Inspector Blaikie, with the aid of the French police, had set this

watch immediately on his arrival, and himself watched the return of

the lovers in their boat, and its safe bestowal in the boathouse.

But the distance was too great for him to recognise Pasquett, whom

he believed to be still in Siberia. Concealed in one of the cottages

where he had engaged a room with a commanding view, Blaikie saw Arthur

Wharton hurrying along the road that led to the villa, and saw the door

close upon him. Three-quarters of an hour later, Lord Ealing drove up

in a hired car, and he, too, disappeared into the house. The detective

who had followed them reported to Blaikie, who sent the man into St.

Malo to hire, if he could, a second motor-boat, in which Blaikie and

his fellows would be able, if necessary, to take up the chase. The

Inspector, as we have seen, had orders to make no arrest unless the

inmates of the villa attempted to escape. Impatiently, he awaited

Wilson's coming. He could not make out what Arthur Wharton and Lord

Ealing were doing at the villa.

* * * * *

We, fortunately, are privileged to enter, and to see for ourselves. Old

Marie had gone home, and it was Pasquett himself who opened the door to

Arthur Wharton on his arrival. He began a hilarious welcome, and then

saw Arthur's woebegone face. "Why, whatever is up?" he asked.

"Everything," said Arthur. "Ten to one a damned detective has followed

me here, though I've done my best to give him the slip. Everything's

discovered, Jack. You must fly at once."

"What the devil do you mean?" said Pasquett.

"Superintendent Wilson knows everything."

Pasquett drew Arthur into a room and shut the door. "Now," he said,

"tell me what you mean."

"I told Lord Ealing about my--my doubts, and he somehow let it out to

Wilson. And----"

"Oh, if that's all," said Pasquett, greatly relieved, "it doesn't

matter in the least. I can prove to you or anybody else in five minutes

that I'm who I always said I am."

"Never mind who you are, Jack. That's neither here nor there--now. It

isn't that."

"Then what is it?" The colour had gone from Pasquett's face, but he

retained his self-possession.

"Wilson says he can prove that you were in London when Radlett was

murdered, and that you escaped to France the morning of the discovery."

"My God, that is serious."

"He has found it all out, except that you are back in Europe. I told

him you were still in Siberia."

"You're a good friend, Arthur. I wonder how the devil he found out."

"So it's true," said Arthur. "I so hoped it wasn't true. Oh, Jack, you

must fly at once."

"Looks a bit like it; but it's easier said than done."

"Then you did do it, Jack. I'd been hoping against hope you didn't. You

killed him?"

Pasquett stared at Arthur. "Good God! You think I killed poor Hugh. Of

course, it's quite natural you should. I suppose Wilson thinks so, too.

No, Arthur, I didn't kill him."

"Then you needn't fly. You can stay and tell them the truth. It's all a

hideous mistake."

"No, Arthur, I must fly, just as much as if I'd killed him. You see, I

did--something else. I was there--at Sugden's Hotel. If I'm caught--no,

I mustn't be caught."

"I don't understand, Jack. You say you didn't kill him. Yet you were

there. Do you mean he isn't dead?" said Arthur, with a sudden hope

dawning upon him.

"No," said Pasquett. "He's dead, poor chap."

"Then who did kill him? What did you do that you have to fly all the

same? Oh, Jack, tell me all about it."

"My dear Arthur, I can't tell you now. There's no time to be lost. I

will when I get a chance. I don't think you'll blame me much, when you

know. But it's a long story. Do you say there were detectives following

you?"

"Wilson put men on to watch me. Of course, I hope I gave them the slip.

No one knows you're here."

"Hm. Not unless the police have got hold of your wire to me, or mine

to you. The chances are they will soon, even if they haven't already.

That means there's not a minute to lose. I must tell Norah. We must

fly together. Perhaps there's still time. Look here, Arthur. I'm going

upstairs first. There are windows there from which I can get a good

view. I want to see if the house is being watched already. You didn't

notice anything as you came along?"

"No, Jack, I don't know what I ought to do."

"You stay there, Arthur, and keep cool. I mean to get out of this if I

can."

"As long as you didn't--kill him----"

"Of course I didn't kill him. Stay where you are. I'll be back in a

minute." Pasquett dashed upstairs, leaving Arthur to stare moodily out

of the window along the empty sea front.

Yet not quite empty. A car came towards the house at full speed, and

stopped at the door. Lord Ealing leapt out, and told the driver to

wait. Arthur, after an instant's hesitation, went to the front door

and admitted his uncle. "What the devil are you here for?" he asked.

"Come in here," he added, and let his uncle into the room Pasquett had

just left. "What do you want now?" he said truculently.

"My dear Arthur, keep cool. I want to see Mr. Pasquett."

"He's not here. He's--gone."

"Gone? Where?"

"Away. For good."

"Whatever do you mean? You didn't tell that policeman?"

"I didn't tell him anything. He told me."

"He told you? What?"

"That he had proof positive that Jack murdered Hugh Radlett. But he

didn't. Only----"

"My God," said Lord Ealing. "So that's it, is it? Can he prove it?"

"How do I know? He says he can. But it's not true. It can't be true."

"And what are you doing here?"

"I came to tell Jack to fly at once."

"And Mr. Pasquett has taken your advice, has he? Well, it's best so,

perhaps."

"What did you come here for? You didn't come to warn Jack, did you?"

"I came to have a little talk with Mr. Pasquett, and find out just how

things stood."

"He says he can prove he is Pasquett. Has the proofs here, in fact. But

it doesn't seem to matter now, does it, who he is?"

"A murderer hangs as well by any name, no doubt."

"No, no. Jack swears he didn't kill Radlett."

"Then what has he run away for?"

"He hasn't run away, yet, Lord Ealing," said Pasquett's smooth voice.

He had entered the room just in time to hear Lord Ealing's question.

"The police are all round the house, Arthur," he added. "I saw that

fellow Blaikie distinctly with my field-glass."

"Then you can't get away. What _shall_ we do?"

"Look here, Pasquett," said Lord Ealing, "if that's your name----"

"It is, my lord," said Pasquett.

"I came here to find out who you really are, and now Arthur tells me

that, in addition to being an impostor, you are a--murderer."

"I never said anything of the sort, uncle," said Arthur.

"At all events, he told me the police very badly want you on a charge

of murder," said Lord Ealing.

"So he informs me. I was not aware of it till now."

"Upon my word," said Lord Ealing, "you take it coolly. Are you aware

that this will ruin, not only me and the Anglo-Asiatic, but some

thousands of people who have put their money into this infernal

concession? Are you----"

"I have not ruined you _yet_, Lord Ealing."

"What do you mean, sir? If this murder charge is proved, what becomes

of the concession? That's what I want to know."

"What I meant, Lord Ealing, was that, as I have not ruined you _yet_, I

rely on your helping me to get away."

Lord Ealing's fury changed to fear in an instant. "What's that?" he

said. "What do you mean?"

"I was referring to a little incident which doubtless remains in your

lordship's memory. When my friend Hugh Radlett was at Sugden's Hotel,

you addressed a private letter to him there. In it, you referred to a

certain little scheme which you had concocted between you--own brother

to a trick you subsequently played off on me. Radlett had reached

a private understanding with you that he was going to take up the

concession jointly with the Anglo-Asiatic. But you suggested that he

should give it out temporarily that he was not coming in, in order

that the shares might slump, and you and he both make a pretty penny

by buying them when they were down. You also offered, in return for

a big block of unpaid shares in the new company, to guarantee that

the Foreign Office would sympathetically consider the question of

recognition. I see you remember the letter. Does your lordship wish to

see it published?"

"How the devil did you get hold of that letter," said Lord Ealing, "if

you're not the murderer? You killed Radlett, and stole the letter from

his room."

"As a matter of fact, Lord Ealing, I did not kill Hugh Radlett. But

suppose I did. At any rate, I am in possession of your letter, and,

if I am caught, it will certainly fall into the hands of the police.

I shall see that it does, and that it is published in the newspapers.

Will you like that, my lord?"

"I'll give you a thousand pounds for that letter," said Lord Ealing.

"Oh, no. It is not to be bought," said Pasquett, "not with money. These

are my terms. You will give me any help in your power, even at a risk

to yourself, in escaping from the police. If you do as I tell you, the

letter will be handed to you when your part in the affair is over. You

will then be free to destroy it. But till then it will remain in my

keeping or that of my friends. If you refuse, I shall send it to the

newspapers at once, and hand the original to the man who attempts to

arrest me. Is that your choice?"

Arthur had stood tongue-tied, listening in astonishment to this

dialogue. He was learning more about Lord Ealing these last few days

than he had ever learnt before in all his life.

"Shall I publish?" Pasquett repeated.

Still Lord Ealing said nothing. He simply stared at Pasquett as if he

would like to kill him.

"No, I thought not," Pasquett went on. "In that case, your lordship

will be good enough to wait here until we have decided how you can best

help in our escape. Don't run away, Lord Ealing. The letter will be

published if you do. It is merely a little matter of business between

us. Sit down and think it over. Come, Arthur." And Pasquett walked out

of the room. With a doubtful glance at his uncle, standing immobile in

the middle of the room and staring at nothing, Arthur Wharton followed

his friend.

"Now, Arthur," said Pasquett, "we must hold a council of war. Will you

come to it? They all know what's in the wind."

"I'll come, Jack. I believe you didn't kill him."

"That's right," said Pasquett, leading the way into the drawing-room of

the villa.

There Arthur found quite a company assembled. Norah Culpepper was there

with her mother, who was whimpering in a corner. And there were a

strange man and woman, whom Pasquett introduced to him as Mr. and Mrs.

Ruston. Norah rose as they entered, and came and took Pasquett's hands

in hers. She seemed the calmest of them all.

"I have a plan," said Pasquett. "I'm sorry, Ruston, to drag you into

this, especially as you don't know what it's all about. The police are

after me for murder. I give you my word I'm not a murderer. I haven't

killed any one. Norah knows that, and Mrs. Culpepper. But I have very

good reason for not meeting the police. If they catch me, I stand a

good chance of being convicted, not for murder, but for something else

that would mean a good long sentence. So does Norah, and Mr. Culpepper,

if they catch him." There came a loud sob from Mrs. Culpepper in the

corner. "Now, if you choose, you can walk straight out of this house,

and have no more to do with me. I shan't blame you. On the other hand,

you can help me, if you're game to take a bit of risk."

Ruston obviously hesitated. He turned towards his wife.

"It's all right, old chap," said Pasquett. "I shan't take it amiss if

you refuse."

"What's it all about?" said Ruston. "I think I ought to know that

before I make up my mind."

"It's this," said Pasquett. "You've heard of Hugh Radlett, who was

murdered a few months ago and whose money came to me." Ruston nodded.

"The police think I killed him. Norah here will tell you I didn't. He

was my best friend, you know. I wouldn't have hurt a hair of his head."

"Then why run away?" said Ruston.

"Because, though I didn't kill him, I could only prove that I didn't by

proving myself guilty of another crime that would get me a good many

years hard. Now, do you see?"

"Do you mean you did commit the other crime, whatever it was?" Ruston

asked.

"Yes, I did. It was not a crime in my eyes; but in the eyes of the

law--it would mean something pretty severe. And Norah was in it, too.

If we're caught, either of us----"

"Oh, they mustn't be caught," said Mrs. Ruston. "Help them, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ruston. But it's dangerous, I warn you, though I have

an idea."

Ruston took Pasquett's hand. "We were boys together," he said; "you

once saved my life. I'm game. What is it?"

"Didn't you say a ship of yours was sailing from Havre to-morrow

morning? Yes, I thought so. I want you to send a message to that ship

to cruise off this coast out of sight of land--say off the southernmost

point of Alderney--ready to pick up two people in a motor-boat and ask

no question. See the idea?"

"I see. Fortunately the ship carries no wireless, and she's bound

straight for Odessa. You mean to go off in the motor-boat and join her?"

"Yes, with Norah. It's the only chance. The police are all round the

house now. Of course, we may not be able to get away in the boat. They

may rush the house sooner. But it looks as if they're holding back for

something. I mean to try about midnight. What do you say, Norah?"

"Yes, I see no other chance," said Norah slowly. "And if the police

have a boat, it's not very much of a chance."

"Unless we can get away unseen in the dark," said Pasquett.

"They're bound to hear the engine."

"Then we must take the risk. If we once get away, they'll have a job

finding us."

"But how am I to get in touch with my ship?" said Ruston. "If I go,

the police will be after me, sure as fate. And they'll find out about

my connection with the ship, and send a fast boat after you, and catch

you."

"I've provided you with a messenger, Ruston. Lord Ealing will take the

message."

"Lord Ealing! He is helping you to escape?"

Pasquett laughed. "He has the best of reasons for not betraying me. And

for not being followed to Havre by the police. Here, Ruston, I want you

to take charge of this letter. Read it." Pasquett handed Ruston Lord

Ealing's letter to Hugh Radlett.

Ruston read it. "Whew," he said, "that would make some stink if it came

out."

"If Ealing betrays me, I rely on you to get that letter published in

the newspapers. If he plays the game, you will hand it to him when he

comes to claim it. Don't tell a soul you've got it, of course."

"Then Lord Ealing is to be my messenger, is he? I'll write now." Ruston

sat down and wrote a short note to the captain of his ship, bidding

him get away from Havre the first thing in the morning, and cruise off

the southernmost point of Alderney till he picked up two people in a

motor-boat. If he saw no sign of them by dusk on the following day, he

was free to continue his voyage. "Ask no questions, and destroy this

letter," Ruston concluded. "My friends are passengers to Odessa, at my

expense."

"He's a discreet chap, and devoted to me," said Ruston. "He'll do it,

never fear." He read the letter aloud, and handed it to Pasquett.

"I'll give it to the messenger boy at once," said Pasquett. He went in

search of Lord Ealing.

A few minutes later, they heard Lord Ealing's voice in the hall, and

Pasquett's cheerfully wishing him "bon voyage." Then came the sound of

his motor starting. A minute later, Pasquett came back into the room.

"That's done," he said. "I warrant he'll do his best, as if the devil

was after him. He'll come to you for his letter, Ruston, when we've

gone. And now, darling, we must prepare for our voyage."

For the next hour there was a bustle of preparation. Pasquett and Norah

Culpepper packed up a few things to take with them. They stole round to

the boathouse, and tended the boat as carefully as for a race, oiling

every part of the engines in preparation for their voyage. But in an

hour all was ready, and it was still far too light to make a start. "We

must wait till nearly midnight," said Pasquett, "even though it means

the danger of their rushing the house meanwhile."

"We are thinking of slipping off home, unless we can be of any use,"

said Ruston.

"No," said Norah. "We want you. Our car's in the garage. There are

sure to be police watching the boathouse and the shore. Just before we

slip away in the boat, it will help enormously if you two drive off in

the car from the other side. Make as much noise as you can, and all

the police will rush for you, thinking it's Jack and I, trying to get

away. Meanwhile, we shall get a start in the boat. Do you see the idea?

There's really no danger in it for you, is there?"

"Oh, we'll do it," said Ruston. "Eh, Helen?" Mrs. Ruston agreed.

"Then that's that," said Pasquett. "You're real friends."

"And now," said Norah, "I'm going for a stroll."

"Going for a stroll?" said Arthur, incredulously. "You'll be seen."

"Precisely," said Norah. "I want to be seen. I'm afraid of those

policemen getting nervous, and being afraid I've got away somehow. If I

take a quiet stroll along the beach, without hat or coat, they'll know

I'm here, and, what's more, they'll be quite sure I don't know they're

here. Moreover, I want to see if they've got a boat."

"But they may arrest you." It was Mrs. Ruston who spoke.

"I don't think so," said Norah. "Why haven't they done so already? No.

They're waiting for something or somebody. I think it's safe enough. I

won't go far--only along the beach. I won't be out ten minutes."

"Let me come with you," said Arthur, and Norah welcomed the suggestion.

So Arthur Wharton and Norah went, hatless and coatless, into the

garden, and strolled down on to the beach. Pasquett watched them,

standing well back, from a window; he was nervous, though he had agreed

that Norah should go. If the police were after all to arrest her, he

would give himself up too. He could not bear to go away and leave Norah

to take the consequences of their joint misdeeds.

The two figures passed out of sight beyond the little group of boats

from whose shelter Wilson had once watched the villa. Pasquett became

yet more anxious, despite himself. He had seen a hasty consultation

going on outside the cottage just above the place where the boats lay.

Blaikie was resisting the eagerness of his French helpers to effect

an immediate arrest. "She can't get away," he said. "I don't want her

arrested yet." The Frenchmen shrugged their shoulders, and clamoured in

vain.

Then Norah and Arthur reappeared, still walking unconcernedly along,

this time towards the villa. In a few minutes they were back in the

house. "There's a French police boat just round the bend," said Arthur.

"I know her," said Norah. "She's not so fast as ours."

"And Inspector Blaikie's in the cottage just above," said Arthur.

"So now we know the lie of the land," said Pasquett, cheerfully. He

turned to Mrs. Culpepper. "Mother, give us a square meal before we

start. We shall need it."

Norah went away to help her mother prepare supper. The Rustons were

still in the drawing-room. Arthur drew Pasquett aside.

"Jack," he said, "you've time now. Tell me--what really happened. I

must know--if I'm to help you."

"Right you are," said Pasquett. "I'll tell you the whole story."

And he did.

But that will keep--though perhaps the intelligent reader has guessed

it already.

CHAPTER XXXII

SHOWS HOW TOO MANY POLICEMEN SOMETIMES SPOIL THE BROTH

Mr. Culpepper had arranged that his confidential clerk, as soon as he

had delivered the letters at Paramé, should wire a reply, not to his

own office, but to that of a friend, and in a form that would arouse no

suspicions in the minds of the police. The "dress-lengths," he was to

say, had arrived, and the "hosiery" would arrive, or would not arrive

to-morrow, according as Norah Culpepper was able or unable to keep the

appointment he had suggested to her. As evening approached, and no

answer came from Paramé, Mr. Culpepper grew seriously alarmed. He began

to fear that either his messenger had never reached his destination,

or something was wrong at Paramé itself. He debated seriously in his

own mind what he ought to do, and finally he determined to go to

Paramé himself early the next morning, and to take his risk of being

followed there by the police. He rather thought he had given them the

slip by coming out of his office through the adjoining building. At

any rate, he had seen no sign since that he was being followed. It was

disquieting that no reply had come from Paramé; but, even if something

had gone wrong, he would be certainly no worse off in France than in

England, and it might be that no one would pursue him thither. Shortly

after Wilson had rung up the Hendon Aerodrome, Mr. Culpepper did the

same and tried to arrange for a passage for an early hour the next

morning. An aeroplane, he found, would be leaving early, with room for

an additional passenger, but it would depend on the original hirer's

consenting whether he could travel in it or not. Culpepper, who had

given the name of Morgan and described himself as a merchant having

urgent business in St. Malo, tried hard to reserve an assured passage,

but finally he made the best of a bad job, and agreed to turn up on the

following morning and take his chance of the other passenger's consent.

The aerodrome would not give the name of this passenger, so that

Culpepper was unable to get into touch with him overnight.

Wilson, driving up to Hendon early the next morning with the boy in

buttons, was taken into the office and asked if he would mind if a Mr.

Morgan, a merchant anxious to get to St. Malo in a hurry, shared the

aeroplane with him. He agreed, and was taken to be introduced to Mr.

Morgan. The little man started back when he saw Wilson, and seemed to

expect immediate arrest. Wilson laughed at his discomfiture. "Hallo,

Culpepper," he said, "are you coming too? The more the merrier."

"Coming where?" said Culpepper. "I'm going home, if that's what you

mean."

"We shall be companions," said Wilson. "An unexpected pleasure, my dear

sir. And we shall both meet friends we know on the other side."

Culpepper shrugged his shoulders. He turned to the clerk in charge.

"My name," he said, "is not Morgan. It is Culpepper. I shall share

Superintendent Wilson's aeroplane."

Wilson laughed again. "The play would not be complete without you," he

said. "Come, hop in."

The three travellers took their seats. The plane ran along the ground,

and then soared. The last contingent of our actors had set off for the

grand transformation scene which will end our story.

* * * * *

At Paramé, meanwhile, events had been moving fast. Inspector Blaikie,

as the previous day advanced, had become more and more bewildered.

He had been sent to France to keep a watch on Norah Culpepper, with

orders to arrest her only if she attempted to make her escape. This had

seemed plain enough, and he had easily arranged with the French police

for a warrant, and for the help of French officers in effecting the

arrest, if this became necessary. But Blaikie had not bargained for the

complications which set in soon after he had posted his watch. When

first Arthur Wharton and then Lord Ealing, each followed by a detective

from London, made their appearance at the villa, Blaikie could not make

head or tail of these mysterious occurrences. Then Lord Ealing drove

away in his hired car inland, and Blaikie had only one car immediately

handy, and that he would not let go, lest Norah Culpepper should seize

the chance of getting away. There was, therefore, some delay before

the man detailed to keep on Lord Ealing's track could follow him. Lord

Ealing, for the moment, got clean away, and Blaikie had to send off two

of his three English detectives in pursuit, in the hope of picking up

the trail.

When Arthur Wharton and Norah Culpepper took their stroll along the

beach and then both returned to the villa, the Inspector was somewhat

reassured. Apparently, the inmates of the villa suspected nothing, and

were pursuing their ordinary course. At all events, Norah Culpepper

did not appear to have any immediate intention of running away. It was

all very perplexing, but Blaikie made up his mind to leave the watch to

his remaining subordinate, and to snatch a few hours' sleep. If Norah

Culpepper was meditating an escape, she would probably wait till it was

quite dark, and that would not be till very late on this fine August

night.

Blaikie's fellow-detective, left in sole charge--for the French police,

though near at hand, had retired at evening to a room where they were

drinking and playing cards--ensconced himself in an empty boat from

which he could command a good view of the house. It was a beautiful,

warm, drowsy night. He did not fall asleep, but his faculties were

pleasantly lulled, and he felt most comfortable where he was. He

watched the house, but he did not note any of the subdued bustle of the

approaching flight.

At half-past ten a boy on a bicycle rode up to the cottage where

Blaikie was taking his repose in the best bedroom, and left a telegram

for the Inspector. The woman who received it, saying that it was a

pity to disturb the gentleman, left it on the mantelpiece in the

sitting-room for him to find when he woke and then went herself to bed.

Blaikie, waking at eleven o'clock, went out without going into the

sitting-room, and found his subordinate half asleep in the empty boat.

After rating the man soundly, he stole through the coppice towards the

boathouse, and tried to look through the crack in the wall. But it was

too dark to make out the interior. Reassured by finding all quiet,

Blaikie completed a slow survey of the entire premises, and returned to

his cottage to fetch his pipe, which he had left on the sitting-room

mantelpiece. As he entered he at last saw Wilson's telegram, and

stretched out his hand to take it.

As he did so, he heard a loud shout from the villa, followed by other

shouts, amid which he could hear the snortings of a motor-car about

to start. Thrusting the telegram into his pocket, still unopened, he

rushed out of doors, and ran quickly towards the villa. He was just

in time to see a motor-car with a man driving and a woman muffled up

beside him, starting along the road leading straight inland from the

Culpepper villa. The French policemen, disturbed at their cards, came

running after him towards the villa in a compact little body. The

inhabitants of the nearer houses, disturbed by the shouting, either

came running out into the road, or threw up their windows, and inquired

volubly what the matter was. There was a great scattering to and fro.

"Quick, the car," said Blaikie to his subordinate, beckoning at the

same time to the leader of the French police. Followed by these two, he

dashed towards the car which he had waiting in readiness and leapt in.

In five minutes the three police officers were in full pursuit of the

flying car. But the car they were following was a fast one, and Blaikie

saw they might be in for a long chase.

"Leave a man or two to watch the house, and the rest of you get another

car and come after us," shouted the leader of the French police to his

followers, as the police car started on its way. The little group of

policemen scattered this way and that.

At that instant came a faint throbbing sound from the Culpepper villa,

and the motor-boat, with Norah and Pasquett aboard, shot out of the

mouth of the little river, making straight for sea. A policeman

turning, managed to flash his lantern towards it, but in a couple of

minutes it was out of sight, and only the throb of its engine could be

faintly heard.

"The boat, the boat," shouted the French policemen, dancing up and down

on the beach. "Where is our boat? Warn her, warn her." Deprived of

their leader, who had gone off with Blaikie in pursuit of the flying

motor-car, the policemen seemed to have lost the power of action. But,

after a short hesitation, they all ran, shouting and gesticulating,

towards the place where the police boat lay.

When they reached it, the alarm had already been given, and the man who

had been left in charge was already preparing to start the boat. Two

more policemen scrambled in and then the police boat shot out seaward

in pursuit.

Arthur Wharton, meanwhile, was left alone in the villa with Mrs.

Culpepper, who was in hysterics in the drawing-room. Abandoning his

ineffectual efforts to comfort her, Arthur soon left the house and

emerged upon the beach. He wanted to see what was happening. The

remaining French policeman was battering at the front door a moment

after he had come out by the garden.

Arthur stared seaward, but he could see nothing. The sound of the

engines had died away. But soon came a noise of shouting over the sea.

Arthur could hear no words, but he thought, rightly, that the shouts

came from the police boat. Had they caught the fugitives? Or what had

happened? Arthur remained, how long he did not know, staring into the

darkness, but hearing only an occasional sound, made faint by distance.

At last came a sound behind him. One of the motors was returning. A

car drove up to the point on the road nearest the sea. Blaikie and the

two other policemen leapt down. They were cursing savagely. Blaikie saw

Arthur's figure on the beach, and came running towards him. "What has

happened?" he cried.

"Have you caught them?" asked Arthur, not anxious to give information

before he must.

"Caught them?" shouted Blaikie furiously. "Yes, I've caught them.

What's happened here? That's what I want to know."

"You had better ask some one who knows," said Arthur. "I came out

because I heard a lot of shouting."

Blaikie seized Arthur by the lapels of his coat, and shook him. "Look

here," he said, "I'll stand no nonsense. You were in that house. You

know. Out with it."

"Go and see for yourself," said Arthur, shaking himself free.

Blaikie cursed again, and ran towards the villa. As he did so, the

French policemen threw up a window, and shouted, "Who's there?" The

French Inspector, who had now joined Blaikie, answered, and there was

a rapid colloquy in excited French. "She has escaped," said the French

Inspector, "in the boat--with a man. The police boat is in chase of

them."

Blaikie had remembered, while this colloquy was proceeding, the

telegram which he had thrust into his pocket just as the alarm was

given. Taking it out, he tore it open and read it. His expression

changed from anger to consternation. "My God!" he said, "Pasquett."

"What is that?" asked the other English detective.

"Pasquett was in the house," said Blaikie. "This is a wire--from the

Superintendent--ordering me to get the French police to arrest him at

once. Hell! It's he who's gone off with the girl in that boat. Quick!

We must go after them. Where's that other boat you found?"

The detective answered by example. "This way," he said, beginning to

run. Blaikie and the French police officer followed along the shore.

Arthur was left alone again. He strained eyes and ears seaward. It

seemed to him he could hear still a faint and distant sound, as of

voices. Had the police boat caught the fugitives? His heart stood still.

In a few minutes he heard the third boat start, but it, too, speedily

vanished seaward. There was not a sound on the shore, though the

inhabitants of the little town had gathered in knots by the cottages

discussing the strange events of the night. From the Culpepper villa

came a blaze of light; for the French policeman had switched on all

the lights, and was now turning the house upside down in an exhaustive

search for nothing in particular. Arthur did not want to go back to

the villa while he was there, but he felt a certain responsibility

for seeing that Mrs. Culpepper came to no harm. He just stayed on the

beach, and waited for something to happen. There was no sign of the

Rustons or their car.

At length the policeman seemed to complete his examination of the

villa. One by one the lights went out, till, from where Arthur stood,

only the drawing-room light was visible. Then the policeman emerged,

talking to some one within the house. Presumably he was giving his

orders to Mrs. Culpepper. Arthur avoided him and entered the house by

way of the garden. He found Mrs. Culpepper still in the drawing-room,

moaning softly to herself.

Arthur spent the rest of the night between comforting Mrs. Culpepper

and making short expeditions in search of news. But there was no news.

No boat returned: nothing happened. At any rate, it looked as if Norah

and Pasquett had not been caught yet.

Day dawned, and showed nothing but a waste of sea. The three boats were

out of sight. At length Marie arrived, buzzing with excitement and

news. The first police boat, she said, had stuck on a sand-bank, and

the second had lost time in helping her off. The fugitives, meanwhile,

had got clean away. After expressing at great length her unfavourable

views of the police, Marie at length set about preparing breakfast and

repairing some of the havoc that they had wrought. Arthur left the

house, and went in search of the Rustons, whose address he had obtained

from Mrs. Culpepper. But the Rustons, it appeared, were in bed,

sleeping off the effects of their exciting night. Arthur thought it

best not to disturb them. He walked on to the police station, but there

they could, or would, tell him nothing. He went back to the villa for a

mournful breakfast with Mrs. Culpepper, and then hung about the shore,

still waiting on events.

At length he saw a car approaching. As it drew near he recognised two

of the occupants. One was Superintendent Wilson and the other Alfred

Culpepper. With them were a French police officer and a small boy in a

state of great excitement.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IN WHICH SUPERINTENDENT WILSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION, AND ASKS FOR

SOME MORE

Wilson saw Arthur and stopped the car. "Well, Mr. Wharton," he said, "I

understand the birds have flown."

"Have they escaped?" asked Arthur eagerly.

"The police boats have put back to St. Malo, if that's what you mean,

and they haven't caught them. Of course, there are bigger boats on the

job now. But that's after the fair. Upon my word, I never saw an affair

so bungled. Very nicely managed, on your side, Mr. Wharton. I suppose I

may call it your side."

"If you like," said Arthur. "Then they have got clean away?"

"So far, so far. But, unless they have a ship waiting to pick them up,

they're bound to be caught soon." Wilson looked keenly at Arthur as he

said this. He wanted to find out. Apparently he drew his conclusions.

"Ah, I see there is a ship," he went on. "Then they have a chance. Upon

my word, Mr. Pasquett would have made a fine detective. A pity, Mr.

Wharton. A pity. He should have kept straight."

"Look here, Superintendent," said Arthur, "I want you to know the truth

about Jack Pasquett. He told me all about it yesterday--I mean what

happened at Sugden's Hotel. It can't hurt him for you to know. You

think horrible things about him, and they aren't true."

"But suppose I know already, Mr. Wharton?"

"But you can't know. You practically told me you could prove Jack

Pasquett was the man who killed Radlett at Sugden's Hotel."

"True. But I have learnt a number of things since then, and put two and

two together. I should have seen the truth long ago."

"Then you do know now----"

"I know," said Wilson slowly, "that John Pasquett no more killed Hugh

Radlett at Sugden's Hotel than you or I did."

"And you know----"

"I know that Culpepper told us a pack of lies. Didn't you, Culpepper?"

Wilson went on, as that worthy, having hovered in the background for a

few minutes, approached.

Culpepper gave a wan smile. "I was thinking of going into the house to

look for my poor wife," he said, "but the policeman won't let me go in."

Wilson shouted a few words in French to the French officer, and

Culpepper trotted off and disappeared into the house. As he did so,

another motor-car drove up, and Blaikie descended from it. He came up

to Wilson sheepishly. "No word of them yet, sir," he said. "I'm very

much afraid they've got away."

"You've sent out the wireless messages?" asked Wilson.

"Yes, sir."

"And communicated with the Admiral at Portsmouth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, I think, that's all we can do at present. Upon my word, Blaikie,

you have made a mess of it."

"I'm sorry, sir. I was----"

"Never mind, Blaikie. Can't be helped. Suppose we all go into the

house. I want to have a little consultation. By the way, where's Lord

Ealing? Our party is hardly complete without him, even if we overlook

the absence of the principal actors."

"We've found him, sir. He drove into the town this morning, looking for

a Mr. Ruston, who was mixed up in this affair last night. I told him to

come along here to see you."

"Let us go in, then," said Wilson, leading the way into the dining-room

whither Blaikie, Arthur Wharton, the boy, and the French detective

followed. Wilson went across to the drawing-room and summoned Mr.

and Mrs. Culpepper to come. The whole party gathered round the table

expectantly. Wilson took a seat at the head of the table. "We will give

Lord Ealing five minutes," he said, taking out his watch. They waited

in silence.

Before the five minutes were up, a car was heard in the distance,

and Lord Ealing stepped out of it, and came into the room. He looked

weary after his night's adventures, and a little ill at ease. But the

haunting fear of yesterday had been put away. "You sent for me," he

said to the Superintendent.

Wilson pointed to a vacant chair. "I wanted you, my lord, to make

our little party complete, apart from the unfortunate absence of Mr.

Pasquett and Miss Culpepper." He smiled a satirical smile at Blaikie

as he spoke. "Now we can get to business. Have you seen Mr. Ruston, my

lord?"

"Eh, what's that?" said Lord Ealing. "Yes, I have just left Mr. Ruston,

since you wish to know. Though I fail to see what concern it is of

yours."

"We shall see, my lord," said Wilson. "Will you sit down?"

"I am going to tell you all," said Wilson, "as nearly as I know it,

what really happened at Sugden's Hotel on a certain night which was the

starting-point of this case. Mr. Culpepper, I believe, knows the truth,

and so does Mr. Wharton. If I am wrong at any point, they can correct

me. But before I come to the details, I will make my attitude on one

point plain, in the hope that it may induce you all to be frank with

me. John Pasquett committed no murder at Sugden's Hotel." Wilson looked

round the table to measure the effect of his words.

Blaikie gave a sigh of relief. "Then I haven't let the murderer

escape," he said. "But who did kill him, if Pasquett didn't? Surely not

Rosenbaum, after all?"

"All in good time," said Wilson. "Let us take it that Pasquett did not.

Will that help you to tell me the truth? Eh, Mr. Culpepper?"

"I didn't speak," said the little man. "I'm listening."

"Very well, then. Now, before I begin about what happened at Sugden's

Hotel, I want to ask you all a question. You, Lord Ealing, gave me to

understand yesterday, through a misunderstanding, that the man who

calls himself John Pasquett is not really John Pasquett at all. Why did

you think that?"

Lord Ealing said nothing for a moment. Then he answered, "You'd better

ask my nephew."

"Are you more willing than you were yesterday to explain, Mr. Wharton?"

asked Wilson.

"The whole thing," said Arthur, "was an absurd misunderstanding.

Pasquett proved to me yesterday that he is John Pasquett--proved it

absolutely."

"But what made you think that he was not?"

"I found in Siberia what seemed to be proofs of his death some years

ago. But it was not Pasquett who died then."

"Who was it, Mr. Wharton?"

"It was Hugh Radlett."

"What's that you say?" asked Lord Ealing.

"What the devil do you mean?" asked Blaikie.

Wilson smiled a slow smile of intense satisfaction. "Hugh Radlett," he

repeated. "That makes it all clear."

"But," said Lord Ealing, "that can't be. I met Radlett in London the

day before the crime. He was alive enough then."

"How did you know it was Radlett, my lord?"

"Good God! Do you mean that Radlett was an impostor?"

"That is precisely what I mean. Hugh Radlett, as you have just heard,

was dead long before. What made you think it was Pasquett who died, Mr.

Wharton?"

"He was buried under Pasquett's name."

"Why? How did that happen?"

It was Arthur's turn to smile. "You get on with your story,

Superintendent," he said, "and, in due course, I'll come to mine. You

may assume that John Pasquett is John Pasquett, and no one else, and

that, whatever happened at Sugden's Hotel, it was not Hugh Radlett who

was murdered there."

"Then who was it?" asked Lord Ealing.

"No one at all," said Wilson. "There was no one murdered at Sugden's

Hotel."

"No one," said Lord Ealing, incredulously. "What on earth do you mean?"

"But the body?" said Blaikie.

"Will you produce the body, Inspector?" asked Wilson.

"Rosenbaum took it away in the trunk."

"There never was a body in the trunk."

"But--Culpepper here saw it. He put it in himself," said Lord Ealing.

"Did you, Mr. Culpepper?" asked Wilson. "Did you put a body in the

trunk?"

"I--I--I--I couldn't help it," said the little man.

Lord Ealing turned fiercely on Culpepper. "Do you mean to tell me,"

he said, "that you never put any body in that trunk at all? Is this a

practical joke, Wilson?"

"You see, Lord Ealing," said Wilson gaily, "Mr. Culpepper was in the

plot."

"In the plot? What plot?"

"The little plot for the success of which it was essential that Radlett

should do two things."

"What things?"

"First, come to life, and then, die."

"Come to life? What for?" asked Blaikie.

"To make his will, Inspector."

"And die?" asked Arthur, entering into the spirit of the colloquy.

"To make room for his heir under the will, Mr. Wharton. Am I right?"

"You seem to know it all, Superintendent," said Arthur.

"And his heir----" Lord Ealing began.

"Was John Pasquett," said Wilson.

"But," said Lord Ealing, "if it wasn't Radlett I saw in London, when

we fixed up all about the concession, who the devil was it?"

"I can't tell you for certain, Lord Ealing, but I think I know the

answer. I'll hazard a guess. Mr. Culpepper perhaps will tell me if I am

wrong. It was--John Pasquett."

"Pasquett? Impossible! It was a quite different man."

"Externally, no doubt. You expected a different man, and you thought it

was a different man. But was it only one very good actor playing two

parts? Eh, Mr. Culpepper?"

"Nonsense," said Mr. Culpepper.

"That is my conclusion," said Wilson, "and I think Mr. Culpepper will

soon realise he had better tell us the truth."

"I have told you the truth," said Culpepper. "It was that villain

Rosenbaum did it."

"But if Pasquett was Radlett, how did he get away from the hotel

without being seen?" It was Blaikie this time who asked this question.

"He went away quite openly; only on this occasion it was as Rosenbaum

that he went."

"Do you mean to tell me Pasquett was Rosenbaum, too?" asked Lord

Ealing, incredulously. "This is really too much."

"Nevertheless," said Wilson, "I do tell you that Pasquett and Rosenbaum

were the same person, just as Pasquett and Radlett were one and the

same."

"But, sir, there were two men at the hotel--Radlett and Rosenbaum. Who

was the other man?" asked Blaikie.

"There was no other man," said Wilson.

"But they were both seen."

"My dear Blaikie, there is the vital point you and I both missed. Two

apparently different men were seen, but they were never seen together.

I have been carefully over the notes of the case. Radlett and Rosenbaum

were never seen together."

"Yes, sir, they were. On the boat," said Blaikie. "Coming over from

Ostend."

"True, O Inspector," said Wilson. "But need I remind you that it was

the real Rosenbaum who was on the boat coming over? The real Rosenbaum

never came to Sugden's Hotel. The two men were never seen together at

the hotel."

"You're right, sir," said Blaikie. "But who'd 'a' thought it?"

"You and I ought to have thought it, but we didn't. I didn't, till it

came to me when I read over the notes--after I had made up my mind the

supposed murder was a deliberate plant and no murder at all."

"How did you find that out?" asked Arthur.

"It came to me in a flash," said Wilson. "It suddenly occurred to me

that the whole evidence for the murder came from a tainted source. I

mean you, Mr. Culpepper."

Culpepper bit his lip, but he made no reply.

"I still don't see how you could prove anything," said Arthur.

"If Culpepper was lying," said Wilson, "there remained not a shred of

evidence that there had ever been a body."

"But the trunk?"

"Oh, yes. There was the trunk, of course, and it was heavy enough to

contain a body. But did it? And, if not, what did it contain?"

Mr. Culpepper spoke at last. "Well, what did it?" he asked.

"You say you packed it," said Wilson. "You ought to know. When I found

it, it contained nothing--or next to nothing. You remember the puzzle

was how 'Rosenbaum,' having taken it to that house in Grosvenor Place

with a body in it, had managed to leave it behind empty, and got away

unobserved with the contents."

"How did he?"

"He didn't. I found the contents last night--at Grosvenor Place."

"But surely," said Lord Ealing, "your men made a thorough search long

ago."

"They did," said Wilson, "but they were looking for the wrong thing. I

was looking for the right thing last night. And I found it."

"What was it?" asked Arthur.

"What was the heaviest thing we found in Radlett's luggage?" said

Wilson.

"I follow you," said Lord Ealing. "Lumps of rock."

"Quite so. Lumps of rock. I found them at Grosvenor Place. The

so-called Rosenbaum had found an excellent place of concealment for

them."

"Where?"

"Why, on the rockery in the garden. What better place could there be?

There they were when I went to look. All the police had stared at them,

and no one had ever noticed them."

"Upon my word," said Lord Ealing, "that was clever. The man who could

think of that had his head screwed on the right way."

"Or very cleverly screwed on the wrong way, my lord. Well, that was how

I found out what was in the trunk. At least I noticed, when I examined

the trunk again yesterday, that there was rock grit at the bottom. That

put me on the track."

"Smart work," said the boy in buttons, speaking for the first time.

"I appreciate the compliment," said Wilson, laughing. "That boy also

came in very handy, by the way."

"What is he doing here?" asked Lord Ealing, looking at him

superciliously.

"You remind me of my failure," said Wilson. "I brought him here to

identify Pasquett. You see, he noticed things. He saw that the man who

called himself Rosenbaum had a crumpled ear."

"A crumpled ear?"

"Yes, and Pasquett had a crumpled ear, too. I knew already that

Pasquett had been in London on the night of the crime, and that he had

escaped from England in a hurry on the following day. With the aid of

your fair daughter, Mr. Culpepper."

"That's nothing to do with me," growled Culpepper. "I know nothing

about it."

"That is as may be. At any rate, you had another part to play. Well,

as soon as I knew that the Rosenbaum of the hotel had a crumpled ear,

whereas the real Rosenbaum has not, I knew that Rosenbaum was Pasquett.

But the boy has helped me more than that. He put into my head the

idea that Pasquett was Radlett as well. He only told me this morning

on the way over. He didn't realise it was important. But he noticed

that Radlett and Rosenbaum were both left-handed. Now, Pasquett is

left-handed. If it weren't for this boy noticing things, where should

we all have been?"

"Teacher used to say I noticed things," said the boy, proudly.

"Go on noticing, my lad," said Wilson, "and you'll be a great man

yet. If other people had noticed those ears, we might have hung

John Pasquett long ago. ("For a crime he didn't commit," interjected

Arthur.) At all events, Mr. Wharton, we should have had him safe under

lock and key, instead of----"

"What, I wonder?" said Arthur.

"Safe on the high seas, probably," said Wilson. "But that's not part

of my story. When I had found those bits of rock, I went straight back

to Scotland Yard, and read right through all the papers bearing on the

case. Among others, Radlett's story of his life. You remember it?"

"A very moving document," said Lord Ealing. "I remember it well."

"A most curious document," said Wilson. "You remember there was a

complete typewritten copy, and a manuscript copy in Radlett's writing,

from which several sheets were missing. I found that the manuscript

stopped short.... Where do you think it stopped, Mr. Wharton?"

"I don't know. Certainly it couldn't go beyond the time of Radlett's

escape from prison."

"It didn't. It stopped after Pasquett's, but before Radlett's escape

from prison. But the typewritten copy went on. It brought in all the

stuff about Radlett's escape and his later negotiations with the Soviet

Government, and so on. In short, the manuscript was genuine, but the

typescript was a forgery."

"You guessed that?" said Arthur.

"I guessed it was a forgery. I did not, I confess, find the

explanation. I don't altogether know it now. But I guessed that

Pasquett's impersonation of Radlett must date some time back beyond the

business at Sugden's. Am I right there?"

Arthur nodded.

"That's good," said Wilson. "I was right again. Perhaps Mr. Wharton,

or Mr. Culpepper, can tell us more. But there's one thing I confess I

don't understand. I am going to ask Lord Ealing a question. Why, my

lord, were you so anxious that we should not find Rosenbaum?"

"I ... anxious, Wilson? Not in the least. What _do_ you mean?"

"And why did you send Mr. Wharton to Warsaw in search of Pasquett?"

Lord Ealing visibly hesitated, and looked at Arthur, as if he suspected

him of giving the secret away. "I naturally wanted to get into touch

with him," he said at last.

"But why did you deny knowing where Pasquett was?"

"I did not know. I only ... thought he might be at Warsaw."

"What made you think that?"

"Really, Wilson, what is the point of the catechism? If I thought he

was at Warsaw, I clearly didn't know he was in London. I don't see what

my private affairs have to do with the case."

"Perhaps nothing, my lord. That is just what I was trying to make sure

of."

"I hope you will take my assurance that they have nothing to do with

it."

"One more question, Lord Ealing. Why did you, behind Inspector

Blaikie's back, rifle Radlett's papers at the hotel? I may as well tell

you that you left your finger marks all over them."

Lord Ealing, manifestly discomfited by this home thrust, was about to

speak, when Culpepper suddenly laughed--a low, sniggering laugh. Wilson

and Lord Ealing both turned towards him. Lord Ealing had gone red, as

if the laugh frightened him.

"Have you any information bearing on this point, Mr. Culpepper?" asked

Wilson.

"Before I open my lips," said Culpepper, "I want to know where I stand.

Am I charged, am I to be charged with anything?" Culpepper looked

keenly at Wilson as he spoke. "You see," he added, "I don't quite see

what you can charge me with."

"You are a partner in this murder--I mean, this--fraud," said Blaikie.

"You have given false evidence."

"Pardon, Inspector. I have given no evidence at all. I have told you

a little story of what happened at Sugden's Hotel, and to that story

I adhere. Apparently, you disbelieve me, and Superintendent Wilson

has invented some extraordinary tale about there being no body in

the trunk. That story is not true. It may be quite true that it was

Pasquett who committed the murder, though, if that is so, I was as much

deceived by him as every one else. It may not have been Hugh Radlett

who was murdered. But I tell you positively, and I will tell you under

oath, if I am brought to trial, that there was a murder, and there

was a body in the trunk, whatever else there may have been as well.

Gentlemen, I saw the murderer with his victim in his arms." Culpepper

looked round the table, meeting in turn the eyes of every man present.

"And, as for Lord Ealing, I have something to say. Mr. Radlett showed

me, on the night before his murder, a most interesting letter from

Lord Ealing, of which I am fortunate enough to possess a copy. If I am

brought to trial, I shall have that letter read in court."

"It's an infamous lie," said Lord Ealing. "You have not got the

letter--there is no letter for you to have."

"Which do you mean, Lord Ealing? Is there a letter, which Mr. Culpepper

has not got? Or is there no letter?"

"I tell you there is no letter," said Lord Ealing. "It's all a plot. I

have been tricked."

"If there is no letter," said Wilson, "why get excited about something

that does not exist? And who, pray, has tricked you?"

"I beg your pardon, Wilson. I was angry. It seemed that an infamous

charge was being made against me. If there is no charge----"

"An infamous charge, Lord Ealing? I have heard no charge. I did not

hear Mr. Culpepper even hint at what was in the letter."

"If there is no charge," Lord Ealing continued, "why, let us say no

more about it."

Arthur meanwhile had been trying to signal privately to Culpepper, who

knew nothing of the bargain between Pasquett and Lord Ealing, to shut

up. He felt that Lord Ealing was indeed being unfairly used.

"And why, Mr. Wharton, are you so anxious that Mr. Culpepper should

hold his tongue?" said Wilson, who had noticed Arthur's gesture.

Arthur's jaw dropped, but he had nothing to say.

"Now, Mr. Culpepper," Wilson continued, "will you please tell us all

about this letter of Lord Ealing's?"

Culpepper was obviously perplexed. He could not make out why Arthur

wanted him to be quiet. "No," he said, "I prefer to say nothing at

present. Of course, if a charge is made against me, I may have to--is

there a charge against me?"

"On that point, I can give you no answer, at present. It all depends.

I should advise you, in your own interest, to be perfectly frank with

me." Culpepper shook his head, and Wilson turned again to Lord Ealing.

"Now, my lord, have you any further statement to make?"

"Only that if any further lying accusations are made against me, I

shall know how to proceed."

"You seem to know all about this, Mr. Wharton. Have you anything to say

about this letter?" asked Wilson.

"No," said Arthur shortly.

"I confess," said Wilson, "that I am disappointed. I had hoped that,

when I told you all the true circumstances of the crime, you would be

frank with me, and between us we should clear up the little elements of

mystery that remain. I have been open with you, but you have not been

frank--not one of you. I shall have to report fully on the case to the

Home Secretary, and ask for his instructions. Meanwhile, gentlemen,

permit me in a few words to sum up the case as I see it. It is clear, I

believe, despite what Mr. Culpepper is pleased to say, that there was

no murder at Sugden's Hotel. That affair was a case, directly, not of

murder, but of fraud and forgery with a view to the acquisition of Hugh

Radlett's wealth. Mr. Culpepper was a party to the crime, and you, my

lord, while you were not a party to it, and were as much in the dark

as to its main features as I was, yet had some connection with these

events which has not yet been made clear. The supposed murder, then,

was a 'plant' intended to deceive the police. Radlett was brought to

life in order that he might make his will and appear to die. But,

gentlemen, Radlett did actually die, at some previous time, and, in

some way or other, the circumstances of his death so closely involved

John Pasquett that he was apparently buried under Pasquett's name. The

details of these circumstances, I need hardly tell you, will have to be

most carefully investigated; for they give rise to a natural suspicion

that Pasquett, though he did not murder Radlett at Sugden's Hotel, may

have murdered him in Siberia. If that is so--and, mind you, I am not

saying that it is or that it is not--those of you who were accomplices

in the fraud may--I say, may--have been also accomplices in the

murder, if murder was done at an earlier date. I want you, Culpepper,

especially to realise the gravity of the suspicion under which you

lie. I shall now give any person here present an opportunity of making

any further statement he may wish to make. If none of you has anything

to say, I shall bring this conference to an end." Wilson paused for a

moment only, and then rose from his chair at the head of the table.

The little group round the table rose, too, and stared blankly at one

another. Then Arthur Wharton found his tongue. "I can't," he said,

"possibly leave it like that. You're totally wrong, Superintendent. I

have a statement to make. I claim the right to speak.

"I told you before you began, that I was willing to tell you all about

it. It is monstrous, when you have just proved that John Pasquett did

not commit the murder at the hotel, to charge him, without a shadow of

evidence, of having committed it somewhere else. I protest. Do you wish

to know the truth, or do you not?"

"All the truth, Mr. Wharton?" asked Wilson.

"Yes, all the truth."

"Including that little bit about Lord Ealing's letter?"

"That has nothing to do with it," said Arthur.

"I protest," said Lord Ealing, "at your dragging my private affairs

into this case."

"Perhaps Mr. Wharton will kindly proceed," said Wilson, with a twinkle

in his eye. "Go ahead, Mr. Wharton. And suppose we all sit down again."

CHAPTER XXXIV

IN WHICH THE MISSING LINKS ARE SUPPLIED, AND ARTHUR WHARTON

RECEIVES A HINT

"As you know," said Arthur, addressing himself to Wilson, "I had the

whole story direct from Jack Pasquett last night. Most of it you have

found out for yourself. Though how you did it, I don't profess to know.

Anyhow, as you know half the story, it is best you should know the

whole thing. I should have told you in any case. I want to put out of

your mind at once that horrible idea that Jack Pasquett ever killed

Radlett, at Sugden's Hotel or anywhere else.

"Let me explain to you how that absurd muddle, in which my uncle and I

were both mixed up, about John Pasquett's identity arose. Yes, it was

an absurd muddle, uncle; John Pasquett is John Pasquett, and no one

else.

"It happened like this. He and I went together to Siberia, as you know.

Out there--never mind the details now--I stumbled on what seemed to be

absolute proof that Pasquett had died down in Turkestan a couple of

years ago. I met the actual man who had signed the death certificate.

Then I got him and Pasquett together, though Jack did not want to meet

him, and he at once addressed Pasquett as 'Mr. Radlett.' I was very

much worried, but I hadn't an idea of the real truth. Then, purely by

chance, Pasquett encountered an old acquaintance of his while he was

with me, and the fellow addressed him, not as Pasquett, but as 'Jack

Pearson.' I tried to get Jack to give me a coherent explanation of what

it all meant, but naturally he wouldn't tell me the truth then, and his

explanations only made matters worse. I told him frankly--we were very

close friends, you know--that I didn't know who he was, or whether he

was really entitled to Radlett's property, and that I should have to go

back to England and lay all the facts before Lord Ealing. Jack finally

said he would come back with me, as he could easily prove, once he got

back to Europe, that he was John Pasquett, and that my suspicions were

all nonsense. That was how we came to return together unexpectedly to

Europe."

"I see. Go on, Mr. Wharton."

"We came to Paris first, because Jack wanted to find some friends and

some old papers and photographs which would establish his identity.

We went to the Culpeppers' flat, but they were away at Paramé, and

Jack's friends--Mr. and Mrs. Ruston--were also absent from Paris, and

we couldn't find out where they were. Jack said he would go to Paramé

and find the Culpeppers, who would know where the Rustons were; as

it turned out, of course, they were actually here. I said I would go

straight to London, and see Lord Ealing, and Jack could follow with the

proofs." Arthur paused and then continued in a lower voice.

"I want to be quite frank with you, Superintendent. The reason why I

left Jack and went on to London was to give him a chance of getting

away safely, in case he really wasn't--who he said he was."

"I understand," said Wilson.

"I came on to London, and saw my uncle."

"I don't quite know, Mr. Wharton, why you saw him, and gave him to

understand that Mr. Pasquett was--not Mr. Pasquett, if you still

weren't sure yourself. Why didn't you wait till Pasquett's identity was

either proved, or disproved, by his running away?"

"I never did tell my uncle that Jack was not Pasquett. I only said I

very much feared he was not. And, you see, I had written him an account

of my doubts from Siberia, when the thing first happened."

"I see. So Lord Ealing knew, as much as you knew, some time before your

arrival. You kept your knowledge to yourself, my lord?"

"It would have been unjust to Mr. Pasquett," said Lord Ealing, "to act

on a mere suspicion. I told no one."

"You seemed to think it more than a suspicion when I met you yesterday."

"My dear Wilson, it was a complete misunderstanding. I thought you had

come to tell me that Pasquett was proved an impostor."

"I see," said Wilson dryly. "Now, Mr. Wharton, you came back and you

saw Lord Ealing. What occurred between you?"

"Only say what is relevant to the case, Arthur," said Lord Ealing.

"My uncle," said Arthur, "jumped to the conclusion that Pasquett was an

impostor, and made me believe it too."

"Then why, Mr. Wharton, did you refuse to tell me this yesterday? And

why did Lord Ealing refuse?"

"We agreed to hush it up," said Arthur.

"Superintendent, let me make this clear," said Lord Ealing. "We only

agreed to say nothing until the truth was definitely established. Of

course, once I was sure, I should, as a man of honour, have taken

action at once."

"That is not true," said Arthur. "Lord Ealing persuaded me, through my

friendship with Jack, to hush the whole thing up, even if it was true.

That was why I wouldn't tell you, but that reason no longer----"

"The fellow is lying," said Lord Ealing, hotly. "This is all part of a

plot against me."

"Let Mr. Wharton finish what he has to say," said Wilson.

"I protest," said Lord Ealing.

"After seeing you yesterday," Arthur continued, "I came straight

on here, and found Jack Pasquett. I had wired to him to await my

arrival. In five minutes he convinced me of his identity. He showed me

photographs of himself, from a child--old papers. And both Mr. and Mrs.

Ruston, who were here then, had known him from a boy up. He removed

all doubts from my mind. The photographs are in the house now, and

the Rustons will at any time swear to his identity. Mr. Ruston is a

Canadian merchant, in Paris."

"I think," said Wilson, "we may take Pasquett's identity as

provisionally established, subject to confirmation. How, then, did the

mistake arise?"

"I was coming to that," said Arthur. "You remember Pasquett and Radlett

were in prison together, in Turkestan. Then Jack escaped, while Radlett

was recaptured in helping him to get away. Jack wouldn't leave his

friend behind. He came back, and finally helped him to escape as well.

They got away into the mountains, hoping to make their way into India.

It was intensely cold, Jack says, and Radlett had some disease on him.

He became too ill and weak to go on. They had to halt and make a camp.

Jack nursed him as best he could, but up there in the Pamir hills Hugh

Radlett died. Jack told me exactly how it happened. He was sitting with

Radlett's head on his knees. Radlett was almost past speech. Suddenly

he roused himself and said, 'I'm going, Jack. Give me something to

write with. I must make my will. Then I'll die in peace.' Jack says he

tried to soothe him, but Radlett said, 'I want you to have my money,

Jack. Give me a pencil and a scrap of paper,' and he began to write.

But he never finished. Look here. Here's what he wrote. Jack gave it me

yesterday to show you."

Arthur took a scrap of paper from his pocket-book, and passed it to

Wilson, who read it to himself, and then repeated it aloud.

"To my friend and partner, John Pasquett, I leave al----"

"It stops there," said Wilson.

"When he had written that much," said Arthur, "the pencil dropped from

his hand, and he gave a sigh, and died.

"Jack Pasquett gave me that paper yesterday. He said it excused what

he had done. Let me try to tell you what he felt. 'I have done Hugh

Radlett no wrong,' he said. 'Hugh meant and wanted me to have his

money. He had often told me so. And I wanted the money, too, half for

its sake, half for his.' Jack said he wasn't fond of money--it always

flowed through his fingers. But he wanted Radlett's money, because he

wanted to carry on the plans they had made together. Oh, I know he

broke the law, and I know he was wrong. He has got a twisted way of

looking at these things. I suppose he ought just to have accepted his

bad luck, and let the money go. But he's not built that way, and he

made me see he had a case--a strong case it sounded, as he told me. I'm

not quite justifying him; but I can see his point of view. Can't you?"

"Tell us positively what he did," said Wilson.

"He started at once, beside his friend's body, planning how to get

the money. And, up there in the hills, he made his first plan. Why

shouldn't he bury his dead friend as John Pasquett, and live himself

for the rest of his life as Hugh Radlett, the millionaire? They were

of a size, they were like each other, and Jack says he was a good

amateur actor in his day. He felt he could play the part. What is more,

he could write so like Radlett that only an expert could tell the

difference. He had often written letters for Radlett while they were

together.

"That was Jack's plan, and he began working it at once. He sent, in

Hugh Radlett's name, a letter to the prison authorities, saying that

he, John Pasquett, had died up in the mountains, and telling them where

to find the body. They found it, and buried it in his name. Then he set

to work to get hold of Radlett's papers, which had been left behind in

their escape. He wrote in Radlett's name, offering money for them, and

got no answer. Then luck favoured him. He met the commissar fellow who

had been at the prison. He met him down in India, where he was--incog.,

of course--doing some secret propaganda work. He promised, if he would

get him his papers--he pretended to be Radlett, of course--not to give

him away to the Indian authorities. He got the papers and started for

Europe as Hugh Radlett, American citizen. He had written before that to

Radlett's lawyers in New York, and got letters and remittances from

them which showed that they had no suspicion anything was wrong. Then

he went to Moscow as Radlett, and started his negotiations with the

Russian Government. That was when he got the concession. He travelled

over a good part of Europe as Hugh Radlett. Everything seemed to be

going right. And then--he met Culpepper." Arthur turned towards the

little man as he spoke.

"I had nothing to do with this imposture," said Culpepper.

"We shall see," said Wilson. "Go on, Mr. Wharton."

"Culpepper had known both Radlett and Pasquett in Siberia. Jack was

staying in a hotel in Paris, as Hugh Radlett, of course. He was in the

lobby, when Culpepper came in. He saw Culpepper staring at him. Then

he says Culpepper went up to the office and asked the girl there a

question. After that, he came straight across the room to Jack. 'How

do you do, Jack Pasquett?' he said. 'I see Radlett is here with you. I

heard you were dead.'

"Bit by bit, he says, Culpepper got the whole story out of him. He had

to tell him in order to shut his mouth. Culpepper at once began to

blackmail him, and made his life hell."

"I deny this altogether. It is a monstrous invention," said Culpepper.

"I am saying what Pasquett told me," Arthur continued. "He says

Culpepper persuaded him that he was playing far too dangerous a game.

He was bound to be recognised by others, and his imposture found out.

But Culpepper was not a man to let the chance of fortune go. He thought

out the scheme which Jack and he put into execution at Sugden's Hotel.

Of course, Culpepper was to have a big slice of Radlett's money in

return for his help."

"I suppose," said Culpepper, "I must hear this nonsense out, but please

take note that I deny every word of it."

"Quite," said Wilson.

"Culpepper's idea was," said Arthur, "that, as Radlett had never

finished his will in Pasquett's favour and there was no chance of

establishing it legally, the false Radlett must stay alive long enough

to get the concession duly signed, and to make a new will in Pasquett's

favour. At first, he wanted the will to be in his favour as well as

Jack's, but Jack made him see that it would spoil the value of his

evidence, which was essential to their plan. Radlett was to make a new

will, and then conveniently die, leaving his money to Jack. But it

would be necessary to produce proof of the death, and to get the will

properly signed by independent witnesses.

"First of all, Jack went again to Moscow, as Hugh Radlett, and got the

concession through in the joint names of Radlett and himself. Then,

still as Radlett, he opened up negotiations with my uncle and the

Anglo-Asiatic, living at Reval while he was doing this, and taking care

to produce the illusion that both Radlett and he had been there. He

resumed his own name and identity, only posing occasionally as Radlett

in order to keep up the illusion.

"Then came the last act of the play. Pasquett travelled to London as

Hugh Radlett, Culpepper coming over separately on another boat. In

Moscow, Pasquett had met Rosenbaum; he was an agitator for the Third

International, and Jack promised to smuggle him into England as his

secretary. Rosenbaum, of course, thought he was Radlett, and knew

nothing of the plot. Jack and Rosenbaum travelled to England together,

and parted as soon as they had safely passed the customs authorities.

Then Jack went on to Sugden's Hotel, where, as you guessed, he played

the double part of Radlett and Rosenbaum, and staged the scene for the

supposed murder. In the course of the day, Jack saw Lord Ealing and Mr.

Franklin and signed afresh, in the presence of witnesses, the faked

will which he and Culpepper had prepared. In the evening Culpepper

called at the hotel to see Radlett, by arrangement, of course. He took

part in fixing up the rooms so as to produce the illusion of a fatal

struggle. They supplied the blood, by the way, by making their noses

bleed over the sheets and on the floor. Then Culpepper was left behind

as a witness, to prove there had been a body, while Jack went off with

the trunk, disguised as Rosenbaum. He played various tricks to throw

the police off the scent, escaped out of England into France----"

"How?" asked Wilson.

"I think you know that already," said Arthur. "Miss Culpepper was

waiting for him. She met him at Sloane Square, and motored him down

from London to Poole, where the boat was waiting to take him across.

Jack came here, and the next morning went off by aeroplane to Warsaw,

meaning every one to believe he had been there at the time of the

murder, and only to fall back on his _alibi_ at Paramé if the Warsaw

_alibi_ fell through. The whole thing went off according to plan,

and Jack said he thought the police had given it up as a bad job.

Otherwise, of course, he would not have come back to Europe."

"The best laid schemes, Mr. Wharton. Truth will out, even in despite of

bungling policemen like Blaikie and me."

"But you found it out," said Arthur.

"Too late, Mr. Wharton, too late. The birds are flown. At least, they

have left only you and Mr. Culpepper in the nest. You realise, I

suppose, that you have been compounding a felony by helping Pasquett to

escape."

"Yes," said Arthur. "I know. I am here if you want me."

"Perhaps, before we come to anything so unpleasant, you will help to

clear up one little perplexity that remains in my mind. You did not

tell me about Lord Ealing's letter."

"Once more, I protest," said Lord Ealing. "That is quite another

matter."

"On that point," said Arthur, "I have nothing to say."

Wilson turned to Culpepper. "You have heard Mr. Wharton's story," he

said, "and I think it bears the obvious stamp of truth. What have you

to say about it?"

"Nothing," said Culpepper.

"_Le roi s'avisera_," said Arthur, smiling.

"Nothing?" said Wilson. "Not even about Lord Ealing's letter?"

"Very well," said Culpepper. "If you want to know, you shall know. I

won't stop," he added, as Arthur tried to check him. "John Pasquett

had in his possession a letter from Lord Ealing in which he promised

to use his influence with the Foreign Secretary, in return for a

consideration, to secure Government support for the Anglo-Asiatic's

dealings with the Soviet Government. He asked for a large block of

unpaid shares in the concession in return for this service. He said he

had fixed it up with Sir Lewis Llewellyn."

"He had fixed it up with Llewellyn?" asked Wilson, half incredulously.

"With the Foreign Secretary. This letter was addressed to Mr. Radlett

at Sugden's Hotel. It will make something of a sensation if it comes

out. Eh, my lord?" Culpepper smiled sardonically at Lord Ealing. "And

there was more in it than that."

"There is no such letter," said his lordship. "The man is a liar. Will

you take the word of a low criminal against mine? You had better be

careful, Wilson."

"Where is this letter?" asked Wilson.

"Pasquett had it," said Culpepper, "but I have a copy. If I am put on

trial, I shall read it in court."

"Superintendent Wilson," said Lord Ealing, "this is a monstrous lie. No

such letter ever existed, of course. This fellow admits he has only a

copy--an obvious forgery."

"What do you say, Mr. Wharton?" asked Wilson.

"I have nothing to say," said Arthur.

"Perhaps," said Culpepper, "Pasquett has left the original behind here.

Do you know, my dear?" For the first time, he addressed his wife.

Mrs. Culpepper seemed to wake up suddenly out of a dream. "Oh, no," she

said. "Jack gave it to Mr. Ruston yesterday, didn't he, Mr. Wharton?

Mr. Ruston was to hand it to Lord Ealing if----" She stopped. A scared

expression came to her face. "Oh, dear, whatever have I said?" she

added.

"If what?" said Wilson.

"Oh, Alfred, had I better tell?" sobbed Mrs. Culpepper.

"Out with it, woman," said her husband.

"Don't tell, Mrs. Culpepper," said Arthur.

"If--L--Lord Ealing g--got the m--message safely through," Mrs.

Culpepper wailed.

"What message?" said Wilson.

"The m--m--message to the ship."

"What ship? Where?"

"Shut up, Maria. You've said enough," said Culpepper. "Now do you

believe there was a letter?"

"It's a lie--a plot," said Lord Ealing. "There never was a letter."

"Where did you go, my lord, in your car last night when my men lost

sight of you?"

"That's my affair," said Lord Ealing. "And permit me to tell you that,

if this monstrous story, with its vile insinuations against Sir Lewis

Llewellyn and myself, ever sees the light, it will----" A knock at the

door caused him to leave his sentence unfinished.

"Mr. Ruston, sir, is in the hall. Do you wish to see him?" said a

detective, who had entered as Lord Ealing was speaking.

"Most opportune," said Wilson. "Show him in."

"Ah, Mr. Ruston. Pleased to see you. We were just talking about that

letter of Lord Ealing's Pasquett gave you yesterday."

Ruston started back, astonished. "By the way, where is it now?" Wilson

went on.

"Lord Ealing burnt it, as soon as I gave it him," said Ruston, too much

surprised to say anything but tell the truth.

"I feared so," said Wilson. "And in return for what service, Mr.

Ruston, did you give Lord Ealing back his letter?"

Arthur had by this time signalled to Ruston across the room, and

Ruston took his cue. "It was his," he said. "I don't understand what

you mean about a service. I just gave it him."

"What was in it?"

"I don't know. I never read it."

"My dear fellow," said Lord Ealing. "These absurd policemen pretend to

believe it had something to do with the crime."

"No connection at all," said Ruston. "A mere matter of business."

Lord Ealing rose from his seat. "Superintendent Wilson," he said

majestically, "I have sat here and heard myself insulted and vilified.

I have done this, because my one desire was to help the ends of

justice. But I warn you. You may go too far. I shall now leave you, and

return to England, with only a hint to you to let my affairs alone.

Your suspicions are too absurd to be taken seriously. You believe the

evidence of this pack of scoundrels and conspirators, and you doubt my

word. I will overlook it, Wilson, but I warn you not to meddle with my

affairs. And I warn you all. Good-morning, gentlemen."

"Good-morning, my Lord," said Wilson. "I shall know where to find you

if I want you."

Lord Ealing swept from the room. Wilson rose again from his seat. "Our

conversation is over," he said. "A word with you, Mr. Wharton."

Leaving the others behind, Arthur followed the Superintendent into

the garden. "I wanted to give you a word of advice, Mr. Wharton. You

have compounded a felony. If I were you, I should not be in a hurry to

return to England for a while, until things have--well--settled down.

Why not go back to Siberia at once?"

"You mean I'm free to go," said Arthur.

"If I were you," said Wilson, "and, of course, this is strictly between

ourselves, I should go without asking any questions. And I should take

Culpepper with you."

"Do you mean----" Arthur began.

"You take my advice without asking what I mean. Good-bye, Mr. Wharton.

Go and talk to Culpepper at once. I see Inspector Blaikie coming to

find me." Wilson put out his hand, and shook Arthur's. "In my private

capacity," he said, "I'm not sorry your friends escaped. Good-bye."

Arthur went back into the house.

Blaikie came up. "You gave me no instructions, sir. Whom am I to

arrest? Lord Ealing? Culpepper? Arthur Wharton? There will be all sorts

of formalities about getting warrants. We don't want them to get away."

"Don't we, Blaikie?" asked Wilson, smiling. "I have just told Wharton

that the best thing he and Culpepper can do is to get off to Siberia at

once."

Blaikie gasped. "You're letting them go, sir?"

"Certainly."

"And Lord Ealing?"

"Most certainly of all. Pretty fools we should look, if we charged

Lord Ealing with malpractices on the strength of Culpepper's tainted

evidence, based on a letter we couldn't produce. Besides, I see you've

not heard the news."

"The news?"

"The Government fell unexpectedly last night. Lord Ealing will be in

the new Cabinet. It would not surprise me if he returned to the Home

Office. It would be a new thing for Scotland Yard to accuse the Home

Secretary of corrupt practices and abetting the escape of a felon.

Wouldn't it?"

"Oh, Lord, sir," said Blaikie. "Whatever shall we do?"

"Drop the whole case, Blaikie, like a hot brick. If I had any really

good evidence against Lord Ealing, I would go through with it, no

matter what it led to. But I haven't. All these folks will lie. Ealing

helped Pasquett to escape, and they will all stand by him--even

Culpepper, when they have explained the situation to him. No, Blaikie,

we've got to take jolly good care _not_ to catch Pasquett now. Call

off the pursuit. Say we have certain evidence they are drowned. They

mustn't be caught. I'm glad I've solved this case, but it must go no

further."

"And what about you, sir?"

"If Lord Ealing becomes Home Secretary, Blaikie, I shall retire from

the Yard. I've often considered it."

"Retire, sir?" said Blaikie, aghast.

"Private work is much more exciting, Blaikie, and one gets a much freer

hand. I'm sick of the routine."

"But what a loss, sir. What will the Yard do without you?"

"If Ealing is at the Home Office, I shall be cleared out soon enough. I

prefer to leave of my own accord."

Blaikie sighed. "And this is what comes of finding out too much," he

said.

"Or of finding it out too late, Blaikie. It's my fault. I blame myself."

"I should never have found it out at all," said the Inspector, humbled.

"No, Blaikie, I don't think you would," said Wilson. He walked towards

his car, cheerfully whistling a tune. Blaikie followed sorrowfully

after his chief.

CHAPTER XXXV

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR WINDS UP HIS STORY, AND JOHN PASQUETT PROVIDES

THE MORAL

It was a surprise both to Lord Ealing's friends and to the public when

the personnel of the new Government was announced, and it was found

that he had gone back to his old post at the Home Office. Higher office

had been confidently predicted for him, and those who met him hardly

knew whether to congratulate or to say nothing. But within two or three

days the news leaked out, and was spread abroad by discreet paragraphs

in the Press. Lord Ealing had been offered the Foreign Office, but

his keen interest in prison reform had induced him to ask the Prime

Minister personally to allow him to return to his first Cabinet post.

Lord Ealing's interest in prison reform had not been obvious during his

previous terms of office: indeed, no one had ever noticed it before.

But newspaper readers are easily satisfied, and the explanation was

generally accepted. Lord Ealing was much lauded for his public spirit

and self-abnegation in accepting the less coveted office.

We, of course, are well aware of his lordship's reasons. Although the

incriminating letter, which he cursed himself for a fool for having

ever written, was safely destroyed, he had no desire that the public

should hear any more of the Radlett case. If Culpepper or Arthur

Wharton should be brought to trial, the former might easily produce

his copy of the letter; and, though he felt able to deal with such a

situation by a complete denial of its authenticity, he knew that the

incident would create suspicion. There were, moreover, other things

that might come out if a trial occurred--for example, his attempt to

hush up the doubts of Pasquett's identity, or even his part in the

escape of the chief criminals. It was certainly best for Lord Ealing

to hush matters up all he could, and there could be no better point of

vantage for his purpose than the Home Secretaryship. For Scotland Yard

is under the Home Office. Lord Ealing began to study prison reform for

the first time: since he had taken the Home Office, he meant to carry

it off with éclat.

Before his lordship had settled down in his new office, Norah

Culpepper's motor-boat had been found, overturned and adrift, a good

hundred miles from land. It was empty, and no bodies were recovered,

but the newspapers generally took the view that the fugitives had

perished, and Wilson himself, pursuing his plan of letting the whole

case drop, lent the weight of his opinion to this view. Public interest

in the case at once waned with the disappearance of the principal

actors, and it dropped out of the newspapers. There were only short and

inconspicuous references to such comparatively uninteresting events

as the upsetting of the will which Pasquett and Culpepper had forged.

Indeed, this was almost an automatic process, for all claims that had

been put forward under the forged will were withdrawn, and Radlett's

fortune was allowed to pass unchallenged, under his previous will,

to the charitable purposes to which he had dedicated it on leaving

America. This involved no litigation, since the forged will had not

yet been proved. Pasquett had indeed drawn money largely on Radlett's

account, but this had been under the power of attorney, and the money

still stood in Radlett's name. The representatives named in the

earlier will came to London and assumed formal possession of Radlett's

property. They decided to take no further proceedings in connection

with the case, as, even if Culpepper could be caught, it was very

doubtful whether his part in the affair could be brought home to him.

The Home Secretary, consulted by the American beneficiaries under the

old will, strongly advised them to let well alone. Before long, Mrs.

Culpepper was able to report to her husband that he could safely show

himself again in England.

Lord Ealing, of course, on assuming office under the Crown, had

temporarily to resign his directorships. He was succeeded by Lord

Broadway, his first cousin and a member of the late Government.

He and Broadway had changed places in the same way before, to the

profit of both. Broadway, with Lord Ealing's constant advice to help

him, successfully steered the Anglo-Asiatic and the Anglo-Yenisei

Corporation through the difficult time which followed the discovery of

Pasquett's imposture. The New York charity's trustees were tactfully

persuaded not to spoil the market by unloading the Radlett shares

prematurely. Speeches by members of the Government maintained public

confidence in the soundness of the concessions. A new issue of capital

was publicly subscribed--it was, in fact, heavily oversubscribed on the

first morning--to replace Radlett's money, which was being withdrawn.

The Anglo-Yenisei became an All-British affair, and was much boosted

in the sacred name of Empire. Lord Ealing gave a quiet little dinner at

Sugden's Hotel to celebrate the success of the new issue of capital. It

was most select and expensive: Mr. Mounteagle talks of it still.

So successfully were these operations carried through that, so far from

losing money by Pasquett's downfall, Lord Ealing netted a handsome sum

to add to his existing fortune. He draws from his investments in the

Anglo-Asiatic and the Anglo-Yenisei a princely income beside which his

official salary is a mere bagatelle. Lord Ealing's associates also

did well. Sir James Vanzetti, now by his lordship's influence raised

to the peerage as Baron Pinner, has made pots of money out of the

Anglo-Asiatic. He has quite forgiven Lord Ealing for any part he may

have played in causing his earlier misfortunes. Sir Eli Benjamin, too,

has moved from Clapham to Belgravia, and Lady Benjamin is busy laying

siege to Society. In short, we regret to say that, at this latter end

of our story, the wicked are undoubtedly flourishing like the green bay

tree.

Not all the financial wangles or all the political speeches in the

world, of course, would of themselves produce this uninterrupted flow

of wealth and prosperity for every one concerned in the concessions,

from Lord Ealing to the widows and orphans whose mite has been

entrusted to his care. It is also the case that the Radlett concession,

now transferred by the Soviet authorities to the Anglo-Yenisei

Corporation, is a thoroughly sound thing. It has the advantage of being

quite exceptionally well managed. A short while after the events

we have described, the Russian management of both Corporations was

entrusted to a new manager, to whom their great success is largely due.

The manager's name is John Pearson, a man, as Lord Broadway said at the

annual meeting, of long and varied experience and with a first-rate

knowledge of Siberian conditions. John Pearson, we believe, bears a

close resemblance to a certain John Pasquett, with whom we are already

familiar. Just before his appointment, he married a very charming wife,

whose name is Norah. Mrs. Pearson, we are told, is remarkably like a

certain Miss Culpepper, whose acquaintance we have also made. Their

first child, a fine boy, now six months old, is named Arthur.

Mr. Culpepper has returned to England. He is one of the leading

directors of both companies, and struts daily to the office in Kingsway

more immaculately dressed than ever. He keeps his flat in Paris, but

he has sold the villa at Paramé to the Rustons, and bought a large

comfortable house in South Kensington. He had recently been made a

J.P., and has thoughts of standing for Parliament in the Liberal

interest.

Arthur also is back in England. He is, indeed, the only one of our

actors who shows no sign of getting rich. He has left business, and

gone back to Oxford, where he is now Fellow and Tutor of his old

college. He is unmarried, and fears the approach of middle age. But,

even if he is sometimes bored, he never thinks of going back to the

Anglo-Asiatic. He has had enough of that. He means to spend the long

vacation this year in Siberia, with some friends of his, called Jack

and Norah Pearson.

Superintendent Wilson has left Scotland Yard, and started a private

detective agency of his own. He is doing--we absolutely refuse to tell

you what he is doing.

* * * * *

One thing more, and our record is complete. When Pasquett and Arthur

Wharton met again--far from the scene of the adventures we have been

describing, they had many a talk about the affair at Sugden's Hotel.

Arthur wanted to understand his friend's motives for the imposture, and

there was no reluctance on Pasquett's side to speak of what he had done.

"Why did I do it?" he said. "Is it ever easy to say why one does a

thing? I suppose it was partly that I wanted Hugh's money, and felt I

had a right to it, whatever the law might say. You see, it was only an

accident that it was not mine by law. Why was I to respect property

rights which would never have existed if Hugh had lived another couple

of minutes? Upon my word, I don't see why. Morally, I feel that I acted

quite within my rights. I was only doing what Hugh meant to do himself,

though I admit I had to find some queer ways of doing it. Isn't that a

good enough explanation for you?

"And yet, I admit, it's not the whole explanation. It would be just as

true, Arthur--and just as untrue--if I said I did it for the fun of the

thing. The law's an ass, my boy, and it seemed to me good fun to have a

slap at the law, and carry off Radlett's money under its very nose. I

didn't mind the danger--I rather liked it. I've been in plenty of tight

places in my time, and enjoyed being there. And the idea, as I worked

it out, was a jolly good idea. It very nearly came off--don't you

forget that. If that chap Wilson--I liked him, by the way--hadn't had

the nose of a rat and the patience of Job, I should have got clean off

with the goods. And even you will admit that, if it had come off, it

would have been a good joke to keep one cheerful for the rest of one's

life.

"But it didn't. I know. The sin found out the transgressor, and all

that--though, when you come to think of it, the transgressors haven't

done so badly for themselves, after all. There's old Culpepper, getting

as rich as Crœsus--and Norah and I haven't much to complain about. I've

had my fun, and I reckon I've not paid for it. Nobody's paid. That's

the beauty of it. Your wicked uncle did things far worse than I ever

thought of, and look at him. He's quite cheerful, isn't he? I reckon

there's no moral to this story of ours. It wouldn't do for a Sunday

School Tract. That's part of the joke.

"I speak, do I, as if I were actually glad I got found out? Well, I

don't much mind. It would have been better fun to pull it off, but I'm

not complaining. And, to this day, I can't see how I could have planned

it better. Of course, there was one obvious weakness in the whole

thing--the absence of a body. But I couldn't make that good unless

I'd murdered somebody, and--murder's not in my line. I had to do the

best I could without a body, and I tell you, Arthur, I still think I

planned it jolly well. If I made a mistake, it was in not making more

certain of my _alibi_. But it was only bad luck tripped me up there.

If it hadn't been for the million to one chance of my meeting you on

the aeroplane, no one would ever have suspected that I wasn't in Warsaw

when it happened. And I did provide a quite plausible second _alibi_ in

case that fell through. I admit I wasn't careful enough there, but it

was really bad luck that did me down.

"It was a very pretty murder, however you look at it, and all the

prettier for being no murder at all. Hugh would have enjoyed it, if

he'd been alive. Wilson enjoyed it, though it was his business to

'bring me to justice.' And I enjoyed it. So why worry? And, my dear

Arthur, why maintain this air of disapproval? Why didn't you enjoy it

too? It's your fault, not mine, if you didn't. But you stuck to me all

the same. You don't mind having a scoundrel for a friend, do you, now?

"The trouble about you, Arthur, is that you've been badly brought up.

You think you're a bit of an iconoclast; but away down in your mind

you've a profound veneration for property, and law and order, and

middle-class morality, and all the other things you criticise in those

funny little books of yours. I had all that knocked out of me quite

early. You see, I was brought up to be a business man--in America, too.

I know that law and order and the rights of property, and all the rest

of the stuff your uncle puts in his speeches, are just bunkum. You only

know it theoretically; when it comes to acting you're a good old Whig

like the rest--though it's ungrateful of me to say so, after you defied

your poor conscience and helped me to get away. But that was because

you're fond of me. It was against your principles. Now, wasn't it? It

wouldn't have been against mine. I judge for myself: I make my own

laws. That sounds as if I was making a virtue out of my vice, or posing

as a superman--beyond good and evil, and all that. But I'm not, really.

It's only that I'm not civilised, and you are. Upon my word, Arthur,

I'd do it again." Jack Pasquett laughed in Arthur Wharton's puzzled

face.