They dined together--it was still not too late to dine--in a private room at the Piccadilly Restaurant. Mrs. Tranmer found that she was, indeed, not irreparably damaged; and by the time she could be induced to look over the fact that she was not what she called "dressed" she began to enjoy herself uncommonly well. Delia Angel was in the highest spirits, which, on the whole, was not surprising. The recovery of the bag and the will had transformed the world into a rose-coloured Paradise. The evening was one continuous delight. As for Philip Roland--his mood was akin to Miss Angel's. Everything which had begun badly was ending well. He was the host. The meal did credit to his choice--and to the cook. The wine was worthy of the toasts they drank. There was one toast which was not formally proposed, and of which, even in his heart he did not dream, but whose presence was answerable for not a little of the rapture which crowned the feast--"The Birth of Romance." His life had been tolerably commonplace and grey. For the first time that night Romance had entered into it. It was just possible that, maintaining the place it had gained, it would continue to the end. So might it be; for sure, the Spirit is the best of company.
After dinner the three journeyed together to Miss Angel's solicitor. He lived in town, not far away from where they were, and though the hour was uncanonical it was not so very late. And though he was amazed at being required to do business at such a season, the tale they had to tell amazed him more. Nor was he indisposed to commend them for coming straight away to him with it at once.
He heard them to an end. Then he looked at the bag; then at the will. Then once more at the bag; then at the will again. Then he smoothed his chin.
"It seems to me--speaking without prejudice--that this ends the matter. In the face of this the other side is left without a leg to stand upon. With this in your hand"--he was tapping the will with his finger-tip--"I cannot but think, Miss Angel, that you must carry all before you."
"So I should imagine."
He contemplated Mr. Roland.
"So you, sir, are one of the jury. As at present advised, I cannot see how, in the course of action which you have pursued, blame can in any way be attached to you. But, at the same time, I am bound to observe that in the course of a somewhat lengthy experience I cannot recall a single instance of a juryman--an actual juryman--playing such a part as you have done. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the position you have taken up is--in a really superlative degree--irregular."
Such, also, seemed to be the opinion of counsel before whom, at a matutinal hour, he laid the facts of the case. When, in view of those facts, counsel on both sides conferred before the case was opened, the general feeling plainly pointed in the same direction. And, on its being stated in open court that, in face of the discovery of the vanished will, all opposition to Miss Delia Angel would, with permission, be at once withdrawn, it was incidentally mentioned how the discovery had been brought about. All eyes, turning to the jury-box, fastened on Philip Roland, whose agitated countenance pointed the allusion. The part which he had played having been made sufficiently plain, the judge himself joined in the general stare. His lordship went so far as to remark that while he was pleased to accede to the application which had been made to him to consider the case at an end, being of opinion that the matter had been brought to a very proper termination, still he could not conceal from himself that, so far as he could gather from what had been said, the conduct of one of the jurymen, even allowing some latitude--here his lordship's eyes seemed to twinkle--was marked by a considerable amount of irregularity.
On the night before their daughter's Wedding Mr. and Mrs. Staunton gave a ball. As the festivities were drawing to a close, Mr. Staunton button-holed the bridegroom of the morrow.
"By the way, Burgoyne, there's one thing with reference to Minnie I wish to speak to you about. I--I'm not sure I oughtn't to have spoken to you before."
In the ball-room they were playing a waltz. Mr. Burgoyne's heart was with the dancers.
"About Minnie? What about Minnie? Don't you think that the little I don't know about her already, I shall find out soon enough upon my own account?"
"This is something--this is something that you ought to be told."
Mr. Staunton hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. The next morning Mr. Burgoyne was married.
During their honeymoon the newly-married pair spent a night at Mont St. Michel. In the course of that night an unpleasant incident took place. There was a bright moon, and the occupants of the bedrooms gathered on the balconies of the Maison Blanche to enjoy its radiance. The room next to theirs was tenanted by two sisters, Brooklyn girls. The costumes of these young ladies, although in that somewhat remote corner of the world, would have made an impression on the Boulevards, and still more emphatically in the Park. The married one--a Mrs. Homer Joy--wore some striking jewellery, in particular a diamond brooch, redolent of Tiffany, which would have attracted notice on a Shah night at the opera. Mr. Burgoyne had noticed this brooch earlier in the day, and had told himself that we must have returned to the days of King Alfred--with several points in our favour--if a woman could journey round the world with that advertisement in diamond work flashing in the sun.
Someone proposed a midnight stroll about the rock. They strolled. In the morning there was a terrible to-do. The advertisement in diamond work had disappeared!--stolen!--giving satisfactory proof that in those parts, at any rate, the days of King Alfred were now no more.
Mrs. Joy stated that, previous to starting for the midnight ramble about the Mount, she had placed it on her dressing-table, apparently despising the precaution of placing it even in an ordinary box. She was not even sure that she had closed her bedroom door, so it had, of course, struck the eye of the first person who strolled that way, and, in all probability, that person had, in the American sense, "struck it." Mont St. Michel was still in a little tumult of excitement when Mr. and Mrs. Burgoyne journeyed on their way.
Oddly enough, this discordant note, once struck, was struck again--kept on striking, in fact. At almost every place where the honeymooners stopped for an appreciable length of time there something was lost. It seemed fatality. At Morlaix, a set of quaint, old, hammered silver-spoons, which had accompanied their coffee, vanished--not, according to the indignant innkeeper, into thin air, but into somebody's pockets. It was most annoying. At Brest, Quimper Vannes, Nantes, and afterwards through Touraine and up the Loire, it was the same tale, the loss of something of appreciable value--somebody else's property, not their's--accompanied their visitation. The coincidence was singular. However they did seem to have shaken off the long arm of coincidence at last. There had been no sort of unpleasantness at either of the last two or three places at which they had stopped, and when they reached Paris at last, they were so contented with all the world, that each seemed to have forgotten everything in the existence of the other.
They stayed at the Grand Hotel--for privacy few places can compete with a large hotel--and directly they stayed the annoyances began again. It was indeed most singular. On the very morning after their arrival a notice was posted in thesalle de lecturethat the night before a lady had lost her fan--something historical in fans, and quite unique. She had been seated outside the reading-room--the Burgoynes must have been arriving at that very moment--preparatory to going to the opera. She laid this wonderful fan on a chair beside her, it was only for an instant, yet when she turned it was gone. The administration charitably suggested--in their notice--that someone of their lady guests had mistaken it for her own.
That same evening a really remarkable tale was whispered about the place. A certain lady and gentleman--not our pair, but another--happened to be honeymooning in the hotel. Monsieur had left Madame asleep in bed. When she got up and began to dress, she discovered that the larger and more valuable portion of the jewellery which had been given her as wedding presents, and which she, perhaps foolishly, had brought abroad, had gone--apparently vanished into air. The curious part of the tale was this. She had dreamed that she saw a woman--unmistakably a lady--trying on this identical jewellery before the looking-glass. Query, was it a dream? Or had she, lying in bed, in a half somnolent condition, been the unconscious witness of an actual occurrence?
"Upon my word," declared Mr. Burgoyne to his wife, "If the thing weren't actually impossible, I should be inclined to believe that we were the victims of some elaborate practical joke; that people were in a conspiracy to make us believe that ill luck dogged our steps!"
Mrs. Burgoyne smiled. She was putting on her bonnet before the glass. They were preparing to sally out for a quiet dinner on the boulevard.
"You silly Charlie! What queer ideas you get in your head. What does it matter to us if foolish people lose their things? We have not a mission to make folks wiser, or, what amounts to the same thing, to compel them to keep valuable things in secure places."
The lady, who had finished her performance at the glass, came and put her hands upon her lord's two shoulders,
"My dear child, don't look so black? I shall be much better prepared to discuss that, or any subject, when--we have dined."
The lady made a littlemoueand kissed him on the lips. Then they went downstairs. But when they had got so far upon their road, the gentleman discovered that he had brought no money in his pockets. Leaving his wife in thesalle de lecture, he returned to his bedroom to supply the omission.
The desk in which he kept his loose cash was at that moment standing on the chest of drawers. On the top of it was a bag of his wife's--a bag on which she set much store. In it she kept her more particular belongings, and such care did she take of it that he never remembered to have seen it left out of her locked-up trunk before. Now, taking hold of it in his haste, he was rather surprised to find that it was unlocked--it was not only unlocked, but it flew wide open, and in flying open some of the contents fell upon the floor. He stooped to pick them up again.
The first thing he picked up was a silver spoon, the next was an ivory chessman, the next was a fan, and the next--was a diamond brooch.
He stared at these things in a sort of dream, and at the last especially. He had seen the thing before. But where?
Good God! it came upon him in a flash! It was the advertisement in diamond work which had been the property of Mrs. Homer Joy!
He was seized with a sort of momentary paralysis, continuing to stare at the brooch as though he had lost the power of volition. It was with an effort that he obtained sufficient mastery over himself to be able to turn his attention to the other articles he held. He knew two of them. The spoon was one of the spoons which had been lost at Morlaix; the chessman was one of a very curious set of chessmen which had disappeared at Vannes. From the notice which had been posted in thesalle de lecturehe had no difficulty in recognising the fan which had vanished from the chair.
It was some moments before he realised what the presence of those things must mean, and when he did realize it a metamorphosis had taken place--the Charles Burgoyne standing there was not the Charles Burgoyne who had entered the room. Without any outward display of emotion, in a cold, mechanical way he placed the articles he held upon one side, and turned the contents of the bag out upon the drawers.
They presented a curious variety at any rate. As he gazed at them he experienced that singular phenomenon--the inability to credit the evidence of his own eyes. There were the rest of the chessmen, the rest of the spoons, nick-nacks, a quaint, old silver cream-jug, jewellery--bracelets, rings, ear-rings, necklaces, pins, lockets, brooches, half the contents of a jeweller's shop. As he stood staring at this very miscellaneous collection, the door opened, and his wife came in.
She smiled as she entered.
"Charlie, have they taken your money too? Are you aware, sir, how hungry I am?"
He did not turn when he heard her voice. He continued motionless, looking at the contents of the bag. She advanced towards him and saw what he was looking at. Then he turned and they were face to face.
He never knew what was the fashion of his countenance. He could not have analysed his feelings to save his life. But, as he looked at her, his wife of yesterday, the woman whom he loved, she seemed to shrivel up before his eyes, and sank upon the floor. There was silence. Then she made a little gesture towards him with her two hands. She fell forward, hiding her face on the ground at his feet, prisoning his legs with her arms.
"How came these things into your bag?"
He did not know his own voice, it was so dry and harsh. She made no answer.
"Did you steal them?"
Still silence. He felt a sort of rage rising within him.
"There are one or two questions you must answer. I am sorry to have to put them; it is not my fault. You had better get up from the floor."
She never moved. For his life he could not have touched her.
"I suppose--." He was choked, and paused. "I suppose that woman's jewels are some of these?"
No answer. Recognising the hopelessness of putting questions to her now, he gathered the various articles together and put them back into the bag.
"I'm afraid you will have to dine alone."
That was all he said to her. With the bag in his hand he left the room, leaving her in a heap upon the floor. He sneaked rather than walked out of the hotel. Supposing they caught him red-handed, with that thing in his hand? He only began to breathe freely when he was out in the street.
Possibly no man in Paris spent the night of that twentieth of June more curiously than Mr. Burgoyne. When he returned it was four o'clock in the morning, and broad day. He was worn-out, haggard, the spectre of a man. In the bedroom he found his wife just as he had left her, in a heap upon the floor, but fast asleep. She had removed none of her clothes, not even her bonnet or her gloves. She had been crying--apparently had cried herself to sleep. As he stood looking down at her he realised how he loved her--the woman, the creature of flesh and blood, apart entirely from her moral qualities. He placed the bag within his trunk and locked it up. Then, kneeling beside his wife, he stooped and kissed her as she slept. The kiss aroused her. She woke as wakes a child, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him back again. Not a word was spoken. Then she got up. He helped her to undress, and put her into a bed as though she were a child. Then he undressed himself, and joined her. And they fell fast asleep locked in each other's arms.
That night they returned to London. The bag went with them. On the morning after their arrival, Mr. Burgoyne took a cab into the city, the fatal bag beside him on the seat. He drove straight to Mr. Staunton's office. When he entered, unannounced, his father-in-law started as though he were a ghost.
"Burgoyne! What brings you here? I hope there's nothing wrong?"
Mr. Burgoyne did not reply at once. He placed the bag--Minnie's bag--upon the table. He kept his eyes fixed upon his father-in-law's countenance.
"Burgoyne! Why do you look at me like that?"
"I have something here I wish to show you." That was Mr. Burgoyne's greeting. He opened the bag, and turned its contents out upon the table. "Not a bad haul from Breton peasants,--eh?"
Mr. Staunton stared at the heap of things thus suddenly disclosed.
"Burgoyne," he stammered, "what's the meaning of this?"
"Are you quite sure you don't know what it means?"
Looking up, Mr. Staunton caught the other's eyes. He seemed to read something there which carried dreadful significance to his brain. His glance fell and he covered his face with his hands. At last he found his voice.
"Minnie?"
The word was gasped rather than spoken. Mr. Burgoyne's reply was equally brief.
"Minnie!"
"Good God!"
There was silence for perhaps a minute. Then Mr. Burgoyne locked the door of the room and stood before the empty fire-place.
"It is by the merest chance that I am not at this moment booked for thetravaux forces. Some of those jewels were stolen from a woman's dressing case at the Grand Hotel, with the woman herself in bed and more than half awake at the time. She talked about having every guest in the place searched by the police. If she had done so, you would have heard from us as soon as the rules of the prison allowed us to communicate."
Mr. Burgoyne paused. Mr. Staunton kept his eyes fixed upon the table.
"That's what I wanted to tell you the night before the wedding, only you wouldn't stop. She's a kleptomaniac."
Mr. Burgoyne smiled, not gaily.
"Do you mean she's a habitual thief?"
"It's a disease."
"I've no doubt it's a disease. But perhaps you'll be so kind as to accurately define what in the present case you understand by disease."
"When she was a toddling child she took things, and secreted them--it's a literal fact. When she got into short frocks she continued to capture everything that caught her eye. When she exchanged them for long ones it was the same. It was not because she wanted the things, because she never attempted to use them when she had them. She just put them somewhere--as a magpie might--and forget their existence. You had only to find out where they were and take them away again, and she was never one whit the wiser. In that direction she's irresponsible--it's a disease in fact."
"If it is, as you say, a disease, have you ever had it medically treated?"
"She has been under medical treatment her whole life long. I suppose we have consulted half the specialists in England. Our own man, Muir, has given the case his continual attention. He has kept a regular journal, and can give you more light upon the subject than I can. You have no conception what a life-long torture it has been to me."
"I have a very clear conception indeed. But don't you think you might have enlightened me upon the matter before?"
Rising from his seat, Mr. Staunton began to pace the room
"I do! I think so very strongly indeed. But--but--I was over persuaded. As you know, I tried at the very last moment; even then I failed. Besides, it was suggested to me that marriage might be the turning point, and that the woman might be different from the girl. Don't misunderstand me! She is not a bad girl; she is a good girl in the best possible sense, a girl in a million! No better daughter ever lived; you won't find a better wife if you search the whole world through; There is just this one point. Some people are somnambulists; in a sense she is a somnambulist too. I tell you I might put this watch upon the table"--Mr. Staunton produced his watch from his waistcoat pocket--"and she would take it from right underneath my nose, and never know what it was that she had done. I confess I can't explain it, but so it is!"
"I think," remarked Mr. Burgoyne, with a certain dryness, "that I had better see this doctor fellow--Muir."
"See him--by all means, see him. There is one point, Burgoyne. I realised from the first that if we kept you in the dark about this thing, and it forced itself upon you afterwards, you would be quite justified in feeling aggrieved."
"You realised that, did you? You did get so far?"
"And therefore I say this, that, although my child has only been your wife these few short days, although she loves you as truly as woman ever loved a man--and what strength of love she has I know--still, if you are minded to put her from you, I will not only not endeavour to change your purpose, but I will never ask you for a penny for her support--she shall be to you as though she had never lived."
Mr. Burgoyne looked his father-in-law in the face.
"No man shall part me from my wife, nor anything--but death." Mr. Burgoyne turned a little aside. "I believe I love her better because of this. God knows I loved her well enough before."
"I can understand that easily. Because of this she is dearer to us, too."
There was silence. Moving to the table, Mr. Burgoyne began to replace the things in the bag.
"I will go and see this man Muir."
Dr. Muir was at home. His appearance impressed Mr. Burgoyne favourably, and Mr. Burgoyne had a keen eye for the charlatan in medicine.
"Dr. Muir, I have come from Mr. Staunton. My name is Burgoyne. You are probably aware that I have married Mr. Staunton's daughter, Minnie. It is about my wife I wish to consult you." Dr. Muir simply nodded. "During our honeymoon in Brittany she has stolen all these things."
Mr. Burgoyne opened the bag sufficiently to disclose its contents. Dr. Muir scarcely glanced at them. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Burgoyne's face. There was a pause before he spoke.
"You were not informed of her--peculiarity?"
"I was not. I don't understand it now. It is because I wish to understand it that I have come to you."
"I don't understand it either."
"But I am told that you have always given the matter your attention."
"That is so, but I don't understand it any the more for that. I am not a specialist."
"Do you mean that she is mad?"
"I don't say that I mean anything at all; very shortly you will be quite as capable of judging of the case as I am. I've no doubt that if you wished to place her in an asylum, you would have no difficulty in doing so. So much I don't hesitate to say."
"Thank you. I have no intention of doing anything of the kind. Can you not suggest a cure?"
"I can suggest ten thousand, but they would all be experiments. In fact, I have tried several of them already, and the experiments have failed. For instance, I thought marriage might effect a cure. It is perhaps yet too early to judge, but it would appear that, so far, the thing has been a failure. Frankly, Mr. Burgoyne, I don't think you will find a man in Europe who, in this particular case, can give you help. You must trust to time. I have always thought myself that a shock might do it, though what sort of shock it will have to be is more than I can tell you. I thought the marriage shock might serve. Possibly the birth shock might prove of some avail. But we cannot experiment in shocks, you know. You must trust to time."
On that basis--trust in time--Mr. Burgoyne arranged his household. The bag with its contents was handed to his solicitor. The stolen property was restored to its several owners. It cost Mr. Burgoyne a pretty penny before the restoration was complete. A certain Mrs. Deal formed part of his establishment. She acted as companion and keeper to Mr. Burgoyne's wife. They never knew whether that lady realised what Mrs. Deal's presence really meant. And, in spite of their utmost vigilance, things were taken--from shops, from people's houses, from guests under her own roof. It was Mrs. Deal's business to discover where these things were, and to see that they were instantly restored. Her life was spent in a continual game of hide and seek.
It was a strange life they lived in that Brompton house, and yet--odd though it may sound--it was a happy one. He loved her, she loved him--there is a good deal in just that simple fact. There was one good thing--and that in spite of Dr. Muir's suggestion that a birth shock might effect a cure--there were no children.
They had been married five years. There came an invitation from one Arthur Watson, a friend of Mr. Burgoyne's boyhood. After long separation they had encountered each other by accident, and Mr. Watson had insisted upon Mr. Burgoyne's bringing his wife to spend the "week-end" with him in that Mecca of a certain section of modern Londoners--up the river. So the married couple went to see the single man.
After dinner conversation rather languished. But their host stirred it up again.
"I have something here to show you." Producing a leather case from the inner pocket of his coat, he addressed a question to Mr. Burgoyne "Do much in mines?"
"How do you mean?"
"Because, if you do, here's a tip for you, and tips are things in which I don't deal as a rule--buy Mitwaterstraand. There is a boom coming along, and the foreshadowings of the boom are in this case. Mrs. Burgoyne, shut your eyes and you shall see."
Mrs. Burgoyne did not shut her eyes, but Mr. Watson opened the case, and she saw! More than a score of cut diamonds of the purest water, and of unusual size--lumps of light! With them, side by side, were about the same number of uncut stones, in curious contrast to their more radiant brethren.
"You see those?" He took out about a dozen of the cut stones, and held them loosely in his hand. "Are you a judge of diamonds? Well, I am. Hitherto there have been one or two defects about African diamonds--they cut badly, and the colour's wrong. But we have changed all that. I stake my reputation that you will find no finer diamonds than those in the world. Here is the stone in the rough. Here is exactly, the same thing after it has been cut; judge for yourself, my boy! And those come from the district of Mitwaterstraand, Griqualand West. Take my tip, Burgoyne, and look out for Mitwaterstraand."
Mr. Burgoyne did take his tip, and looked out for Mitwaterstraand, though not in the sense he meant. He looked out for Mitwaterstraand all night, lying in bed with his eyes wide open, his thoughts fixed on his wife. Suppose they were stolen, those shining bits of crystal?
In the morning he was up while she still slept. He dressed himself and went downstairs. He felt that he must have just one whiff of tobacco, and then return--to watch. A little doze in which he had caught himself had frightened him. Suppose he fell into slumber as profound as hers, what might not happen in his dreams?
Early as was the hour, he was not the first downstairs. As he entered the room in which the diamonds had been exhibited, he found Mr. Watson standing at the table.
"Hullo, Watson! At this hour of the morning who'd have thought of seeing you?"
"I--I've had a shock." There was a perceptible tremor in Mr. Watson's voice, as though even yet he had not recovered from the shock of which he spoke.
"A shock? What kind of a shock?"
"When I woke this morning I found that I had left the case with the diamonds in downstairs. I can't think how I came to do it."
"It was a careless thing." Mr. Burgoyne's tones were even stern. He shuddered as he thought of the risk which had been run.
"It was. When I found that it was missing, I was out of bed like a flash. I put my things on anyhow, and when I found it was all right"--he at that moment was holding the case in his hands--"I felt like singing a Te Deum." He did not look like singing a Te Deum, by any means. "Let's have a look at you, my beauties." He pressed a spring and the case flew open. "My God!"
"What's the matter?"
"They're gone!"
"Gone!"
They were, sure enough. The case was empty. The shock was too much for Mr. Burgoyne.
"She's taken them after all," he gasped.
"Who?"
"My wife!"
"Your wife!--Burgoyne!--What do you mean?"
"Watson, my wife has stolen them."
"Burgoyne!"
The empty case fell to the ground with a crash. It almost seemed as though Mr. Watson would have fallen after it. He seemed even more distressed than his friend. His face was clammy, his hands were trembling.
"Burgoyne, what--whatever do you mean?"
"My wife's a kleptomaniac, that's what I mean."
"A kleptomaniac! You--you don't mean that she has taken the stones?"
"I do. Sounds like a joke doesn't it?"
"A joke! I don't know what you call a joke! It'll be no joke for me. There's to be a meeting, and those stones will have to be produced for experts to examine. If they are not forthcoming, I shall have to explain what has become of them, and those are not the men to listen to any talk of kleptomania. And it isn't the money they will want, it's the stones. At this crisis those stones are worth a hundred thousand pounds to us, and more! It'll be your ruin, and mine, if they are not found."
"They will be found. It is only a little game she plays. She hides, we seek and find. I think I may undertake to produce them for you in half-an-hour."
"I hope you will," said Mr. Watson, still with clammy face and trembling hands. "My God, I hope you will."
Mr. Burgoyne went upstairs. His wife was still asleep; and a prettier picture than she presented when asleep it would be hard to find. He put his hand upon her shoulder.
"Minnie!" No reply. "Minnie!" Still she slept.
When she did awake it was in the most natural and charming way conceivable. She stretched out her arms to her husband leaning over her.
"Charlie! Whatever is the time?"
"Where are those stones?"
"What?" With the back of her hands she began to rub her eyes. "Where are what?"
"Where are those stones?"
"I don't know what--" yawn--"you mean."
"Minnie!--Don't trifle with me!--Where have you put those diamonds?"
"Charlie! Whatever do you mean?"
Her eyes were wide open now. She lay looking at him in innocent surprise.
"What a consummate actress you are!"
The words came from his lips almost unawares. They seemed to startle her. "Charlie!"
He--loving her with all his heart--was unable to meet her glance, and began moving uneasily about the room, talking as he moved.
"Come, Minnie, tell me where they are?"
"Where what are?"
"The diamonds!"
"The diamonds! What diamonds? Whatever do you mean?"
"You know what I mean very well. I mean the Mitwaterstraand diamonds which Watson showed us last night, and which you have taken from the case."
"Which I have taken from the case!" She rose from the bed, and stood on the floor in her night-dress, the embodiment of surprise. "If you will leave the room I shall be able to dress."
"Minnie! Do you really think I am a fool? I can make every allowance--God knows I have done so often enough before--but you must tell me where those stones are before I leave this room."
"Do you mean to suggest that I--I have stolen them?"
"Call it what you please! I am only asking you to tell me where you have put them. That is all."
"On what evidence do you suspect me of this monstrous crime?"
"Evidence? What do I need with evidence? Minnie, for God's sake, don't let us argue. You know that you are dearer to me than life, but this time--even at the sacrifice of life!--I cannot save you from the consequence of your own act."
"The consequence of my own act. What do you mean?"
"I mean this, that unless those diamonds are immediately forthcoming, this night you will sleep in jail."
"In jail! I sleep in jail! Is this some hideous dream?"
"Oh, my darling, for both our sakes tell me where the diamonds are."
"Charlie, I know no more where they are than the man in the moon."
"Then God help us, for we are lost!"
He ransacked every article of furniture the room contained. Tore open the mattresses, ripped up the boards, looked up the chimney. But there were no diamonds. And that night she slept in jail. Mr. Watson started off to tell his story to the meeting as best he might. Mr. and Mrs. Burgoyne remained behind, searching for the missing stones. About one o'clock, Mr. Watson still being absent, a telegram was received at the local police station containing instructions to detain Mrs. Burgoyne on a charge of felony, "warrant coming down by train." Mr. Watson had evidently told his story to an unsympathetic audience. Mrs. Burgoyne was arrested and taken off to the local lock-up--all idea of bail being peremptorily pooh-poohed. Mr. Burgoyne tore up to town in a state of semi-madness. When Mr. Staunton heard the story, his affliction was at least, equal to his son-in-law's. Dr. Muir was telegraphed for, and a hurried conference was held in the office of a famous criminal lawyer. That gentleman told them plainly that at present nothing could be done.
"Even suppose the diamonds are immediately forthcoming, the case will have to go before a magistrate. You don't suppose the police will allow you to compound a felony. That is what it amounts to, you know."
As for the medical point of view, it must be urged, of course; but the lawyer made no secret of his belief that if the medical point of view was all they had to depend on, the case would, of a certainty, be sent to trial.
"But it seems to me that at present there is not a tittle of evidence. Your wife, Mr. Burgoyne, has been arrested, I won't say upon your information, but on the strength of words which you allowed to escape your lips. But they can't put you in the box; you could prove nothing if they did. When the case comes on they'll ask for a remand. Probably they'll get it, one remand at any rate. I shall offer bail, which they'll accept. When the case comes on again, unless they have something to go on, which they haven't now, it will be dismissed. Mrs. Burgoyne will leave the court without a stain upon her character. We shan't even have to hint at kleptomania, or klepto anything."
More than once that night Mr. Burgoyne meditated suicide. All was over. She--his beloved!--through his folly--slept in jail. And if, by the skin of her teeth, she escaped this time, how would it be the next? She was guilty now--they might prove it then! And when he thought of the numerous precautions he had hedged her round with heretofore, it seemed marvellous that she had gone scot free so long. And suppose she had been taken at the outset of her career--in the affair of the jewels at the Grand Hotel--what would have availed any plea he might have urged before a French tribunal? He shuddered as he thought of it.
He never attempted to go to bed. He paced to and fro in his study like a caged wild animal. If he might only have shared her cell! The study was on the ground floor. It opened on to the garden. Between two and three in the morning he thought he heard a tapping at the pane. With a trembling hand he unlatched the window. A man stood without.
"Watson!"
As the name broke from him Mr. Watson staggered, rather than walked, into the room.
"I--I saw the light outside. I thought I had better knock at the window than disturb the house."
He sank into a chair, putting his arms upon the table, pillowing his face upon his hands. There was silence. Mr. Burgoyne, in his surprise, was momentarily struck dumb. At last, finding his voice, and eyeing his friend, he said--
"This is a bad job for both of us."
Mr. Watson looked up. Mr. Burgoyne, in spite of his own burden which he had to bear, was startled by something which he saw written on his face.
"As you say, it is a bad job for both of us." Mr. Watson rose as he was speaking. "But it is worst for me. Why did you tell me all that stuff about your wife?"
"God knows I am not in the mood to talk of anything, but rather than that, talk of what you please."
"Why the devil did you put that thought into my head?"
"What thought? I do not understand. I don't think you understand much either."
"Why did you tell me she had taken the stones? Why, you damned fool, I had them in my pocket all the time."
Mr. Watson took his hand out of his pocket. It was full of what seemed little crystals. He dashed these down upon the table with such force that they were scattered all over the room. They were some of the Mitwaterstraand diamonds.
"Watson! Good God! What do you mean?"
"I was the thief! Not she!"
"You--hound!"
"Don't look as though you'd like to murder me! I tell you I feel like murdering you! I am a ruined man. The thought came into my head that if I could get off with those Mitwaterstraand diamonds, I should have something with which to start afresh. Like an idiot, I took them from the case last night, meaning to hatch some cock-and-bull story about having forgotten to bring the case upstairs, and their having been stolen from it in the night. But on reflection I perceived how extremely thin the tale would be. I went downstairs to put them back again. I was in the very act of doing it when you came in. I showed you the empty box. You immediately cried out that your wife had stolen them. It was a temptation straight from hell! I was too astounded at first to understand your meaning. When I did, I let you remain in possession of your belief. Now, Burgoyne, don't you be a fool."
But Mr. Burgoyne was a fool. He fell on to the floor in a fit; this last straw was one too many. When he recovered, Mr. Watson was gone, but the diamonds were there, piled in a neat little heap upon the table. He had been guilty of a really curious lapse into the paths of honesty, for, as he truly said, he was a ruined man. It was one of those resonant smashes which are the sensation of an hour.
Mrs. Burgoyne was released--without a stain upon her character. She never stole again! She had been guilty so many times, and never been accused of crime,--and the first time she was innocent they said she was a thief! Dr. Muir said the shock had done it,--he had said that a shock would do it, all along.