_A Game of Hazard._
Philip knew that a fresh ordeal was at hand. How could he preserve his
secret--how hope to prevail against the majesty of British law as
personified by the serene authority of the man whose penetrating glance
now rested on him? His was a dour and stubborn nature, though hardly
molded as yet in rigid lines. He threw back his head and tightened his
lips. He would cling to his anonymity to the bitter end, no matter what
the cost. But he would not lie. Never again would he condescend to adopt
a subterfuge.
"Philip Morland," began the magistrate.
"My name is not Philip Morland," interrupted the boy.
"Then what is your name?"
"I will not tell you, sir. I mean no disrespect, but the fact that I am
treated as a criminal merely because I wish to dispose of my property
warns me of what I may expect if I state publicly who I am and where I
live."
For the first time the magistrate heard the correct and well-modulated
flow of Philip's speech. If anything, it made more dense the mist
through which he was trying to grope his way.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean that if I state who I am, I will be robbed and swindled by all
with whom I come in contact. I have starved, I have been beaten, for
trying to earn a living. I was struck last night for saving a girl's
life. I was arrested and dragged through the streets, handcuffed, this
morning, because I went openly to a dealer to sell a portion--to sell
some of my diamonds. I will take no more risks. You may imprison me, but
you cannot force me to speak. If you are a fair man, you will give me
back my diamonds and let me go free."
This outburst fairly electrified the court. Philip could not have
adopted a more domineering tone were he the Governor of the Bank of
England charged with passing a counterfeit half-crown. The magistrate
was as surprised as any.
"I do not wish to argue with you," he said, quietly; "nor do I expect
you to commit yourself in any way. But you must surely see that for a
poverty-stricken boy to be found in possession of gems of great
marketable value is a circumstance that demands inquiry, however honest
and--er--well bred you may be."
"The only witness against me has said that the diamonds could not have
been stolen," cried Philip, now thoroughly aroused, and ready for any
war of wits.
"Quite true. The inference is that you have discovered a meteoric
deposit of diamonds."
"I have. Some--not all--are before you."
A tremor shook the court. Isaacstein swallowed something, and his head
sank more deeply below his shoulders.
"Then I take it that you will not inform me of the locality of this
deposit?"
"Yes."
"And you think that by disclosing your name and address you will reveal
that locality?"
Philip grew red.
"Is it fair," he said, with a curious iciness in his tone, "that a man
of your age should use his position and knowledge to try and trip a boy
who is brought before you on a false charge?"
It was the magistrate's turn to look slightly confused. There was some
asperity in his reply.
"I am not endeavoring to trip you, but rather to help you to free
yourself from a difficult position. However, do I understand that you
refuse to answer any questions?"
"I do." The young voice rang through the building with an amazing
fierceness.
Mr. Abingdon bent over the big book in front of him and scribbled
something.
"Remanded for a week," he muttered.
"Downstairs," growled the court jailer, and Philip disappeared from
sight. The magistrate was left gazing at the packet of diamonds, and he
called Isaacstein, the clerk of the court, and two police inspectors
into his private office for a consultation.
Meanwhile London was placarded with Philip's adventures that Saturday
evening. Contents bills howled in their blackest and biggest type,
newsvenders bawled themselves hoarse over this latest sensation,
journalistic ferrets combined theory and imagination in the effort to
spin out more "copy," Scotland Yard set its keenest detectives at work
to reveal the secret of Philip's identity, while Isaacstein, acting on
the magistrate's instructions, wrote to every possible source of
information in the effort to obtain some clew as to recent meteoric
showers.
No one thought of connecting the great storm with the "Diamond Mystery."
Meteors usually fall from a clear sky, and are in no way affected by
atmospheric disturbances, their normal habitat being far beyond the
influence of the earth's envelope of air.
And so the "hunt for the meteor" commenced, and was kept up with zest
for many days. "Have you found it?" became the stock question of the
humorist, and might be addressed with impunity to any stranger,
particularly if the stranger were a nice-looking girl. No one answered
"What?" because of the weird replies that were forthcoming.
The police failed utterly in their efforts to discover Philip's identity
or residence. Johnson's Mews, Mile End Road, might as well be in
Timbuctoo for all the relation it bore to Ludgate Hill or Hatton Garden.
An East End policeman might have recognized Philip had he seen him, but
the official description of his clothing and personal appearance applied
to thousands of hobbledehoys in every district of London.
Two persons among the six millions of the metropolis alone possessed the
knowledge that would have led the inquirers along the right track. The
doctor who attended Mrs. Anson in her last illness, had he read the
newspaper comments on the boy's speech and mannerisms, might have seen
the coincidence supplied by the Christian name, and thus been led to
make some further investigation. But his hands were full of trouble on
his own account. A dispenser mixed a prescription wrongly, and dosed a
patient with half an ounce of arsenic instead of half an ounce of cream
of tartar. The subsequent inquest gave the doctor enough to do, and the
first paper he had leisure to peruse contained a bare reference to the
"Diamond Mystery" as revealing no further developments. He passed the
paragraph unread.
The remaining uncertain element centered in old O'Brien, the pensioner.
Now it chanced that the treasury had discovered that by a clerical
mistake in a warrant, the old man had been drawing twopence a day in
excess of his rightful pension for thirty-three years. Some humorist in
Whitehall thereupon sent him a demand for one hundred and three pounds
and fifteen shillings, and the member of the Whitechapel Division was
compelled to adopt stern tactics in the House before the matter was
adjusted, and O'Brien was allowed to receive the reduced quarterly
stipend then due. During that awful crisis the poor, old fellow hardly
ate or slept. Even when it had ended, the notion remained firmly fixed
in his mind that the "murdherin' government had robbed him of a hundred
gowlden sovereigns, an' more."
As for newspapers, the only item he read during many days was the
question addressed by his "mimber" to the Chancellor of the Exchequer
and the brief reply thereto, both of which were fixed beforehand by
mutual arrangement.
In one instance the name given and afterward repudiated by the boy did
attract some attention. On the Monday following the remand, a lady sat
at breakfast in a select West End Hotel, and languidly perused the
record of the case until her eye caught the words "Philip Morland." Then
her air of delicate hauteur vanished, and she left her breakfast
untouched until, with hawklike curving of neck and nervous clutching of
hands, she had read every line of the police court romance. She was a
tall, thin, aristocratic-looking woman, with eyes set too closely
together, a curved nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and hands
covered with a leathery skin suggesting talons. Her attire and pose
were elegant, but she did not seem to be a pleasant sort of person. Her
lips parted in a vinegary smile as she read. She evidently did not
believe one word of the newspaper report in so far as the diamonds were
concerned.
"A vulgar swindle!" she murmured to herself. "How is it possible for a
police magistrate to be taken in in such manner! I suppose the Jew
person knows more about it than appears on the surface. But how came the
boy to give that name? It is sufficiently uncommon to be remarkable. How
stupid it was of Julie to mislay my dressing case. It would be really
interesting to know what has become of those people, and now I may have
to leave town before I can find out."
How much further her disjointed comments might have gone it is
impossible to say, but at that moment a French maid entered the room and
gazed inquiringly around the various small tables with which it was
filled. At last she found the lady, who was breakfasting alone, and sped
swiftly toward her.
"I am so glad, milady," she said, speaking in French. "The bag has found
itself at the police station. The cabman brought it there, and, if you
please, milady, as the value was given as eight pounds, he claimed a
reward of one pound."
"Which you will pay yourself. You lost the bag," was the curt reply.
"Where is it?"
The maid's voice was somewhat tearful as she answered:
"In milady's room. I paid the sovereign."
Her ladyship rose and glided gracefully toward the door, followed by the
maid, who whispered to a French waiter--bowing most deferentially to
the guest as he held the door open--that her mistress was a cat. He
confided his own opinion that her ladyship was a holy pig, and the two
passed along a corridor.
Lady Morland hastily tore open the recovered dressing case, and
consulted an address book.
"Oh! here it is," she cried, triumphantly. "Number three, Johnson's
Mews, Mile End Road, E. What a horrid-smelling place. However, Messrs.
Sharpe & Smith will now be able to obtain some definite intelligence for
me. Julie! My carriage in ten minutes."
Thus it happened that during the afternoon, a dapper little clerk
descended from an omnibus in the neighborhood of Johnson's Mews, and
began his inquiries, as all Londoners do, by consulting a policeman.
Certain facts were forthcoming.
"A Mrs. Anson, a widow, who lived in Johnson's Mews? Yes, I think a
woman of that name died a few weeks ago. I remember seeing a funeral
leave the mews. I don't know anything about the boy. Sometimes, when I
pass through there at night, I have seen a light in the house. However,
here it is. Let's have a look at it."
The pair entered the mews and approached the deserted house. The
solicitor's clerk knocked and then tried the door; it was locked. They
both went to the window and looked in. Had Philip hanged himself, as he
intended, they would have been somewhat surprised by the spectacle that
would have met their eyes. As it was, they only saw a small room of
utmost wretchedness, with a mattress lying on the floor in front of the
fireplace. An empty tin and a bundle of old letters rested on a rickety
chair, and a piece of sacking was thrust through two broken panes in
the small window opposite.
"Not much there, eh?" laughed the policeman.
"Not much, indeed. The floor is all covered with dirt, and if it were
not for the bed, one would imagine that the house was entirely deserted.
Are you sure Mrs. Anson is dead?"
"Oh, quite sure. Hers was rather a hard case, some one told me. I
remember now; it was the undertaker. He lives near here."
"And the boy. Has he gone away?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen him lately."
Each of these men had read all the reports concerning Philip and his
diamonds. Large numbers of tiny, white pebbles were lying on the floor
beneath their eyes, but the window was not clean, and the light was far
from good, as the sky was clouded. Yet they were visible enough. The
clerk noticed them at once, but neither he nor the policeman paid more
heed to the treasures almost at their feet than was given by generations
of men to the outcrop of the main reef at Johannesburg. At last they
turned away. The clerk gave the policeman a cigar with the remark:
"I will just ask the undertaker to give me a letter, stating the facts
about Mrs. Anson's death. I suppose the boy is in the workhouse?"
"Who knows! It often beats me to tell what becomes of the kids who are
left alone in London. Poor, little devils, they mostly go to the bad.
There should be some means of looking after them, I think."
Thus did Philip, bravely sustaining his heart in the solitude of a
prison, escape the greatest danger that threatened the preservation of
his secret, and all because a scheming woman was too clever to tell her
solicitors the exact reason for her anxiety concerning the whereabouts
of Mrs. Anson and her son.
The boy passed a dolorous Saturday night and Sunday. Nevertheless, the
order, the cleanliness, the comparative comfort of a prison, were not
wholly ungrateful to him. His meals, though crude, were wholesome,
luxurious, even, compared with the privations he had endured during the
previous fortnight. The enforced rest, too, did him good, and, being
under remand, he had nothing to do but eat, take exercise, read a few
books provided for him, and sleep.
With Monday came a remarkable change in his fare. A pint of first-rate
cocoa and some excellent bread and butter for breakfast evoked no
comment on his part, but a dinner of roast beef, potatoes, cabbage and
rice pudding was so extremely unlike prison diet that he questioned the
turnkey.
"It's all right, kid," came the brief answer. "It's paid for. Eat while
you can, and ask no questions."
"But----"
The door slammed, and at the next meal Philip received in silence a cup
of tea and a nice tea cake. This went on during three days. The good
food and rest had already worked a marvelous change in his appearance.
He entered the prison looking like a starved dog. When he rose on the
Thursday morning and washed himself, no one would have recognized him as
the same boy were it not for his clothes.
After dinner, he was tidying his cell and replacing the plates and the
rest on a tin tray, when the door was suddenly flung open and a warder
cried:
"Come along, Morland. You're wanted at the court."
"At the court!" he could not help saying. "This is only Thursday."
"What a boy you are for arguing. Pick up your hat and come. Your
carriage waits, my lord. I hope you will like your quarters as well when
you come back. A pretty stir you have made in the papers the last five
days."
Philip glanced at the man, who seemed to be in a good humor.
"I will not come back," he said, quietly, "but I wish you would tell me
who supplied me with food while I have been here."
They were passing along a lofty corridor, and there was no superior
officer in sight. The warder laughed.
"I don't know, my lord," he said, "but the menoo came from the Royal
Star Hotel, opposite."
Philip obtained no further news. He passed through an office, a voucher
was signed for him, and he emerged into the prison yard, where the huge
prison van awaited him. He was the only occupant, just as on the first
memorable ride in that conveyance. When he came to the prison from the
police court he had several companions in misery. But they were
"stretched." His case was the only "remand."
During the long drive Philip endeavored to guess the cause of this
unexpected demand for his presence. Naturally, he assumed that Johnson's
Mews no longer held safe the secret of his meteor. Such few sensational
romances as he had read credited detectives with superhuman sagacity. In
his mind, Johnson's Mews was the center of the world. It enshrined the
marvelous--how could it escape the thousands of prying eyes that passed
daily through the great thoroughfare of the East End, but a few yards
away? Judging from the remark dropped by the warder, all London was
talking about him. A puzzling feature was the abundant supply of good
food sent to him in the prison. Who was his unknown friend--and what
explanation was attached to the incident?
Philip's emotions were no more capable of analysis than a display of
rockets. Immured in this cage, rattling over the pavements, he seemed to
be advancing through a tunnel into an unknown world.
At last the van stopped, and he was led forth into the yard of the
police court. He followed the same route as on the previous Saturday,
but when he ascended into the court itself he discovered a change. The
magistrate, a couple of clerks, and some policemen alone were present.
The general public and the representatives of the press were not
visible.
He had scarcely faced the bench when the magistrate said:
"You are set at liberty. The police withdraw the charge against you."
Philip's eyes sparkled and his breast heaved tumultuously. For the life
of him he could utter no word, but Mr. Abingdon helped him by quietly
directing the usher to permit the lad to leave the dock and take a seat
at the solicitors' table.
Then, speaking slowly and with some gravity, he said:
"Philip Morland--that is the only name by which I know you--the
authorities have come to the conclusion that your story is right. You
have unquestionably found a deposit of diamonds, and although this
necessarily exists on some person's property, there is no evidence to
show whose property it is. It may be your own. It may be situated beyond
the confines of this kingdom. There are many hypotheses, each of which
may be true; but, in any event, if others lay claim to this treasure
trove--and I warn you that the Crown has a right in such a matter--the
issue is a civil and not a criminal one. Therefore, you are discharged,
and your property is now handed back to you intact."
A clerk placed before Philip his parcel of diamonds, his key, the rusty
knife, the pieces of string, and the two buttons--truly a motley
collection. The boy was pale, and his voice somewhat tremulous as he
asked:
"May I go now, sir?"
Mr. Abingdon leaned back in his chair and passed his hand over his face
to conceal a smile.
"I have something more to say to you," he answered. "It is an offense
against the law to withhold your name and address. I admit the powerful
motives which actuated you, so I make the very great concession that
your earlier refusal will be overlooked if you privately tell me that
which you were unwilling to state publicly."
Philip instantly decided that it would be foolish in the extreme to
refuse this offer. He pocketed his diamonds, looked the magistrate
straight in the face, and said:
"I will do that, sir. As the information is to be given to you alone,
may I write it?"
The policemen and other officials sniggered at this display of caution,
but the magistrate nodded, and Philip wrote his name and address on a
sheet of foolscap, which he folded before handing it to the usher.
To his great surprise, Mr. Abingdon placed the paper in a pocketbook
without opening it.
"I will make no use of this document unless the matter comes before me
again officially. I wish to point out to you that I have brought you
from prison at the earliest possible moment, and have spared you the
publicity which your movements would attract were your case settled in
open court. You are not aware, perhaps, that you figure largely in the
eyes of the public at this moment. There are newspapers which would give
a hundred pounds to get hold of you. There are thieves who would shadow
your every movement, waiting for a chance to waylay and rob you--murder
you, if necessary. I have taken precautions, therefore, to safeguard
you, at least within the precincts of this court, but I cannot be
responsible beyond its limits. May I ask what you intend to do?"
Philip, proud in the knowledge that he was cleared of all dishonor, was
at no loss for words now.
"First, I wish to thank you, sir," he said. "You have acted most kindly
toward me, and, when I am older, I hope to be permitted to acknowledge
your thoughtfulness better than is possible to-day. I will endeavor to
take care of myself. I am going now to see Mr. Isaacstein. I do not
expect that he will send for a policeman again. If he does, I will bring
him before you."
The magistrate himself laughed at this sally.
"You are a strange boy," he said. "I think you are acting wisely.
But--er--you have no money--that is, in a sense. Hatton Garden is some
distance from here. Let me--er--lend you a cab fare."
"Thank you, sir," said Philip, and Mr. Abingdon, unable to account for
the interest he felt in the boy, quite apart from his inexplicable
story, gave him five shillings and shook hands with him.