We followed the dog-cart at a safe distance, which was not very far
off in the fog, until it stopped at the stable-gate. Then we slipped
past quite unseen on the other side of the road, while Mr. Rayner was
busy opening the gate; and at the front gate Laurence left me, and I
groped my way down the drive as fast as I could, and got in some
minutes before Mr. Rayner and his companion. And, as I could rely upon
the silence of Mrs. Rayner and the cook, I said nothing to anybody
else about my excursion.
We were about an hour over dinner, and, when Mr. Rayner had been to
the cellar--not the dreadful store-room cellar--himself to get out a
bottle of port, he asked Mr. Maynard if he was fond of music.
“Well, I’m not much of a dab at it myself, though I used to tootle a
little upon the cornet when I was a boy,” replied the detective, whose
language had grown a little easier and was less carefully chosen as he
knew us better. “But I don’t mind a tune now and then.”
“Ah, you are not an enthusiast, I see!” said Mr. Rayner. “Now I can
never be happy long without music. Did you ever try the violin?”
“Well, no; that is rather a scratchy sort of instrument, to my mind.
Give me the concertina,” replied Mr. Maynard genially.
“Then I won’t ask you to listen to my music,” said Mr. Rayner. “I’m
only a fiddler. However, I think I must console myself for this
disgusting weather by a--a tune to-night; but I’ll be merciful and
shut the doors. My wife and Miss Christie will entertain you, and--let
me see, it is half-past seven--at nine o’clock I’ll come and inflict
myself upon you again, and we can have a game at backgammon. Do you
care for backgammon?”
Mr. Maynard having declared that he did, Mr. Rayner asked me if I
could go into the drawing-room and hunt out _La Traviata_ and Moore’s
“Irish Melodies.” I went obediently, and was on my knees turning over
the great piles of music that stood there, when he came in and softly
shut the door. Before I knew he was near I felt something passed round
my neck and heard the snap of a clasp behind. I put up my hand and
sprang to my feet, startled. Mr. Rayner, bright and smiling, drew my
hand through his arm and led me to a looking-glass. Flashing and
sparkling round my throat was a necklace of red jewels that dazzled me
by their beauty.
“Don’t I keep my promises? I said I would bring you some garnets. Do
they please you?”
But they did not at all, after what Laurence had said; the magnificent
present filled me with terror. I put up both hands, tore them off, and
flung them down with trembling fingers, and then stood, panting with
fright at my own daring, wondering what he would do to me.
He did nothing. After looking at me for what seemed to me a long time,
while I stood trembling, at first proud and then ashamed of myself,
without the least sign of displeasure he picked up the necklace,
slipped it into his pocket, and said quite gently--
“That is very pretty spirit, but is rather ungrateful, isn’t it? Never
mind; you shall make amends for it by and by. Now will you go and help
Mrs. Rayner to entertain our lynx-eyed friend? You shall come back and
fetch me at nine o’clock. Run along now, my dear.”
He gave me a gentle little tap of dismissal, and, rather crestfallen,
I returned to the dining-room. But neither my entertaining powers nor
Mrs. Rayner’s were called into play; for Mr. Maynard was already
rather drowsy, and, after sleepily muttering “Bravo--very good!” as
the last sounds of Schubert’s “Adieu” died away on Mr. Rayner’s
violin, he had to make an effort to listen to a selection from
_Rigoletto_, and during some airs from _Martha_ which followed I heard
the regular breathing of a sleeping person from the arm-chair where he
was sitting. But I was paying little attention to him. The door being
shut, I had gone closer and closer to it, as if drawn by an
irresistible fascination, as Mr. Rayner seemed to play the “Adieu” as
he had never played it before. Every note seemed to vibrate in my own
heart, and nothing but fear of his displeasure if I disturbed him
before nine o’clock kept me from returning to the drawing-room, where
I could have heard each plaintive passionate note unmuffled by the two
doors between. When the last note of the “Adieu” had died away, and
Mr. Maynard’s coarse voice had broken the spell by his “Bravo--very
good!” I listened for the next melody eagerly, and was struck with a
chill sense of disappointment as an air from _Rigoletto_ followed.
It was not that I did not care for that opera, though it is scarcely
one of my favorites, but a certain hardness of touch, which struck me
at once as being unlike the rich full tones Mr. Rayner generally drew
from his loved violin, grated upon my ear and puzzled me. Of course
Mr. Maynard did not notice any difference, and muttered approval from
time to time indiscriminately. But my glance stole from him to Mrs.
Rayner; and I could see that she also was struck by the curious change
of style in her husband’s playing. It was as brilliant as ever; the
execution of one of the difficult passages in the arrangement of
_Martha_ was clever, more perfect than usual; but the soul was not
there, and no brilliancy of shake or cadenza could repay one for the
loss. It did not sound like the playing of the same man, and my
interest in the music gradually died away; and, after watching Mrs.
Rayner curiously for some minutes and noting the intentness with
which, sitting upright in her chair, she was listening to the violin
and at the same time keeping her eyes fixed upon the slumbering
Maynard, I gave myself up to my own agitated thoughts.
What was going on at the Hall now? Had the constables been able in the
fog to find their way safely to the park, and would the thieves come,
after all? Would they catch Tom Parkes? Would Gordon prove to be mixed
up in it? Above all, would they catch the dreaded James Woodfall,
whose influence seemed so strong and the memory of his name so fresh,
though he had not been seen for years? It was an awful thing to think
that I, by my letter to Laurence, had set on men to hunt other men
down. I began to hope, even though I felt it was wrong to do so, that
Tom Parkes would make his escape; he had never done me any harm, and I
had rather liked him for his good-natured face. As for the unknown
James Woodfall, the case was different. From Sarah’s words and the
eagerness with which the police had snatched at the least chance of
catching him, it was plain that he must be a very desperate criminal
indeed, for whom one could have no sympathy. I hoped with all my heart
they would catch him; and I was rather anxious to see what such a very
wicked man looked like. Poor Tom Parkes was probably only a tool in
the hands of this monster, who had made even the terrible Sarah a
submissive instrument of evil.
And then I fell to thinking very sadly of what Laurence had told me
that day about the deception practised upon me concerning the journey
to Monaco, and I remembered Mrs. Rayner’s warning. Could it be true
that Mr. Rayner, who had always been so kind, so sweet-tempered, so
patient, who had always treated me almost as if I were a child, and
who had borne my rudeness in the drawing-room just now with such
magnanimous good-humor, could really be such a hypocrite? There must
be some explanation of it all which would satisfy even Laurence, I
thought to myself--almost, at least; for that letter from my mother,
which she had never written--could that be explained away? My tears
fell fast as this terrible proof rose up in my mind. How could he
explain that away? But one’s trust in a friend as kind as Mr. Rayner
had proved to me does not die out quickly; and I was drying my eyes
and hoping that a few words from him would make it all right, when
suddenly the silence round the house was broken by a howl from Nap,
Mr. Rayner’s retriever, who was chained to his kennel outside.
Mrs. Rayner started. Still Maynard slumbered. I looked at the clock;
it was seven minutes to nine. Another and another howl from the dog,
followed by loud and furious barking. We two women sat staring at each
other, without a word. I would have spoken; but Mrs. Rayner glanced at
the sleeping detective and put her finger to her lips. Still the
sounds of the violin came to us from the drawing-room without
interruption.
When nine o’clock struck, I jumped up, much relieved, opened and shut
the door softly, crossed the hall, and turned the handle of the
drawing-room door. It was locked. I tapped; but there was no answer.
He was playing a brilliant concerto, and I supposed he had not heard
me. I knocked again and said softly--
“Mr. Rayner, it is nine o’clock. You told me to come at nine.”
Still there was no answer, which I thought strange, for his hearing
was generally very sharp indeed. It was of no use for me to stand
there knocking if he would not hear me, or did not yet wish to be
disturbed; so, after one more unsuccessful attempt to attract his
attention, I took a lamp from the hall-table and went into the
schoolroom. It was now ten minutes past nine. Nap was barking more
furiously than ever. I knew by the mist there was all through the
house how dense the fog must be outside; but I was so much struck by
the noise the dog was making that I unfastened the shutters and opened
the window about an inch to listen.
The fog was blinding. I could not see a yard in front of me. I heard
nothing but Nap’s barking for a minute; then I saw the dim glow of a
lantern and heard a muffled whisper through the fog--
“Who’s that?”
“It is I--Violet Christie. Is that you, Laurence?”
“Hush! All right!” he whispered back. “Let me in.”
He got in softly through the window, and, rather to my alarm, a
middle-aged man in plain clothes, also with a lantern, followed him.
Laurence himself looked more alarming than any thief. His face was
ghastly white with fatigue, and dirtier than ever through long
watching in the fog. He listened for a minute to the violin, then said
quickly, but still in a low voice--
“Who is that playing?”
“Mr. Rayner,” I answered.
He turned sharply to the other man, who nodded as if to say it was
just what he had expected.
“How long has he been playing?” asked Laurence.
“Ever since half-past seven.”
He turned to the other man again.
“A trick,” said the latter simply.
“Who is with him?” asked Laurence again.
“Nobody,” said I, surprised and rather frightened by these questions.
“Mrs. Rayner and Mr. Maynard are in the dining-room.”
“Maynard?”
“Yes. He is asleep.”
The middle-aged man gave a snort of disgust.
“Hasn’t Mr. Rayner been in the dining-room at all, dear, this
evening?” asked Laurence gently.
“Not since dinner. I left him playing in the drawing-room at
five-and-twenty minutes to eight, and he told me to call him at nine.
He has been playing ever since.”
“But it is past nine!”
“Yes. When I went to the drawing-room door just now, I found it
locked, and I knocked; but he did not answer.”
“Will you go and knock again, and say you wish to speak to him
particularly, dear?” said Laurence gravely.
I hesitated, trembling from head to foot.
“Why?” asked I, in a low voice.
“Because we want to speak to him particularly,” said the other man
gruffly.
But I looked at his hard face and panted out--
“You are a policeman, I know! What do you want with Mr. Rayner?”
“Never you mind, my dear; we won’t hurt you. Just go and say you want
to speak to him.”
“No, I won’t!” I cried--not loudly, for my voice seemed to grow
suddenly weak. “Whatever you think he has done, or whatever he has
done, I will never help to harm Mr. Rayner!”
The man shrugged his shoulders, walked to the window, and whistled
softly. Laurence put me into a chair, whispering “That’s a brave
girl!”--but with such an anxious, stern face. And the other man came
back into the room, followed by a policeman with his staff ready in
his hand.
“We must break open the door,” said the elder man.
I started from my seat. I wanted to rush to the drawing-room door and
warn Mr. Rayner; but Laurence prevented me, whispering gravely--
“My darling, you must leave it to us now.”
Every word, every movement had been so quiet that the music still went
on while they opened the schoolroom door and crossed the hall. I stood
watching them breathlessly.
The three men, Laurence, the most stalwart, foremost, placed
themselves against the drawing-room door, and by one mighty push burst
it open. I ran forward to the doorway just in time to see Gordon, Mr.
Carruthers’s servant, fling down the violin and rush to the opposite
window, the shutters of which were unfastened. But I heard the crash
of glass, and at the same instant two policemen dashed through the
shattered French window, seized and handcuffed him. Then he stood
between them, white and immovable, without a struggle.
“It’s no go. We know you’re one of the gang,” said the middle-aged
man. “Game’s up. We’ve got your leader.”
“What leader?” asked Gordon calmly.
“James Woodfall.”
“It’s a lie!” snapped out the immovable Gordon. “Jim Woodfall wouldn’t
let himself be nabbed by such as you.”
“Why not? We’ve got you.”
The man did not answer.
“All his fault for getting soft on a girl! Wish I had her here!”
Gordon muttered presently.
He caught sight of me at the doorway and shot at me a sort of steely
look that made me shudder. But I did not connect myself with his
words. I was too bewildered to think or to understand clearly what was
going on until I saw him, handcuffed as he was, quietly draw a tiny
revolver from his pocket and, without raising it, point it at
Laurence. With a scream I rushed forward into the room and flung
myself in front of Laurence, and I heard a report and felt something
touch my arm--I did not know what at first--and Laurence sprang
forward with almost a yell. But he was encumbered with my form; and,
before he could put me down, Gordon had wrenched himself away from his
captors, and, snarling, “I meant to have done for her!” had dashed
through the open window out into the fog and darkness.
I knew by this time that I was shot in the arm, for the blood was
trickling through my sleeve; but the wound did not pain me much yet--I
was too much excited for that, and too much occupied with Laurence’s
pitiful distress. He did not attempt to join in the hopeless chase of
the escaped Gordon, but put me on a sofa, tore off the body of my
frock, and bandaged my arm himself.
“Tell me what it all means, Laurence,” said I. “I am not badly hurt--I
am not indeed--and I want to understand it all. Did you catch the
thieves? Who were they? Have they really caught James Woodfall? And I
hope--oh, I hope poor Tom Parkes has escaped!” I whispered; for the
middle-aged man had not joined in the pursuit, but stood on the watch,
half in and half out of the window.
“Tom Parkes has been caught, and James Woodfall has escaped, I am
afraid,” said Laurence.
“Then he was there! Tell me all about it,” I said anxiously.
“Won’t to-morrow do?” pleaded poor Laurence earnestly. “I am afraid,
if you get so much excited, your arm will get inflamed, and I ought to
be setting off for the doctor now.”
“No, no; you couldn’t get to Beaconsburgh to-night, you know you
couldn’t. It wouldn’t be safe,” said I. “Your bandaging will do quite
well until the doctor comes as usual to see Sarah to-morrow morning.
Now tell me quickly all about the robbery. Did you find the policemen
in the park?” Then suddenly I sprang up from the sofa. “Where is Mr.
Rayner? Why was Gordon here instead of him? Oh, Laurence, my head
seems to be going round! I don’t understand it at all. I am getting
quite bewildered. Why was it?”
“Let me tell you about the robbery. You will hear and understand it
all in time,” said he very gravely and gently. “I found the policemen
in the park and stationed them in the shrubbery, and I stood myself,
with that man over there and one other, as close as possible to the
back entrance of the house; and there we waited until nearly half-past
seven, when a man came up through the fog and tapped at the door. One
of the maids opened it, by appointment as it turned out, for she was
expecting him, though I don’t believe the poor girl suspected what his
real business was; for it was Tom Parkes. And, when they went inside,
Tom went last, and left the door ajar. A few minutes later another man
came up and slipped in so quietly, so quickly, that we could hardly
have sworn in the dense fog to his going in at all. Then presently Tom
and the girl came out. He said good-by to her without as much delay as
she would have liked, walked a few steps away until she had shut the
door, then returned and crept alongside the wall of the house until he
was under the strong-room window. There were four of our men stationed
very close to that, and their chief, who was with me, crept along
easily under cover of the fog, which was as thick as ever, to join
them. I followed with the other man. In a few minutes we heard a soft
whistle from the strong-room window, as we guessed. Tom answered by
another, and we saw a third man come up and join Tom. I was so close
that I saw a bundle let cautiously down from the window by a cord. Tom
handed it to the third man, whom we allowed to walk off with
it--followed however by two policemen--in order to watch the further
proceedings of the other two thieves. Another bundle was let down,
which Tom carried off himself; and then we watched anxiously for the
next movement of the man in the house. The strong-room window is about
twenty feet from the ground; but the man jumped down and landed on his
feet. In an instant five of us were upon him, but, though I think each
of us in turn thought we had caught him, he eluded us all and got
clear away, and in the fog escaped us. But that man at the window
there, who has been so many years in the force, recognized him and
identified him as James Woodfall, and I recognized him too.”
“You, Laurence! I didn’t know you had ever seen him!” I cried.
At that moment the elderly man left the window.
“It’s of no good, sir, I’m afraid. The one rogue’s got off as clear as
the other. Can you tell me where Maynard is, miss?”
I got up from the sofa and led the way into the dining-room. Mrs.
Rayner was still sitting, pale and upright, with staring gray eyes,
Maynard still sleeping. The other detective shook him, and glanced at
the wine.
“Drugged,” said he shortly.
With a few vigorous shakes he succeeded in rousing Maynard, and, when
he began to look around him in a dazed way, the other said sharply--
“Pretty fellow you are to be hoodwinked like that, and drink and sleep
quietly under the very roof of one of the greatest scoundrels unhung!”
“Who?” said the other, startled. “Mr. Rayner?”
“Mr. Rayner! Yes, ‘Mr. Rayner’ to simple folk like you; but to me and
every thief-taker that knows his business--the missing forger, James
Woodfall!”