THE RETURNED PRODIGAL
It is impossible to describe adequately the effect that this news had
on me, to convey the relief I felt; it seemed too good, far too good,
to be true, and yet Mr. Hannay spoke with such complete assurance and
authority as to preclude all doubt. Somehow, in some manner, I had
escaped after all! These torturing thoughts of mine had had no real
basis in fact. I had been a trusting fool, the victim of a cruel lie.
Ah, Frean----
"So it never happened?" I cried. "Frean knew I hadn't seen the
papers--I told him so--and that I wouldn't want to see them, read about
what I was supposed to have done. He banked on that. He wanted me to
run away and hide. There was no accident, no woman and child----"
"Oh, yes, there was," interrupted Mr. Hannay. "And both were killed;
that's all quite true. But don't you see that if your car was stolen it
entirely exculpates you?"
From the heights I plunged anew into the depths. I felt like hitting
the good Mr. Hannay for having raised such false hopes. "It doesn't
exculpate me at all!" I exclaimed. "I only wish it did!"
"Why doesn't it?"
"Because it doesn't! Any fool knows that. Don't you see that
Camden----" And I repeated what Frean had said. "Excuse me for being so
short with you, Mr. Hannay, but you don't know what I've been through
in the way of remorse, and these false hopes----"
"But, my dear boy, they aren't false; not a bit of it. I wouldn't say
so if I wasn't absolutely sure. It's quite true that Red Bank is on the
route you took, and that your assailant, in going from Sea Bright to
Camden, would have no reason to pass through it. Yet the facts are that
he _did_."
"What! How do you know?"
"Well, you say you met Mr. Varney and his niece in their car at about
nine o'clock?"
"Yes, I'm perfectly sure of that. When I left my car, I noticed by the
illuminated clock that it was a quarter to nine."
"And it was after ten when the woman and child were run over in Red
Bank," said Mr. Hannay. "There is no question about that, and if you'd
happened to read the account in the paper you'd have known it. Here it
is; see for yourself." And he handed me the paper in question.
"Yes, I see that!" I exclaimed, reading the paragraph he had marked.
"By George, I--I----" In my relief I got up and shook him by both
hands. An unbearable load had lifted from my heart. After all, I _had_
escaped! The fatality had occurred at ten minutes past ten, and at
that time I was lying unconscious behind a hedge near the Sea Bright
station.
And then a horrible doubt assailed me. "But can I prove it?" I cried.
"Will anybody believe me? I'm sure about the time; I observed other
details accurately that night, even though I was hopelessly drunk. I
observed things that were afterward proved to be correct. But you see
what people will say--that I was drunk and couldn't have known the
time."
"But Mr. Varney and his niece weren't drunk," said Mr. Hannay. "They
will be able at least to approximate the hour when you talked with them
at the crossroads. You may be sure of that."
"Yes, but I don't think Mr. Varney would lift a finger to save me from
the gallows. I told you what happened when I was discharged. He hates
me."
"U-m-m," murmured Mr. Hannay. "Just so. Well, we can do without his
evidence, if need be. There's the man Taylor to prove where and how he
found you early the next morning. If it was you who came back through
Red Bank, how could the car be smashed to flinders at Camden near
midnight and you found half unconscious at Sea Bright five hours later?
How could you get there without being seen? No, it's impossible on the
face of it. I tell you that the fact of another person having the car,
and being killed in your place, explains everything, and we won't have
any trouble proving your innocence."
"I only hope so," I said, "but Mr. Varney's evidence may be absolutely
necessary. Now, Mr. Hannay, you've known my family since before I was
born; you know, I dare say, things that even I don't?"
"Possibly," said the old lawyer cautiously.
"Well, have you ever heard of Theodore Varney previous to this? Do you
know of any reason why he should be so bitter against my family? For I
tell you it wasn't merely that I'd imposed on him; he had forgiven me
posing as Joyce until he heard my real name. Then he went right up in
the air. It wasn't that he believed me guilty of those two deaths and
thought I was a coward in hiding; that was only part of it. Back of it
all was a dislike for me personally because I was Peter Lawton. I'm
sure of that."
Mr. Hannay stroked his chin. "Well, I suppose I'd better tell you, my
boy; I can't very well keep it back now. He hates you because you are
your father's son. You see, Mr. Varney was deeply in love with your
mother."
I wasn't so greatly astonished at this information, for some such
idea had occurred to me that morning in the car, when Varney spoke so
bitterly of my father. "Then it is merely a case of a jealous and
disappointed suitor still nursing a fancied grievance? Come, tell me
all you know."
"Well, with all due respect to the dead, I'm afraid your father hardly
treated Mr. Varney fairly--nor did your mother, either, for that
matter. I knew all the interested parties personally, and can speak
with authority. Varney and your father were very intimate friends, and
it was the former who introduced the latter to the then Miss Canning.
Varney and she had known each other almost from childhood, and though
there was no official engagement it was common knowledge that they
cared for each other, were pledged, in fact, and would eventually
marry. Indeed, Varney confided this to his chum, your father. At
this time, also--when your father first met your mother--the same
understanding existed between your father and Varney's only sister----"
"Phew!" I exclaimed. "You can't mean Brenda Gelette's mother?"
"I do, Peter. You see the fearful mix-up that followed? Your father
and mother fell in love with each other at first sight, one of those
passionate, all-sacrificing attachments, not unknown to human history,
which is bound to promote or end in tragedy. Miss Varney seems to have
survived the shock of their sudden elopement--at least she eventually
married--but it certainly ruined her brother's life.
"I should never have told you all this if you hadn't insisted,"
finished Mr. Hannay kindly, "and don't think I've exaggerated or
overstated the case. Your mother was an honorable woman, your father
an honorable man, and, though I've no experience of such things, it
is clear that in this instance their mutual attachment overcame every
scruple. But Mr. Varney is entirely wrong if he says your father broke
your mother's heart. He did so only by dying--and she followed him
quickly. Nor did he die in an alcoholic ward, as your Uncle Peter
claimed, though I can't pretend he conserved either his fortune or his
health."
"Well," I said at length, "it's not for me to judge. At any rate, I now
understand Mr. Varney's cordial dislike for me, and I must say I don't
blame him. I only wish I'd known about it."
I proceeded to put some adroit questions to the old lawyer concerning
Mr. Varney, for here was one who had known him and his brother
intimately and who might unwittingly give me some clew to the other's
connection with the Black Company. I succeeded, however, in learning
nothing that Scallon hadn't told me already.
We now discussed more material matters connected with my affairs, and I
learned that my will had not been probated, and that my old quarters in
the Belvedere, on Madison Avenue, were just as I had left them. I was
glad to hear, too, that Watkins, whom I had had since starting my new
mode of life, was still at his post.
"As you know," said Mr. Hannay, "the lease isn't up till the end of
the year, and Watkins begged to be allowed to remain in charge of the
apartments till they were sublet. It's a funny thing, but he said from
the first he had a feeling you weren't dead at all, and might come
walking in any day. About giving your story to the press, of course,
you can't avoid that. Is it possible to keep Mr. Varney's name out of
it?"
"Unfortunately not. Frean would tell all about my employment there if
I didn't. By the way, has he made it up with his father? I heard he
hadn't, but I'm not certain."
"You may be certain. The scamp's getting money from some quarter,
according to all accounts of the way he's living, though I don't know
who would employ him even for his parents' sake."
"Where do you suppose he's getting it from?"
Mr. Hannay shrugged. "Considering that crooked brokerage deal--he ought
to have been jailed--I shouldn't be surprised if he was interested in
some bucket shop, probably as a tout. A thoroughly bad egg, if you
want my opinion. I hope you'll steer clear of him in future, Peter; he
can't bring you any good. No, he can never make things right with his
family, the time for that is past and the break is absolute and final.
His people have stood all that is humanly possible, far more than is
generally known. There are some people you can't do anything with, no
matter how hard you try; people who seem to have no morals, in whom
there is nothing to appeal. Arnold Frean is one of them; he never was
any good and he never will be. I never could understand what you saw in
him, why you made a companion of him."
"But I didn't," I replied. "He was at Princeton with me, you know, and
after all, that means something. But I hardly knew him at college; we
weren't in the same year, and in entirely different sets----"
"I dare say," interrupted Mr. Hannay grimly. "You'd no money to throw
around then."
"No, and he had. He had too much. It wasn't until after I inherited
Uncle Peter's check book that I really knew Frean, and I can't say I
know much about him even now. I met him as I met dozens of others,
people you don't seem to meet unless you've money. Perhaps you can tell
me who his intimate friends are----"
"No, and I don't care; nobody to be proud of, I'll wager. And now, my
boy, we'll trot down and see the district attorney; we just have time.
There is another point in that newspaper article to which I wish to
call your attention; you may have overlooked it. It states distinctly
that the car came from the south and turned west, whereas you would
have come from the north. Having no idea it wasn't you who were
driving, the only supposition was that you'd gone south, returned to
Red Bank, and struck out for Camden, aiming possibly at Philadelphia.
But I doubt if you actually passed through Red Bank at all, for why was
the car and its license number noted only on the return trip? No, you
may rest assured that we'll have no difficulty in establishing your
innocence."
Nor had we, at least nothing approaching what I had expected. But I
couldn't help wondering what my reception would have been had I been
poor and unknown. I don't mean to say that I could have bought an
immunity bath, or clogged the wheels of justice with gold pieces,
but--well, wealth and position certainly make a difference. Witness
Frean's case, the influence that kept him out of jail. The mere fact
that a man like Mr. Hannay was my friend made a profound difference in
itself, and a story that might have seemed incredible from the lips of
a pauper, seemed otherwise when voiced by a millionaire. At all events
it was credited and, pending corroboration from Varney and the man
Taylor--a mere matter of form, I was assured--I was released on my own
recognizance. Of course I was entitled to be released, for I wasn't
guilty, but had I been poor and unknown I should have been remanded to
jail while my story was being investigated. That is the difference, I
suppose, between wealth and poverty, influence and nonentity.
It was nearing six o'clock when I left the Tombs and, saying farewell
to Mr. Hannay, boarded a subway local. At Fourteenth Street I got out,
intending to change to the uptown express. The station presented its
usual bedlam rush-hour appearance, and I had some trouble in bucking
my way through to the first row waiting to rush the doors. I thought
I heard my name called, but could see no one I knew. Then, just as
the express drew in, some one gave me a violent shove, and I pitched
headfirst to the rails.
I don't know to this day how I escaped. Nobody does. By all odds,
I should have been pulped under the wheels or "third-railed" into
eternity as quick as winking. I imagine, perhaps, my old football
training helped me; I mean I knew instinctively how to fall without
breaking any bones, and even if tackled and thrown from a totally
unexpected quarter, to keep my wits and go on thinking. At all events
I hit on my shoulder and scrambled over to the downtown rails in some
occult fashion as the express with screeching brakes shot past, far too
close for comfort.
Having no wish to figure further in the papers, I scrambled on to the
downtown platform, waved a hand to the gaping crowd to show I was
unhurt, and dodged up the steps to the street before most of the
people realized what it was all about. I had got off with a bruised
shoulder, though the Black Company had meant my life. It was a nice
reception for a returned prodigal!