byrne, turning
to Gerald, said--
"The man I am about to show you lives in the city, and has done so for
several years. When in town he always dines at one particular tavern.
He is generally to be found there from half-past six till half-past
seven. He dined at this place yesterday and the day before, and I have
no doubt that he is there at the present moment. We must wait near at
hand till he comes out, and then you will have an opportunity of
getting a clear view of him by the light of the lamp over the door."
Here and there in some quiet city nook may still be found one of
those homely, old-fashioned taverns, innocent of lacquer-work and
gilding--panelled, not with looking-glass, but with substantial
mahogany, dark with age, such as were common in the days when Charles
Lamb or Washington Irving were peripatetics about the streets of
London, but which are becoming rarer with each recurring year. To
several of these taverns is attached a dining-room, where a fried sole
or a cut off a wholesome joint may be obtained as late as six or seven
o'clock, and where any one who is known to the house may have a chop
or a steak done to a turn up till midnight. There is no bustle and
confusion here; you are not hurried over your meals; you need not
quit your seat the moment you have swallowed your last mouthful, in
order to make room for some one else. Day after day the same people
come--punctual to the minute, as a rule. They are all on hob-nobbing
terms with each other, and fresh faces are rarely seen.
It was over against such a tavern as this that our three conspirators
now stationed themselves. The street was very narrow, and exactly
opposite the tavern was a dark passage leading to sundry suites of
offices, now silent and deserted. Within the shelter of this passage
they took their stand. Not long had they to wait. Presently the swing
doors were pushed open from the inner side, and the man whom they had
come to see issued forth into the street--a man of fifty, or perhaps
fifty-five, broad-chested, strongly built, and with a face that might
have been carved out of lignumvitæ, so hard, resolute, and determined
was it in every line. He stood for a moment in the full light of the
lamp over the doorway, and then he walked slowly down the street.
Gerald felt Murray's grasp on his arm tighten suddenly as the man came
out.
"Is that the man you wanted me to find? Is that Max Jacoby?" asked
Byrne, in a low voice.
"That is Max Jacoby!" answered Murray, in a whisper.
"We must give him time to get clear away," said Byrne, "and then I
will show you the place where he lives."
Five minutes later they left their hiding-place. Byrne, taking his
companions through several short cuts and narrow ways, brought them
presently to another part of the city, and came to a halt close
against a tall, substantial-looking house. It stood in a narrow way
intended for foot-passengers only, that led from one great artery of
city traffic to another. One side of this footway was bounded by the
blank wall of a range of huge warehouses that had their frontage in
another street. The opposite boundary of the footway consisted of a
low stone wall, crowned with rusty railings, that shut in an ancient
graveyard. The church that once on a time had appertained to the
graveyard had been demolished years ago; but the dilapidated
tombstones, with their "forlorn Hic jacets" all overgrown with rank
and frowsy herbage, were still there, together with a miscellaneous
assortment of old shoes, broken bottles, and other rubbish. As usual,
it was Nobody's business to bring about a different state of things,
and Nobody did his business thoroughly by leaving it altogether
undone.
The house to which Byrne had brought his companions was built into the
graveyard, and its front door was in a line with the raised wall
already spoken of. It was an old-fashioned, red-brick house, and had
doubtless at one time been the residence of the rector, or of some
other functionary connected with the church that was no longer there.
From the windows, both back and front, the view must have been dismal
in the extreme. To-night the whole house looked as dark and deserted
as the graveyard in which it stood. Not a single glimmer of light was
visible in any of its windows. Byrne, after taking a cautious look
round, drew his companions forward. There was a square brass plate let
into the door, on which, by the light of a lamp near at hand, they all
three read these words:
MAX VAN DUREN.
General Agent, &c.
"He has changed his name!" said Murray, turning suddenly on Byrne.
"There's nothing to wonder at in that," said Byrne, with a shrug. "In
London one comes across queer changes every day."