"It would occupy too long a time," I replied, "to make my theory thoroughly comprehensible to you. Besides," I added, glancing at Devlin, "it is a theory strangely born and strangely built up, and, in all likelihood, you would reject the most important parts of it as incredible and impossible. Therefore, we will not waste time in explaining or discussing it. Sufficient for us if we succeed in tracing this dreadful mystery to its roots and in bringing the murderer to justice. If I do not mistake, here comes the man I am waiting for."
It was, indeed. Bill Foster, pioneered by the sharp lad who had engaged to find him.
"Here he is, sir," said the boy, holding out his hand, half-eagerly, half-doubtfully.
"Your name is Foster," I said, addressing the man.
"That's me," said Bill Foster.
"You drove a party from Athelstan Road early this morning?"
"Yes."
I counted five shillings into the boy's outstretched hand, and he scampered away in great delight.
"There's half-a-sovereign for you," I said to Bill Foster, "if you answer correctly a few questions."
"About the party I drove from Athelstan Road?" he asked.
"My questions will refer to them. You seem to hesitate."
"The fact is," said Bill Foster, "the gentleman gave me a florin over my fare to keep my mouth shut."
"Only a fifth of what I offer you," I said.
"Make it a sovereign," suggested Devlin.
"I've no objection," I said.
"All right," said Bill Foster; "fire away."
"The gentleman bribed you to keep silence respecting his movements?" I asked.
"It must have been for that," replied Bill Foster.
"Proving," I observed, "that he must have had some strong reason for secrecy."
"That's got nothing to do with me," remarked Bill Foster.
"Of course not. What you've got to do is to earn the sovereign. Who engaged you for the job?"
"The gentleman himself. I wasn't out with my trap so early, and some one must have told him where I live. Anyways, he comes at a quarter-past six, and knocks me up, and says there's a good job waiting for me at 28 Athelstan Road, if I'd come at once. I says, 'All right,' and I puts my horse to, and drives there. I got to the house at ten minutes to seven, and I drives the party to the London, Chatham, and Dover."
"How many were in the party?"
"Four. The gentleman, a middle-aged lady, and two young 'uns."
"About what ages were the young ladies?"
"Can't quite say. They wore veils; but I should reckon from eighteen to twenty-two. That's near enough."
"What luggage was there?"
"Two trunks, a small box, and some other little things they took care of themselves."
"You had charge of the two trunks?"
"Yes."
"And of the small box?"
"O, no; the gentleman wouldn't let it out of his hands. I offered to help him with it, but he wouldn't let me touch it."
"That surprised you?"
"Well, yes, because it was uncommon heavy. If it was filled with gold he couldn't have been more careful of it."
"Perhaps it was," I said, turning slightly to Richard Carton.
"It was heavy enough. Why, he could hardly carry it."
"Did either of the ladies appear anxious about it?"
"Yes, the middle-aged one. When I saw them so particular, I said, said I--to myself, you know--I shouldn't mind having that myself."
"When the gentleman told you to drive to the London, Chatham, and Dover station, did he say what train he wished to catch?"
"No, but I found out the train they went by. It was the down train for Ramsgate, 7.31."
"They reached the station some time before it started?"
"Yes, twenty minutes before. After the gentleman took his tickets he came from the platform two or three times and looked at me. 'What are you waiting for?' he asked the last time. 'For a fare,' I answered. 'Look here,' he said, 'if anybody asks you any questions about me, don't answer them. 'Why shouldn't I?' I asked. It was then he pulled out the florin. 'O, very well,' I said; 'it's no business of mine.' But I didn't go away till the train started with them in it."
"Do you know whether they intended to stop in Margate?"
"I should say not. As I drove 'em to the station, I heard the gentleman speak to the middle-aged lady--his wife, I suppose--about the boat for Boulogne."
I gave a start of vexation; Devlin smiled; Carton was following the conversation with great attention.
"Do you know what boat?"
"The Sir Walter Raleigh. The gentleman had one of the bills in his hand, and was looking at it. He said to the lady, 'We shall be in plenty of time.'"
"Do you know at what time the boat starts from Ramsgate for Boulogne?"
"Leaves the harbour at half-past nine, but is generally half an hour late."
I looked at my watch. It was just eleven o'clock.
"Is there any chance," I asked, "of this boat being delayed?"
"Why should it? The weather's fair."
"Is there any other boat starting for Boulogne this morning?"
"None. There's the Sir Walter Raleigh from Ramsgate, and sometimes the India from here; but the India don't go to-day."
"Could we hire a boat from here?"
"You might, but it would be risky, and would cost a lot of money. Then, there's no saying when you would get there. It's a matter of between forty and fifty miles, and the steamers take about five hours getting across; sometimes a little less, generally a little more. There's no depending upon 'em. Look here. You're going to behave to me liberal. You want to follow the party I drove from Athelstan Road this morning."
"Show me the way to get to Boulogne to-day," I said, "and I'll give you another half-sovereign."
"Practical creature!" murmured Devlin. "In human dealings there is but one true touchstone."
"Spoke like a real gentleman," said Bill Foster to me. "What time is it?"
"Five minutes past eleven."
"Wait here; I sha'n't be gone but a few minutes. Get everything ready to start directly I come back."
His trap was standing at the corner of Royal Crescent. He ran out, jumped on the box, and was gone. I called to the waiter, and in three minutes the hotel bill was paid, and we were ready.
During Bill Foster's absence I said to Carton,
"Do you make anything of all this?"
"It looks," replied Carton, "as if my guardian was running away."
"To my mind there's not a doubt of it. Have you any idea what that little box he would not let out of his charge contains?"
"The two thousand sovereigns he obtained from the bank," said Carton, in a tone of inquiry.
"Exactly. I tell you now plainly that I am positive Mr. Kenneth Dowsett is implicated in the murder of your poor girl."
Carton set his teeth in great agitation. "If he is! if he is!" he said; but he could say no more.
Bill Foster was back.
"There's a train to Folkestone," he cried, "the South-Eastern line, at 11.47. You can catch it easily. If there's no boat handy from Folkestone to Boulogne, you'll be able to hire one there. The steamers take two hours going across. You can get there in four. Train arrives at Folkestone at 1.27. By six o'clock you can be in Boulogne. Jump into my trap, gentlemen."
We jumped in, and were driven to the station. His information was correct. I gave him thirty shillings, and he departed in high glee. Then we took tickets for Folkestone, and arrived there at a quarter to two.
There was no steamer going, but with little difficulty we arranged to get across. The passage took longer than four hours--it took six. At nine o'clock at night we were in Boulogne.
I cannot speak an intelligible sentence in French. Carton was too agitated to take the direction of affairs.
"Do you know where we can stop?" I asked of Devlin. "Have you ever been here before?"
"My dear sir," said Devlin, "I have travelled all over the world, and I know Boulogne by heart. There's a little out-of-the-way hotel, the Hôtel de Poilly, in Rue de l'Amiral Bruix, that will suit us as though it were built for us."
"Let us get there at once," I said.
He called a fly, and in a very short time we entered the courtyard of the Hotel de Poilly. There we made arrangements with the jolly, comfortable-looking landlady, and then I looked at Carton, and he looked at me. The helplessness of our situation struck us both forcibly.
"Who is in command?" asked Devlin suddenly.
"You," I replied, as by an inspiration.
"Good," said Devlin. "I accept the office. From this moment you are under my orders. Remain you here; I go to reconnoitre."
"You will return?" I said.
"My dear sir," said Devlin airily, "it is too late now to doubt my integrity. I will return."
"For God's sake," said Carton, when Devlin was gone, "who is this man who seems to divine everything, to know everything, and whom nothing disturbs? Sometimes when he looks at me I feel that he is exercising over me a terrible fascination."
"I cannot answer you," I said. "Be satisfied with the knowledge that it is through him we have so far succeeded, and that, in my belief, it will be through him that the murderer will be tracked down. The world is full of mysteries, and that man is not the least of them."
It wanted an hour to midnight when Devlin returned. In his inscrutable face I read no sign of success or failure; but the first words he spoke afforded me infinite relief.
"I have seen him," he said. "Let us go out and talk. Walls have ears."
The river Liane was but a short distance from the hotel, and we strolled along the bank in silence, Devlin, contrary to my expectation, not uttering a word for many minutes. He had lit a cigar, and Carton had accepted one from him; I refused to smoke, having too vivid a remembrance of the cigar I had smoked in Fanny Lemon's house, and its effect upon me. At length Devlin said to Carton:
"You appear sleepy."
"I am," said the young man.
"You had best go to bed," said Devlin; "nothing can be done to-night."
Carton, assenting, would have returned to the hotel alone, saying he could find the way, but I insisted that we should accompany him thither. I had heard that Boulogne was not the safest place in the world for strangers on a dark night. Having seen Carton to his room, we returned to the river's bank. Had Carton been in possession of his full senses he would doubtless have objected, but he was dead asleep when he entered his bedroom, Devlin's cigar having affected him as the one I smoked had affected me.
"He encumbers us," said Devlin, looking out upon the dark river. "I have discovered where Mr. Dowsett is lodging, and were our young friend informed of the address he might rush there, and spoil all. We happen to be in luck, if you believe in such a quality as luck. I do not; but I use the term out of compliment to you. Mr. Dowsett's quarters are in the locality of the Rue de la Paix, and, singularly enough, are situated over a barber's shop. Things go in runs, do they not? Nothing but barbers. I do not return with you to the hotel to-night."
"What do you mean?" I asked, startled by this information.
"The proprietor of the barber's shop over which Mr. Kenneth Dowsett is sleeping--but, perhaps, not sleeping, for a sword is hanging above his head, and he may be gazing at the phantom in terror--say, then, over which he is lying, is an agreeable person. I have struck up an acquaintance with him, and, by arrangement, shall be in his saloon to-morrow, to attend to any persons who may present themselves. Mr. Dowsett will probably need the razor and the brush. I can easily account for my appearance in Boulogne; I have come to see my friend and brother. Mr. Dowsett, unsuspecting--for what connection can he trace between me and Lizzie Melladew?--will place himself in my hands. He has told me that there is not my equal; he may find that it is so. In order that I may not miss him I go to the house to-night. Early in the morning come you, alone, to the Rue de la Paix. You can ride to the foot of the hill, there alight, and on the right-hand side, a third of the way up, you will see my new friend's establishment. I will find you a snug corner from which you may observe and hear, yourself unseen, all that passes. Are you satisfied now that I am keeping faith with you?"
"Indeed, you are proving it," I replied.
"Give me no more credit than I deserve," said Devlin. "It is simply that I keep a promise. In the fulfilment of this promise--both in the spirit and to the letter, my dear sir--I may to-morrow unfold to you a wonder. It is my purpose to compel the man we have pursued to himself reveal all that he knows of Lizzie Melladew. Perhaps it will be as well for you to take down in writing what passes between us. Accept it from me that there are unseen forces and unseen powers in this world, so rich in sin, of which few men dream. See those shadows moving on the water--are they not like living spirits? The dark river itself, had it a tongue, could appal you. On such nights as this are secret crimes committed by devils who bear the shape of men. What kind of being is that who smiles in your face, who presses your hand, who speaks pleasant words to you, and harbours all the while in what is called his heart a fell design towards the execution of which he moves without one spark of compassion? I don't complain of him, my dear sir; on the contrary"--and here, although I could not see Devlin's face, I could fancy a sinister smile overspreading it--"I rather delight in him. It proves him to be what he is--and he is but a type of innumerable others. Your innocent ones are arrogant in the vaunting of their goodness; your ambitious ones glory in their successes which bring ruin to their brethren; your kings and emperors appropriate Providence, and do not even pay him a shilling for the conscription. A grand world, and grandly peopled! The man who glories in sin compels my admiration; but this one whom we are hunting is a coward and a sneak. He shall meet his doom!"
As he ceased speaking he vanished; I can find no other word to express the effect his sudden disappearance had upon me. Whether he intended to create a dramatic surprise I cannot say, but, certainly, he was no longer by my side. With some difficulty I found my way alone back to the Hotel de Poilly, where Carton was fast asleep.
Of all the strange experiences I have narrated in connection with Devlin, that which awaited me on the following morning was the most startling and inexplicable. Prevailing with difficulty upon Richard Carton to remain at the hotel until I either came to or sent for him, I drove to the foot of the Rue de la Paix, as I was instructed to do. I took the precaution to hire the driver of the fly by the hour, and desired him to stop where I alighted until I needed him. I was impelled to this course by a feeling that I might possibly require some person to take a message to Carton or bring him to the Rue de la Paix. I found the barber's shop easily, and could scarcely refrain from uttering a loud exclamation at the sight of Mr. Kenneth Dowsett sitting in a barber's chair, and Devlin standing over him, leisurely at work. Devlin, with his finger at his lips, pointed to a table in a corner of the shop, at which I seated myself in obedience to the silent command. On the table were writing materials and paper, and on a sheet of this paper was written: "You are late. I have thrown Mr. Dowsett into a trance. He will reveal all he knows. I will compel him to do so. Take down in writing what transpires."
My heart throbbed violently as I prepared myself for the task.
Devlin: "Do you know where you are?"
Mr. Dowsett: "Yes, in Boulogne."
Devlin: "Where were you yesterday?"
Mr. Dowsett: "In Margate."
Devlin: "Where were you on Friday last?"
Mr. Dowsett: "At home, in London."
Devlin: "Recall the occurrences of that day?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I do so."
Devlin: "At what hour did you rise?"
Mr. Dowsett: "At nine o'clock."
Devlin: "Who were present at the breakfast-table?"
Mr. Dowsett: "My wife and daughter, and Richard Carton."
Devlin: "Was anything relating to the engagement of Richard Carton and Lizzie Melladew said at the breakfast-table?"
Mr. Dowsett: "Nothing."
Devlin: "Was there anything in your mind in relation to it?"
Mr. Dowsett: "Yes. I had a plan to carry out, and was thinking of it."
Devlin: "In what way did you put the plan into execution?"
Mr. Dowsett: "When breakfast was over, I went to my private room and locked the door. Then I sat down and wrote a letter."
Devlin: "To whom?"
Mr. Dowsett: "To Lizzie Melladew."
Devlin: "What did you write?"
Mr. Dowsett: "A heart-broken woman implores you to meet her to-night at eleven o'clock in Victoria Park, and, so that she may recognise you, begs you to wear a bunch of white daisies in your belt. She will wear the same, so that you may recognise her. The life and welfare of Mr. Richard Carton hangs upon this meeting. If you fail, a dreadful fate awaits him, which you can avert. As you value his happiness and your own, come."
Devlin: "What did you do with the letter?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I addressed it to Miss Lizzie Melladew, at her place of business in Baker Street, and posted it at the Charing Cross Post-office."
Devlin: "How did you know she worked there?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I learnt it from my ward, Richard Carton."
Devlin: "Did you disguise your handwriting?"
Mr. Dowsett: "Yes; I wrote it in a feminine hand."
Devlin: "What was your object in writing the letter?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I was determined that Richard Carton should not marry Lizzie Melladew."
Devlin: "Why?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I had all along arranged that he should marry my daughter Letitia."
Devlin: "How did you propose to break off the match between your ward and Lizzie Melladew?"
Mr. Dowsett: "My plans were not entirely clear to myself. I intended to appeal to the young woman, and to invent some disreputable story to make her suspect that he was false to her. If that failed, then----"
Devlin: "Proceed. Then?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I was resolved to go any lengths, to do anything to prevent the marriage."
Devlin: "Even murder."
Mr. Dowsett: "I did not think of that--I would not think of it."
Devlin: "But you did think of it. You could not banish that idea from your mind?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I could not, though I tried. It crept in the whole of the day. I could not help seeing the scene. Night--the park--the young woman with the bunch of white daisies in her belt stained with blood."
Devlin: "Those pictures were in your mind, and you could not banish them?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I could not."
Devlin: "There were other reasons for preventing the marriage than your wish that Richard Carton should marry your daughter?"
Mr. Dowsett: "There were."
Devlin: "What were they?"
Mr. Dowsett: "If he married Lizzie Melladew, I should no longer enjoy the income I had received for so many years. I looked upon it as mine. I could not live without it. We should have been beggared--disgraced as well. I had forged my ward's name to bills, and if he married out of my family there would have been exposure, and I might have found myself in a felon's dock. If he married my daughter this would not occur. I was safe so long as I could keep my hold upon him."
Devlin: "Did your wife and daughter know this?"
Mr. Dowsett: "My daughter knew nothing of it. My wife suspected it."
Devlin: "Did she know that you contemplated murder?"
Mr. Dowsett: "She did not."
Devlin: "Why did you give Richard Carton a sleeping draught on that night?"
Mr. Dowsett: "In order that he might sleep soundly, and not discover that I left the house late."
Devlin: "Were your wife and daughter asleep when you left your house?"
Mr. Dowsett: "They were abed. I do not know whether they were asleep."
Devlin: "You took a knife with you?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I did."
Devlin: "Where did you obtain it?"
Mr. Dowsett: "It was a large clasp knife I had had for years. I found it in a private drawer."
Devlin: "You went to the private drawer for the purpose of finding it?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I did."
Devlin: "Did any one see you leave the house?"
Mr. Dowsett: "No one."
Devlin: "Did you walk or ride to Victoria Park?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I walked."
Devlin: "To avoid suspicion?"
Mr. Dowsett: "Yes."
Devlin: "When you arrived at the Park did you have any difficulty in finding Miss Melladew?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I soon found her."
Devlin: "What did you do then?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I made an appeal to her."
Devlin: "Did she listen to you quietly?"
Mr. Dowsett: "No. She taunted me with having tricked her by writing an anonymous letter in a disguised hand."
Devlin: "Go on."
Mr. Dowsett: "I told her it was the only way I could obtain a private interview with her. I invented a scandalous story about my ward. She said she did not believe it, and that she would expose me to him. She told me that I was infamous, and that it was her belief I had been systematically practising deceit upon my ward, and that she would not be surprised to discover that I had been robbing him. 'To-morrow he shall see you in your true colours,' she said. I was maddened. If she carried out her intention I knew that I was a ruined and disgraced man. 'That to-morrow will never come!' I cried. The knife was in my hand. I scarcely know how it came there, and do not remember opening the blade. 'That to-morrow will come!' she retorted. 'It shall not!' I cried; and I stabbed her to the heart. She uttered but one cry, and fell down dead."
Devlin: "What did you do after that?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I hastened away, taking the knife with me. I chose the darkest paths. Suddenly I came upon a young woman sitting upon a bench, reclining against the back. I saw her face, and was rooted to the spot in sudden fear. She did not stir. Recovering, I crept softly towards her, and found that she was asleep. Leaving her there, I hastened back to the woman I had stabbed. I knelt down and looked closely at her. I felt in her pockets; she was quite dead. There were letters in her pockets which I examined, and then--and then----"
Devlin: "And then?"
Mr. Dowsett: "I discovered that the woman I had killed was not Lizzie Melladew!"
So startled was I by this revelation that I jumped to my feet in a state of uncontrollable agitation. What I should have done I cannot say, but the direction of events was not left in my hands. Simultaneously with my movement of astonishment, a piercing scream rang through the house.
I was standing now by the chair in which Mr. Kenneth Dowsett was sitting in his trance, and I observed a change pass over his face; the scream had pierced the veil in which his waking senses were enshrouded. Devlin also observed this change, and he said to me hurriedly:
"Go up-stairs and see what is taking place. Your presence may be needed there, and to one person may be very welcome. I will keep charge over this man."
As I left the room I heard Devlin turn the key in the lock. Rapidly I mounted the stairs, and dashed into a room on the first landing, from which the sound of female voices were issuing. Three women were there; two were strangers to me, but even in that agitating moment I correctly divined that they were Mrs. Dowsett and Letitia; the third, who rushed with convulsive sobs into my open arms, was no other than Lizzie Melladew herself.
"O, thank God, you have come!" she sobbed; "thank God! thank God! Where is Mary? Where is Richard? Take me to them! O, take me to them!"
Mrs. Dowsett was the first to recover herself. "You will remain here," she said sternly to Lizzie; and then, addressing me, "How dare you break into my apartment in this manner?"
"I dare do more than that," I replied, in a voice sterner than her own, and holding the weeping girl close to my heart. "Prepare you to answer for what has been done. I thank God, indeed, that I have arrived in time, perhaps, to prevent another crime. All is discovered."
At these words Mrs. Dowsett shrank back, white and trembling. I did not stop to say more. My first duty was to place Lizzie Melladew in safety; but where? The mental question conveyed its own answer. Where, but in her lover's arms?
"Come," I said to Lizzie. "You are safe now. I am going to take you to Richard Carton. Trust yourself to me."
"I will, I will!" sobbed Lizzie, "Richard is here, then? How thankful I am, how thankful! And Mary, my dear sister, is she here, too?"
I was appalled at this last question. It proved that Lizzie was ignorant of what had occurred. Not daring to answer her, I drew her from the room, and the women I left there made no attempt to prevent me. Swiftly I took my precious charge from the house, and in a very few minutes we were in the carriage which was waiting for me at the foot of the Rue de la Paix. The driver understood the direction I gave him, and we galloped at full speed to the Hotel de Poilly. Without revealing to Lizzie what I knew, I learnt from her before we reached the hotel sufficient to enlighten me as to Mr. Kenneth Dowsett's proceedings, and to confirm my suspicion that it was Mary Melladew who had met her death at that villain's hands. When Lizzie received the anonymous letter which he wrote to her, she took it to her poor sister, who, fearing some plot, prevailed upon her to let her see the anonymous writer in Lizzie's place; and, the better to carry out the plan, the sisters changed dresses, and went together to Victoria Park. Being twins, and bearing so close a resemblance to each other, there was little fear of the change being discovered until at least Mary had ascertained why the meeting was so urgently desired. Leaving Lizzie in a secluded part of the park, Mary proceeded to the rendezvous, with what result Mr. Dowsett's confession has already made clear. Discovering the fatal error he had committed, Mr. Dowsett returned to Lizzie, who, while waiting for her sister, had fallen asleep. Being thoroughly unnerved, he decided that there was only one means of safety before him--flight and the concealment of Lizzie Melladew. The idea of a second murder may have occurred to him, but, villain as he was, he had not the courage to carry it out. He had taken from the dead girl's pocket everything it contained, with the exception of a handkerchief which, in his haste, he overlooked; and upon this handkerchief was marked the name of Lizzie Melladew. He could imitate Richard Carton's writing--as was proved by the forgeries he had already committed--and upon the back of this anonymous letter he wrote in pencil a few words in which Lizzie was implored to trust herself implicitly to Mr. Dowsett, and without question to do as he directed. Signing these words in Richard Carton's name, he awoke Lizzie and gave her the note. Alarmed and agitated as the young girl was, and fearing that some great danger threatened her lover, she, with very little hesitation, allowed herself to be persuaded by Mr. Dowsett, and accompanied him home. "Where is Mary?" she asked. "With our dear Richard," replied Mr. Dowsett; "we shall see them to-morrow, when all will be explained." At home Mr. Dowsett informed his wife of his peril, and the three females left for Margate by an early train in the morning. In Margate Mrs. Dowsett received telegrams signed "Richard Carton," but really sent by her husband, which she showed to Lizzie, and which served in some measure to assist the successful continuation of the scheme by which Lizzie was to be taken out of the country. Meanwhile she was in absolute ignorance of her sister's fate; no newspaper was allowed to reach her hands, nor was she allowed to speak to a soul but Mrs. Dowsett and Letitia. What was eventually to be done with her I cannot say; probably Mr. Dowsett himself had not been able to make up his mind, which was almost entirely occupied by considerations for his own safety.
I did not, of course, learn all this from Lizzie, she being then ignorant of much which I have related, but I have put together what she told me and what I subsequently learnt from Devlin and other sources.
Arriving at the Hotel de Poilly, I succeeded in conveying Lizzie into a private room, and then I sought Richard Carton. I need not set down here in detail the conversation I had with him. Little by little I made him acquainted with the whole truth. Needless to describe his joy when he heard that his beloved girl was alive and safe--joy, tempered with grief at poor Mary's fate. When he was calm enough to be practical, he asked me what was to be done.
"No time must be lost," I said, "in restoring your dear Lizzie to her parents. To you I shall confide her. Leave that monster, your treacherous guardian, to Devlin and me."
It was with difficulty I restrained him from rushing to Lizzie, but I insisted that his movements must be definitely decided upon before he saw her. I called in the assistance of the jolly landlady, and she supplied me with a time-table, from which I ascertained that a boat for Dover left at 12.31, and that it was timed to reach its destination at 3.20. There were numerous trains from Dover to London, and Lizzie would be in her parents' arms before night. Carton joyfully acquiesced in this arrangement, and then I took him in to his dear girl, and, closing the door upon them, left them to themselves. A meeting such as theirs, and under such circumstances, was sacred.
While they were together I wrote two letters--one to my wife, and the other to Mr. Portland--which I intended should be delivered by Carton. I did not intrude upon the happy lovers till the last moment. I found them sitting close together, quite silent, hand clasped in hand, her head upon his breast. I had cautioned him to say nothing of Mary's sad fate, and I saw by the expression upon Lizzie's face that he had obeyed me. After joy would come sorrow; there was time enough for that. Mary had given her life for her sister's; the sacrifice would ever be held in sacred remembrance.
I saw them off by the boat; they waved their handkerchiefs to me, and I thought of the Melladews mourning at home, to whom, at least, one dear child would soon be restored. When the boat was out of sight, I jumped into the carriage, and was driven back to the Rue de la Paix.
I tried the door of the room in which I had left Devlin and Mr. Kenneth Dowsett. It was locked.
"Enter," said Devlin, unlocking the door.
They were both in the room, Devlin smiling and unruffled, Mr. Dowsett in the full possession of his senses, and terribly ill at ease.
He turned like death when he saw me.
"This gentleman," said Devlin, "is angry at being detained by me, and would have resorted to violence if he thought it would serve his purpose. I have waited for your return to decide what to do."
"You shall pay for this," Mr. Dowsett managed to say, "you and your confederate. If there is justice in this world, I will make you smart for your unlawful proceedings."
"Thereisjustice in the world," I said calmly, "as you shall find."
He was silent. With a weight of guilt upon his soul, he did not know how to reply to this remark. But he managed presently to ask:
"How long do you intend to detain me?"
"You shall know soon," I said; and, by a gesture, I intimated to Devlin that I wished to confer with him alone.
He accompanied me from the room, and we stood in the passage, keeping guard upon the door, which Devlin locked from the outside.
"There are no means of escape from within," he said. "I have seen to that."
In a low tone I told him what I had done, and he approved.
"The question now is," I said, "what step are we next to take?"
"There lies the difficulty," replied Devlin. "You see my dear sir, we have no evidence upon which to arrest him."
"No evidence!" I cried. "Is there not his own confession of guilt?"
Devlin shook his head. "Spiritual evidence only, my dear sir. Not admissible in any court of law in the world. Impossible to obtain his arrest in a foreign country upon such a slender thread. He might bring the same accusation against us, and we might all be thrown into gaol, and kept there for months. That is not what I bargained for. Our best plan will be to get him back to England; then you can take some practicable step."
"But how to manage that?" I asked.
"It can be managed, I think," said Devlin. "I have a scheme. He knows nothing of the confession he has made. Lizzie Melladew's name has not been mentioned between us. It is only his fears and my strength of will that make him tractable. Before I put my scheme into operation, go up-stairs to see if his wife and daughter are in the house. I have my suspicions that they have flown. You will find me here when you come down."
I ran up-stairs to the apartments occupied by Mrs. Dowsett. Devlin's suspicions were confirmed. The two women were gone. There were evidences around of a hasty flight, the most pregnant of them being a small box which had been broken open. I judged immediately that this was the box which had contained the two thousand sovereigns; and, indeed, I found two of the sovereigns under a couch, whither they had rolled while the bulk was being taken out. The conclusion I came to was, that the women, frightened that all was discovered, as I had informed them, had broken open the box, and, packing the gold away upon their persons, had taken to flight, leaving Mr. Dowsett to his fate.
I went down to Devlin, and acquainted him with the result of my investigation.
"Quite as I expected," he said. "Let them go for the present. Our concern is with the man inside. I am going to put my scheme into operation. What is the time?"
"Five minutes past two," I replied, looking at my watch.
"In capital time," said Devlin. "Wait you here until half-past two. Then go in to Mr. Dowsett, and apologise to him for the indignity to which he has been subjected. He will fume and threaten; let him. Be you humble and contrite, and say that you are very, very sorry. Throw all the blame upon me: say that I have deceived you, imposed upon you, robbed you--anything that comes to your mind. To me it matters not; it will assist our scheme. There is no fear of Mr. Dowsett not waiting till you go in to him; he is frightened out of his life. Your humble attitude will give him courage; he will think himself safe."
"I cannot imagine," I said, "how this will help us."
"Don't imagine," said Devlin curtly. "Leave all to me. The first thing Mr. Dowsett will do when he finds himself free will be to go up to the rooms in which he left the three women who accompanied him here. Meanwhile, you will keep watch outside the house; but on no account must he see you. Trust to me for the rest."
He had served me so faithfully up to this point that I trusted him unhesitatingly. As he had prophesied, Mr. Dowsett kept quiet within the room. Listening at the door, I heard him moving softly about, but he made no attempt to come out. At half-past two I entered the room, and followed Devlin's instructions to the letter. Mr. Dowsett, his courage restored, immediately began to bluster and threaten. I listened submissively, and made pretence of being greatly distressed. When he had exhausted himself, I left him with further profuse expressions of regret, and as I issued from the house I saw him mounting the stairs to his wife's apartments.
Emerging into the Rue de la Paix, I planted myself in a spot from which I had a clear view of the house, and was myself concealed from observation. Scarcely was I settled in my position when I saw a man, with a telegram in his hand, enter the house. He remained there a very few moments, and then came out and walked away, having, presumably, delivered his message. Within a space of five minutes, Mr. Dowsett, holding the telegram, came forth, and, casting sharp glances around, quickly left the Rue de la Paix. Before he had turned the corner, Devlin joined me, humming a French song. Together we followed Mr. Dowsett at a safe distance.
"My scheme is alive," he said.
I asked him to explain it to me.
"You saw the messenger," he said, "enter with a telegram. You saw him leave without it. You saw Mr. Dowsett come out with the telegram. It was from his wife."
"From his wife?"
"Sent by me. The telegram was to the effect that something had occurred which had induced her to leave Boulogne immediately, and that she, her daughter, and the young lady with them (I was careful not to mention her name, you see) would be in Ramsgate, waiting for him. He was to come by the afternoon boat, and she would meet him on the pier. See, he is entering the shipping-office now, to secure his passage."
"What are we to do?"
"We travel in the same boat, going aboard at the last moment. After the boat has started--not before--he will know that we are fellow-passengers."
All happened as Devlin had arranged. By his skilful pioneering we did not lose sight of Mr. Dowsett until he stepped aboard the boat, and I inferred from his manner that by that time he had regained confidence, and deemed his secret safe. When we slipped on deck, at the very moment of starting, Mr. Dowsett was below in the saloon.
There were not many passengers, and the French coast was still in view when Mr. Dowsett came up from the saloon and stood by the bulwarks, within a yard or two of the seat upon which we were sitting. We did not speak, but sat watching him. Turning, he saw us.
"You here!" he cried.
"By your leave," I replied.
"Not by my leave," he said. "Why are you following me?"
"Have you any reason," I said, "for suspecting that you are being followed?"
"I was a fool to ask the question," he said, turning abruptly away.
I did not speak, but kept my eyes upon him. I was determined not to lose sight of him for another moment. Some understanding of this determination seemed to dawn upon him; he looked at me two or three times with wavering eyes, and presently, summoning all his courage to his aid, he stared me full in the face. I met his gaze sternly, unflinchingly, until I compelled him to lower his eyes. Then he suddenly went down into the saloon. I stepped swiftly after him, and Devlin accompanied me. For the purpose of testing me, he turned and ascended again to the deck. We followed him.
"Perhaps," he said, "you will explain what you mean by this conduct?"
"What need to ask?" I replied. "Let your conscience answer."
"It is an outrage," he said, after a pause. "If you continue to annoy me, I shall appeal to the captain."
"Do so," I said, "and prepare to meet at once the charge I shall bring against you."
He did not dare to inquire the nature of the charge. He did not dare to move or speak again. Sullenly, and with an inward raging, the traces of which he could not disguise, he remained by the bulwarks, staring down at the water.
Suddenly there was a lull aboard. The machinery stopped working.
"Some accident," said Devlin, and went to ascertain its nature. Returning, he said, "We shall be delayed a couple of hours, most likely. It will be dark night, when we arrive."
It was as he said. For two hours or more we made no progress; then, the necessary repairs having been made, we started again. By that time it was evening. And still Mr. Dowsett neither moved or spoke.
Night crept on; there was no moon, and not a star visible in the dark sky; it was black night. Mr. Dowsett strove to take advantage of this to evade and escape from us, but we kept so close to him that we could have touched him by the movement of a finger; where he glided, we glided; and still he uttered not a word.
We stood in a group alone, isolated as it were, from the other passengers. After repeated attempts to slip from us, Mr. Dowsett remained still again. In the midst of the darkness Devlin's voice stole upon our ears.
"Short-sighted fool," he said, "to think that crime can be for ever successfully hidden. Wherever man moves, the spirit of committed evil accompanies him, and leads him to his doom. His peril lies not only in mortal insight, but in the unseen, mysterious agencies, by which he is surrounded. Blood for blood; it is the immutable law; and if by some human failure he for a time evades his punishment at the hand of man, he suffers a punishment more terrible than human justice can execute upon him. Waking or sleeping, it is ever with him. Look out upon the darkness, and behold, rising from the shadows, the form of the innocent girl whose life you took. To the last moment of your life her spirit shall accompany you; till death claims you, you shall know no peace!"
Whatever of malignancy there was in Devlin's voice, the words he spoke conveyed the stern, eternal truth. It seemed to me, as I gazed before me, that the spirit he evoked loomed sadly among the shadows.
Onward through the sea the boat ploughed its way, and we three stood close together, encompassed by a dread and awful silence; for Devlin spoke no more, nor from Mr. Dowsett's lips did any sound issue.
In the distance we saw the lights of Ramsgate Pier, and before the captain or any person on board was aware of its close contiguity, we suddenly dashed against it.
I and all others on board were thrown violently down by the shock. There were loud cries of alarm and agony, and I found myself separated from my companions. From the water came appeals for help from some who had been tossed overboard by the collision, and a period of great confusion ensued. What help could be given was afforded, and when I succeeded in reaching the stone pier in safety, I heard that a few of the passengers were missing--among them Devlin and Mr. Dowsett.
I remained on the pier till past one o'clock in the morning, rendering what little assistance I could; and eventually I learnt that all who had been in danger were saved, with the exception of the two whom I have named. It was early morning before the body of one was recovered. That one was Mr. Kenneth Dowsett. He lay dead in a boat, his face convulsed with agony, upturned to the gray light of the coming day. Of Devlin no trace could be found.