CHAPTER IVGIDEON LANE TAKES A HAND
“Whatan awful day!” she cried when Richard had calmed her a little, not that he was in much of a mood to administer consolation to others. “And last night, when we talked of our future, and I told you to pluck up your courage, I felt so gay and light-hearted. Oh, Dick dear, it will kill me; but no, I must not let it do that. We must both be brave, and strain every nerve to prove your innocence.”
“It is indeed a tragic day,” corroborated her lover. “And, my darling, but for this inexplicable mystery, it would all have been such plain-sailing. In the midst of his reproaches, he paused to tell me that he knew of our love for each other, and that he would have put no obstacles in the way.”
The poor girl sobbed afresh at this. To have the cup of happiness dashed down when it was so near her lips—could there be a more poignant disappointment? But presently, she rallied and dried her tears, and inquired his plans for the future. Morrice had ordered him to quit the house before he returned to it. There could be no disobeying that command.
“I have often spoken to you of the dear old soul who was first my mother’s nurse and then mine. My grandfather left her a small annuity as reward for her faithful services to his family. She has a tiny little cottage at Petersham, near Richmond. Shewill take me in until I have collected my thoughts sufficiently to decide upon my future.”
“And I shall come and see you there, Dick,” cried the girl eagerly, “even though you are forbidden this house.”
“My darling, you must not do anything without your uncle’s sanction. In certain moods, he is a stern and hard man.”
Richard felt that life, in a way, was over for him, but for this brilliant young creature it was only just beginning. Touched as he was by her faith in him, he knew that it would be folly for her to cling to a man over whom hung the shadow of disgrace. As yet, he could not wound her feelings by telling her so. But presently, when he had recovered himself sufficiently to think and plan, he would pass quietly out of her life.
“He may be stern and hard at times, but he is always just,” said Rosabelle. “He will not think the less of me because I refuse to believe you guilty. Why, Dick, I know you so well,” she added impetuously. “I would not credit the evidence of my own eyes against your word. If these things had been found in your pockets and you had denied you stole them, I would have believed you, and known the real thief had put them there for the purpose of incriminating you.”
Young Croxton smiled a wan smile at his sweetheart’s vehemence. Can anything equal the blind faith of a woman in the man she loves? It is one of those qualities amongst many which they must surely derive from a divine source.
“He is sore and angry over his loss now,” went on the beautiful girl. “In a day or two he will calm down, and see that he has been too hasty in his judgment.”
“I have never known him angry over losses, andhardly a year goes by that he does not make heavy ones,” answered Richard sadly. “No, to do him justice, what has cut him to the quick is the supposed discovery of my unworthiness.”
Half an hour later, Richard Croxton had left the familiar house in Deanery Street which had sheltered him so long. His sweetheart bade him a tearful farewell, and Mrs. Morrice, to whom the young couple explained the terrible happenings of the morning, showed considerable emotion. In her heart, she would have preferred her nephew, Archie Brookes, as a husband for Rosabelle, but she had always been very fond of Richard, and stoutly expressed her belief in his innocence.
A taxi bore him swiftly to the neat little ivy-covered cottage at Petersham, where he received a hearty welcome from his old nurse, a comely old woman verging upon her seventieth year, but hale and vigorous for her age. To her he did not explain the actual truth, but simply stated that circumstances had suddenly arisen which rendered necessary the severing of his connection with Mr. Morrice.
The good, simple old soul said little, but she was very upset at the news. She knew very well that the great financier had treated him like a son, and that this sudden separation meant the ruin of his bright prospects.
“And Miss Rosabelle?” she inquired anxiously. Hitherto he had kept few secrets from the faithful and sympathetic old woman, who had long ago learned the history of his love affair.
“She will come and see me, dear old nurse, that is to say, if her uncle does not expressly forbid her.”
Mrs. Hart, such was the name of this faithful old servant, made no comment upon this significant remark. It crossed her mind that it was more than probable Richard’s departure had been caused by this verylove-affair; that fond as he was of him, the wealthy financier had resented his attentions to his niece, who, in the course of time, would be a considerable heiress.
It may be observed in passing that the same opinion was held in the servants’ hall at Deanery Street, where the young man’s sudden exit had naturally aroused a tremendous amount of interest. It had also occurred to Morrice, desirous of keeping the true facts to himself, more perhaps from respect for the dead than tenderness to the living, that he might get his wife to give some hints which would produce the same impression amongst their acquaintances.
True to her promise, in a few days Rosabelle arrived at the ivy-covered cottage, having warned her lover, in a letter received by the first post in the morning, of her visit.
He noticed that she drove up in a taxi, not, as was usual, in one of her uncle’s cars. He was, of course, overwhelmed with joy at seeing her so soon, but he was very anxious that the fidelity to himself should not entail disastrous consequences to her own fortunes. So the first question he asked was whether Mr. Morrice knew of her visit.
“Everything is straight and above-board, dear Dick,” was the girl’s answer. “I had a long talk with him yesterday morning at his early breakfast. I got up early myself in order to seize a chance of finding him alone. He seemed very sad and preoccupied, but he was not as stern and harsh as on that dreadful day. I told him a lot of things as they came into my head, how dearly we loved each other, how we had fallen in love from the first day we met—that no matter if all the world turned against you, I should still be faithful, that my one great object was that you should take steps to get yourself cleared and discover the real criminal.”
“And what did he say to all this?” asked theyoung man eagerly. “I can guess, my darling, that you pleaded very well.”
“He listened very attentively, and was very quiet for a long time. When I had finished, he asked me if I wished him to send for detectives from Scotland Yard. I hastily said that I did, and that I was sure you would wish it too. ‘My poor child, you don’t know what you are talking about,’ was his answer. ‘The certain result of that would be that the man in whom you believe would be arrested, and once having taken the case up, I could not drop it, I should be bound to prosecute.’ That scared me dreadfully, you may be sure. His final words were spoken in a very sad voice. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie, my poor wronged Rosabelle. Richard Croxton through his own act has passed away from my life, as he must pass away from yours. You are young, and in time your grief will heal, and some day you will meet a man worthy of your love.’”
The young man’s head sunk on his breast. Yes, Mr. Morrice was right. Appearances were too black against him; if the authorities were called in, arrest would be sure to follow.
The girl went on in a low, tearful voice. “I told him that the day to which he looked forward would never come, that if I could not marry you, no other man should be my husband. And then, Dick, I ended with the boldest thing I had said yet—I am pretty brave as a rule but I own I trembled as I said it—I told him I was coming to see you here, that I would no more forsake you in your trouble than your mother would have done. She would have clung to you in your darkest hour because she loved you, and that I did not love you less.”
“And he did not forbid you?” cried the young man in amazement. He knew Rupert Morrice so well, of a nature singularly kind and generous, buthard as flint to evil-doers, to those who betrayed his trust.
“No, he did not forbid me, Dick, and I am almost as amazed as you are, but I think that reference to your mother softened him. It was a long time before he spoke, and then his words came very slowly. ‘If I allow you to do this, at any rate for the present, till I have thought matters out further, will you give me your solemn promise that you will only play the rôle of consoler, that you will do nothing rash?’ Of course I knew what he meant, that we might get secretly married. So I gave him that promise, Dick; do you blame me?”
“A thousand times No, my darling,” cried Croxton, as he took her in his arms and kissed away the tears on the sweet face. “And considering what he believes me to be, nay more, what he is sure I am, I cannot but marvel at his giving his consent.”
For a long time the young people talked together, and all through their conversation the one thought uppermost in Rosabelle’s mind was that her lover should take steps to clear himself, that he should not be content to rest under the unmerited stigma, that he should not meekly consent to pass out of their lives.
“If you do not act, I shall act myself,” she told him finally.
The young man listened attentively, and hope and resolution began to stir in him. He had been so stunned by the damning nature of the evidence against him, by the stern attitude of his once benevolent protector, that he had been crushed almost into insensibility, into a benumbing of his faculties. But, as the girl spoke in her bright, incisive way, the clouds about his brain seemed to melt. He seemed to see himself rehabilitated, able to prove to those whom it concerned that he was the honest man they had always believed him to be.
“The question is how to go to work,” he said gravely. “Mr. Morrice is right when he says that to call in Scotland Yard might lead to disastrous consequences. But we could employ a private detective to probe the mystery to the bottom. Even if he could not lay his hands on the actual thief, he might be able to prove my innocence.”
Rosabelle caught eagerly at the idea. “And where can we find the sort of man we want?”
“One of the cleverest is Gideon Lane; his office is in Shaftesbury Avenue. I know him a little, and Mr. Morrice knows him too. We employed him to watch a suspected clerk in our office, and he trapped him very cleverly.”
“Would it cost much to employ him?” asked the girl anxiously. She knew that Richard’s capital, like her own, was very small, and it was hardly likely that Morrice would spend any money on a case he had already pre-judged. It was not possible for her to help, for her uncle was her trustee and not likely to allow her to adventure a penny in such a cause.
But Croxton’s small amount of capital was entirely under his own control, and now that he was recovering from his despairing mood, he was fired with the desire to establish his innocence, and had no hesitation in employing some of it for the purpose.
After a great deal of discussion as to the initial steps to be taken, it was decided that Rosabelle should visit the detective, tell him the whole facts, and commission him to undertake the investigation on her own behalf. Richard would give her a brief letter of introduction to Gideon Lane, and furnish her with money to pay a preliminary fee.
The enthusiastic girl did not allow the grass to grow under her feet. Two days later she was seated in the waiting-room of the small suite of offices in Shaftesbury Avenue. She had sent in her letter ofintroduction and was waiting to be summoned to the presence of the well-known detective who was, fortunately for her impatience, disengaged. He was not many seconds reading the letter, but it seemed hours before the restless Rosabelle saw the inner door open, and was asked by a smart young typist to step in.
Mr. Gideon Lane rose to receive her, a tall, good-looking man with nothing particularly remarkable about his appearance; with his clean-shaven face and strong, resolute expression he might have been taken for an actor, there was certainly nothing about him to suggest an unraveller of mysteries. The most striking features in an agreeable countenance were his eyes, which were piercing and brilliant.
“I remember Mr. Croxton perfectly,” said the detective. “He was the confidential secretary of Mr. Morrice, and struck me as much above the ordinary young man in intelligence and quickness of perception. I hope he is quite well,” he finished politely.
This remark gave Rosabelle an easy opening. “He is quite well in health, Mr. Lane, but exceedingly unhappy, lying as he is at the moment under the stigma of a terrible accusation.”
Mr. Lane gathered from these serious words that the girl had come upon a grave errand. His face reflected her concern at once.
“I am very sorry to hear it, Miss Sheldon. I took rather a liking to the young man, he seemed so open and frank. Well, please tell me all the details, I take it you want my assistance in the matter. And please conceal nothing from me, if you want me to give you of my best. Let me know everything that tells against him, you will naturally inform me of everything in his favour.”
The shrewd man of the world divined immediately that there was a close bond between this charming girl and the accused man, and he put her at once ather ease by adding: “I need hardly tell you that what you say will never be divulged; you are as safe with me as if you were in the confessional.”
He had a very ingratiating manner with him, this calm, self-possessed man who looked more like an actor than a detective. Rosabelle felt very much at home with him, and at once launched forth in her narrative of the details of that eventful morning, as they had been told her by her lover.
Mr. Lane listened to her attentively without interruption. He judged it best to let her tell her story her own way, more particularly as she told it very well, without redundance or repetition. His questions would come later.
When she had finished, he sat silent for some time, while the girl regarded him anxiously. “It is, of course, too early for you to form any opinion?” she asked in a faltering voice, feeling the prolonged silence somewhat of a strain upon her nerves.
He shook his head. “A great deal too early, Miss Sheldon. Of course, it is easy to say at first blush, upon the evidence before us, those articles could only have been abstracted by one of two persons, Mr. Morrice or his secretary.”
“And it would be absurd to think that my uncle stole his own property,” cried the girl swiftly.
A rather non-committal smile illumined the calm face of the detective. “From your point of view, it would be absurd, as you most rightly say. From mine, it would be so very difficult to discover a plausible motive for such an act.”
She could not follow him in this subtle explanation, and waited in silence till he began to put certain questions to her. First, with regard to the servants, would she give him full particulars of their number, the nature of their duties, their length of service and so on?
She supplied him with the requested information. He entered all this in a private notebook, in a shorthand of his own invention which nobody could read but himself.
What did the family consist of? was his next question.
“My uncle and aunt, Richard Croxton and myself. Two other people came to the house who were practically of the family, Sir George Clayton-Brookes, my aunt’s brother-in-law, and young Archibald Brookes, his nephew and the son of my aunt’s sister.”
These particulars went into the notebook. “I have heard of Sir George, he is well known on the turf, and reputed to be a man of substance. I know nothing of the young man. Has he means of his own, or is he dependent upon his relatives?”
“Dependent upon Sir George, I believe,” answered Rosabelle. “We have always understood his uncle makes him a handsome allowance, and will leave him his property.”
Mr. Lane asked a few more questions and then closed his notebook. “Well, Miss Sheldon, that is as far as we can go at present. Before I start, I must visit the scene of operations and take a look at this wonderful safe. I take it that will not be easy to accomplish without Mr. Morrice’s knowledge and permission. Is he likely to refuse it?”
Rosabelle, needless to say, was a little dismayed. He had refused to call in Scotland Yard, would he peremptorily refuse admission to a private inquirer?
She hazarded her fears to Mr. Lane, who thought that he would yield in the matter. The fact that Richard Croxton was prepared to break into his small capital for the purpose of establishing his innocence, should make a favourable impression upon Mr. Morrice, however firmly he believed in the young man’s guilt. If Morrice obstinately refused, he would be forced torevise his opinion of that gentleman, although he was too diplomatic to say as much to Rosabelle.
“I will tell you the principal object of my visit, Miss Sheldon. The theft would have to be committed in a great hurry, and there are sure to be finger-marks on the safe. I want to take a photograph of them. If Mr. Morrice does refuse, for reasons sufficient to himself, I shall have to get a photograph of them somehow, and in this I dare say I shall have to avail myself of your co-operation.”
He smiled a little as he spoke. It was not the first time by many dozens that he had gone in at the back door where he had been refused entrance at the front, or obtained information he required in spite of every obstacle being put in his way.
Rosabelle was quite sure she understood what he was driving at. She would have dared anything for her lover, and if it was a question of smuggling Mr. Gideon Lane into her uncle’s room while he was in the city, her woman’s wit, sharpened by her love, would find a way.
“Now we will not waste time,” said the genial Mr. Lane as the excited girl rose to take her leave. “Pending the obtaining of your uncle’s permission to do the thing openly, I want you to co-operate with me in a little matter. Pay Mr. Croxton a visit as soon as possible and get him to give you an impression of his fingers. If you tell him what you want it for, he cannot refuse.”
“But, of course, he will not refuse,” cried the girl a little indignantly. “Would he have let me come to you if he was not prepared to face the ordeal? And if you find, as you will, that the finger-marks on the safe are not his, that will establish his innocence once and for all, will it not?”
Mr. Lane seemed a trifle embarrassed by the question. “It will go a long way,” he said, speaking with some hesitation.
“Why not the whole way?” demanded Rosabelle, and her eyes flashed a little.
“Miss Sheldon, it is better you should not ask me too many questions till we are more sure of our ground. We experts require a great deal of evidence before we venture to say of any accused man that he is absolutely innocent or absolutely guilty.”
“But if the finger-marks are proved not to be his, how can he be guilty?” she cried obstinately.
“You force me to say what I would rather leave unsaid. But our investigations would not be very useful if we refused to weigh not only every probability, but also every possibility. You say that your uncle firmly believes in this young man’s guilt, although he loved him and treated him like a son. If he still maintains that belief, is it not open to him to say that if Richard Croxton was not the actual thief, he was an accomplice or an accessory? How otherwise could the actual thief have got the necessary knowledge of that safe’s complicated mechanism? Please understand I am not advancing this as my own opinion, but as one that might be entertained.”
And for the first time poor Rosabelle began to see how very hard was the task before them. The tears came into her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Lane, what will be wanted to prove his absolute innocence? I see too clearly the terrible difficulties in our way.”
The great detective spoke very gravely. “The surest way of proving Mr. Croxton’s innocence is by discovering beyond any possibility of doubt the person who opened that safe, and proving that that person, whoever it may be, had no connection with him. To that point my investigations will tend, with what results it is impossible for me to foresee.”
Mr. Morrice gave his permission for the detective’s visit more readily than Rosabelle had hoped. His attitude towards young Croxton now seemed to bemore one of sorrow and disappointment than of the deep anger he had at first displayed. But he expressed to her his sense of the futility of the task on which she was engaged.
She thought she knew what was passing in his keen and analytical mind. Croxton was playing a game of bluff, perhaps for the purpose of establishing himself firmly in the esteem of his sweetheart. And if the finger-marks were those of somebody else, he would fall back on the theory that Gideon Lane had already anticipated.
With Richard, her task was easy. He gave an impression of his fingers without a moment’s hesitation, and Rosabelle carried it to Lane with a certain sense of triumph, which would have been complete but for those last damping words of the cautious detective.
In due course the visit was paid to the house in Deanery Street; Rosabelle and her uncle were present. Sure enough in addition to the recent finger-prints of Morrice and young Croxton, there was a third set, equally recent.
The development of the photographs proved that Croxton’s finger-prints were totally different from the third set. Lane announced his intention of taking them to Scotland Yard in order that a search might be made amongst their voluminous files.
His investigations on this subject completed, Lane dispatched a brief telegram to Rosabelle asking her to call at his office. A few minutes after its receipt, she was seated in his room feverishly awaiting his news.
“It promises to be a deeper mystery than I thought, Miss Sheldon. There has been some very clever and deeply thought-out work here. I have identified the finger-prints, they are those of a well-known professional thief named Thomas, known amongst his confederates as ‘Tubby’ Thomas. He is an expert safe-breaker, the cleverest in England.”
The girl’s eyes sparkled. “An expert safe-breaker!” she repeated joyfully. “Does one want to pursue the inquiry any further? Is it not obvious who was the thief?”
But the next moment came the slow words which fell like ice on her heart.
“Unfortunately, the mystery is deepened, not solved. The finger-prints are those of ‘Tubby’ Thomas, for finger-prints never lie.But ‘Tubby’ Thomas himself has for the last two years been serving a sentence for a similar offence in Dartmoor, and he is still there.”