A DANGEROUS POSITION
I could have seen Gertrude before leaving for London, but I did not
think it wise to do so. She would certainly ask questions, and if, by
chance, I let slip that my visit was to her father, trouble would
ensue. When had he returned from America? Why had he returned from
America? For what reason did he wish to see me? Where was the letter
or telegram, which I had received? These questions Gertrude would
assuredly ask, and if I answered them truthfully, she would probably
insist upon coming with me. That would be impossible, as her presence
would only complicate matters. And Heaven knows they were sufficiently
complicated as it was.
For this reason I simply sent a note saying that I had been called to
London on business, and drove over to Tarhaven in Mrs. Gilfin's trap
to catch the midday train. I just managed to escape Cannington, whom I
saw in the street, as I drove up to the station, and was glad that he
had not noticed me. I did not wish to enter into further explanations,
and invent theories, and conjecture possibilities. So many lies were
being told and so many secrets were being kept, that it was difficult
to understand the actual position of affairs. The corner shop at
Mootley seemed to have been a kind of rendezvous for all manner of
people, and on that fatal evening Mrs. Caldershaw appeared to have
held quite a reception. Gertrude, her father, Striver, and Miss
Destiny had all been making for that goal, and the consequence of
their presence--in a broad sense I speak--had been the death of the
old woman. The sole person whose innocence could be proved beyond all
doubt was Miss Destiny, as she had not arrived until I had discovered
the body of Mrs. Caldershaw. Of course I truly believed that Gertrude
was innocent, but the police might have taken a different view. For
this reason I was anxious to learn the exact state of things with
regard to Striver and Monk. In my opinion one of the two was guilty,
and I anxiously waited for three o'clock to learn the absolute truth.
Then, being enlightened, I should know how to act.
At three o'clock I drove in a taxi to Stratford Street, and was
admitted by a demure-looking man in black--Monk's valet, I suppose--to
the flat. Apparently the servant expected my arrival, for he led me
directly into the Moorish smoking-room where I had previously been.
Striver and Mr. Monk were both present, seated in opposite chairs and
glowering--as the Scotch say--at one another. They resembled a couple
of ill-tempered dogs chained together. Monk, I thought, looked haggard
and worn and anxious, quite different to his usual complacent self.
But Striver's handsome face wore a determined, confident expression. I
judged that he was master of the situation. This augured ill for
Monk's innocence. As soon as I entered the elder man, quivering with
nervousness, rose quickly to his feet and rushed forward to clasp my
hand. "I am so glad you have come, Vance," he said, dropping his
affected speech. "I need your assistance in dealing with this--this--
blackmailer."
"That's a lie," growled Striver, who looked dangerous, and probably
was; "why don't you introduce me as your secretary?"
"Yes," cried Monk, his under lip twitching, "that's what he calls
himself, Vance--my secretary. He followed after me to New York, and
has been in my company ever since. To explain his presence I called
him my secretary. But he is a blackguard--a blackmailer."
"I have never asked you for a shilling," retorted Striver with a
shrug.
"No, you ask me for what I value more--the hand of my child."
I sat down and laughed outright, in spite of the seriousness of the
situation. "Hasn't Mr. Striver given up hope in that quarter?"
"No, I haven't," snarled the gardener, "nor shall I. I intend to marry
Gertrude."
"Miss Monk, to you, if you please. As to your marrying her, that is
out of the question. She is engaged to me, and I don't intend to give
her up. Now, Mr. Striver, I haven't come here to listen to bombast and
froth, but to hear facts. For what reason do you persecute Mr. Monk?"
"I don't persecute him. I just followed him to New York to ask his
help in marrying Ger--well, Miss Monk, if you will have it so."
"Mr. Monk can't help you there," I said calmly. "We'll see about
that," said Striver, with an evil look.
"Of course. That is why I am here. Mr. Monk, would you mind giving me
a cigar, please? I recommend one to you also, Striver. Smoking may
soothe your nerves."
"Mind your own business."
"Oh, your nerves are my business, since they may lead you into making
mischief. Thank you, Mr. Monk," I said, taking the cigar he passed me.
"A light, please." I struck a match. "Now," I ended, when comfortably
smoking, "let me hear all about it."
"All about what?" demanded Striver, annoyed by my coolness.
"About the means you propose to use in forcing Mr. Monk into
supporting your preposterous desire to marry his daughter."
"He is guilty of my aunt's murder."
"It is a lie, a lie," cried Monk, sitting down and clasping his hands.
"Last time we had the pleasure of speaking together, Mr. Striver," I
said easily, "you accused Miss Monk; now you assert her father to be
the guilty person. On what grounds do you base your last accusation? I
know those on which you base your first, and I told you to tell them
to the police. Instead of doing this you attempt to coerce an old man.
I had some sympathy with you, because you loved in vain; now I have
none, as I think you are simply a scoundrel, using illegal means to
accomplish the impossible."
"How dare you!"--he sprang to his feet with flashing eyes--"how----"
"That will do, my man," I interrupted coldly, "sit down, and speak
when I ask you questions."
"I'll break your head," he muttered between his teeth, but obeyed.
I laughed. "I think we tried physical conclusions at The Lodge, and
you got the worst of it. Hold your tongue, confound you," I commanded
sternly. "Mr. Monk!" I turned to my future father-in-law, who was
shivering with apprehension, "you say that this person accuses you of
murdering Anne Caldershaw?"
"Yes, he does. He came here and learned that I had gone to America and
followed. He has never left me since."
"Why didn't you kick him out?"
"I couldn't, I couldn't," said Monk, shivering again, while Striver
sneered. "He threatened to tell the police. I kept him near me as my
supposed secretary, and have been compelled to pay his expenses."
"Oh, you can easily do that, Mr. Wentworth Marr," scoffed Striver,
"seeing that you have secured the fifty thousand pounds which
rightfully belongs to your daughter, Miss Gertrude."
"What?" I cried, alive with curiosity.
"It's not true," said Monk hastily, and his face grew red with anger,
"the money I have comes from my Australian cousin, whose name I took
in accordance with the conditions laid down in the will. I told you
so."
"Yes, and I did not believe you." "Mr. Vance--" Striver shifted his
position so as to face me--"I truly believed when I left Burwain that
Miss Gertrude was guilty, on the grounds I explained to you at The
Lodge. I came to London to see Mr. Monk, whom I knew to be
masquerading as Marr----"
"I did not masquerade," broke in Monk indignantly.
"Shut up," said Striver contemptuously, "and let me tell my story in
my own way or it will be the worse for you."
"No threats, Striver. Tell me the story without side issues; I am
aware that you learned about Mr. Monk's change of name. You doubtless
came here to say that if he didn't help you to marry Miss Gertrude you
would denounce her to the police."
"Yes, I did," said Striver sullenly, "but I learned from the caretaker
of these rooms that Mr. Monk--Marr, the man called him--had gone to
New York, and had left an address to which his letters were to be
forwarded. I got that address----"
"The caretaker had no right to give it to you," cried Monk
indignantly.
"Oh, a little money soon makes that sort of person speak," sneered the
gardener. "However, I had no difficulty in learning where Mr. Monk was
stopping in New York. I had plenty of cash, with my aunt's legacy and
my own income, to say nothing of the sale of the corner shop lease to
Giles, so I determined to follow. I reached New York in due course,
and compelled Mr. Monk to take me as his secretary, so that I could
keep him under my eye."
Monk groaned. "I have had a cruel time with you; a cruel time."
"Better than you deserve. I swear," added Striver, turning again to
me, "that I never believed Mr. Monk to be guilty until I found the
eye."
"What?" I sprang to my feet in sheer astonishment. "You found the
eye?"
Monk, changing alternately from white to red with nervous fear, would
have burst out into emphatic denial, but Striver cast such a black
look in his direction that the words died on his lips. Then the
gardener took out of his pocket a small morocco case, such as
jewellers use to enclose watches, and passed it along to me. I opened
it silently, and there, on the puffy white silk, lay a glass eye. "I
found that," said Striver slowly, "while searching the luggage of Mr.
Monk."
"You had no right to search my luggage," whimpered Monk, "it was most
unfair."
"Unfair be hanged! You were so certain that Miss Gertrude was
innocent, and talked so much about defending her with your life that I
began to suspect you of the deed. I hunted, when you were out, amongst
your luggage and papers for some proof of your guilt. I found my
aunt's glass eye."
"I never saw it before," cried Monk, rising in his excitement; "you
placed it amongst my papers to incriminate me."
"Mr. Vance," said Striver coldly, "look at the initials on the outside
of that case. You will see they are Wentworth Marr's initials--W. M.
They also stand for Walter Monk," ended Striver with a sneer, and when
I glanced at the case I saw that he spoke the truth.
"The case is mine, I admit," said Monk, trying to speak calmly, "it
was in my dressing-case----"
"Where I found it, containing the eye," put in Striver sharply.
"You did not, you did not. The case was empty, as I was wearing the
watch--this watch." Monk jerked a golden chronometer out of his
waistcoat pocket. "The jeweller, whose address is inside the case, can
prove that the watch was in it when he sold it to me."
"I daresay," sneered Striver quietly, "but you wore the watch and
placed the eye in the empty case. Yes, and with that eye you learned
the secret of the whereabouts of Miss Gertrude's fifty thousand
pounds, and you have been living on it under the name of Wentworth
Marr. The story of your Australian legacy and Australian cousin is a
mere invention."
"I tell you I have spoken the truth. I deny everything."
"Do you deny that you were in Mrs. Caldershaw's shop?" I asked,
preventing Striver from speaking by a gesture.
Monk stared and winced. "How do you know that?"
"Mr. Wentworth Marr was at Murchester on the day when the crime was
committed. He came down in his motor and stopped at the Lion Hotel. He
left a card for Lord Cannington at Murchester Barracks. He also went
to Mootley to see Anne Caldershaw."
"You can't prove that," said Monk, and wiped the perspiration from his
brow nervously. "I admit that I did motor down to Murchester to ask
Cannington to influence his sister in my favor. I called in the
afternoon and left a card. Then I stopped the night at the Lion Hotel,
and returned to town the next morning."
"And after you found that Cannington was absent--about three o'clock,
that was--you went to Mootley to see Anne Caldershaw."
"Prove it, prove it."
"I daresay Mr. Striver can prove it. He was concealed upstairs."
"I was asleep for a time," said Striver abruptly, "but I woke in time
to see Mr. Monk. I peered down the stairs and saw him talking to my
aunt in the shop. The sound of their voices raised high woke me up.
They were quarrelling."
"I don't deny that I was there," said Monk, wiping his face again,
"but I want to know how Vance learned my whereabouts. It's a guess
based on my leaving the card on Cannington."
"It is not," I said sharply; "your daughter was in the back room and
saw you through the open door. She refused to tell me this, but as she
said that the sight of a certain person drove her hastily out of the
back door, so hastily that she left her cloak behind her, I believe
that person was you, Mr. Monk."
"I was simply calling on Mrs. Caldershaw. There was no reason why
Gertrude should not say so, although I did not know that she was
there."
"She believed that you were guilty because of your presence there, and
did not tell me, even though I pressed her. You are the sole person
she would shield at the risk of losing her liberty, though you aren't
worth it, Mr. Monk. Am I not right?"
"I admitted that you were right. Striver saw me, and Gertrude saw me.
I cannot deny my presence in the shop. But that does not prove me to
be guilty of murder."
"How, then," asked Striver, "did you become possessed of the eye?"
"The last time that I saw the eye was in Mrs. Caldershaw's head,"
snapped Monk, whose nerves were entirely giving way under the strain
of cross-examination. "You pretended to find it amongst my baggage and
slipped it into that case, which is really mine. It's part of your
plan of blackmail."
"There may be some truth in that," I remarked, for, knowing what I
did, I had not much belief in Striver's story.
"How can you talk such damned nonsense?" cried Striver roughly, "when
you know that Mr. Monk has been posing in London as a rich man under
the name of Wentworth Marr. He has five hundred a year under his
brother's will, and that house with the acres surrounding it. Where
did he get his money?"
"My Australian cousin----"
"Oh, hang your Australian cousin. I don't believe he ever existed. Mr.
Vance, I swear that I found that eye amongst Mr. Monk's luggage. You
must believe, in the face of that," he pointed to the case, which was
still open in my hand, "that Mr. Monk is guilty."
"No, I don't, if this"--I shook the case--"is all the evidence you can
bring."
Monk heaved a sigh of relief, and Striver stared uneasily. "On what
grounds do you say that?" he asked grimly.
"On the grounds of common-sense, Mr. Striver. I saw the eye on a small
table in the drawing-room of The Lodge, near the middle French
window."
"Mr. Monk placed it there: it only proves his guilt more
conclusively."
"I think not. In the first place, if Mr. Monk had been possessed of
the eye he would scarcely be such a fool as to leave it about. In the
second case, when I re-entered the drawing-room the eye had
disappeared, and all the time from when I saw it to when I returned to
the room Mr. Monk was with me. He could not have secured it again,
even though--according to you--he placed it there, which I don't
believe. _You_ took the eye from the table."
"How dare you say that!" cried the man, but his color changed,
and I guessed that my chance remark asserted the truth. "On what
grounds----"
"You have supplied the grounds yourself," I said quickly, "by saying
that you found the eye in Mr. Monk's dressing-bag. You found the watch
case, but you certainly brought the eye to place in it, for the
furtherance of your infernal plans. You were working in the garden,
Striver, and saw by my face, when I came out to meet Mr. Monk, that I
was startled. Out of curiosity and jealousy you went up to the window,
saw the eye, and secured it. Finding that I supported Miss Monk, and
you could not incriminate her, you made use of the eye to incriminate
Mr. Monk."
"I do not," he stuttered, changing color again and again.
"You did, and by your own showing. For all I know, you may have placed
the eye on the table, since it was easy to do so with the window
open."
"How could I get the eye? Do you accuse me of murder?"
"The police might if they knew all that we know. But I shall give you
the benefit of the doubt, and say that you found the eye in the shop
after the murder was committed."
"But according to the police," said Monk doubtfully, "the murder was
committed for the sake of the eye."
"Of course it was," insisted Striver, "and by you."
"I am perfectly innocent."
"In that case, how did you get your money unless by----"
"Stop!" I interrupted impulsively, "there also I can defend Mr. Monk.
Long before the murder, he was living as wealthy Mr. Wentworth Marr in
London, as Lord Cannington informed me. If he did not get the money
until the eye was found--and by your own showing, Mr. Striver, he
could only find the hidden treasure in that way--how could he pose
long before as a rich man? Answer me that, Mr. Striver."
The gardener, seeing that I could beat him on every point, maintained
a sullen silence. Mr. Monk, cheered by my several defences of his
actions, leaned forward eagerly. "No doubt this is a false clue," he
said, pointing to the case; "it may not be the real eye. Striver would
never allow me to examine it, in case," he smiled bitterly, "I should
destroy it."
"Which you would have done," said the other bluntly. "I wouldn't trust
you a single inch, Mr. Monk. The eye is the one worn by my aunt right
enough, and contains the cipher of which she spoke. Look at the back?"
Remembering the glimpse I had seen of the concave of the eye when it
was on The Lodge table, I delicately turned over the object of the
case. It may seem odd that I had not examined it before, but the
interest of the conversation between Striver and Monk had held me
spellbound. It was imperative, as is obvious, that I should lose no
single word of the ill-assorted pair.
However I did now what I should have done before, and tilted the eye,
to behold in the hollow the piece of silver I had seen before. There
it lay, and looked more than ever like a threepenny bit. Monk bent
forward curiously and stared.
"It's a silver coin--a threepenny bit," he explained, half to himself.
"Gabriel told me that he had engraved the cipher on a threepenny bit,
but he would never tell me where it was hidden. A very ingenious idea
to hide it in Mrs. Caldershaw's eye. See, it is fastened by a piece of
gold wire to the center of the pupil."
It was as he said, the coin was so fastened and in the dense black of
the pupil appeared the glint of a tiny piece of gold. In no other way
could the coin have been kept in its place. But as it was sunken a
good way into the concave of the artificial eye, the same, when worn,
could not produce any irritation to the wearer. It was, as Monk said,
a very ingenious idea.
"I never saw it before," he murmured, and I believed that he was
speaking the truth; "so this is how Gabriel concealed his secret?"
I tried to read what was on the coin, but failed, as the engraving was
so very small. "Have you a magnifying glass, Mr. Monk?" I asked.
"Not to my knowledge," he said promptly; "however, I'll look for one,"
and he rose to make a search.
I examined the eye again; then closed the case, and placed it on the
table, intending to pocket it when I had used the magnifying glass.
"Though I daresay," said I to Striver, who was seated in his chair
looking very dejected, "you can tell me what the cipher consists of."
He did not answer my question, but leaned forward and buried his face
in his hands. To my surprise I saw the tears forcing themselves
between his fingers. I hate to see a man cry, but on this occasion I
was glad, for these tears showed that Striver had broken down. He was
not cut out by nature for a villain, and now that I had thwarted his
schemes he could contrive no new ones. He was beaten, and he knew that
he was beaten. I felt quite sorry for him, badly as he had behaved.
"Striver!" I placed my hand on his bowed shoulders.
"Don't touch me," he said in a choking voice, and rising to his feet
he walked rapidly to the end of the room, where there was an ottoman.
Here he flung himself down at full length, sobbing bitterly. I
followed, and waited until the paroxysm passed away. Then, finding him
in a gentler mood, I hoped to get at the truth, which I felt convinced
he knew. And indeed, seeing that he had been concealed in the house
during the commission of the crime, he must know who had stabbed his
aunt. Unless----
"Striver," I said sharply, "pull yourself together and answer me. Did
you murder this unfortunate woman?"
"No," he sobbed in a stifled voice, "I did not. I was hidden in the
bedroom, and came down to find her dead. The rest, as to taking your
car and escaping, I have told you."
"What's to be done, then?" I muttered, much perplexed.
"This is to be done," he said, sitting up, with his handsome face
tear-stained and his hair dishevelled, "you have won and I have lost.
I surrender all claim to the hand of Miss Monk."
"You never had any claim," I reminded him sharply.
"Perhaps not," was his dejected reply, "but I am a man and I cannot
help my feelings. Gertrude is the only woman I have ever loved, and
the only woman I shall ever love. She is lost to me, because she loves
you. Well, I daresay it is better that she should marry a gentleman.
But I wish--I wish----" He broke down again.
"Striver," I said, for the third time, and placed my hand on his
shoulder, "I am very sorry for you, although you have not acted well."
"All is fair in love and war," he said, sitting up again.
"There are some things a gentleman cannot do, even to win the woman he
loves, Striver," I said gently, "so all is _not_ fair in love and
war."
"I am not a gentleman: I never pretended to be a gentleman."
"Then be one now," I urged, "you know the truth of this murder since
you were in the house all the time. I believe myself that you are
innocent."
"Why should you think that?" he asked in a curious voice and with a
curious look.
"Because I believe you to be a good fellow, Striver. Your nature has
been warped by the influence of this mad love and by the influence of
your dead aunt. She always promised you Miss Monk as a bride and this
fifty thousand pounds for yourself."
"Yes, she did," he said, his bright blue eyes steadily fixed on me.
"Well, then, these things have drawn you into wrongdoing. You love
Miss Monk. Prove your love by preventing her from getting into trouble
about this murder. Until the truth is discovered, she is in danger of
arrest because of her unfortunate visit to Mootley and because of the
cloak left behind."
"Perhaps! perhaps. But her father will say nothing, he dare not."
"No, but Miss Destiny might. She knows that her niece was at Mootley
on that night, and threatens to betray her unless she receives half
the fifty thousand pounds when it is found."
"Miss Destiny threatens," said Striver rising, "and for the sake of
money. Ah! that old lady always was a miser. Well?"
"Well, can't you show your love for Miss Monk and thwart the aunt by
telling the truth."
"Why, do you think I know the truth?"
"You were in the house all the time. I feel certain that you can
unravel the mystery."
Striver looked away, and became very silent. At this moment Monk
entered, and began to bustle about. "Hunter," this was his valet, I
afterwards heard, "says that there is a magnifying glass in the desk
here."
I paid no attention to him as I was looking at Striver. After a long
silence the gardener spoke. "I do know the truth," he said slowly,
"and I shall save Gertrude's good name. Marry her, and may you be
happy."
"But----" I cried, following him as he was walking towards the door.
"I have nothing more to say," said Striver, and disappeared. I
wondered if he was guilty after all, and whether he intended to
confess. Before I could think out the matter, Monk touched my elbow.
"I can't find the magnifying glass," he said, handing me the case,
which he had picked up off the table; "better go to a jeweller and
borrow one."
"Thanks," I said, slipping the case into my pocket and reaching for my
hat and coat. "Good-day, Mr. Monk."
"Don't go," he urged me. "I have much to say, and much to thank you
for."
I put on my coat and made for the door. "I decline to remain in your
company, Mr. Monk," I said, "because you are a scoundrel, and if you
were not Gertrude's father I would thrash you willingly, old as you
are. For her sake only have I saved you."
"How dare you speak to me in this way!" he cried furiously, and
followed me into the hall, plucking at my sleeve.
"Because it is just as well someone should tell you the truth," I
retorted heatedly; "you have acted in the most cruel manner towards
your daughter."
"I have not. I deny it," he panted, looking white and wicked.
"You have lived in luxury in London while she has been practically
starving down at Burwain. She knows that you are Marr."
"You told her?" he cried, falling back a pace.
"Yes, I was forced to tell her, because Lady Mabel recognized your
photograph in the drawing-room. I warned you that Lady Mabel was going
down to Burwain to see Mr. Weston's airship."
"You had no right to tell; you promised, if I went away, to hold your
tongue."
"So I did for a fortnight."
"Not with regard to Gertrude. I was to tell her myself."
"You never came back to tell her, but bolted to America. You never
intended to return, and would not have done so had not Striver forced
you to defend yourself. I can't say if you are guilty, or if he is
guilty, but I am quite sure that one of you is guilty. However, you
have money from your Australian cousin, Mr. Monk, a new name and a
secretary who knows what a blackguard you are, so I wish you joy for
the future. My advice to you is to go to America, and never return.
Gertrude is done with you."
This struck him to the heart. "My little child--my own child."
"Exactly, and you deserve your fate entirely. Good-day and good-bye,"
and I walked out of the chamber and down the stairs. That was the last
I ever saw of Mr. Walter Monk, alias Mr. Wentworth Marr.
On the way back to Tarhaven, and in the train, I opened the case to
again examine the famous glass eye. It was gone: the case was empty.