MR FOWLER.
‘I suppose you are a detective?’ continued Farrell, after a pause.
‘You are right. I am a private detective, but no one knows the secret
but Captain Robarts and yourself, and I should not have confided it to
you, except I feel that, for your own sake, you will keep it sacred.
And now look here, my boy. I am a man old enough to be your father,
and I have had much experience in these cases, with which I have been
mixed up all my life. If we are to work together, you must tell me _the
truth_. You must hide nothing from me; and you must give me your word
of honour not to disclose a single thing that I may say to you.’
‘I swear to you that I will not. But first tell me, Mr Fowler, have you
come out to track any one aboard this vessel?’
‘No. I am travelling in the interests of Messrs Stern & Stales,
whose New Zealand firm has suffered lately from extensive robberies,
instigated, it is believed, by the _employés_. The company sent me over
in the _Pandora_ to avoid suspicion. If I crossed in a steamer, certain
business people, who are always going backwards and forwards through
the Canal to Australia and New Zealand, might recognise me, and the
news of my arrival would be spread through the island, and warn the
thieves to be on their guard. Now let me hear all you have to tell me.’
Will Farrell then related in detail all that he knew of Horace Cain
_alias_ Godfrey Harland. He gave the whole history of the forged
cheque, and the clever way in which the suspicion had been cast upon
himself. He told how he had made the acquaintance of Maggie Greet on
board ship, and learned through her that her mistress, Miss Douglas,
was in reality Harland’s wife, and how Godfrey’s open courtship of
Miss Vansittart had induced Iris to reveal her identity to him, and to
threaten to expose him. And he concluded with the incident of Harland’s
letter to his wife, demanding another interview at ten o’clock that
night in the spare galley, and entreating her to bring the proofs that
Farrell held against him, for him to see.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Fowler impatiently; ‘that is a dirty story
enough, but what has it to do with Maggie Greet? I want to hear about
_her_, and not Mr and Mrs Harland.’
There was one thing which Farrell had concealed, and that was the fact
of Maggie’s seduction by her master. He felt as if death itself could
not drag it from him,--as if it would be an insult to the dead woman
he had loved even to allude to it. But he had a detective to deal with.
‘She was in their service when in England--I have mentioned that,’
replied Farrell confusedly; ‘and she was very much attached to Miss
Douglas. It was all Maggie’s doing that she didn’t go to that interview
with her husband. She meant to do so, but Maggie was afraid of mischief
(she told me so), so she procured a draught from Dr Lennard, and sent
Miss Douglas straight off to sleep, under pretence of soothing her
hysterical condition.’
‘Very good. What did Miss Greet do then?’
‘She came up to my side in the second cabin, and said, after telling me
about Miss Douglas, “I’ll go to bed now, Will, for I’m regular tired. I
think the wind makes one sleepy.”’
‘And did she go to bed?’
‘How can I tell, sir? I never saw her again. But the steerage steward
says she didn’t.’
‘Now, just think, Mr Farrell. Did you remark anything strange about her
manner when she bade you good-night?’
‘Not at the time, or I should have spoken of it. But after she was
missing, Miss Douglas told me that her big cloak that she always wore,
and woollen wrap, were also gone from her cabin, and then I seemed to
remember, like a flash of lightning, that Maggie had a bundle of cloaks
or something over her arm when she spoke to me.’
‘And you think she took them on purpose?’
‘Yes. I think now she took them that she might look like her mistress,
and that she went on deck to take her place, and keep that appointment
with Godfrey Harland--_curse him_!’ said Farrell, between his teeth.
‘This becomes interesting,’ remarked the detective coolly. ‘But now,
Mr Farrell, the question arises, What reason Miss Greet should have
had to wish to prevent her mistress meeting Mr Harland?’
‘She believed harm would come of it. He had treated his wife cruelly
before.’
‘She had not a good opinion of her master, then? She did not like him?’
Farrell answered curtly in the negative.
‘Do you know if Miss Greet had any cause to mistrust him?’
‘She knew he was a brute, and I had told her about the forgery.’
‘But _personally_, I mean? Was there any feeling like jealousy or
revenge at work in the matter?’
‘Not jealousy, certainly,’ answered Will. ‘She was going to marry
me--she was fond of me.’
‘But formerly--before you met the girl--had there ever been any
love-passages between her and this Godfrey Harland?’
Farrell opened his eyes in amazement.
‘Are you a wizard?’ he asked.
‘No, my boy, only a detective! But that means a close observer of
human nature, and an aptitude for hitting on the right cause for every
effect.’
Will was silent.
‘Come, now! I appreciate your reticence, but this is no time for false
modesty. Doubtless Miss Greet told you all her secrets. Had she any
reason to wish to be revenged on Harland, or he for getting rid of her?
If you won’t tell me the whole truth, I can do nothing for you.’
‘All right, sir! I _will_ trust you, for it can’t do _her_ any harm
now, and it may be the means of avenging this cruel loss. She _had_
good cause to hate him, poor thing, and he, perhaps, to be afraid of
her! He had seduced her years before, when she first went to live in
his wife’s service, and Maggie despised him for it,--as well she might,
and all the more because she had grown to be so fond of Miss Douglas.
That’s the truth, Mr Fowler, and I hope you’ll keep it sacred.’
‘You may depend upon me, Farrell, and it’s a valuable clue. We have
arrived at this conclusion, therefore: At the time that Mr Harland was
waiting to see his wife in the spare galley, she was asleep in her
berth, and Maggie Greet, with her mistress’s cloak and wraps over her
arm, walked out of the cabin, and was never seen again. She was a woman
also who mistrusted her master, and had an old grudge against him, and
whose desire for revenge, too, might prove very awkward to himself.
That is true, is it not?’
‘It is so, Mr Fowler; and every moment the case seems to become clearer
to me.’
‘Now, Mr Farrell, do you really hold the proofs you have mentioned
against Mr Harland?’
‘Yes; I have certain letters written, and copies of statements made, at
the time of the forgery, which would go very hardly against him were I
to produce them.’
‘And did you lend them to Miss Greet?’
‘Oh, dear, no! She never asked me for them.’
‘You are _sure_ you have them still?’
‘Quite sure! I was looking at them this afternoon.’
‘Then she could not have taken them, as desired, for him to see?
‘No; but I think she may have _pretended_ to have them, sir, just to
gain time to say what she wished to say to him, and then, when he
found he had been deceived, the brute may have revenged himself on her
by--ah, it is too horrible to think of!’ cried Farrell, breaking off in
another burst of grief.
‘Or she may have fallen overboard by accident, don’t forget that,
Farrell. It was a terrible night, and the sailors say they couldn’t
have heard any cries through such a squall. It doesn’t lessen the loss
to think so, but it is as well not to accuse anybody of a crime, even
in our thoughts, until we are sure of it.’
‘That villain is capable of anything,’ said Farrell doggedly.
‘And now about this Miss Douglas, as you call her? Is there any one on
board who knows her to be the wife of Harland beside yourself?’
‘I think not, and I have no proofs. She and Maggie Greet both told me
so. That is all I know.’
‘That is unfortunate. At present, it seems to me that all we can do is
to watch and wait. Even if Mrs Harland comes forward to tell what she
knows, we have no evidence that this Miss Greet ever went up on deck
at all. The case seems pretty clear to you and me, but we have to make
it clear to others. So I can do nothing more at present, and you must
not mention a word of our conversation to any one on board, not even to
Miss Douglas. You must try and be patient. I know you are burning to
charge Mr Harland with the deed--you feel so positive he is the guilty
party that you almost wonder I do not clap on the “darbies” at once.
But that is not our way of working. Supposing he were able to prove
that he was all the time in the company of friends, we should at once
lose the case, which, if properly worked, is bound to be cleared up one
way or the other. Do you go with me?’
‘Yes, yes. I suppose it signifies little either way. Nothing will bring
my poor girl to life again.’
To this sentiment Mr Fowler had naturally no refutation, and so he
withdrew noiselessly, and left Will Farrell to himself.
Nothing occurred during the following day of any interest. Iris Harland
kept entirely to the second cabin. She hardly dared to _think_ of how
poor Maggie may have come by her death, and she dreaded, with a sickly
loathing, the idea of meeting her husband again. She even shrunk from
seeing Vernon Blythe. She knew that he would question her so closely,
and sympathise with her so deeply, that she was afraid of what she
might say or do before him; and in answer to more than one kind note
full of affectionate anxiety, she only begged him to leave her alone
until she had somewhat recovered from the shock of losing her poor
friend.
So the day passed on, gloomy and uneventful. The passengers conversed
in undertones on the marvellous disappearance of Maggie Greet, and the
captain peered anxiously into the fog, which still forbade him the use
of his sextant, and made him morose and irritable.
The _Pandora_ remained motionless upon the water. The mist was so dense
that it was impossible to see farther than seven yards from her side.
It was a very perilous position, for at any moment she might have
been cut down by a steamer. The patent Aurora foghorn was constantly
sounded, and every few seconds a long, deep-toned roar, like the lowing
of a monster bull, echoed over the deep, and denoted the whereabouts of
the helpless mariners and their living freight.
The sea resembled a sheet of boiling metal, throwing off vast clouds
of steam, which, gathering in huge volumes in the air, hung suspended
until some mighty wind should arise to drive them away. The mist clung
about the rigging, and fell thence in large drops like rain. The decks
were sodden and slippery. The brass-work of the bridge railings, the
binnacles, and the gratings, which usually shone like gold, had turned
to a sickly greenish hue, and red and orange rust oozed from the
bulwarks and combings of the masts and stanchions, as if the vessel had
been punctured with a hundred lancets, and was slowly bleeding to death.
The wretched cooped-up fowls, standing upon one leg, with their heads
buried beneath their wings, uttered now and then a croupy remonstrance;
the ducks huddled close together to try and keep out the damp chill,
which even their natural oil could not withstand; and the three
surviving sheep filled up the intervals between the lowing of the
fog-blast, with a series of monotonous bleats.
In the forecastle, the seamen ‘yarned’ together by the dim light of a
miserable, smelling, paraffin-oil lamp, which filled the place with
exudations of black smoke, which, combined with the strong flavour of
cavendish, and the dank feeling of the mist, was anything but agreeable.
Now and again the foghorn of the _Pandora_ would be answered faintly
by a distant echo, which grew louder and louder, till all on board
wondered what course the stranger could be making, till suddenly a
tall, dark spectre would shoot rapidly past them in the gloom (like the
celebrated Phantom Ship), making their hearts beat with excitement,
and vanish again as quickly in the fog, leaving only the disturbed
water as a sign that they had been passed by an ocean-liner.
And so the day closed, and morning broke on the same blank prospect.
The officers grumbled, the passengers fretted, and the shellbacks
growled and swore like so many surly bears. Captain Robarts was still
more uneasy than on the previous day. He had noticed that the barometer
was falling, and he expected nothing short of a strong gust of wind
to clear the horizon. He spoke to no one except his officers, and
with them his consultations were short, hurried, and uncommunicative.
Every one on board was in the dumps. It seemed as if the disappearance
of Maggie Greet had cast the shadow of death over the vessel and all
concerned in her.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]