His first feeling was one of annoyance. All-round annoyance. Comprehensive disgust. He did not want to be a juryman. He flattered himself that he had something better to do with his time. Half-a-dozen matters required his attention. Instead of which, here he was obtruding himself into matters in which he did not take the faintest interest. Actually dragged into interference with other people's most intimate affairs. And in that stuffy court. And it had been a principle of his life never to concern himself with what was no business of his. Talk about the system of trial by jury being a bulwark of the Constitution! At that moment he had no opinion of the Constitution; or its bulwarks either.
Then there were his colleagues. He had never been associated with eleven persons with whom he felt himself to be less in sympathy. The fellow they had chosen to be foreman he felt convinced was a cheesemonger. He looked it. The others looked, if anything, worse. Not, he acknowledged, that there was anything inherently wrong in being a cheesemonger. Still, one did not want to sit cheek by jowl with persons of that sort for an indefinite length of time. And there were cases--particularly in the Probate Court--which lasted days; even weeks. If he were in for one of those! The perspiration nearly stood on his brow at the horror of the thought.
What was the case about? What was that inarticulate person saying? Philip Poland knew nothing about courts--and did not want to--but he took it for granted that the gentleman in a wig and gown, with his hands folded over his portly stomach, was counsel for one side or the other--though he had not the slightest notion which. He had no idea how they managed things in places of this sort. As he eyed him he felt that he was against him anyhow. If he were paid to speak, why did not the man speak up?
By degrees, for sheer want of something else, Mr. Roland found that he was listening. After all, the man was audible. He seemed capable, also, of making his meaning understood. So it was about a will, was it? He might have taken that for granted. He always had had the impression that the Probate Court was the place for wills. It seemed that somebody had left a will; and this will was in favour of the portly gentleman's client; and was as sound, as equitable, as admirable a legal instrument as ever yet was executed; and how, therefore, anyone could have anything to say against it surprised the portly gentleman to such a degree that he had to stop to wipe his forehead with a red silk pocket-handkerchief.
The day was warm. Mr. Roland was not fond of listening to speeches. And this one was--well, weighty. And about something for which he did not care two pins. His attention wandered. It strayed perilously near the verge of a dose. In fact, it must have strayed right over the verge. Because the next thing he understood was that one of his colleagues was digging his elbow into his side, and proffering the information that they were going lunch. He felt a little bewildered. He could not think how it had happened. It was not his habit to go to sleep in the morning. As he trooped after his fellows he was visited by a hazy impression that that wretched jury system was at the bottom of it all.
They were shown into an ill-ventilated room. Someone asked him what he would have to eat. He told them to bring him what they had. They brought some hot boiled beef and carrots. The sight of it nearly made him ill. His was a dainty appetite. Hot boiled beef on such a day, in such a place, after such a morning, was almost the final straw. He could not touch it.
His companion attacked his plate with every appearance of relish. He made a hearty meal. Possibly he had kept awake. He commented on the fashion in which Mr. Roland had done his duty to his Queen and country.
"Shouldn't think you were able to pronounce much of an opinion on the case so far as it has gone, eh?"
"My good sir, the judge will instruct us as to our duty. If we follow his instructions we shan't go wrong."
"You think, then, that we are only so many automata, and that the judge has but to pull the strings."
Mr. Roland looked about him, contempt in his eye.
"It would be fortunate, perhaps, if we were automata."
"Then I can only say that we take diametrically opposite views of our office. I maintain that it is our duty to listen to the evidence, to weigh it carefully, and to record our honest convictions in the face of all the judges whoever sat upon the Bench."
Mr. Roland was silent. He was not disposed to enter into an academical discussion with an individual who evidently had a certain command of language. Others, however, showed themselves to be not so averse. The luncheon interval was enlivened by some observations on the jury system which lawyers--had any been present--would have found instructive. There were no actual quarrels. But some of the arguments were of the nature of repartees. Possibly it was owing to the beef and carrots.
They re-entered the court. The case recommenced. Mr. Roland had a headache. He was cross. His disposition was to return a verdict against everything and everyone, as his neighbour had put it, "in the face of all the judges who ever sat upon the Bench." But this time he did pay some attention to what was going on.
It appeared, in spite of the necessity which the portly gentleman had been under to use his red silk pocket-handkerchief, that there were objections to the will he represented. It was not easy at that stage to pick up the lost threads, but from what Mr. Roland could gather it seemed it was asserted that a later will had been made, which was still in existence. Evidence was given by persons who had been present at the execution of that will; by the actual witnesses to the testator's signature; by the lawyer who had drawn the will. And then--!
Then there stepped into the witness-box a person whose appearance entirely changed Mr. Roland's attitude towards the proceedings; so that, in the twinkling of an eye, he passed from bored indifference to the keenest and liveliest interest. It was a young woman. She gave her name as Delia Angel. Her address as Barkston Gardens, South Kensington. At sight of her things began to hum inside Mr. Roland's brain. Where had he seen her before? It all came back in a flash. How could he have forgotten her, even for a moment, when from that day to this she had been continually present to his mind's eye?
It was the girl of the train. She had travelled with him from Nice to Dijon in the same carriage, which most of the way they had had to themselves. What a journey it was! And what a girl! During those fast-fleeting hours--on that occasion they had fled fast--they had discussed all subjects from Alpha to Omega. He had approached closer to terms of friendship with a woman than he had ever done in the whole course of his life before--or since. He was so taken aback by the encounter, so wrapped in recollections of those pleasant hours, that for a time he neglected to listen to what she was saying. When he did begin to listen he pricked up his ears still higher.
It was in her favour the latest will had been made--at least, partly. She had just returned from laying the testator in the cemetery in Nice when he met her in the train--actually! He recalled her deep mourning. The impression she had given him was that she had lately lost a friend. She was even carrying the will in question with her at the time. Then she began to make a series of statements which brought Mr. Roland's heart up into his mouth.
"Tell us," suggested counsel, "what happened in the train."
She paused as if to collect her thoughts. Then told a little story which interested at least one of her hearers more than anything he had ever listened to.
"I had originally intended to stop in Paris. On the way, however, I decided not to do so but to go straight through."
Mr. Roland remembered he had told her he was going, and wondered; but he resolved to postpone his wonder till she had finished.
"When we were nearing Dijon I made up my mind to send a telegram to the concierge asking her to address all letters to me in town. When we reached the station I got out of the train to do so. In the compartment in which I had travelled was a gentleman. I asked him to keep an eye on my bag till I returned. He said he would. On the platform I met some friends. I stopped to talk to them. The time must have gone quicker than I supposed, because when I reached the telegraph office I found I had only a minute or two to spare. I scribbled the telegram. As I turned I slipped and fell--I take it because of the haste I was in. As I fell my head struck upon something; because the next thing I realized was that I was lying on a couch in a strange room, feeling very queer indeed. I did ask, I believe what had become of the train. They told me it was gone. I understand that during the remainder of the day, and through the night, I continued more or less unconscious. When next day I came back to myself it was too late. I found my luggage awaiting me at Paris. But of the bag, or of the gentleman with whom I left it in charge, I have heard nothing since. I have advertised, tried every means my solicitor advised; but up to the present without result."
"And the will" observed counsel, "was in that bag?"
"It was."
Mr. Roland had listened to the lady's narrative with increasing amazement. He remembered her getting out at Dijon; that she had left a bag behind. That she had formally intrusted it to his charge he did not remember. He recalled the anxiety with which he watched for her return; his keen disappointment when he still saw nothing of her as the train steamed out of the station. So great was his chagrin that it almost amounted to dismay. He had had such a good time; had taken it for granted that it would continue for at least a few more hours, and perhaps--perhaps all sorts of things. Now, without notice, on the instant, she had gone out of his life as she had come into it. He had seen her talking to her friends. Possibly she had joined herself to them. Well, if she was that sort of person, let her go!
As for the bag, it had escaped his recollection that there was such a thing. And possibly would have continued to do so had it not persisted in staring at him mutely from the opposite seat. So she had left it behind? Serve her right. It was only a rubbishing hand-bag. Pretty old, too. It seemed that feather-headed young women could not be even depended upon to look after their own rubbish. She would come rushing up to the carriage window at one of the stations. Or he would see her at Paris. Then she could have the thing. But he did not see her. To be frank, as they neared Paris, half obliviously he crammed it with his travelling cap into his kit-bag, and to continue on the line of candour--ignored its existence till he found it there in town.
And in it was the will! The document on which so much hinged--especially for her! The bone of contention which all this pother was about. Among all that she said this was the statement which took him most aback. Because, without the slightest desire to impugn in any detail the lady's veracity, he had the best of reasons for knowing that she had--well--made a mistake.
If he had not good reason to know it, who had? He clearly called to mind the sensation, almost of horror, with which he had recognised that the thing was in his kit-bag. Half-a-dozen courses which he ought to have pursued occurred to him--too late. He ought to have handed it over to the guard of the train; to the station-master; to the lost property office. In short, he ought to have done anything except bring it with him in his bag to town. But since he had brought it, the best thing to do seemed to be to ascertain if it contained anything which would be a clue to its owner.
It was a small affair, perhaps eight inches long. Of stamped brown leather. Well worn. Original cost possibly six or seven shillings. Opened by pressing a spring lock. Contents: Four small keys on a piece of ribbon; two pocket-handkerchiefs, each with an embroidered D in the corner; the remains of a packet of chocolate; half a cedar lead-pencil; a pair of shoe-laces. And that was all. He had turned that bag upside down upon his bed, and was prepared to go into the witness-box and swear that there was nothing else left inside. At least he was almost prepared to swear. For since here was Miss Delia Angel--how well the name fitted the owner!--positively affirming that among its contents was the document on which for all he knew all her worldly wealth depended, what was he to think?
The bag had continued in his possession until a week or two ago. Then one afternoon his sister, Mrs. Tranmer, had come to his rooms, and having purchased a packet of hairpins, or something of the kind, had wanted something to put them in. Seeing the bag in the corner of one of his shelves, in spite of his protestations she had snatched it up, and insisted on annexing it to help her carry home her ridiculous purchase. Its contents--as described above--he retained. But the bag! Surely Agatha was not such an idiot, such a dishonest creature, as to allow property which was not hers to pass for a moment out of her hands.
During the remainder of Miss Angel's evidence--so far as it went that day--one juryman, both mentally and physically, was in a state of dire distress. What was he to do? He was torn in a dozen different ways. Would it be etiquette for a person in his position to spring to his feet and volunteer to tell his story? He would probably astonish the Court. But--what would the Court say to him? Who had ever heard of a witness in the jury-box? He could not but suspect that, at the very least, such a situation would be in the highest degree irregular. And, in any case, what could he do? Give the lady the lie? It will have been perceived that his notions of the responsibilities of a juryman were his own, and it is quite within the range of possibility that he had already made up his mind which way his verdict should go; whether the will was in the bag or not--and "in the face of all the judges who ever sat upon the Bench."
The bag! the bag! Where was it? If, for once in a way, Agatha had shown herself to be possessed of a grain of the common sense with which he had never credited her!
At the conclusion of Miss Angel's examination in chief the portly gentleman asked to be allowed to postpone his cross-examination to the morning. On which, by way of showing its entire acquiescence, the Court at once adjourned.
And off pelted one of the jurymen in search of the bag.
Mrs. Tranmer was just going up to dress for dinner when in burst her brother. Mr. Roland was, as a rule, one of the least excitable of men. His obvious agitation therefore surprised her the more. Her feelings took a characteristic form of expression--to her, an attentive eye to the proprieties of costume was the whole duty of a Christian.
"Philip!--what have you done to your tie?"
Mr. Roland mechanically put up his hand towards the article referred to; returning question for question.
"Agatha, where's that bag?"
"Bag? My good man, you're making your tie crookeder!"
"Bother the tie!" Mrs. Tranmer started: Philip was so seldom interjectional. "Do you hear me ask where that bag is?"
"My dear brother, before you knock me down, will you permit me to suggest that your tie is still in a shocking condition?"
He gave her one look--such a look! Then he went to the looking-glass and arranged his tie. Then he turned to her.
"Will that do?"
"It is better."
"Now, will you give me that bag--at once?"
"Bag? What bag?"
"You know very well what bag I mean--the one you took from my room."
"The one I took from your room?"
"I told you not to take it. I warned you it wasn't mine. I informed you that I was its involuntary custodian. And yet, in spite of all I could say--of all I could urge, with a woman's lax sense of the difference betweenmeumandtuum, you insisted on removing it from my custody. The sole reparation you can make is to return it at once--upon the instant."
She observed him with growing amazement--as well she might. She subsided into an armchair.
"May I ask you to inform me from what you're suffering now?"
He was a little disposed towards valetudinarianism, and was apt to imagine himself visited by divers diseases. He winced.
"Agatha, the only thing from which I am suffering at this moment is--is----"
"Yes; is what?"
"A feeling of irritation at my own weakness in allowing myself to be persuaded by you to act in opposition to my better judgment."
"Dear me! You must be ill. That you are ill is shown by the fact that your tie is crooked again. Don't consider my feelings, and pray present yourself in my drawing-room in any condition you choose. But perhaps you will be so good as to let me know if there is any sense in the stuff you have been talking about a bag."
"Agatha, you remember that bag you took from my room?"
"That old brown leather thing?"
"It was made of brown leather--a week or two ago?"
"A week or two? Why, it was months ago."
"My dear Agatha, I do assure you----"
"Please don't let us argue. I tell you it was months ago."
"I told you not to take it----"
"You told me not to take it? Why, you pressed it on me. I didn't care to be seen with such a rubbishing old thing; but you took it off your shelf and said it would do very well. So, to avoid argument, as I generally do, I let you have your way."
"I--I don't want to be rude, but a--a more outrageous series of statements I never heard. I told you distinctly that it wasn't mine."
"You did nothing of the sort. Of course I took it for granted that such a disreputable article, which evidently belonged to a woman, was not your property. But as I had no wish to pry into your private affairs I was careful not to inquire how such a curiosity found its way upon your shelves."
"Agatha, your--your insinuations----"
"I insinuate nothing. I only want to know what this fuss is about. As I wish to dress for dinner, perhaps you'll tell me in a couple of words."
"Agatha, where's that bag?"
"How should I know?"
"Haven't you got it?"
"Got it? Do you suppose I have a museum in which I preserve rubbish of the kind?"
"But--what have you done with it?"
"You might as well ask me what I've done with last year's gloves."
"Agatha--think! More hinges upon this than you have any conception. What did you do with that bag?"
"Since you are so insistent--and I must say, Philip, that your conduct is most peculiar--I will think, or I'll try to. I believe I gave the bag to Jane. Or else to Mrs. Pettigrew's little girl. Or to my needle-woman--to carry home some embroidery she was mending for me; I am most particular about embroidery, especially when its good. Or to the curate's wife, for a jumble sale. Or I might have given it to someone else. Or I might have lost it. Or done something else with it."
"Did you look inside?"
"Of course I did. I must have done. Though I don't remember doing anything of the kind."
"Was there anything in it?"
"Do you mean when you gave it me? If there was I never saw it. Am I going to be accused of felony?"
"Agatha, I believe you have ruined me."
"Ruined you! Philip, what nonsense are you talking? I insist upon your telling me what you mean. What has that wretched old bag, which would have certainly been dear at twopence, to do with either you or me?"
"I will endeavour to explain. I believe that I stood towards that bag in what the law regards as a fiduciary relation. I was responsible for its safety. Its loss will fall on me."
"The loss of a twopenny-halfpenny bag?"
"It is not a question of the bag, but of its contents."
"What were its contents?"
"It contained a will."
"A will?--a real will? Do you mean to say that you gave me that bag without breathing a word about there being a will inside?"
"I didn't know myself until to-day."
By degrees the tale was told. Mrs. Tranmer's amazement grew and grew. She seemed to have forgotten all about its being time to dress for dinner.
"And you are a juryman?"
"I am."
"And you actually have the bag on which the whole case turns?"
"I wish I had."
"But was the will inside?"
"I never saw it."
"Nor I. It was quite an ordinary bag, and if it had been we must have seen it. A will isn't written on a scrappy piece of paper which could have been overlooked. Philip, the will wasn't in the bag. That young woman's an impostor."
"I don't believe it for a moment--not for a single instant. I am convinced that she supposes herself to be speaking the absolute truth. Even granting that she is mistaken, in what position do I stand? I cannot go and say, 'I have lost your bag, but it doesn't matter, for the will was not inside.' Would she not be entitled to reply, 'Return me the bag in the condition in which I intrusted it to your keeping, and I will show that you are wrong'? It will not be enough for me to repeat that I have not the bag; my sister threw it into her dust-hole."
"Philip!"
"May she not retort, 'Then, for all the misfortunes which the loss of the bag brings on me, you are responsible'? The letter of the law might acquit me. My conscience never would. Agatha, I fear you have done me a serious injury."
"Don't talk like that! Under the circumstances you had no right to give me the bag at all."
"You are wrong; I did not give it you. On the contrary, I implored you not to take it. But you insisted."
"Philip, how can you say such a wicked thing? I remember exactly what happened. I had been buying some veils. I was saying to you how I hated carrying parcels, even small ones----"
"Agatha, don't let us enter into this matter now. You may be called upon to make your statement in another place. I can only hope that our statements will not clash."
For the first time Mrs. Tranmer showed symptoms of genuine anxiety.
"You don't mean to say that I'm to be dragged into a court of law because of that twopenny-halfpenny bag?"
"I think it possible. What else can you expect?
"I must tell this unfortunate young lady how the matter stands. I apprehend that I shall have to repeat my statement in open court, and that you will be called upon to supplement it. I also take it that no stone will be left unturned to induce you to give a clear and satisfactory account of what became of the bag after it passed into your hands."
"My goodness! And I know no more what became of it than anything."
"I must go to Miss Angel at once."
"Philip!"
"I must. Consider my position. I cannot enter the court as a juryman again without explaining to someone how I am placed. The irregularity would transgress all limits. I must communicate with Miss Angel immediately; she will communicate with her advisers, who will no doubt communicate with you."
"My goodness!" repeated Mrs. Tranmer to herself after he had gone. Still she did not proceed upstairs to dress.
Miss Angel was dressed for dinner. She was in the drawing-room with other guests of the hotel, waiting for the gong to sound, when she was informed that a gentleman wished to see her. On the heels of the information entered the gentleman himself. It seemed that Mr. Roland had only eyes for her. As if oblivious of others he moved rapidly forward. She regarded him askance. He, perceiving her want of recognition, introduce himself in a fashion of his own.
"Miss Angel, I'm the man who travelled with you from Nice to Dijon."
At once her face lighted up. Her eyes became as if they were illumined.
"Of course! To think that we should have met again! At last!"
To judge from certain comments which were made by those around one could not but suspect that Miss Angel's story was a theme of general interest. As a matter of fact, they were being entertained by her account of the day's proceedings at the very moment of Mr. Roland's entry. People in these small "residential" hotels are sometimes so extremely friendly. Altogether unexpectedly Mr. Roland found himself an object of interest to quite a number of total strangers. He was not the sort of man to shine in such a position, particularly as it was only too plain that Miss Angel misunderstood the situation.
"Mr. Roland, you are like a messenger from Heaven. I have prayed for you to come, so you must be one. And at this time of all times--just when you are most wanted! Really your advent must be miraculous."
"Ye-es." The gentleman glanced around. "Might I speak to you for a moment in private?"
She regarded him a little quizzically.
"Everybody here knows my whole strange history; my hopes and fears; all about me. You needn't be afraid to add another chapter to the tale, especially since you have arrived at so opportune a moment."
"Precisely." His tone was expressive of something more than doubt. "Still, if you don't mind, I think I would rather say a few words to you alone."
The bystanders commenced to withdraw with some little show of awkwardness, as if, since the whole business had so far been public, they rather resented the element of secrecy. The gong sounding, Miss Angel was moved to proffer a suggestion.
"Come dine with me. We can talk when we are eating."
He shrank back with what was almost a gesture of horror.
"Excuse me--you are very kind--I really couldn't. If you prefer it, I will wait here until you have dined."
"Do you imagine that I could wait to hear what you have to say till after dinner? You don't know me if you do. The people are going. We shall have the room all to ourselves. My dinner can wait."
The people went. They did have the room to themselves. She began to overwhelm him with her thanks, which, conscience-striken, he endeavoured to parry.
"I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming in this spontaneous fashion--at this moment, too, of my utmost need."
"Just so."
"If you only knew how I have searched for you high and low, and now, after all, you appear in the very nick of time."
"Exactly."
"It would almost seem as if you had chosen the dramatic moment; for this is the time of all times when your presence on the scene was most desired."
"It's very good of you to say so;--but if you will allow me to interrupt you--I am afraid I am not entitled to your thanks. The fact is, I--I haven't the bag."
"You haven't the bag?"
Although he did not dare to look at her he was conscious that the fashion of her countenance had changed. At the knowledge a chill seemed to penetrate to the very marrow in his bones.
"I--I fear I haven't."
"You had it--I left it in your charge!"
"Unfortunately, that is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair."
"What do you mean?"
He explained. For the second time that night he told his tale. It had not rolled easily off his tongue at the first time of telling. He found the repetition a task of exquisite difficulty. In the presence of that young lady it seemed so poor a story. Especially in the mood in which she was. She continually interrupted him with question and comment--always of the most awkward kind. By the time he had made an end of telling he felt as if most of the vitality had gone out of him. She was silent for some seconds--dreadful seconds; Then she drew a long breath, and she said:--
"So I am to understand, am I, that your sister has lost the bag--my bag?"
"I fear that it would seem so, for the present."
"For the present? What do you mean by for the present? Are you suggesting that she will be able to find it during the next few hours? Because after that it will be too late."
"I--I should hardly like to go so far as that, knowing my sister."
"Knowing your sister? I see. Of course I am perfectly aware that I had no right to intrust the bag to your charge even for a single instant: to you, an entire stranger; though I had no notion that you were the kind of stranger you seem to be. Nor had I any right to slip, and fall, and become unconscious and so allow that train to leave me behind. Still--it does seems a little hard. Don't you think it does?"
"I can only hope that the loss was not of such serious importance as you would seem to infer."
"It depends on what you call serious. It probably means the difference between affluence and beggary. That's all."
"On one point you must allow me to make an observation. The will was not in the bag."
"The will was not in the bag!"
There was a quality in the lady's voice which made Mr. Roland quail. He hastened to proceed.
"I have here all which it contained."
He produced a neat packet, in which were discovered four keys, two handkerchiefs, scraps of what might be chocolate, a piece of pencil, a pair of brown shoe-laces. She regarded the various objects with unsympathetic eyes.
"It also contained the will."
"I can only assure you that I saw nothing of it; nor my sister either. Surely a thing of that kind could hardly have escaped our observation."
"In that bag, Mr. Roland, is a secret pocket; intended to hold--secure from observation--banknotes, letters, or private papers. The will was there. Did you or your sister, in the course of your investigations, light upon the secret of that pocket?"
Something of the sort he had feared. He rubbed his hands together, almost as if he were wringing them.
"Miss Angel, I can only hint at my sense of shame; at my consciousness of my own deficiencies; and can only reiterate my sincere hope that the consequences of your loss may still be less serious than you suppose."
"I imagine that nothing worse than my ruin will result."
"I will do my best to guard against that."
"You!--what can you do--now?"
"I am at least a juryman."
"A juryman?"
"I am one of the jury which is trying the case."
"You!" Her eyes opened wider. "Of course! I thought I had seen you somewhere before today! That's where it was! How stupid I am! Is it possible?" Exactly what she meant by her disjointed remarks was not clear. He did not suspect her of an intention to flatter. "And you propose to influence your colleagues to give a decision in my favour?"
"You may smile, but since unanimity is necessary I can, at any rate, make sure that it is not given against you."
"I see. Your idea is original. And perhaps a little daring. But before we repose our trust on such an eventuality I should like to do something. First of all, I should like to interview your sister."
"If you please."
"I do please. I think it possible that when I explain to her how the matter is with me her memory may be moved to the recollection of what she did with my poor bag. Do you think I could see her if I went to her at once?"
"Quite probably."
"Then you and I will go together. If you will wait for me to put a hat on, in two minutes I will return to you here."
Hats are uncertain quantities. Sometimes they represent ten minutes, sometimes twenty, sometimes sixty. It is hardly likely that any woman ever "put a hat on" in two. Miss Angel was quick. Still, before she reappeared Mr. Roland had arrived at something which resembled a mental resolution. He hurled it at her as soon as she was through the doorway.
"Miss Angel, before we start upon our errand I should like to make myself clear to you at least upon one point. I am aware that I am responsible for the destruction of your hopes--morally and actually. I should like you therefore to understand that, should the case go against you, you will find me personally prepared to make good your loss so far as in my power lies. I should, of course, regard it as my simple duty."
She smiled at him, really nicely.
"You are Quixotic, Mr. Roland. Though it is very good of you all the same. But before we talk about such things I should like to see your sister, if you don't mind."
At this hint he moved to the door. As they went towards the hall he said:--
"I hope you are building no high hopes upon your interview with my sister. I know my sister, you understand; and though she is the best woman in the world, I fear that she attached so little importance to the bag that she has allowed its fate to escape her memory altogether."
"One does allow unimportant matters to escape one's memory, doesn't one?"
Her words were ambiguous. He wondered what she meant. It was she who started the conversation when they were in the cab.
"Would it be very improper to ask what you think of the case so far as it has gone?"
He was sensible that it would be most improper. But, then, there had been so much impropriety about his proceedings already that perhaps he felt that a little more or less did not matter. He answered as if he had followed the proceedings with unflagging attention.
"I think your case is very strong."
"Really? Without the bag?"
It was a simple fact that he had but the vaguest notion of what had been stated upon the other side. Had he been called upon to give even a faint outline of what the case for the opposition really was he would have been unable to do so. But so trivial an accident did not prevent his expressing a confident opinion.
"Certainly; as it stands."
"But won't it look odd if I am unable to produce the will?"
Mr. Roland pondered; or pretended to.
"No doubt the introduction of the will would bring the matter to an immediate conclusion. But, as it is, your own statement is so clear that it seems to me to be incontrovertible."
"Truly? And do your colleagues think so also?"
He knew no more what his "colleagues" thought than the man in the moon. But that was of no consequence.
"I think you may take it for granted that they are not all idiots. I believe, indeed, that it is generally admitted that in most juries there is a preponderance of common sense."
She sighed, a little wistfully, as if the prospect presented by his words was not so alluring as she would have desired. She kept her eyes fixed on his face--a fact of which he was conscious.
"Oh, I wish I could find the will!"
While he was still echoing her wish with all his heart a strange thing happened.
The cabman turned a corner. It was dark. He did not think it necessary to slacken his pace. Nor, perhaps, to keep a keen look-out for what was advancing in an opposite direction. Tactics which a brother Jehu carefully followed. Another hansom was coming round that corner too. Both drivers, perceiving that their zeal was excessive, endeavoured to avoid disaster by dragging their steeds back upon their haunches. Too late! On the instant they were in collision. In that brief, exciting moment Mr. Roland saw that the sole occupant of the other hansom was a lady. He knew her. She knew him.
"It's Agatha!" he cried.
"Philip!" came in answer.
Before either had a chance to utter another word hansoms, riders, and drivers were on the ground. Fortunately the horses kept their heads, being possibly accustomed to little diversions of the kind. They merely continued still, as if waiting to see what would happen next. In consequence he was able to scramble out himself, and to assist Miss Angel in following him.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I don't think so; not a bit."
"Excuse me, but my sister's in the other cab."
"Your sister!"
He did not wait to hear. He was off like a flash. From the ruins of the other vehicle--which seemed to have suffered most in the contact--he gradually extricated the dishevelled Mrs. Tranmer. She seemed to be in a sad state. He led her to a chemist's shop, which luckily stood open close at hand, accompanied by Miss Angel and a larger proportion of the crowd than the proprietor appeared disposed to welcome. He repeated the inquiry he had addressed to Miss Angel.
"Are you hurt?"
This time the response was different.
"Of course I'm hurt. I'm shaken all to pieces; every bone in my body's broken; there's not a scrap of life left in me. Do you suppose I'm the sort of creature who can be thrown about like a shuttlecock and not be hurt?"
Something, however, in her tone suggested that her troubles might after all be superficial.
"If you will calm yourself, Agatha, perhaps you may find that your injuries are not so serious as you imagine."
"They couldn't be, or I should be dead. The worst of it is that this all comes of my flying across London to take that twopenny-halfpenny bag to that ridiculous young woman of yours."
He started.
"The bag! Agatha! have you found it?"
"Of course I've found it. How do you suppose I could be tearing along with it in my hands if I hadn't?" The volubility of her utterance pointed to a rapid return to convalescence. "It seems that I gave it to Jane, or she says that I did, though I have no recollection of doing anything of the kind. As she had already plenty of better bags of her own, probably most of them mine, she didn't want it, so she gave it to her sister-in-law. Directly I heard that, I dragged her into a cab and tore off to the woman's house. The woman was out, and, of course, she'd taken the bag with her to do some shopping. I packed off her husband and half-a-dozen children to scour the neighbourhood for her in different directions, and I thought I should have a fit while I waited. The moment she appeared I snatched the bag from her hand, flung myself back into the cab--and now the cab has flung me out into the road, and heaven only knows if I shall ever be the same woman I was before I started."
"And the bag! Where is it?" She looked about her with bewildered eyes.
"The bag? I haven't the faintest notion. I must have left it in the cab."
Mr. Roland rushed out into the street. He gained the vehicle in which Mrs. Tranmer had travelled. It seemed that one of the shafts had been wrenched right off, but they had raised it to what was as nearly an upright position as circumstances permitted.
"Where's the hand-bag which was in that cab?"
"Hand-bag?" returned the driver. "I ain't seen no hand-bag. So far I ain't hardly seen the bloomin' cab."
A voice was heard at Mr. Roland's elbows.
"This here bloke picked up a bag--I see him do it."
Mr. Roland's grip fastened on the shoulder of the "bloke" alluded to, an undersized youth apparently not yet in his teens. The young gentleman resented the attention.
"'Old 'ard, guv'nor! I picked up the bag, that's all right; I was just a-wondering who it might belong to."
"It belongs to the lady who was riding in the cab. Kindly hand it over."
It was "handed over"; borne back into the chemist's shop; proffered to Miss Angel.
"I believe that this is the missing bag, apparently not much the worse for its various adventures."
"It is the bag." She opened it. Apparently it was empty. But on her manipulating an unseen fastening an inner pocket was disclosed. From it she took a folded paper. "And here is the will!"