_In which cross-examination is conducted “en
échelon,” and if you don’t know what that means
I can’t help you._
Cheerful, more than cheerful, all smiles, Mr. Kirby was standing at
midnight upon the arrival platform of the great station at Ormeston as
the night mail came in. He saw the slender figure of a young man whose
every gesture betrayed an absurd anxiety coming bewildered up from the
end of the train, and looking about him as though seeking a face.
It was a fine cordial welcome that greeted James McAuley, not in the
least what he had expected. He was enormously relieved.
“My dear Mr. McAuley,” said the lawyer, with a fine generosity of
impulse and in the heartiest of tones, “how very good of you to come!
I confess I was very much in doubt whether you would understand the
urgency of my message at such short notice. You see,” he added, lying
expansively, “they cut us off.”
“Yes,” said Jimmy, thinking that explained all.
“It was a terrible nuisance,” pattered on Mr. Kirby, as he led the boy
outside to a cab; “that’s the worst of the telephone. It’s a great help
in one way, but ... Why, you haven’t brought a bag!”
“No,” said Jimmy. “I shall go back by the night mail.”
“As you will, my dear sir,” said the lawyer.
He gave the address of his house, and they drove off.
When they got into the study and were served with drink, Jimmy
remembered his anxieties. He considered that imperative message and
that hurried journey. The business must be very urgent indeed. He was
the more certain of it as he watched Mr. Kirby’s face change to an
expression more settled and less familiar. As Mr. Kirby said nothing,
Jimmy volunteered another remark.
“I was giving young Brassington a dinner,” he said. “Perhaps you know
him? He was at King’s with me.” Mr. Kirby said nothing. “He belongs to
this town,” added Jimmy.
Mr. Kirby opened fire in a grave and measured voice.
“Mr. McAuley,” he said, “I know that you know young Mr. Brassington.”
The words seemed to have a little more meaning than Jimmy liked.
“I am an intimate friend of Mr. Brassington, Senior. We think a good
deal of him in Ormeston, Mr. McAuley.”
Jimmy crossed his legs, leant back in his chair, sipped his wine, and
put on an unconcerned, man-of-the-world visage, not unlike that of a
criminal about to be hanged.
Mr. Kirby, with his head thoughtfully poised upon the fingers of his
right hand, and looking steadily away from Jimmy’s face, said—
“Yes, we know Mr. Brassington, and we respect him highly.”
Jimmy could bear the tension no longer.
“What is it you want to say to me about Greystones,” he said suddenly.
“Oh, yes, Greystones,” said Mr. Kirby, “of course! But your mention of
the Brassingtons made me turn my mind to that sad loss Mr. Brassington
has had. I dare say his son told you. I am afraid he can’t recover—but
the bank admits it is a forgery.”
“Forgery!” shrieked Jimmy.
It suddenly occurred to him that Booby’s fiendish father had
discovered an awfully effective line of attack.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Kirby, “that’s not business. Of course, I
shouldn’t have troubled you as I have about other people’s business.
But about Greystones, Mr. McAuley, the trouble is—of course, I do not
blame you, but you will see you are legally responsible—well, the
trouble is that after you left the place—painting, weren’t you, I
think?—we found the studio in—well, in an odd condition; and, you see,”
he went on, shifting his position, and still conversational, “between
you and me, the owner of the house is a little—why, almost a little
_odd_.” Mr. Kirby smiled as he proceeded. “It’s not my business to talk
about one client to another,” he said, “but you’ll understand me. Fact
is, it really sounds too ridiculous, and I did what I could to stop
him; but you will understand why I telephoned. He said he’d summons you
to-morrow. He says it’s twenty-one pounds.”
Jimmy heard not a word. He was thinking of vastly more important things.
Mr. Kirby continued—
“Of course, I would have paid and communicated with you afterwards,
Mr. McAuley.” Mr. Kirby laughed professionally. “You are legally
responsible, whoever it was got in and did the harm. The time isn’t up,
you see, and you know the absurdity of the thing is that a man _can_
issue a writ like that! Why, bless you, you can go and buy a pair of
boots on credit and find the writ waiting for you when you get home!
It’s ridiculous, but it’s the law.”
Jimmy’s face was hot and his eyes were too bright.
“It was _not_ a forgery, Mr. Kirby!” he said.
“Not a what?” said Mr. Kirby, looking up with a fine affectation of
confusion. “I’m not talking about that, Mr. McAuley. Really, poor
Brassington’s loss is none of our business. But if you’re interested,
and if you’re going to see young Brassington, you might tell him that
his father’s put the whole thing in my hands, and I am going to have
details of the cheque and who it was made out to to-morrow by post at
my office.”
“Mr. Kirby,” said Jimmy, in the most agitated of voices, “I solemnly
swear to God that that cheque was not forged!”
“Really, Mr. McAuley,” said Mr. Kirby, “I don’t see what you have to do
with——”
“Yes, but you _will_ see,” interrupted Jimmy bitterly, “you will see.
To-morrow morning!”
“Come, come,” said Mr. Kirby, “I can’t have all this unofficial
information. It isn’t fair, you know, not fair to my position as a
lawyer. If only you’ll let me know about that little sum for damages at
Greystones, since the landlord is so——”
“Mr. Kirby,” burst out the unfortunate James, “the matter will not
brook a moment’s delay! That cheque—Mr. Brassington’s cheque, the
cheque you say was forged—was made out to me!”
“_What!_” shouted Mr. Kirby, springing to his feet.
“That cheque, Mr. Kirby,” went on James firmly, “was made out to _me_.
_I_ passed it through the bank, and I have that money in my bank, at
least a good deal of it, and I have paid it away—my part of it—nearly
all to my creditors.”
Then he remembered again that Melba would have to pay for the dinner,
but it was very small comfort.
Mr. Kirby drew a prolonged breath.
“Really, my dear sir!” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Kirby,” continued Jimmy, “to _me_. And I have passed it into
my account and I have disbursed the money. I am not ashamed of it; and
I will answer for it to any man. It was the payment of a just debt, and
_it was given to me by Mr. Brassington himself_, there!”
“My dear Mr. McAuley,” began Kirby again.
“I am telling you the plain truth, and I have witnesses who can go into
the box and swear. Not all that wretched, snivelling old fellow can
do——”
“An old friend, Mr. McAuley,” said Mr. Kirby suavely, “an old friend!”
“Well,” compromised Jimmy, “I will say Puritan. Not all that old
Puritan’s money can get over the plain facts. We can swear to it, both
of us. The place and the time. It was the morning after, and it was at
Greystones.”
“The morning after what?” said Mr. Kirby.
“Tuesday, the morning after that party, of course. Exactly a week
ago. The date’s on the cheque, and what’s more, Mr. Kirby, I have Mr.
Brassington’s letter signed by him on that occasion and admitting the
debt and his payment of it.”
“Really,” said Mr. Kirby, “indeed! This is most astonishing.”
“He was there,” said Jimmy, “in that ridiculous Green Overcoat of his,
and he pulled the cheque book out of his pocket. At least, it was in
his pocket,” corrected Jimmy, with a careful fear of tripping up over a
verbal inaccuracy where the law was concerned. “He tried to get out of
it, but we wouldn’t have it, Mr. Kirby, and so—and so he paid.”
“You are perfectly certain it was Mr. Brassington?” said Mr. Kirby.
“No manner of doubt in the world,” said Jimmy calmly. “We got him to
come with us as he left the party, and we put it before him; and as I
tell you, he did hesitate, but he paid at last, and it was a just debt.
I may as well tell you, Mr. Kirby, it was his son’s debt. We had lost
more than that to our friend in the past, and we paid honourably, and
we weren’t going to be welched.”
“After all, Mr. McAuley,” said Mr. Kirby, after a little thought, “I
have asked you if you are sure it was Mr. Brassington, and the thing is
important. Was he a tall, rather lanky man, with a nervous way with him
and loosely dressed? Did he thrust his hands into his pockets? Did he
try to talk about Philosophy or his being a Philosopher, or something
of that sort? Had he very large feet?”
“Yes, I think,” said Jimmy reminiscently. “Yes, he was tall and spare,
and he was nervous, distinctly, even violently you might say. Yes—he
had large feet, very, and he said something about being a Philosopher
or Philosophy. And at _first_ he had his hands in his pockets—but
afterwards you know, well——”
“Well, look here,” said Mr. Kirby thoughtfully, “it was Mr. Brassington
as you say—tall and spare and very nervous, and on that Philosophy
crank, which is King Charles’s head to him, and in that Green Overcoat
of his. Oh, it must have been him all right! But why didn’t you go to
his house and ask him for the cash? What’s all this business about
Greystones?”
Jimmy kept silent. At last he said—
“That’s his business, Mr. Kirby, and he can tell you that end of the
story.”
“Well, look here,” said Mr. Kirby, “I have really no right to get
anything of this sort out of you.”
“It’s the truth,” said Jimmy.
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Kirby; “but you have to be starting for
that night mail, and” (he mused) “I tell you what, I’ll stop that
ridiculous business about Greystones in the morning. I’ve got to go up
to town. Do you think you could see me to-morrow in town? What with
your father’s public position and Mr. Brassington’s, Mr. McAuley, it’s
much better to have the whole of that _other_ thing out in private.
Couldn’t you come early and stay to dine?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy, rising to go, “I could; but wait a minute. I have
promised my father to go to a big lecture—he wants me to take my
sister.”
“Where?” said Mr. Kirby carelessly.
“At the Research Club,” said Jimmy. “Don’t know who’s giving it. It’s
about ghosts. It’ll be over by six. Where will you be stopping?”
“I shall be at the Rockingham Hotel,” said Mr. Kirby, helping the young
man on with his coat as they stood at the door. “It’s close to where
the Research Club meets, and I’ll expect you any time from six o’clock
onwards. I shan’t go out. Good night,” he said heartily, shaking
Jimmy’s hand with all the confidence in the world. “I don’t understand
it yet, but you’re both honourable men, and I fancy there’s been some
mistake.”
Jimmy reserved his opinion and went off to his train.
The lawyer went back into his study, knelt on the floor, lifted the lid
of the ottoman with his right hand, put the fingers of his left upon
the open under lip of that piece of furniture to steady himself, and
gazed quizzically and sadly at the Green Overcoat.
“A beast!” he said. “A fate-bearing, disreputable beast!”
But even as he said it the heavy lid slipped from the palm of his right
hand. He had but just time to withdraw his left hand before it crashed
down.
Mr. Kirby got up a little shakily. He was a man of imagination, and he
winced internally as he thought of crushed fingers.
“Try that on again!” he murmured, wagging his head savagely at the
Green Overcoat where it basked hidden within the ottoman; “try that on
again, and I’ll rip you up!”
With that he switched off the light and made his way to bed, maturing
his plans for to-morrow. But he rather wished he had some outhouse or
other in which to hide the garment. He felt a little afraid of all
sorts of things—for instance, fire.