with the obtrusively unobtrusive air of a detective, looked carefully
though casually into every carriage. I felt sure he was a spy, because
of his marked outer jauntiness of demeanour, which hardly masked an
underlying hang-dog expression of scrutiny. When he reached my place,
he took a long, careless stare at me--a seemingly careless stare, which
was yet brim-full of the keenest observation. Then he paced slowly along
the line of carriages, with a glance at each, till he arrived just
opposite the Maharajah's compartment. There he stared hard once more.
The Maharajah descended; so did Harold and the Hindu attendant, who was
dressed just like him. The man I took for a detective indulged in a
frank, long gaze at the unconscious Indian prince, but cast only a hasty
eye on the two apparent followers. That touch of revelation relieved my
mind a little. I felt convinced the police were watching the Maharajah
and myself, as suspicious persons connected with the case; but they had
not yet guessed that Harold had disguised himself as one of the two
invariable Rajput servants.
We steamed on northward. At Newcastle, the same detective strolled, with
his hands in his pockets, along the train once more, and puffed a cigar
with the nonchalant air of a sporting gentleman. But I was certain now,
from the studious unconcern he was anxious to exhibit, that he must be a
spy upon us. He overdid his mood of careless observation. It was too
obvious an assumption. Precisely the same thing happened again when we
pulled up at Berwick. I knew now that we were watched. It would be
impossible for us to get married at Edinburgh if we were thus closely
pursued. There was but one chance open; we must leave the train abruptly
at the first Scotch stopping station.
The detective knew we were booked through for Edinburgh. So much I could
tell, because I saw him make inquiries of the ticket examiner at York,
and again at Berwick, and because the ticket-examiner thereupon entered
a mental note of the fact as he punched my ticket each time: 'Oh,
Edinburgh, miss? All right'; and then stared at me suspiciously. I could
tell he had heard of the Ashurst will case. He also lingered long about
the Maharajah's compartment, and then went back to confer with the
detective. Thus, putting two and two together, as a woman will, I came
to the conclusion that the spy did not expect us to leave the train
before we reached Edinburgh. That told in our favour. Most men trust
much to just such vague expectations. They form a theory, and then
neglect the adverse chances. You can only get the better of a skilled
detective by taking him thus, psychologically and humanly.
By this time, I confess, I felt almost like a criminal. Never in my life
had danger loomed so near--not even when we returned with the Arabs from
the oasis. For then we feared for our lives alone; now, we feared for
our honour.
I drew a card from my case before we left Berwick station, and scribbled
a few hasty words on it in German. 'We are watched. A detective! If we
run through to Edinburgh, we shall doubtless be arrested or at least
impeded. This train will stop at Dunbar for one minute. Just before it
leaves again, get out as quietly as you can--at the last moment. I will
also get out and join you. Let Partab go on; it will excite less
attention. The scheme I suggest is the only safe plan. If you agree, as
soon as we have well started from Berwick, shake your handkerchief
unobtrusively out of your carriage window.'
[Illustration: I BECKONED A PORTER.]
I beckoned a porter noiselessly without one word. The detective was now
strolling along the fore-part of the train, with his back turned towards
me, peering as he went into all the windows. I gave the porter a
shilling. 'Take this to a black gentleman in the next carriage but one,'
I said, in a confidential whisper. The porter touched his hat, nodded,
smiled, and took it.
Would Harold see the necessity for acting on my advice?-- I wondered. I
gazed out along the train as soon as we had got well clear of Berwick. A
minute--two minutes--three minutes passed; and still no handkerchief. I
began to despair. He was debating, no doubt. If he refused, all was
lost, and we were disgraced for ever.
At last, after long waiting, as I stared still along the whizzing line,
with the smoke in my eyes, and the dust half blinding me, I saw, to my
intense relief, a handkerchief flutter. It fluttered once, not markedly,
then a black hand withdrew it. Only just in time, for even as it
disappeared, the detective's head thrust itself out of a farther window.
He was not looking for anything in particular, as far as I could
tell--just observing the signals. But it gave me a strange thrill to
think even now we were so nearly defeated.
My next trouble was--would the train draw up at Dunbar? The 10 A.M. from
King's Cross is not set down to stop there in Bradshaw, for no
passengers are booked to or from the station by the day express; but I
remembered from of old when I lived at Edinburgh, that it used always to
wait about a minute for some engine-driver's purpose. This doubt filled
me with fresh fear; did it draw up there still?--they have accelerated
the service so much of late years, and abolished so many old accustomed
stoppages. I counted the familiar stations with my breath held back.
They seemed so much farther apart than usual. Reston--Grant's
House--Cockburnspath--Innerwick.
The next was Dunbar. If we rolled past _that_, then all was lost. We
could never get married. I trembled and hugged myself.
The engine screamed. Did that mean she was running through? Oh, how I
wished I had learned the interpretation of the signals!
Then gradually, gently, we began to slow. Were we slowing to pass the
station only? No; with a jolt she drew up. My heart gave a bound as I
read the word 'Dunbar' on the station notice-board.
I rose and waited, with my fingers on the door. Happily it had one of
those new-fashioned slip-latches which open from inside. No need to
betray myself prematurely to the detective by a hand displayed on the
outer handle. I glanced out at him cautiously. His head was thrust
through his window, and his sloping shoulders revealed the spy, but he
was looking the other way--observing the signals, doubtless, to discover
why we stopped at a place not mentioned in Bradshaw.
Harold's face just showed from another window close by. Too soon or too
late might either of them be fatal. He glanced inquiry at me. I nodded
back, 'Now!' The train gave its first jerk, a faint backward jerk,
indicative of the nascent intention of starting. As it braced itself to
go on, I jumped out; so did Harold. We faced one another on the platform
without a word. 'Stand away there:' the station-master cried, in an
angry voice. The guard waved his green flag. The detective, still
absorbed on the signals, never once looked back. One second later, we
were safe at Dunbar, and he was speeding away by the express for
Edinburgh.
It gave us a breathing space of about an hour.
[Illustration: YOU CAN'T GET OUT HERE, HE SAID, CRUSTILY.]
For half a minute I could not speak. My heart was in my mouth. I hardly
even dared to look at Harold. Then the station-master stalked up to us
with a threatening manner. 'You can't get out here,' he said, crustily,
in a gruff Scotch voice. 'This train is not timed to set down before
Edinburgh.'
'We _have_ got out,' I answered, taking it upon me to speak for my
fellow-culprit, the Hindu--as he was to all seeming. 'The logic of facts
is with us. We were booked through to Edinburgh, but we wanted to stop
at Dunbar; and as the train happened to pull up, we thought we needn't
waste time by going on all that way and then coming back again.'
'Ye should have changed at Berwick,' the station-master said, still
gruffly, 'and come on by the slow train.' I could see his careful
Scotch soul was vexed (incidentally) at our extravagance in paying the
extra fare to Edinburgh and back again.
In spite of agitation, I managed to summon up one of my sweetest
smiles--a smile that ere now had melted the hearts of rickshaw coolies
and of French _douaniers_. He thawed before it visibly. 'Time was
important to us,' I said--oh, he guessed not how important; 'and
besides, you know, it is so good for the company!'
'That's true,' he answered, mollified. He could not tilt against the
interests of the North British shareholders. 'But how about yer luggage?
It'll have gone on to Edinburgh, I'm thinking.'
'We _have_ no luggage,' I answered boldly.
He stared at us both, puckered his brow a moment, and then burst out
laughing. 'Oh, ay, I see,' he answered, with a comic air of amusement.
'Well, well, it's none of my business, no doubt, and I will not
interfere with ye; though why a lady like you----' He glanced curiously
at Harold.
I saw he had guessed right, and thought it best to throw myself
unreservedly on his mercy. Time was indeed important. I glanced at the
station clock. It was not very far from the stroke of six, and we must
manage to get married before the detective could miss us at Edinburgh,
where he was due at 6.30.
So I smiled once more, that heart-softening smile. 'We have each our own
fancies,' I said blushing--and, indeed (such is the pride of race among
women), I felt myself blush in earnest at the bare idea that I was
marrying a black man, in spite of our good Maharajah's kindness. 'He is
a gentleman, and a man of education and culture.' I thought that
recommendation ought to tell with a Scotchman. 'We are in sore straits
now, but our case is a just one. Can you tell me who in this place is
most likely to sympathise--most likely to marry us?'
He looked at me--and surrendered at discretion. 'I should think anybody
would marry ye who saw yer pretty face and heard yer sweet voice,' he
answered. 'But, perhaps, ye'd better present yerself to Mr. Schoolcraft,
the U.P. minister at Little Kirkton. He was aye soft-hearted.'
'How far from here?' I asked.
'About two miles,' he answered.
'Can we get a trap?'
'Oh ay, there's machines always waiting at the station.'
[Illustration: WE TOLD OUR TALE.]
We interviewed a 'machine,' and drove out to Little Kirkton. There, we
told our tale in the fewest words possible to the obliging and
good-natured U.P. minister. He looked, as the station-master had said,
'soft-hearted'; but he dashed our hopes to the ground at once by telling
us candidly that unless we had had our residence in Scotland for
twenty-one days immediately preceding the marriage, it would not be
legal. 'If you were Scotch,' he added, 'I could go through the ceremony
at once, of course; and then you could apply to the sheriff to-night for
leave to register the marriage in proper form afterward: but as one of
you is English, and the other I judge'--he smiled and glanced towards
Harold--'an Indian-born subject of Her Majesty, it would be impossible
for me to do it: the ceremony would be invalid, under Lord Brougham's
Act, without previous residence.'
This was a terrible blow. I looked away appealingly. 'Harold,' I cried
in despair, 'do you think we could manage to hide ourselves safely
anywhere in Scotland for twenty-one days?'
His face fell. 'How could I escape notice? All the world is hunting for
me. And then the scandal! No matter where you stopped--however far from
me--no, Lois darling, I could never expose you to it.'
The minister glanced from one to the other of us, puzzled. 'Harold?' he
said, turning over the word on his tongue. 'Harold? That doesn't sound
like an Indian name, does it? And----' he hesitated, 'you speak
wonderful English!'
I saw the safest plan was to make a clean breast of it. He looked the
sort of man one could trust on an emergency. 'You have heard of the
Ashurst will case?' I said, blurting it out suddenly.
'I have seen something about it in the newspapers; yes. But it did not
interest me: I have not followed it.'
I told him the whole truth; the case against us--the facts as we knew
them. Then I added, slowly, 'This is Mr. Harold Tillington, whom they
accuse of forgery. Does he look like a forger? I want to marry him
before he is tried. It is the only way by which I can prove my implicit
trust in him. As soon as we are married, he will give himself up at once
to the police--if you wish it, before your eyes. But married we must be.
_Can't_ you manage it somehow?'
My pleading voice touched him. 'Harold Tillington?' he murmured. 'I know
of his forebears. Lady Guinevere Tillington's son, is it not? Then you
must be Younger of Gledcliffe.' For Scotland is a village: everyone in
it seems to have heard of every other.'
'What does he mean?' I asked. 'Younger of Gledcliffe?' I remembered now
that the phrase had occurred in Mr. Ashurst's will, though I never
understood it.
'A Scotch fashion,' Harold answered. 'The heir to a laird is called
Younger of so-and-so. My father has a small estate of that name in
Dumfriesshire; a _very_ small estate: I was born and brought up there.'
'Then you are a Scotchman?' the minister asked.
'Yes,' Harold answered frankly: 'by remote descent. We are trebly of the
female line at Gledcliffe; still, I am no doubt more or less Scotch by
domicile.'
'Younger of Gledcliffe! Oh, yes, that ought certainly to be quite
sufficient for our purpose. Do you live there?'
'I have been living there lately. I always live there when I'm in
Britain. It is my only home. I belong to the diplomatic service.'
'But then--the lady?'
'She is unmitigatedly English,' Harold admitted, in a gloomy voice.
'Not quite,' I answered. 'I lived four years in Edinburgh. And I spent
my holidays there while I was at Girton. I keep my boxes still at my old
rooms in Maitland Street.'
'Oh, that will do,' the minister answered, quite relieved; for it was
clear that our anxiety and the touch of romance in our tale had enlisted
him in our favour. 'Indeed, now I come to think of it, it suffices for
the Act if one only of the parties is domiciled in Scotland. And as Mr.
Tillington lives habitually at Gledcliffe, that settles the question.
Still, I can do nothing save marry you now by religious service in the
presence of my servants--which constitutes what we call an
ecclesiastical marriage--it becomes legal if afterwards registered; and
then you must apply to the sheriff for a warrant to register it. But I
will do what I can; later on, if you like, you can be re-married by the
rites of your own Church in England.'
'Are you quite sure our Scotch domicile is good enough in law?' Harold
asked, still doubtful.
'I can turn it up, if you wish. I have a legal handbook. Before Lord
Brougham's Act, no formalities were necessary. But the Act was passed to
prevent Gretna Green marriages. The usual phrase is that such a marriage
does not hold good unless one or other of the parties either has had his
or her usual residence in Scotland, or else has lived there for
twenty-one days immediately preceding the date of the marriage. If you
like, I will wait to consult the authorities.'
'No, thank you,' I cried. 'There is no time to lose. Marry us first, and
look it up afterwards. "One or other" will do, it seems. Mr. Tillington
is Scotch enough, I am sure; he has no address in Britain but
Gledcliffe: we will rest our claim upon that. Even if the marriage turns
out invalid, we only remain where we were. This is a preliminary
ceremony to prove good faith, and to bind us to one another. We can
satisfy the law, if need be, when we return to England.'
The minister called in his wife and servants, and explained to them
briefly. He exhorted us and prayed. We gave our solemn consent in legal
form before two witnesses. Then he pronounced us duly married. In a
quarter of an hour more, we had made declaration to that effect before
the sheriff, the witnesses accompanying us, and were formally affirmed
to be man and wife before the law of Great Britain. I asked if it would
hold in England as well.
'You couldn't be firmer married,' the sheriff said, with decision, 'by
the Archbishop of Canterbury in Westminster Abbey.'
Harold turned to the minister. 'Will you send for the police?' he said,
calmly. 'I wish to inform them that I am the man for whom they are
looking in the Ashurst will case.'
Our own cabman went to fetch them. It was a terrible moment. But Harold
sat in the sheriff's study and waited, as if nothing unusual were
happening. He talked freely but quietly. Never in my life had I felt so
proud of him.
At last the police came, much inflated with the dignity of so great a
capture, and took down our statement. 'Do you give yourself in charge on
a confession of forgery?' the superintendent asked, as Harold ended.
'Certainly not,' Harold answered. 'I have not committed forgery. But I
do not wish to skulk or hide myself. I understand a warrant is out
against me in London. I have come to Scotland, hurriedly, for the sake
of getting married, not to escape apprehension. I am here, openly,
under my own name. I tell you the facts; 'tis for you to decide; if you
choose, you can arrest me.'
The superintendent conferred for some time in another room with the
sheriff. Then he returned to the study. 'Very well, sir,' he said, in a
respectful tone, 'I arrest you.'
So that was the beginning of our married life. More than ever, I felt
sure I could trust in Harold.
The police decided, after hearing by telegram from London, that we must
go up at once by the night express, which they stopped for the purpose.
They were forced to divide us. I took the sleeping-car; Harold travelled
with two constables in a ordinary carriage. Strange to say,
notwithstanding all this, so great was our relief from the tension of
our flight, that we both slept soundly.
Next morning we arrived in London, Harold guarded. The police had
arranged that the case should come up at Bow Street that afternoon. It
was not an ideal honeymoon, and yet, I was somehow happy.
At King's Cross, they took him away from me. Still, I hardly cried. All
the way up in the train, whenever I was awake, an idea had been haunting
me--a possible clue to this trickery of Lord Southminster's. Petty
details cropped up and fell into their places. I began to unravel it all
now. I had an inkling of a plan to set Harold right again.
The will we had proved----but I must not anticipate.
When we parted, Harold kissed me on the forehead, and murmured rather
sadly, 'Now, I suppose it's all up. Lois, I must go. These rogues have
been too much for us.'
[Illustration: I HAVE FOUND A CLUE.]
'Not a bit of it,' I answered, new hope growing stronger and stronger
within me. 'I see a way out. I have found a clue. I believe, dear
Harold, the right will still be vindicated.'
And red-eyed as I was, I jumped into a hansom, and called to the cabman
to drive at once to Lady Georgina's.
XII
THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNPROFESSIONAL DETECTIVE
'Is Lady Georgina at home?' The discreet man-servant in sober black
clothes eyed me suspiciously. 'No, miss,' he answered. 'That is to
say--no, ma'am. Her ladyship is still at Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst's--the
late Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst, I mean--in Park Lane North. You know the
number, ma'am?'
'Yes, I know it,' I replied, with a gasp; for this was indeed a triumph.
My one fear had been lest Lord Southminster should already have taken
possession--why, you will see hereafter; and it relieved me to learn
that Lady Georgina was still at hand to guard my husband's interests.
She had been living at the house, practically, since her brother's
death. I drove round with all speed, and flung myself into my dear old
lady's arms.
'Kiss me,' I cried, flushed. 'I am your niece!' But she knew it already,
for our movements had been fully reported by this time (with picturesque
additions) in the morning papers. Imagination, ill-developed in the
English race, seems to concentrate itself in the lower order of
journalists.
She kissed me on both cheeks with unwonted tenderness. 'Lois,' she
cried, with tears in her eyes, 'you're a brick!' It was not exactly
poetical at such a moment, but from her it meant more than much gushing
phraseology.
'And you're here in possession!' I murmured.
[Illustration: I'VE HELD THE FORT BY MAIN FORCE.]
The Cantankerous Old Lady nodded. She was in her element, I must admit.
She dearly loved a row--above all, a family row; but to be in the thick
of a family row, and to feel herself in the right, with the law against
her--that was joy such as Lady Georgina had seldom before experienced.
'Yes, dear,' she burst out volubly, 'I'm in possession, thank Heaven.
And what's more, they won't oust me without a legal process. I've been
here, off and on, you know, ever since poor dear Marmy died, looking
after things for Harold; and I shall look after them still, till Bertie
Southminster succeeds in ejecting me, which won't be easy. Oh, I've held
the fort by main force, I can tell you; held it like a Trojan. Bertie's
in a precious great hurry to move in, I can see; but I won't allow him.
He's been down here this morning, fatuously blustering, and trying to
carry the post by storm, with a couple of policemen.'
'Policemen!' I cried. 'To turn you out?'
'Yes, my dear, policemen: but (the Lord be praised) I was too much for
him. There are legal formalities to fulfil yet; and I won't budge an
inch, Lois, not one inch, my dear, till he's fulfilled every one of
them. Mark my words, child, that boy's up to some devilry.'
'He is,' I answered.
'Yes, he wouldn't be in such a rampaging hurry to get in--being as lazy
as he's empty-headed--takes after Gwendoline in that--if he hadn't some
excellent reason for wishing to take possession: and depend upon it, the
reason is that he wants to get hold of something or other that's
Harold's. But he sha'n't if I can help it; and, thank my stars, I'm a
dour woman to reckon with. If he comes, he comes over my old bones,
child. I've been overhauling everything of Marmy's, I can tell you, to
checkmate the boy if I can; but I've found nothing yet, and till I've
satisfied myself on that point, I'll hold the fort still, if I have to
barricade that pasty-faced scoundrel of a nephew of mine out by piling
the furniture against the front door-- I will, as sure as my name's
Georgina Fawley!'
'I know you will, dear,' I assented, kissing her, 'and so I shall
venture to leave you, while I go out to institute another little
enquiry.'
'What enquiry?'
I shook my head. 'It's only a surmise,' I said, hesitating. 'I'll tell
you about it later. I've had time to think while I've been coming back
in the train, and I've thought of many things. Mount guard till I
return, and mind you don't let Lord Southminster have access to
anything.'
'I'll shoot him first, dear.' And I believe she meant it.
I drove on in the same cab to Harold's solicitor. There I laid my fresh
doubts at once before him. He rubbed his bony hands. 'You've hit it!' he
cried, charmed. 'My dear madam, you've hit it! I never did like that
will. I never did like the signatures, the witnesses, the look of it.
But what could I do? Mr. Tillington propounded it. Of course it wasn't
my business to go dead against my own client.'
'Then you doubted Harold's honour, Mr. Hayes?' I cried, flushing.
[Illustration: NEVER! HE ANSWERED. NEVER!]
'Never!' he answered. 'Never! I felt sure there must be some mistake
somewhere, but not any trickery on--your husband's part. Now, _you_
supply the right clue. We must look into this, immediately.'
He hurried round with me at once in the same cab to the court. The
incriminated will had been 'impounded,' as they call it; but, under
certain restrictions, and subject to the closest surveillance, I was
allowed to examine it with my husband's solicitor, before the eyes of
the authorities. I looked at it long with the naked eye and also with a
small pocket lens. The paper, as I had noted before, was the same kind
of foolscap as that which I had been in the habit of using at my office
in Florence; and the typewriting--was it mine? The longer I looked at
it, the more I doubted it.
After a careful examination I turned round to our solicitor. 'Mr.
Hayes,' I said, firmly, having arrived at my conclusion, 'this is _not_
the document I type-wrote at Florence.'
'How do you know?' he asked. 'A different machine? Some small
peculiarity in the shape of the letters?'
'No, the rogue who typed this will was too cunning for that. He didn't
allow himself to be foiled by such a scholar's mate. It is written with
a Spread Eagle, the same sort of machine precisely as my own. I know the
type perfectly. But----' I hesitated.
'But what?'
'Well, it is difficult to explain. There is character in typewriting,
just as there is in handwriting, only, of course, not quite so much of
it. Every operator is liable to his own peculiar tricks and blunders.
If I had some of my own typewritten manuscript here to show you, I could
soon make that evident.'