A LEAF FROM THE PAST.
“Wait here. I may send you instructions.”
These were Nick Carter’s brief instructions to Chick, in fact, when he
left his Madison Avenue residence at seven o’clock that evening, to seek
an interview with the woman who, he suspected, could supply him with a
clew to the identity of Chester Clayton’s double, if not with positive
information concerning him.
Danny Maloney, the detective’s chauffeur, was waiting at the curbing
with his touring car. Nick gave him the necessary directions, resulting
in his alighting half an hour later in front of the attractive home of
Mrs. Julia Clayton, who had fainted so suddenly in Mademoiselle
Falloni’s suite that morning.
“You may wait, Danny,” said Nick. “I don’t think I shall be very long.”
“Long, or short, chief, you’ll find me here,” replied Danny.
Nick strode up the gravel walk to the front door and rang the bell.
Lights in the hall and one in the side rooms denoted that Mrs. Clayton
had returned.
“I hope I may find her alone, or that Chester Clayton is not here,” Nick
said to himself, while waiting. “She seemed averse this morning to
talking of the matter in his presence. That’s one reason why I suspected
that she----”
Nick’s train of thought was broken by a shadow on the figured-glass
panel of the door, which was opened by a pretty servant girl in a white
apron and starched cap.
“I wish to see Mrs. Clayton,” Nick informed her.
“Mrs. Clayton is not at home this evening, sir,” said the girl, a bit
oddly.
“Not at home?”
“No, sir.”
Nick eyed her more sharply.
“Do you mean that she is not here, or not seeing callers?” he inquired
pleasantly.
“Well, sir, she----”
The girl faltered, blushing confusedly, and Nick added kindly:
“I understand. Take my card to her, please, and say that it is very
important that I should see her. I think she will consent.”
The girl obeyed, returning in a very few moments.
“Walk in, sir,” she then said, smiling again. “Mrs. Clayton will see you
in the library. This way, sir.”
Nick was ushered into the attractively furnished room, where he found
Mrs. Julia Clayton still gazing gravely at the card he had sent in.
There was something irresistibly impressive about her, a mingling of
dignity and secret sadness that the detective’s sensitive nature was
quick to appreciate, even while conscious of her remarkable beauty and
womanly grace.
She arose immediately to greet him, extending her hand and saying:
“If I had known it was you, Mr. Carter, my servant would have been told
not to keep you waiting. I have had a most distressing day, and I did
not feel that I could see callers. I assure you, nevertheless, that I am
very glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” Nick replied, bowing.
“For I am deeply indebted to you,” Mrs. Clayton added feelingly.
“Chester telephoned to me after his arrest and liberation on bail. It is
very kind of you to feel such an interest in him, and to use your
influence in his behalf.”
“He is my client,” smiled Nick, taking a chair she placed for him. “I
couldn’t do less than I have done.”
“But in spite of such adverse circumstances, Mr. Carter, and the fact
that so many think him guilty,” she replied. “You are one man in a
hundred. I know that he is innocent, of course, but I don’t know how I
ever can repay you for your faith in him.”
“I will tell you how, Mrs. Clayton,” Nick said, more gravely.
“Tell me how?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?
“Let me begin by--pardon!” Nick broke off abruptly. “Will you permit me
to close the door?”
“Yes, of course, if----”
Nick arose when she faltered, quietly closing it, then resumed his seat.
“Servants are not always trustworthy, you know, and discretion is always
advisable,” he remarked. “Now, Mrs. Clayton, I will tell you what I
mean.”
“Well, sir?”
“Let me begin, however, by stating that anything you say to me will be
received in strict and inviolable confidence. Not even to save your son
from conviction and a prison sentence, Mrs. Clayton, would I, without
your permission, reveal any facts that you may disclose. You must be
frank with me, therefore, and tell me what I may find it absolutely
necessary to know, in order to save him.”
Mrs. Clayton had turned very pale and was trembling visibly.
“This is a strange beginning, Mr. Carter,” she replied. “What do you
expect me to disclose?”
“Only the truth, Mrs. Clayton.”
“About what?”
“Your son’s double,” said Nick. “The man who so resembles Chester
Clayton that he could perpetrate the crime committed this morning. Who
is this man? What do you know about him?”
The woman’s fine face hardened perceptibly. She appeared to nerve
herself to meet a threatening situation, to oppose with tooth and nail,
if necessary, the disclosures the detective evidently was determined to
evoke. She drew up a little in her chair, replying more coldly:
“That seems quite impossible, Mr. Carter. What put that into your head?”
“You did,” said Nick quietly.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible! When?”
“When you met your son this morning, Mrs. Clayton, and fainted upon
learning that the robbery was committed by a man so like him that--but
you could not say more,” Nick broke off. “You fell to the floor in a
faint.”
“That is true, I admit, Mr. Carter----”
“And you also must admit, Mrs. Clayton, that the circumstances and your
own words permit of no other interpretation,” Nick interrupted, more
impressively.
“But----”
“Oh, I am not going to argue that point with you,” Nick again insisted.
“I am going to make you see the matter just as it stands. Your son’s
reputation and liberty are at stake. So is my reputation as a detective.
Only the truth can save him. Unless you are willing to aid me by
disclosing it, I shall have no alternative but to drop the case entirely
and let others try to pull him out of the fire. If they fail----”
“Wait! You have said enough, Mr. Carter.”
Nick would not have done what he threatened, but he detected in the
changed face of the woman that the threat would prove effective.
For Mrs. Clayton, though ghastly pale and with trembling lips as gray as
ashes, took on a look of sudden determination, that of a woman who felt
herself driven to the wall.
“I will tell you the truth,” she added, more firmly.
“You may safely do so,” Nick now said kindly. “It will go no further.”
“I shrink from it. Mr. Carter, chiefly for the sake of one man.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. I implore you to keep the truth from him, if that will be
possible. I have kept it from him all his life.”
“I will endeavor to do so,” Nick assured her.
“I will tell you with few words, then, my unfortunate history,” Mrs.
Clayton said, more calmly. “I was an English girl and lived in an
outskirt of London. I was married when I was nineteen to a man I did not
love, but who so had involved my father in financial difficulties that I
became his wife in order to save my father from bankruptcy and
dishonor.”
“I can appreciate the sacrifice,” Nick said gravely.
“My father died within a year,” Mrs. Clayton continued. “He and I were
all that were left of our family. Three months later, Mr. Carter, I
became the mother of twin boys.”
“Ah,” said Nick, “that is what I have suspected! Do not distress
yourself by telling me too many details, Mrs. Clayton,” he added
considerately. “The essential facts are all that I want.”
“They may be briefly told, Mr. Carter,” she said, with a grateful look
at him. “My husband was a bad man, much worse than I even dreamed of
when I married him. I discovered his despicable character much too
late.”
“Was he a criminal?”
“Yes.”
“May I know his name?”
“Why not? He has been dead many years. His name was Gideon Margate.”
Nick had heard of him, a notorious English crook, who had died in a
German prison something like ten years before. He considerately
suppressed the fact that he knew of the man, however, and said kindly:
“You are in no degree culpable, Mrs. Clayton, for the mistakes and
misdeeds of your husband. What more can you tell me?”
“Two years after the birth of my children, Mr. Carter, my husband
disappeared, taking with him one of my sons,” she replied. “I never saw
Gideon Margate again.”
“Nor the child?”
“The child was named David. I will not undertake to tell you what I
suffered from losing him, from my inability to trace him, and from my
terrible fear of the life to which he would be bred.”
“That of a criminal?”
“Yes.”
“And your fears came true?”
“Terribly so.”
“Tell me the bare facts?”
“I took my maiden name, Julia Clayton, about a year after my husband
disappeared,” she continued. “I suspected that he was in America, and in
the hope of recovering my other son, we came here, and since have lived
here. I have been in England only once since then, and that was twelve
years ago. I then saw in a London newspaper the picture of a criminal
who had just been sent to prison for five years for burglary.”
“You recognized him?”
“Yes.”
“Your son?”
“David Margate--yes.”
“Did you see him personally, or do anything about it?”
“Neither,” said Mrs. Clayton sadly. “What could I do? The die was cast.
My husband had shaped the boy’s life. That he should become a criminal
after arriving at the age of judgment and discretion showed only too
plainly that he had inherited Gideon Margate’s criminal traits.”
“I agree with you,” said Nick.
“Thank God!” Mrs. Clayton fervently added; “he left me the child who had
inherited my own character. Chester Clayton is above knavery and crime.”
“I agree with you again,” said Nick. “Now, Mrs. Clayton, let’s come to
the points bearing upon his case. Does Chester know anything about his
father and twin brother?”
“No, no, indeed,” she said quickly. “He knows only that his father is
dead. He does not so much as dream that he has a brother. I could not
cloud his life, mar his whole future, perhaps, by acknowledging David
Margate to be my son, when I learned that he was in an English prison.
It would, have been an injustice to Chester Clayton. The sacrifice would
have been too great.”
“That is true,” Nick agreed. “Have you ever seen David Margate or heard
anything concerning him since he was convicted in London?”
“No, I have not.”
“You have no reason to believe that he is in New York, then, aside from
the resemblance of the criminal who committed this jewel robbery.”
“That is my only reason. You now can appreciate why I was overcome and
fainted when told of the circumstances this morning,” said Mrs. Clayton.
“That is perfectly plain,” Nick nodded. “I think, too, that we now have
covered all of the ground that is material at this time. I will be
governed by what you have confided to me, and will do all that I can to
prevent the facts from leaking out. You may depend upon that.”
“I have no words with which to thank you, Mr. Carter.”
“Don’t try,” said Nick, smiling. “Assuming that the criminal in this
case is Chester’s twin brother, and despite that he ran across him and
observed the resemblance that made the crime possible, I think it is
quite probable that he does not suspect the relationship. Your husband
very likely never told him about you and Chester.”
“Do you really think so, Mr. Carter?”
“I do,” said Nick. “Men do not often reveal their own baseness, not even
to a son. I doubt very much that David Margate knows anything about his
early history.”
“I hope so, I am sure, for Chester’s sake.”
“Do you know under what name he was convicted in London?”
“I do not. I cannot recall it.”
“Was it a fictitious name?”
“Yes.”
“I will try to learn something definite about him,” said Nick. “I
appreciate your confidence in me, too, and I will rigidly respect it.
That is all I can say to you this evening about the case, but I will
leave no stone unturned to bring it to a desirable termination,
particularly in so far as you and Chester Clayton are concerned.”
Mrs. Clayton again thanked him feelingly, then remarked:
“I was somewhat surprised late this afternoon by a call from another man
whom I saw in Mademoiselle Falloni’s suite this morning.”
“There was only one other man, except Chester,” said Nick. “You refer to
Doctor Guelpa.”
“Yes.”
“He called here to see you?”
“Yes, about five o’clock.”
“Did he say for what reason?”
“He said that he was riding out this way and thought he would call and
see if I had entirely recovered. He did all he could to revive me this
morning, you know.”
Nick’s brows knit a little closer.
“Yes, I remember,” he replied. “Did he say anything about the crime, or
concerning Clayton?”
“No, nothing of any consequence, Mr. Carter. He mentioned you, however,
just before he left.”
“Mentioned me, eh? What did he say?”
“Only that you were very kind to stand up for Clayton under such
circumstances. He asked, too, whether you had been out here to see me.”
“H’m, is that so?” thought Nick. “I was right, then, in thinking that he
deduced something from this woman’s impulsive words and her sudden
collapse. He suspected that I did, also, and he evidently fears that I
may learn something from her. Where there is cause for fear, there are
grounds for suspicion. He may be the very man, the very hotel guest whom
I----”
Nick ended his shrewd deductions by glancing quickly around the room. He
discovered what he wanted--a telephone on a stand in one corner.
“Before I go, Mrs. Clayton, may I trouble you for a glass of water,” he
requested carelessly.
“Why, yes, certainly,” she replied, rising. “I will get it for you.”
“Thank you.”
Nick watched her sweep gracefully from the room.
Then, quickly stepping to the telephone, he hooded the mouth with his
hand and called up his library. Within half a minute he had Chick on the
wire, but he spoke only these words:
“No time for particulars. Go to the Westgate. Watch Doctor Guelpa.”
The answer came instantly:
“I’ve got you.”
Nick resumed his seat just as Mrs. Clayton was returning through the
hall.
“It will be better, much better, if she never knows,” he said to
himself.