Before the day was over, Gerard and Audrey learned fuller details of
the confederacy into whose net both of them had so cleverly been
drawn.
From the first moment when, a month previously, the police had got
upon the traces of Mr. Candover as the actual forger of the cheques by
means of which Sir Richmond Hornthwaite had been robbed, they had been
working silently, and with the knowledge of Lord Clanfield and Mr.
Masson, to bring the arch-scoundrel to justice.
The irony of fate, however, prevented his being made to suffer the
legal penalty for the crime which he had contrived to lay upon the
shoulders of the unfortunate Gerard Angmering.
His artfulness was so well known, that at first there was a strong
suspicion that his illness was in part at least assumed. But on
examination at the hospital, he was found to be dying, and, although
he lingered through the night and part of the following day, he died
within forty-eight hours from the moment of his attempted arrest, from
extensive injuries to the brain and spine, the result of the two
attacks which had been made upon him, the first by Geoffrey Angmering,
and the second by his own associate, Tom Gossett.
So carefully had the police gone about their work, that not an inkling
of the truth that they were on his track had reached Mr. Candover’s
ears when, his daring and audacious plan for turning Audrey out of the
premises for which she had paid having failed owing to Gerard’s
unexpected intervention, he had been brought suddenly face to face
with the fact that Gerard had recognised in one of the sham detectives
the man who had procured his conviction for forgery by means of false
witness against him.
Tom Gossett was so certain that Gerard had recognised him that he
caused a panic amongst the confederates, and the failure of the device
for frightening Audrey having struck terror among them all, Mr.
Candover found himself in a dilemma, and for once lost his
self-possession.
On no other grounds could his mad attempt to shoot Gerard be accounted
for. It could only be surmised that he intended to let it be supposed
either that Gerard had committed suicide or that he had shot him by
accident in self-defence.
In the meantime the three subordinates who had had the principal share
in carrying out the various swindles of which Candover had been the
promoter, had conceived the idea that he meant to give them the slip
and to prepare his own escape in case of a crash. When, therefore, he
failed to appear at the flat at Victoria Street at the hour he had
appointed for the meeting at which they were to discuss the situation,
they had all decided to follow his daughters, in the well-grounded
belief that by so doing they would reach him.
And when they discovered him in the act of flight, Tom Gossett’s
impulse for revenge brought about the act which caused the
arch-conspirator’s death.
At the trial of the three remaining prisoners, which came off within a
few weeks, an astounding career of crime and fraud was disclosed, by
means of which Reginald Candover, alias Eugène Reynolds, had lived in
princely style upon the earnings of his subordinates in crime.
Forgery was almost the only share of the rascally business which he
undertook in person. He left to lesser lights cheating at cards,
perjury, and the hundred and one various forms of crime of which he
had been the instigator, and the perpetrators of which he took under
his august protection, passing them off, now in one capacity and now
in another, as his servants, his dependants or his friends.
Wherever he went, he always took care to have one or more of these
precious assistants near him; and Jim Johnson, who was one of the
three, confessed to the whole story of the disappearance of the
unfortunate woman who called herself Madame Rocada, and to the share
he had had in that mysterious occurrence.
This woman, who had formerly been a great beauty, had fallen into a
rapid consumption, so that she could no longer carry on the
gaming-house in Paris, which had been one of Mr. Candover’s most
prosperous speculations.
Left in Paris to die, the unfortunate creature had learnt, by some
means, that it was Mr. Candover’s intention to make capital out of her
reputation by starting a similar establishment in England under the
old title which was to be used by another and a younger woman.
Filled with rage and the wish for revenge, the unfortunate White
Countess had struggled with the disease which had laid its cruel hand
upon her, and managed to reach London, fired with the intention of
disturbing the new régime.
Mr. Candover had obtained intelligence of her movements, and had been
on the alert, he and one or other of his confederates having been
constantly about the premises held under the name “Rocada,” in the
expectation of her arrival.
On the evening when her sudden appearance startled Audrey, both Mr.
Candover and Johnson were on the watch, and though they had been
unable to prevent her entering, they had prevented her doing more than
that.
Johnson’s story was that she died a natural death from the bursting of
a blood-vessel, caused by intense excitement on meeting the man who
had ill-used and betrayed her, after having exploited her beauty on
behalf of his gambling-house.
Johnson it was who had disguised himself as the “Dr. Fendall” whose
address could not subsequently be ascertained; and he said that,
immediately after Audrey had left the showrooms in search of help, he
and Mr. Candover had brought a cab, had covered the dead woman with a
long cloak belonging to Mademoiselle Laure, led her out between them
as if she had been still alive, and carried her, under cover of the
darkness, a gruesome companion, out to Willesden, where, in an empty
house in a half-built street, where building was at a standstill for
lack of funds, they had buried the body of the wretched woman under
the flooring.
Having taken the precaution to make the driver of the cab too tipsy to
take much notice of what was going on, they returned to the West End,
Johnson sitting by the cabman and giving sufficient assistance with
the reins for his condition to pass unnoticed by the authorities.
A search of the premises he indicated having been made, the truth of
this part of Johnson’s story was established, and an inquest was held,
which resulted in an open verdict, the condition of the body
warranting the belief that the man’s story was substantially true.
This was not the only information which Johnson, now convinced that
the truth was his best refuge, gave to the prosecution.
He confessed that, as far as he knew, no one of the name of Madame de
Vicenza ever existed. The “Duchess” was a figment of Mr. Candover’s
brain, and “The Briars” had been rented by him. It was also discovered
that the premises which poor Audrey had believed to be rented in her
name, and which had actually been paid for with her money, were really
taken by Mr. Candover in the name of his sister, Mademoiselle Laure.
The various documents which she had been made to sign were concoctions
of his own, and the “solicitor” to whom he had introduced her had been
one of his own creatures.
As for Tom Gossett, he had been chiefly employed as a tout, to
discover likely victims for his employer. In his employment as a
solicitor’s clerk in the city he had unhappily been able to find out
all the details about Gerard Angmering’s habits and ways, which had
been necessary to involve him in Candover’s net.
Durley Diggs had been chiefly employed as a card-sharper, in which
capacity he had used his misdirected abilities to bad purpose both in
Paris and in England.
Mademoiselle Laure had been clever enough to keep out of the
confederacy, as far as could be proved. But although she now posed as
the victim of her half-brother’s deception, and professed to have
known nothing whatever about the various crimes in which he and his
subordinates had been involved, it was strongly suspected, not only
that she had given him all the assistance in her power, but that the
comparatively small value of the property left by him, and her speedy
disappearance to the Continent as soon as the trial was over, were
facts not unconnected with each other, and of an extremely suspicious
nature.
All three confederates got terms of penal servitude, and though it was
believed that there were other members of the gang who had not been
brought to justice, there was reason for thinking that not only was
the gang completely broken up, but that all the chief offenders had
been dealt with.
The effect of the revelations made at the trial was enormous.
Mr. Candover’s social position had been so well established, his
friends and acquaintances had been so uniformly in the best set, his
fame as a connoisseur and collector had been so widespread, that the
whole story of his delinquencies came as a bombshell upon society.
The result was fortunate for Gerard and his wife. For while no one
could boast that he had detected the cloven hoof, no one could cast
much blame upon Audrey and her husband for the ease with which they
had been deceived. They became, indeed, a sort of hero and heroine in
the public eye, not a little to their discomfiture.
Very gladly would they and Reginald Candover’s two daughters have
hidden themselves away until the excitement of the trial had subsided.
But Gerard and his wife had to give evidence against the prisoners,
and they were, therefore, compelled to remain in England. And Pamela
and Babs, after the first painful sting of mortification and distress
was over, found some comfort in the society of Audrey, who loved them
both, and in the kindness of Lord Clanfield, who insisted on keeping
the whole party at his place in Hampshire until the public excitement
had subsided, and they could all make up their minds as to their
future.
The two girls were heartily glad of this arrangement; for although
they frequently saw their mother, by the viscount’s express desire,
that unfortunate lady had lived so long shut up from the world, that
she was wholly unfitted for the society of young people, and even in
the presence of her own daughters she was reserved and eccentric to
the point of making them wonder whether long confinement had not
indeed injured her brain.
It was evident that the best plan both for her and for the girls would
be for her to remain with her sister, and for the young people to find
some other home.
It was while this matter was still under discussion among the various
persons concerned, that an unexpected visitor arrived one day at Lord
Clanfield’s place, driving swiftly through the park in a smart dark
green motor-car.
Pamela was walking in the park, with a couple of collies at her heels.
The February air was keen and cold, and she was running, with her
white muff held up to her pretty pink cheeks, while the dogs, both
young things, full of life and of play, leapt and bounded round her.
One of them, however, attracted dangerously by the motor-car, ran
barking towards it, and was only saved from annihilation by a
dexterous movement on the part of the driver.
Pamela ran forward, calling the dog and scolding him, and the
motor-car stopped.
“How-do-you-do, Miss Pamela?”
“Oh, Sir Harry!”
“Drive on,” said Sir Harry Archdale to the chauffeur, as he got out,
and shook hands with the girl, whose sudden loss of colour betrayed
the mingled feelings of shame and shy pleasure with which the meeting
inspired her.
They had not met since the terrible discoveries of the trial, and
tears of mortification sprang to Pamela’s eyes when she remembered the
difference there was between her position when they had last met and
her position now.
Then she had been one of the daughters of the rich, well-known,
highly-respected Mr. Candover, well off, happy in some vague but yet
dazzling future, full of hope and happiness.
Now she and Babs were outcasts, none the less that they had found kind
friends; they were the daughters of a man whose name could not be
uttered in their presence, they were poor, they were overwhelmed with
doubt as to the future.
The young man seemed conscious of all this too, though the knowledge
only served to deepen the kindly feeling with which he spoke, to fill
his eyes with sympathy which he did not dare to express in words.
Instead of speaking on any subject of interest to either, he rambled
into a confused account of his adventures with various dogs and other
animals during his first attempts at driving his own car. It was
disconnected enough, but Pamela laughed politely and made no attempt
at conversational efforts on her own account.
And then presently he came to a dead stop. His stock of vapid anecdote
had run dry, and she showed signs of being about to call her dogs and
continue her walk.
Something must be done, something bold, something daring, desperate.
“I--I knew you were staying here,” stammered he at last, suddenly
losing control of the muscles of his face, and growing red and white
and all sorts of colours. “But--I--I--I didn’t like to come before.
Only--when somebody said you--you were g-g-going abroad, I--I--I felt
I must come.”
“To say good-bye. It’s very kind of you,” panted Pamela quickly.
“No, no, no. You know I didn’t mean that. Look here. I--I want to ask
you something. Isn’t it--a little awkward--to be here--even if they’re
nice, and of course they are nice?” said Sir Harry, speaking more and
more quickly, and wholly unable to choose appropriate and inoffensive
expressions.
Pamela raised her pretty head proudly.
“Oh, of course it’s awkward, dreadfully, dreadfully awkward. But what
of that? It must always be awkward--for us--everywhere--_now_.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
She turned upon him fiercely.
“Oh, yes, you do, you must. Everybody knows who we are, and all about
us. And kind as everybody is, it’s dreadful all the same. Of course we
shall get over it some day, but now--oh, don’t talk about it, don’t,
don’t.”
“Young Angmering looks much better!” said Sir Harry by way of a
diversion, glancing towards the garden, where Gerard was walking
briskly, whip in hand, from the stables towards his wife, who was
leaning out of one of the lower windows and smiling at him.
“Oh, yes. It’s hardly possible to believe that he was threatened with
consumption only a few months ago. I’m so glad, for poor Audrey’s
sake. After all she went through, it’s lovely to see her so happy at
last!”
“Yes. I don’t quite like, myself, to approach her. I--I feel most
awfully uncomfortable after--after--er--er--er.”
The unfortunate young man stopped short, remembering that it was
through the misunderstanding created by Pamela’s father that he had
misjudged poor Audrey.
Pamela laughed sadly.
“Oh, you can speak out,” she said. “It’s of no use for me--for Babs
and me, to pretend not to know the mischief _he_ caused. But I am
thankful to say the last traces of it are passing away now.”
The young man twirled his moustache fiercely.
“I’m so sorry----” said he. “I--I don’t know how I could be such a
donkey as to--as to----”
“Don’t call yourself names,” said she with a sort of forlorn
resignation. “It can’t be helped. Every one knows it. Every one will
always know, and look round at the name of Candover.”
Sir Harry was seized with an inspiration.
“Why don’t you change it?” he said abruptly. Then, before she could
answer, he saw his opportunity, and hurried on: “They look round at
the name Candover, you say. They wouldn’t if you were
called--Archdale.”
Pamela tried to pretend she took this as a joke.
“Why do you laugh?” said he. “You’ll have to marry some day, you know!
Why shouldn’t you be happy? Oh, you don’t know how soon you’d be able
to forget, if you were!”
Pamela listened with her head bent, a feeling of deep gratitude and
happiness stealing into her heart at the thought that this man, whom
she had secretly liked so much, should come to her and generously
offer to lift the great shadow off her life.
She shook her head, slowly, gently.
“There’s poor Babs!” she said softly.
“Oh, we’ll find a husband for Babs too! Babs is a dear girl!”
Pamela laughed, happily, tenderly this time.
“You seem to think,” she said meditatively, as she let him take up the
end of the long white fox boa that encircled her throat, and wind it
round his own hand caressingly, coming nearer as he did so, “that
marriage is a panacea for all evils!”
Sir Harry glanced at Gerard and Audrey, whose figures could be seen,
framed in the long bare strings of Virginia creeper and the green
glossy ivy, at the mullioned window of the old redbrick mansion.
“Well, it looks like it, doesn’t it?” he said, as he got near enough
to kiss her.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Florence Warden was the pseudonym of Florence Alice (Price) James.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (_e.g._ card-tables/card tables,
overwrought/over-wrought, repellant/repellent, etc.) have been
preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Add TOC.
Fix a few instances of periods _following_ the closing quotation marks
of dialogue.
[Chapter VII]
Change “with such _convential_ words of thanks as he could muster” to
_conventional_.
(what she would do when she left “The _Briers_,”) to _Briars_.
[Chapter XV]
(“And what is that?” _askey_ Audrey.) to _asked_.
[Chapter XIX]
“And standing on the top. she looked down while her face quivered…”
change period to comma.
[End of text]