CHAPTER VROSABELLE AND LANE CONFER
Dazedas she was, cast in a moment from a feeling of elation into one of bitter disappointment, she saw the point at once. If the criminal known as “Tubby” Thomas was safe under lock and key, he could not have been the thief. They were as far from the solution of the mystery as ever, in spite of those tell-tale finger-prints which, according to orthodox belief, never lied.
Gideon Lane was bitterly disappointed too, but he had suffered so many checks in his time that he never allowed his fortitude to desert him. When he discovered those finger-prints he really thought the game was in his hands, and that, with the aid of Scotland Yard, he could put his hand on the actual thief, as he could have done had they been those of a criminal actively pursuing his nefarious career. But the incarceration of the man Thomas provided animpasse.
Narrowing the issue to the only two men who were supposed to be acquainted with the complicatedmechanism of this wonderful safe, he had thought very deeply, twisting and turning about in his keen and alert mind the possibilities that suggested themselves.
Taking the young man himself first. According to the flattering report of Rosabelle, he led a perfectly blameless and open life. In his habits he was temperate, almost abstemious, he never touched a card, he never betted, the only gambling habit he indulged in was to take a ticket in a couple of club sweepstakes. But, of course, Rosabelle’s report was sure to be coloured a little on the favourable side. There are plenty of young men who lead double lives; models of discretion and decorum to all appearances, but secretly addicted to ruinous and discreditable vices which are only brought suddenly to light by some accident or fatal false step.
This young man might be one of these. He might be hard pressed for money, the victim even of some blackmailer who had become possessed of a terrible secret in his double life, and had risked all his bright prospects on the chance that Morrice would disbelieve the evidence of his senses, and accept his bare denial that he was innocent, in spite of the damning evidence against him.
But if he was clever enough to scheme out such an artfully-planned robbery, either alone or with the aid of a confederate, would he not be clever enough to see that scrupulous honesty and fidelity to his employer was the best policy? For Morrice, according to Rosabelle’s account, had treated him like a son; there was little doubt that he intended to take him into partnership at an early date, and would leave him a considerable slice of his vast fortune. There was no doubt of his wealth, for, by common consent, he was reputed to be amongst the half-dozen richest men in England.
Then there was no doubt that the two young people were lovers. Would a man, capable of a moment’s sane thought, put in certain jeopardy his chances of happiness with this charming and lovable girl?
But then, of course, crimes would never be perpetrated if the criminals could foresee all the consequences likely to flow from their yielding to sudden impulses. At the fatal moment they appeared to be driven forward by some blind force which, for the moment, they were unable to fight against. And so it might have happened in the case of this young man, who, according to Rosabelle’s testimony, had led such a regular and blameless life.
Turning his attention to the other of the two men, Rupert Morrice himself, the detective found the situation one of greater complexity. Strange as it may sound, men have robbed themselves before now and done their best to fix the guilt upon others, from more than one sinister motive. For instance, a man knowing himself to be on the verge of bankruptcy might, in desperation, purloin some of his own property to put it in a safe place beyond the reach of his creditors. In the case of this wealthy financier, whose credit stood so high, such a theory might be at once dismissed.
At first blush, the refusal to apply to Scotland Yard might seem a trifle suspicious, might suggest that he had a personal interest in stifling independent investigation. But when one considered the unusual circumstances, the action seemed only a natural one.
According to Rosabelle’s statement, Morrice had treated the young man as a son; not only had he a great affection for him, but that affection had been accentuated by the elder man’s passionate love for the mother. However deep his belief in his guilt, a father does not hand over a son to be dealt with by the stern processes of justice. He may dismiss him from his house, he may refuse to hold further intercoursewith him, but he shields him, where possible, from the fatal consequences of his rash act.
There was, however, one point on which he wished to be assured, and which caused him to put a certain question to the girl.
“I am going to ask you something, Miss Sheldon, not, believe me, from any spirit of impertinent curiosity, but because it is essential that I should be acquainted with every little fact. I am assuming that your interest in Mr. Croxton arises from a warmer feeling than that of mere friendship. Am I not right in saying that there is a close bond between you; that, to put it in plain words, you are lovers?”
Rosabelle admitted quite frankly that Lane was right in his surmise.
“Now for my next question. Did Mr. Morrice know of this understanding between you, and if so, did he approve of it?”
To this the girl’s answer was equally frank. Up to the day of the robbery she could not have been absolutely certain that her uncle did know of it, although she was pretty sure he did. Their interest in each other was so openly displayed, that it was almost impossible it could have escaped his observation. If he had disapproved, he certainly would not have hesitated to express his disapproval, being a man of the most straightforward character, who never scrupled to express what was in his mind, or take drastic action when he judged it necessary.
“All doubt, however, on this point was removed by what he said to Richard on that terrible morning,” Rosabelle went on in a voice that trembled a little. “After overwhelming him with his anger at what he believed to be his baseness, he told him he knew we were attached to each other, and that he would have put no obstacles in our way. It was really as I thought. Richard was always a little dubiousas to what his attitude might be, while I never had the slightest fear. We were both so very dear to him that I was always sure our marriage would have given him the greatest pleasure.”
The detective considered her reply carefully, as was his invariable custom. He never accepted any statement without probing it very deeply, none knew better than he the futility of jumping to rash and hasty conclusions.
“There would seem to be some reasonable ground for Mr. Croxton’s doubts in the matter,” he said very quietly. “Kind and generous as Mr. Morrice was to him, there was no actual blood-tie between them; you tell me the young man had practically no money of his own, that his future depended entirely on a continuance of his benefactor’s favour. You, on the other hand, are a near relative and it is to be assumed that your uncle will leave you a considerable sum. It would be a very natural thing that he should have different views for you, should have wished you to look a little higher than one who, after all, was not your equal in anything but birth. At any rate, it is what the ordinary person might think, of course; Mr. Morrice may be an exceptional man of liberal independent views.”
“Oh, but that is just what he is,” cried the girl warmly. In spite of her fervent belief in her lover, and perhaps a little natural resentment against her uncle for his obstinate presumption of Richard’s guilt, she loved him very dearly and thoroughly appreciated his sterling qualities.
“That is just what he is, Mr. Lane,” she repeated. “Rich as he is, hard as he works to make himself so, he does not love money for its own sake or value the possession of it in others. One or two of his closest friends are poor men, and he is happier in their society than in that of millionaires like himself. Heloves his business and his work, it is true, but more for the mental excitement and stimulus they bring than for their pecuniary results. And he doesn’t attach much importance to birth or what the world calls position. At heart, I believe he is a good bit of a democrat.”
“If a millionaire can be truly a democrat!” suggested Mr. Lane with a smile. “Anyway, if he is one, there must be a good many reservations.”
The girl’s replies to his questions had rather disposed of a somewhat fantastic theory that had formed itself in rather nebulous shape in his astute brain, accustomed to weigh all sorts of possibilities and probabilities, to search for unusual and far-reaching motives. Had Morrice engineered this theft, not for the ordinary sordid reasons, but with the object of fixing upon the innocent secretary a stigma that would effectually remove him from his niece’s society? But then again, a man who could in cold blood conceive such a scheme would be more than the vilest criminal. It would be impossible that one of such good repute, for even his enemies and rivals credited Morrice with the highest integrity, should stoop to such sinister methods.
“Well, Miss Sheldon,” he said as the interview drew to a close, “I will not disguise that I am very disappointed with the result of my visit to Scotland Yard. When I found those strange finger-marks on the safe, I thought we were on the right track. Now, I have got to start again from the beginning, and I am afraid it will be a long time before I shall make any considerable headway. I shall do my best, but it may be that in the end I shall be beaten. I think you said you would be going abroad very shortly.”
“Yes, we start for Mürren a week before Christmas for the winter sports. I was so looking forward to it, but now——” The girl’s voice faltered and she could not finish her sentence.
“I quite understand,” said Mr. Lane soothingly. “All the same it will be better for you to get away for a time from these painful associations. I will, of course, keep in touch with you to the day of your departure, and communicate to you anything of importance. If you don’t hear from me, you will know that so far I have nothing to tell you. You will, of course, acquaint Mr. Morrice with the rather puzzling information about the man Thomas, that while the finger-prints are undoubtedly his, he is and has been for the last two years in prison.”
It all seemed very hopeless, she thought, as she rose to leave. It was useless to ask Lane if he had formed any theory; she had seen enough of the man to know that he would not say a word till he felt himself justified in speaking.
“One little thing before you go, Miss Sheldon. Will you kindly let me know your aunt’s maiden name, and, if you possess them, any particulars of her family.”
Rosabelle did not know much beyond the fact that she was a Miss Larchester; that her sister, no longer living, the mother of Archie Brookes, had married a younger brother of Sir George. She was not quite sure but she fancied that, as a girl, Mrs. Morrice’s home had been in Sussex, but she did not know in what part. The lady very seldom alluded to her past life. Her Christian name was Lettice.
Mr. Lane entered the scanty information in his notebook, then, after Rosabelle’s departure, he rang up White’s Club and inquired for a Mr. Sellars. In a few moments this gentleman was speaking to him.
“Good-day, Mr. Sellars. I should be obliged if you would come round to me as soon as convenient.”
The reply was that the owner of the name would at once put himself in a taxi and be there in a few minutes.