Those who are skilled to read that strange, yet easily to be penetrated
mystery, a woman’s heart, will have at once decided how Kate Crane
determined to act in regard to D’Almayne--he had saved her brother, and
though he had offered her an unpardonable insult, she would not betray
him, so she replied calmly--“I should on that point advise you as I did
on the former one: reflect whether the accusation is likely to be
true; whether you have observed any encouragement given by me to Mr.
D’Almayne; whether, from what you know of my character, you imagine
it likely that I should be so devoid of principle, so wanting in
self-respect, as to accept Mr. D’Almayne’s or any other man’s attentions.
Recollect a speech I once made you, which really appears as if I had
had a presentiment of this accusation--a speech in which I begged you
to bear in mind that, if at any time comments should be made on the
intimate footing on which Mr. D’Almayne visited at this house, it was
according to your expressed wish and desire that he did so, and on that
account only did I tolerate it. If, when you have thus considered the
matter, you still feel dissatisfied, I advise you to use every endeavour
to arrive at the truth. My own opinion is, that the letter being
written by (as the writer honestly enough confesses) an enemy of Mr.
D’Almayne’s, he has raked up every accusation which scandal may have
invented to blacken that gentleman’s character; still, as, if there
is any truth in the charges, the knowledge of it would prove of great
importance to you, it behoves you quietly and carefully to inquire into
them, and I would recommend you to do so without delay.”
Kate’s perfect self-possession and coolness always produced great effect
on Mr. Crane, and in the present instance they so thoroughly convinced
him that his anonymous correspondent had accused his wife falsely, that
without more ado he started for the city to investigate the truth of
the other charges, leaving his better-half to strive against the
uncomfortable conviction that unintentionally she had played the part of
a hypocrite.
One of the elements of Horace D’Almayne’s success in life was his
punctuality in all matters of business: if he said he would do a thing,
he did it; if he promised to be at any place by a fixed time, at the
appointed day and hour there was Horace to be found: this consistency
even in apparent trifles caused others to place great reliance on him,
and contributed to establish a certain degree of _prestige_ and weight
of character which often stood him in good stead. No one was better
aware of this fact than Horace himself; who, perceiving the value of the
practice, had adopted it as one of his guiding principles, to which
he invariably acted up with a consistency worthy of a better code.
Accordingly, having transacted Mr. Crane’s business to his own
satisfaction, he appointed a day on which to return to England, and
when the time arrived, embarked; but, unable finally to conclude the
transaction without proceeding to Liverpool, he selected a vessel bound
for that port. On his arrival, after a favourable passage, he took up
his abode at a small, quiet hotel, much frequented by foreigners. Having
engaged a private room, he was looking over the papers which he had
brought with him, when his quick ear caught the sound of a voice with
the tones of which he fancied himself familiar--listening attentively,
he overheard the following colloquy:--
“Can I have a private sitting-room here?”
“Well, sir, we’re very full; should you require a bedroom also?”
“No; I am going by the New York packet, which leaves at eight o’clock
this evening.”
“If you’ll wait one moment, sir, I’ll see; but I’m a’most afraid we’re
full.”
Anxious to obtain a view of the speakers, D’Almayne crossed the room
with noiseless tread, and looked out through the half-opened door; the
figure nearest to him was that of the waiter at the hotel; the person
with whom he had been conversing was, or appeared to be, a seafaring
man of the more respectable class, and at the first glance D’Almayne
believed him to be an entire stranger--still, the voice, so peculiar
and so well known, he surely could not be mistaken in that! and again
he scrutinised the stranger’s appearance. He was a tall thin man, well
advanced in life, with sharp acute features, and keen grey eyes; his
hair was cut short, and of an unnaturally raven blackness; and his face
was closely shaven, without the slightest trace of whisker or moustache.
For a moment, Horace D’Almayne paused in doubt, during which interval
the stranger’s evil genius obliged him to cough, a dry husky cough
which, once heard, was not easily mistaken--it was enough. In going
to seek the master of the hotel, the waiter had to pass the door of
D’Almayne’s room; a sign from that individual’s finger caused him to
enter it.
“Show that gentleman into this room, as if it was the untenanted
apartment he has inquired for--leave the key in the lock inside, and if
I ring the bell twice fetch a policeman instantly; but as I hope such an
extreme measure may not be necessary, do not say a word about the affair
to any one.” As he spoke, he slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand,
adding, “Manage this cleverly and quietly, and a second awaits you.”
The waiter bowed, and with a nod of intelligence quitted the room. The
door of the apartment was so placed that when opened it shut in an angle
of the wall, in which stood a screen quite large enough to conceal the
figure of a man; in this corner did D’Almayne ensconce himself; scarcely
had he done so ere the waiter returned, ushering in the stranger for
whose benefit these arrangements had been made. Perfectly unsuspicious
of any stratagem, the new comer signified his approval of the
accommodation provided for him, placed a leathern valise which he
carried in his hand on the table, and then seated himself by the window
with his back towards the door, which the waiter immediately closed,
at the same time leaving the room, when with noiseless steps D’Almayne
glided from his place of concealment, and double-locking the door placed
the key in his pocket. The slight sound made by the bolt shooting
into its socket attracted the stranger’s attention, and turning round
quickly, he gave a most perceptible start as his eye fell upon his
companion; recovering himself instantly, he rose, and bowing to
D’Almayne, said--
“The waiter must have made some mistake! I asked for an unoccupied room.
I must apologise for thus intruding on you, sir; but the mistake is not
on my part.” As he spoke, he took up his valise preparatory to leaving
the room, but D’Almayne motioned him to a chair, as he replied--
“There is no mistake in the case, my friend, unless it be your fancying
that, because you have shaved off your whiskers and dyed your hair, I
should not recognise you--that is a complete mistake.”
The person thus addressed turned pale and bit his lip; but, making an
effort to recover himself, replied--
“I do not understand you, sir; you are labouring under some delusion;
allow me to pass directly, or I shall ring and summon the waiter.”
“You’d better not,” returned D’Almayne, drily, “for that is the signal
agreed on--for him instantly to fetch a policeman.”
The stranger glanced towards the door, on which D’Almayne quietly
produced the key, and, when it had caught his eye replaced it in his
pocket; he then stretched his hand, with a hesitating and uncertain
action, towards a stout stick on which he carried his valise; but
D’Almayne drew from the breast pocket of his surtout the beautifully
finished little revolving pistol which he always carried, and, having
somewhat ostentatiously displayed it before the eyes of the individual
he was thus brow-beating, returned it to its place of concealment, as
the other with a sullen dogged look replaced his stick, and murmured--
“Well, Mr. D’Almayne, supposing you do happen to recognize me indulging
in a little freak--supposing I have disguised myself the better to carry
out a little intrigue of my own, why should that so greatly surprise
you? I do not think you have ever found me absent from my post when
business required me; you must be aware I have the interest of the
establishment as much at heart as any of the parties connected with it;
when they begin to play to-night in J-------- Street, my frolic will be
over, and I shall be in my proper place.”
“I think it’s highly probable you will, always supposing that place to
be a cell in Pentonville prison, or, as you lodge in Westminster, the
Penitentiary, perhaps; but it strikes me, that if I had not fortunately
met you, you would at that hour have been tossing about in St. George’s
Channel--as I happen to know you have taken your passage in a New York
packet, which is to sail at eight this evening.” As D’Almayne spoke, he
fixed his piercing eyes on the individual he addressed, who, unable to
bear his scrutinizing glance, turned away muttering with an oath,
“-------- him, I thought he was safe in Holland.” After a moment’s
reflection, he appeared to decide on the course best for him to
follow--under what was evidently a contingency equally unforeseen and
unsatisfactory.
“Assuredly there never was any one like you, Mr. D’Almayne, for
shrewdness and penetration,” he said, in a tone of apparent frankness;
“here am I (supposed by all who take an interest in my whereabouts to be
in London), in a disguise in which my own mother (the poor soul has been
dead these twenty years) would not have recognized me; at the first
glance you penetrate it, and by intuition appear to have discovered my
intention! How you have tracked me, or whether you have met me by
accident, I am unable to divine; but, as you _have_ discovered me, I
think it is best to be frank with you, and to throw myself on your
generosity--confident that you will deal leniently with your old
associate, if I may venture to use the term, though, perhaps, your
faithful follower would be more true; for I am well aware how such
talent as yours raises you above us plodding poor fellows. But I will
make a clean breast to you, sir. The fact is, I am no longer young;
scarcely still middle-aged; and the life I have been for so many years
engaged in is a hazardous and exhausting one. I have been a frugal and
careful man, and I do not scruple to tell you, sir, that I have
contrived to save a few hundred pounds. Well, sir, I have for some time
wished to leave England, and settle in America, where I am unknown, and
might begin the world afresh--in some quieter and more respectable line
of life; so I thought I would avoid all the difficulties and all the
troubles which, none are better aware than you, sir, would attend my
quitting London just at this time, by taking French leave, and setting
off in disguise and under a feigned name, hoping that in Mr. Maxwell,
the traveller for a Manchester cotton firm, no one would recognize Le
Roux, the croupier; and now, sir, having told you all, I throw myself on
your generosity not to attempt (though I see no pretext on which you
could legally do it) to detain me.”
While Le Roux had been making this statement, which he did with the air
of a man convinced against his will that the only course left open to
him is to declare the whole truth, come what may of it, D’Almayne had
taken a pencil from his pocket, with which he had been writing certain
calculations on the back of a card. As soon as the other had concluded,
he observed quietly--“I have been making a rough estimate of all the
available cash on which you could lay your hand, and it appears to me,
that, owing to my folly in resting contented with the belief that it was
your interest to be honest, you have at least £15,000 in that leathern
case of yours--a sum quite sufficient to tempt you to bolt, especially
at a time when you fancied I was safely out of your way. I make it out
thus the establishment in J-------- Street has never less than £5000
ready to pay all demands; to that, of course, you have unlimited access,
and have availed yourself of it. Then comes the Overland Route Railroad
speculation; Guillemard writes me word that the shares are going off
tolerably fast, and that something like £10,000 in hard cash has been
paid into our bankers; a cheque signed by two of the directors would
enable you to draw out the whole amount at any moment--your own
signature as Herr Vondenthaler, the Belgian capitalist, provides for
one, and the other would offer little difficulty to a man of your talent
and experience. I have so strong a conviction that, in consequence of my
absence, you will have done me the honour to select my name, that it is
upon a charge of forgery I intend to have you apprehended, and to take
you up to London in my company and that of a policeman.”
During this speech the varying expression on Le Roux’s face would have
formed an interesting study to the physiognomist or the artist--at
first, assumed indifference, changing to surprise, anxiety, and
ill-concealed alarm--then astonishment and fear, merging in a state of
bewildered terror which again gave place to an astute subtle look, as
an idea occurred to him which might yet interpose to save him from the
utter ruin to which the supernatural discovery, as it appeared to him,
of his intended and partially executed villainy exposed him. As soon
as D’Almayne had ended, Le Roux turned to him, and said in a low calm
tone--
“You are, without any exception, Mr. D’Almayne, the cleverest man, for
your years, that I have ever met with in our profession. I don’t say
it to flatter you, sir; but I say it because it is my deliberate
conviction. One of your strong points is your clear good sense, and it
is to that I am now about to appeal. You have, how I cannot divine, got
me completely in your power, and, knowing or suspecting all you say you
do, it is useless for me to attempt to deceive you; it is clear you
can ruin me if you choose; but how will it advantage you to do so? or,
rather, how can you expose me without exciting a host of unpleasant
inquiries about yourself? I presume you scarcely wish your connection
with the gaming-house in J-------- Street published to the world at
large, nor would you like too much revealed concerning the private
history of the directors and general management of the railway company,
and yet I don’t see how you could place me in the hands of justice
without my enlightening the public on some of these points. As I am sure
you are aware of the force of these remarks, I need say no more; but I
put it to you, as a sensible man of the world, will it not be better
for me to pay you that £1000, which, I dare say, you can remember, I am
indebted to you, for ‘value received,’ we’ll say, and for you to forget
that you happened to meet me here to-day?” As he spoke, he fixed his
sharp cunning glance upon D’Almayne, as though he would fain read his
inmost thoughts; but even to such an old hand as Le Roux the gambler,
Horace’s expression was a sealed book. But he was not long in doubt
as to the effect of his appeal; for in his usual tone of calm sarcasm,
Horace replied--
“Cleverly put, Monsieur Le Roux; but there are two important flaws in
your argument. In the first place, your offer proves the truth of my
suspicions, only that, as you are not usually famous for the liberality
of your disposition, its amount satisfies me that I have rather under
than overrated the sum of which you have contrived to gain possession.
As to any accusations you can bring against me, I care little or nothing
for them; they may be true, but you have damaged your own character so
deeply that no one will believe you. You may _assert_ that I am part
proprietor of the gambling-house, and you may call Guillemard to prove
it; I shall deny the fact, and he will back my denial. You will assert,
also, that I have got up this nefarious railroad speculation in order to
levant with the capital as soon as I could obtain a sufficient amount to
gratify my cupidity; I shall reply that you have done what you accuse
me of intending to do, and that I have been the means of bringing you
to justice. You will adduce, in proof of your assertion, the fact that
I introduced you as a director under the feigned name of Vondenthaler; I
shall rebut this accusation by declaring that I had always known you
as Vondenthaler, which I believe to be your true name; and that your
identity with Le Roux, the croupier, was never even suspected by me.
Of course, in these instances, I shall be swearing falsely; you, truly;
nevertheless, I shall come off with flying colours, and you will be
transported. _Telle est la vie!_ Would you oblige me by ringing that
bell twice, for the policeman?”
The transition, from the assurance of successful cunning, to
self-distrust, anxiety, rage, despair, which flitted across the sharp
but expressive face of Le Roux, showed how strongly D’Almayne’s words
had agitated him. For a moment, he stood trembling in every limb,
clenching his hands until the nails dug into the flesh; then, carried
away, by the impulse of his overpowering terror, he flung himself at
Horace D’Almayne’s feet, exclaiming--
“For God’s sake, Mr. D’Almayne, have pity on me! I am an old man, sir;
older than I seem. I am sixty-five next month; I am, indeed; and I have
led such a wretched, miserable life! I have always been somebody’s tool,
somebody’s slave. Sir, I have been for years the victim of a monomania:
as a very young man, I lost every halfpenny I possessed (and that was
enough to have secured me a competence in some respectable line of life)
at the gaming-table; and since that time I have been haunted by the idea
that, by intensely studying, and constantly calculating the chances,
I should discover some infallible system by which I could not only
retrieve my losses, but realize a large fortune. Over and over again
have I tried, and over again have I failed; until, at last, experience
has brought some little wisdom, even to such a miserable fool as I have
proved myself, and I have given up all attempts at discovering a system;
but, sir, when this last hope failed me, the little honesty I had left
deserted me, and you have divined the result. Mr. D’Almayne, I have a
wife and three little innocent children at Brussels; they were to join
me in America if this attempt (which they only know of as a mercantile
speculation) had proved successful. If I am sent out of this country as
a convicted felon, it will break my wife’s heart; and my little children
will be left to starve. Mr. D’Almayne, for the love of Heaven, have
pity, if not on me, on them!”
During this appeal, Horace remained in an easy and fashionable attitude,
with his back against the closed door which detained his captive, and
the points of his white and taper fingers inserted in his trousers
pockets; at its conclusion, he said, in his usual cool and indifferent
manner, “I think, my good friend, you began this harangue with a
complimentary appeal to my common sense; not wishing to discredit your
flattering opinion, let me ask you, is it likely, that, having toiled
and schemed for the last twelve months to bring these two projects of
the gambling-house and the railroad company into working (and paying)
order, I should allow you to go quietly to America, carrying with you
the fruits of my labour, forethought, and sagacity, merely because, when
your last subterfuge has failed you, you whine out a beggar’s petition
about the love of Heaven, and a wife and three children? Bah! it is
childish, it is really too absurd! Still, for old acquaintance sake,
I do not want to be hard on you; and if you will do exactly as I shall
propose, perhaps there may still remain some middle course, by which
such an uncomfortable result as transportation for life may be spared
you. What say you?” Poor wretch! his crime discovered, its fearful
penalty awaiting him, and the “tender mercies of the wicked” his only
hope and refuge--with remorse for the past, and despair for the future,
rending his very heart asunder--what remained for him but to give
himself up, soul and body, as the dupe, tool, and agent of Horace
D’Almayne?
Long and earnest was their conference: the valise was opened;
money and papers produced and examined; accounts gone into; arrangements
for the present, and schemes for the future, discussed and agreed upon.
The result may be summed up in a few words: when the New York packet
sailed, at eight o’clock that evening, Le Roux had taken possession of
his berth, with his valise considerably lightened; and Horace D’Almayne,
having seen his associate safely out of the country, departed by the
last train which left for London, some ten thousand pounds richer than
he had been on his arrival that morning in the good city of Liverpool!