AT THE POLICE COURT
The threat was sufficient and Jim capitulated.
"Though you are a quixotic fool, Maurice, and no mistake," he asserted
vehemently.
"Tell me something I don't know," I suggested. "Something pleasant, for
a change. How's Mary?"
"Not at all well; that's why we went down to Cornwall last week; we've
taken a cottage there for the summer. The town is frightfully stuffy,
and the poor little woman is quite done up. She's been worrying about
Anne, too, as I said; and now she'd be worrying about you! She wanted to
come up with me yesterday, when I got the wire,--it was forwarded from
Chelsea,--but I wouldn't let her; and she'll be awfully upset when she
sees the papers to-day. We don't get 'em till the afternoon down there."
"Well, let her have a wire beforehand," I counselled. "Tell her I'm all
right, and send her my love. You'll turn up at the court to-morrow to
see me through, I suppose? Tell Mary I'll probably come down to Morwen
with you on Friday. That'll cheer her up no end."
"I hope you may! But suppose it goes against you, and you're committed
for trial?" Jim demanded gloomily. His customary cheeriness seemed to
have deserted him altogether at this juncture.
"I'm not going to suppose anything so unpleasant till I have to," I
asserted. "Be off with you, and send that wire to Mary!"
I wanted to get rid of him. He wasn't exactly an inspiriting companion
just now; besides, I thought it possible that Southbourne might come to
see me again; and I had determined to tackle him about that portrait,
and try to exact the same pledge from him that I had from Jim. He might,
of course, have shown it to a dozen people, as he had to Jim; and on the
other hand he might not.
He came right enough, and I opened on him at once. He looked at me in
his lazy way, through half-closed lids,--I don't think I've ever seen
that man open his eyes full,--and smiled.
"So you do know the lady, after all," he remarked.
"I'm not talking of the original of the portrait, but of Miss
Pendennis," I retorted calmly. "I've seen Cayley, and he's quite ready
to acknowledge that he was misled by the likeness; but so may other
people be if you've been showing it around."
"Well, no; as it happens, I haven't done that. Only you and he have seen
it, besides myself. I showed it him because I knew you and he were
intimate, and I wanted to see if he would recognize her, as you did,--or
thought you did,--when I showed it you, though you wouldn't own up to
it. I'm really curious to know who the original is."
"So am I, to a certain extent; but anyhow, she's not Miss Pendennis!" I
said decisively; though whether he believed me or not I can't say. "And
I won't have her name even mentioned in connection with that portrait!"
"And therefore with,--but no matter," he said slowly. "I wish, for your
own sake, and not merely to satisfy my curiosity, that you would be
frank with me, or, if not with me, at least with Sir George. However,
I'll do what you ask. I'll make no further attempts, at present, to
discover the original of that portrait."
That was not precisely what I had asked him, but I let it pass. I knew
by his way of saying it that he shared my conviction--and Jim's--that it
was Anne's portrait right enough; but I had gained my point, and that
was the main thing.
The hearing at the police court next day was more of an ordeal than I
had anticipated, chiefly because of my physical condition. I had seemed
astonishingly fit when I started,--in a cab, accompanied by a couple of
policemen,--considering the extent of my injuries, and the sixty hours'
journey I had just come through; and I was anxious to get the thing
over. But when I got into the crowded court, where I saw numbers of
familiar faces, including Mary's little white one,--she had come up from
Cornwall after all, bless her!--I suddenly felt myself as weak as a cat.
I was allowed a seat in the dock, and I leaned back in it with what was
afterwards described by the reporters as "an apathetic air," though I
was really trying my hardest to avoid making an ass of myself by
fainting outright. That effort occupied all the energy I had, and I only
heard scraps of the evidence, which seemed, to my dulled brain, to
refer to some one else and not to me at all.
At last there came a confused noise, shouting and clapping, and above it
a stentorian voice.
"Silence! Silence in the court!"
Some one grasped my right arm--just where the bandage was, though he
didn't know that--and hurt me so badly that I started up involuntarily,
to find Sir George and Southbourne just in front of the dock holding out
their hands to me, and I heard a voice somewhere near.
"Come along, sir, this way; you can follow to the ante-room, gentlemen;
can't have a demonstration in Court."
I felt myself guided along by the grip on my arm that was like a red-hot
vice; there were people pressing about me, all talking at once, and
shaking hands with me.
I heard Southbourne say, sharper and quicker than I'd ever heard him
speak before:
"Here, look out! Stand back, some of you!"
The next I knew I was lying on a leather sofa with my head resting on
something soft. My collar and tie lay on the floor beside me, and my
face was wet, and something warm splashed down on it, just as I began to
try and recollect what had happened. Then I found that I was resting on
Mary's shoulder, and she was crying softly; it was one of her tears that
was trickling down my nose at this instant. She wiped it off with her
damp little handkerchief.
"You poor boy; you gave us a real fright this time," she exclaimed,
smiling through her tears,--a wan little ghost of a smile. "But we'll
soon have you all right again when we get you home."
"I'm all right now, dear; I'm sorry I've upset you so," I said, and Jim
bustled forward with some brandy in a flask, and helped me sit up.
I saw then that Sir George and Southbourne were still in the room; the
lawyer was sitting on a table close by, watching me through his
gold-rimmed pince-nez, and Southbourne was standing with his back to us,
staring out of the window.
"What's happened, anyhow?" I asked, and Sir George got off the table and
came up to me.
"Charge dismissed; I congratulate you, Mr. Wynn," he said genially.
"There wasn't a shred of real evidence against you; though they tried to
make a lot out of that bit of withered geranium found in your
waste-paper basket; just because the housekeeper remembered that
Cassavetti had a red flower in his buttonhole when he came in; but I was
able to smash that point at once, thanks to your cousin."
He bowed towards Mary, who, as soon as she saw me recovering, had
slipped away, and was pretending to adjust her hat before a dingy
mirror.
"Why, what did Mary do?"
"Passed me a note saying that you had the buttonhole when you left the
Cecil. I called her as a witness and she gave her evidence splendidly."
"Lots of the men had them," Mary put in hurriedly. "I had one, too, and
so did Anne--quite a bunch. And my! I should like to know what that
housekeeper had been about not to empty the waste-paper basket before.
I don't suppose he's touched your rooms since you left them, Maurice!"
"It might have been a very difficult point," Sir George continued
judicially; "the only one, in fact. For Lord Southbourne's evidence
disposed of the theory the police had formed that you had returned
earlier in the evening, and that when you did go in and found the door
open your conduct was a mere feint to avert suspicion. And then there
was the entire lack of motive, and the derivative evidence that more
than one person--and one of them a woman--had been engaged in ransacking
the rooms. Yes, it was a preposterous charge!"
"But it served its purpose all right," drawled Southbourne, strolling
forward. "They'd have taken their time if I'd set them on your track
just because you had disappeared. Congratulations, Wynn. You've had more
than enough handshaking, so I won't inflict any more on you. Wonder what
scrape you'll find yourself in next?"
"He won't have the chance of getting into any more for some time to
come. I shall take care of that!" Mary asserted, with pretty severity.
"Put his collar on, Jim; and we'll get him into the brougham."
"My motor's outside, Mrs. Cayley. Do have that. It's quicker and
roomier. Come on, Wynn; take my arm; that's all right. You stand by on
his other side, Cayley. Sir George, will you take Mrs. Cayley and fetch
the motor round to the side entrance? We'll follow."
I guess I'd misjudged him in the days when I'd thought him a
cold-blooded cynic. He had certainly proved a good friend to me right
through this episode, and now, impassive as ever, he helped me along and
stowed me into the big motor.
Half the journalists in London seemed to be waiting outside, and raised
a cheer as we appeared. Mary declared that it was quite a triumphant
exit.