Octavius Fanks had no difficulty in finding the residence of Dr. Jacob Japix, for that kind-hearted gentleman was well known in Ironfields, not alone in the village suburb, but throughout the great city itself, where his beaming face, his cheery words, and his open hand were much appreciated, especially in the quarters of the poor. Not a professional philanthropist, this large man with the large heart, for he laboured among poverty and vice from an innate desire to do good, and not from any hope that his works would be blazoned forth in the papers. He had no wife, no family, no relations, so he devoted his money, his time, and his talents to the service of paupers who could not afford to give anything in return except gratitude, and did not always give even that.
Of course, he had rich patients also. Oh, yes! many rich people came to Jacob Japix to be cured, and generally went away satisfied, for he was a clever physician, having the eye of a hawk and the intuition of a Galen for all kinds of mysterious diseases. But the money which the rich took from the poor in the way of scant payment for labour done went back to the pockets of the poor via Dr. Japix, so he illustrated in his own small way the law of compensation.
Mr. Fanks knew this doctor very well, having met him in connection with a celebrated poisoning case at Manchester, where he had attended as a witness in the character of an expert. Octavius, therefore, was very much delighted at chance having thrown Japix in his way for this special affair, as he was beginning to be troubled with vague fears the existence of which he persistently refused to acknowledge to himself.
Dr. Japix, being a big man, inhabited a big house just on the outskirts of the town, and on ringing a noisy bell, Octavius was admitted by a big footman, who said, in a big voice, that the Doctor was engaged at present, but would be at liberty soon. And soon it was, for just as the big footman was about to show Fanks into the waiting-room—on the right—a party of three (two ladies and one gentleman), accompanied by Japix, emerged from a door on the left.
One lady was tall, dark, and stately, with a serious cast of countenance; the other, small, fair, and vivacious, a veritable fairy, all sparkle and sunshine; and the gentleman was a long, lean man with a saturnine expression, not by any means prepossessing. Burly Dr. Japix with his big frame, his big voice, and his big laugh, accompanied the trio to the door, talking in a subdued roar the whole time.
"We'll set him up—set him up, Miss Florry, never fear—nerves—pooh! ha! ha! ha! nerves in a bridegroom. Who ever heard of such a thing?"
"Ah, but you see you're a bachelor," said the golden-haired fairy, gaily; "a horrid old bachelor, who doesn't know anything except how to give people nasty medicine."
"Hey! now, ha! ha! that's too bad. I always make your medicine nice. Wait till you're a matron, I'll make it nasty."
"When I'm a matron," said Miss Florry, demurely, "I'll take no medicine except Spolger's Soother," at which speech the Doctor laughed, the lean man scowled, and the two ladies attended by the scowl, departed, while the Doctor turned to greet his new visitor.
"Well, sir—well, sir—ha! may I be condemned to live on my own physic if it isn't M. Vidocq."
"Eh, my dear Doctor, me voici. Dumas, my dear physician; you've read 'The Three Musqueteers,' of course."
"Ha! ha! if you start quoting already," roared Japix, rolling ponderously into his study, followed by Fanks, "I give in at once; your memory, Mr. Thief-catcher, is cast-iron, and mine isn't. So I surrender at discretion. Now I'll be bound," continued the Doctor, waggishly, sitting in his huge chair, "you don't know where the quotation comes from."
"I don't," replied Fanks, after a moment's thought, sitting down; "you score one, my dear Doctor. By the way, don't call me Thief-catcher."
"Certainly not, Jonathan Wild."
"Nor that either."
"Why not, M. Fouche?"
"The third is the worst of all. At present I'm nothing but Mr. Rixton—my own name, Dr. Japix, as I told you."
"And Octavius Fanks?"
"Is in the Seventh Circle of Hell—at the back of the North Wind—in Nubibus—anywhere except where Mr. Rixton is."
"Ha! ha! hey! You're down here on business!"
"Private business."
"Ho! ho! and her name?"
"Mary Anne. She's a housemaid, and I love her, oh, I love her, and her heart I would discover! Pish! pshaw! 'Hence, vain deluding joys.' Milton, my dear Doctor! his best poem. But really, I want to be serious."
"Be serious, by all means," said Japix, complacently; "business first, pleasure afterwards. Dine with me to-night!"
"No, I've got an engagement. Say seven to-morrow, and I accept."
"'When found make a note of,'" remarked the Doctor, and scribbled a few lines in his memoranda-book. "Eh! Author?"
"Dickens' Captain Cuttle."
"Very good—go up top."
"Are you going to be serious?" said Fanks, in despair.
"My dear Rixton, I am serious," replied Dr. Japix, composing his features; "proceed!"
"First, who were the people who left as I came in?"
"Now what the deuce do you want to know that for?" said Japix, looking puzzled.
"Because I think one lady is Miss Judith Varlins, and the other Miss Florry Marson."
"Correct so far; but how the—"
"And the gentleman's name, Japix? The lean, lank man that looks like the Ancient Mariner in his shore clothes."
"Jackson Spolger, a patent medicine millionaire. Inherited it from Papa Spolger. Large fortune, disagreeable man, engaged to marry Miss Marson."
"Biography in a nutshell," said Fanks, calmly; "but surely not engaged."
"Why not? Are you in love with her yourself?"
"No; but I thought Sebastian Melstane—"
Dr. Japix uttered an ejaculation not complimentary to Mr. Melstane, and turned fiercely on Fanks.
"Sebastian Melstane be—"
"Don't," interrupted Octavius, holding up a warning hand; "perhaps he is already."
"What do you mean?"
"He is dead."
"Dead!"
"Yes; haven't you read the Jarlchester Mystery?"
"That suicide business. Of course; but I did not think—"
"The dead man was Melstane. Neither did I until an hour ago."
"How did you find out?" asked Japix, gravely.
"By means of this," answered Fanks, placing the pill-box on the table.
"Tonic pills," read Dr. Japix, wonderingly, "eh! Oh, yes, of course; I prescribed tonic pills for Melstane's nerves. But I don't see how you found out his name by this, nor how you connect the name of that scamp Melstane with the man who died at Jarlchester."
"Was Melstane a scamp?"
"Out and out," said Japix, emphatically.
"He must have been bad if you speak ill of him," observed Fanks, reflectively; "kind of man to have enemies, I suppose?"
"I should say plenty."
"Humph! I dare say."
"Dare say what? Talk about the Jarlchester Mystery, what are you?"
"A mystery also, eh, Doctor?" said Fanks, with a smile. "Well, I won't give you the trouble of guessing me. I'll explain myself."
The Doctor settled himself in his large chair, placed his large hands on each of his large knees, and observed in his large voice:
"Now then!"
Whereupon Octavius told him his experience during the Jarlchester inquest, suppressed the conversation and the name of Roger Axton, and finished up by describing how he had discovered the dead man's name from Wosk & Co.
"So you see, Japix," said the detective, decisively, "I saw your name on the prescription, and came at once to see you, as I want you to analyse these eight pills. According to your prescription, according to Mr. Wosk, according to the assistant, twelve pills were made up and delivered to Melstane. I can account for half of the twelve, so that ought to leave six; but in that box you will find eight. Now that is not right!"
"Certainly not!" remarked the Doctor, gravely regarding the pills; "six from twelve do not leave eight—at least, not by the rules of any arithmetic I'm acquainted with."
"So there are two extra pills."
"So I see! Two extra pills not made up by Wosk & Co."
"Now the question is," said Fanks, seriously, laying his hand on one of the Doctor's large knees, "the question is: What do those two extra pills mean?"
The Doctor said nothing, but looked inquiringly at the pill-box, as if he expected it to answer.
"I own," resumed Fanks, leaning back in his chair, "I own that I was half inclined to agree with the verdict of the jurors; it looked like suicide, but I had a kind of uneasy feeling that looks in this case were deceptive, so I thought I would like to know the name of the dead man, in order to find out if there was anything in his past life likely to lead him to self-destruction. I found the name, as I have told you, and I also discovered that there are two extra pills in that box, which have been added after it left the hands of Wosk & Co.—you understand."
"Perfectly."
"Now, those pills cannot have been added by Melstane, as he had no reason to do so. Twelve pills are enough for a man even with nerves, so why should he make those twelve into fourteen?"
"Ah, why, indeed?" said Japix, ponderously. "And your theory?"
"Is simply this. You say Melstane was a scamp; naturally he must have had enemies. Now I firmly believe that the two extra pills contain poison—say morphia, of which Melstane died—and they were placed in the box surreptitiously by one of his enemies."
"Natural enough."
"Melstane," continued Fanks, impressively, leaning forward, "took one of those extra pills, according to his usual custom, before going to bed, quite innocent of doing himself any harm. In the morning Melstane is found dead, and there is no evidence to show how he came by his death."
"Horrible! Horrible!"
"But observe," said Fanks, emphasizing his remarks with his forefinger, "observe how 'vaulting ambition o'er-leaps itself.' Again our divine William, Doctor. In other words, observe how the anxiety of the murderer to ensure the death of his victim has led to a danger of his own discovery. If he—I allude to the murderer—had put in one pill, making thirteen—which would have been a lucky number for our undiscovered criminal—the victim would have taken it, and absolutely no trace could have been discovered. Unluckily, however, for the criminal, he, afraid one morphia pill may not effectively do the work, puts in two morphia pills. Result, Sebastian Melstane, in perfect innocence, takes one and dies. The other pill—damning evidence, my dear Doctor—is one of the eight in that box, and I want you to analyse the whole eight pills in order to find that special one."
"And suppose I don't find it?" said Japix, putting the box on the table.
"In that case my theory falls to the ground, and Sebastian Melstane's death will remain a mystery to all men. But as sure as I sit here, Dr. Japix, you will find a deadly morphia pill among those seven harmless tonic pills."
"Your theory," remarked Japix, heavily, "is remarkably ingenious, and may—mind you, I don't say it is—but may be correct. I will analyse these pills, and let you know the result to-morrow. If I find here," said the Doctor, laying one massive hand on the pill-box, "if I find here a morphia pill, it will establish your theory in a certain sense."
"I think it will establish my theory in every sense," retorted Fanks, impetuously.
Dr. Japix shook his large head slowly, and delivered himself oracularly:
"Let us not," he said, looking at Fanks from under his shaggy eyebrows, "let us not jump to conclusions. I may find a morphia pill, but harmless."
"Deadly."
"Possibly harmless," said Japix, firmly.
"Probably deadly," rejoined Octavius, stubbornly.
"If deadly," continued the Doctor, quietly, "I grant your theory is a correct one, and that Sebastian Melstane met his death at the hands of the person who put those two extra pills in the box. If harmless, however," said Japix, raising his voice, "it establishes nothing. Melstane may have suffered from sleeplessness. Seeing his nerves were all wrong, I should say it was very probable he did, and taken morphia pills—purchased from, perhaps, a London chemist—in order to get a good night's rest."
"But why two morphia pills?" objected Octavius, earnestly. "Chemists don't sell morphia pills in twos."
"Your objection, sir, is not without some merit," said Japix, approvingly. "Still these two pills may have been the balance of another box, and placed in this one so as to obviate the trouble of carrying two boxes."
"Possible, certainly, but not probable. No, no, my dear Doctor, you need not try to upset my theory. Wait till you analyse those pills."
"I shall do so to-night, and to-morrow you will have my answer."
"I suppose you didn't give Melstane any morphia pills?" said Fanks, as he arose to take his leave.
"No; I don't believe in morphia pills for sleepless people, except in extreme cases. I generally give chloral, as I did to Mr. Jackson Spolger to-day."
"Oh, the Ancient Mariner," said Octavius, carelessly. "Does he suffer from sleeplessness?"
"Yes; on account of his approaching marriage, I presume."
"With Miss Marson?"
"Exactly."
"By the way," observed Fanks, suddenly, "was she not engaged to Melstane?"
"No, not engaged exactly," replied Japix, thoughtfully; "but she was in love with him. Strange how women adore scamps. But it's a long story, my dear Rixton. To-morrow night, when we both dine, across the walnuts and the wine, I'll tell to thee the tale divine. Ha, ha! you see I'm a poet, eh?"
"Yes, and a plagiarist also. The second line is Tennyson."
"Really, Mr. Bucket—Dickens, you observe—you're as sharp after a rhyme, as after a thief. With your active brain, I wonder you don't suffer from insomnia."
"When I do I'll come to you for morphia pills," said Octavius, laughing: "not the sort in that box, though. I don't want to die yet."
"I don't believe in morphia pills," remarked Japix, rising to accompany his guest to the door. "I never prescribe them. Oh, yes, by the way, I did prescribe some for a Mr. Axton."
Octavius, who was going out of the door, turned suddenly round with a cry of horror.
"Roger Axton!"
"Yes; do you know him? Why, good gracious, what's the matter?"
For Octavius Fanks, trembling in every limb, had sunk into a chair near the door.
"Are you ill? Are you ill?" roared the Doctor, anxiously. "Here, let me get you some brandy."
"No, no!" said Fanks, recovering himself with a great effort, though his face was as pale as death. "I'm all right. I—I used to know Roger Axton, and the name startled me."
"Unpleasant associations," growled Japix, rubbing his large head in a vexed manner. "I hope not—dear, dear—I trust not. I liked the young fellow. A good lad—a very good lad."
Fanks at once hastened to dispel the Doctor's distrust.
"No! nothing unpleasant," he said, hurriedly: "he was my schoolfellow, and I haven't seen him for ten years."
Not a word about the meeting at Jarlchester, even to genial Dr. Japix, for the vague fears which had haunted the detective's mind were now taking a terrible shape—terrible to himself, more terrible to Roger Axton.
"I did not know Axton had been at Ironfields," he said at length, in a hesitating manner.
"Oh, yes, bless you! he was here for some time," cried Japix, cheerily; "I saw a good deal of him."
"What was his reason for staying down here?"
"Aha, aha!" thundered Japix, roguishly, "eh! you saw the reason leave my house to-day. A dark, queenly reason, and as good as gold."
"You allude to Miss Varlins."
"Of course. Ho! ho! 'Love's young dream.' Tommy Moore's remark, eh! 'Nothing half so sweet in life.' No doubt. I have no practical experience of it myself, being a bachelor; but Axton! ah! he thought Moore was right, I'll swear, when he was beside Judith Varlins."
Every word that dropped from the good Doctor's lips seemed to add to that hideous terror in the detective's mind, and he could hardly frame his next question, so paralysed he was by the fearful possibility of "what might be."
"I suppose she loves him?"
"Dear, dear! Now that's exactly what I don't know," said Japix, in a vexed tone; "she does and she doesn't. I was afraid she loved Mr. Scamp Melstane, you know. Women are riddles, eh—yes, worse than the Sphinx. She was with him a good deal, she wrote him letters and all that sort of thing, but it might have been friendship. I don't understand women, you see, I'm a bachelor."
This last speech of the Doctor's seemed too much for Octavius, and he felt anxious to get outside even into the fog and rain in order to breathe. He was so confused by what he had heard that he was afraid to open his lips, lest some word detrimental to his old schoolfellow should escape them. Hastily shaking the Doctor by the hand, he made a hurried promise to see him on the morrow.
"Fog and rain," roared the physician, as Octavius stepped outside; "must expect that now. Eh! ha! ho! ha! November smiles and November tears—principally tears. Yes. Don't forget to-morrow night—the pills—certainly. I will remember. Good-bye. Keep your feet dry. Warm feet and good repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose."
And Japix illustrated his little rhyme by slamming his own door, behind which his big voice could still be heard like distant thunder.
In the fog, in the rain, in the darkness, Octavius Fanks, stopping by a lighted shop-window, pulled out his pocket-book and looked at the memorandum—in shorthand—he had made of his conversation with Roger Axton.
In another moment he had restored the book to its former place, and from his lips there came a low cry of anguish:
"Oh, my old schoolfellow, has it come to this?"
"It is too terrible . . . I can't believe it . . . He did lie to me, as I thought . . . He has been to Ironfields. He knew the name of Melstane . . . What was he doing at Jarlchester? . . . Why was he there at the same time, in the same house as Melstane? . . . He must have known that the man who died was Melstane . . . He slept in the next room on the night of the murder . . . The door of Melstane's room was ajar in the morning . . . Could Roger have gone into the room and . . . No, no; I can't believe it . . . He would not commit a crime . . . And yet he had morphia pills in his possession . . . What prevented him from getting two pills made extra strong . . . going into Melstane's room at night, and placing them in the box? . . . His motive for doing such a thing? . . . Dr. Japix supplies even that . . . He saw in Melstane a possible rival and wanted him out of the way . . . But what am I writing? . . . He cannot be guilty of this terrible crime . . . Yet everything points to it . . . his presence at Jarlchester . . . his possession of morphia . . . his evasive answers . . . I must find out the truth . . . I can't believe he would act thus, and yet . . .
"Mem.—To write to Axton's London address at once."
A short distance from the mansion of Dr. Japix, on the road which ran from Ironfields to the dwellings of the magnates of the city, stood a large, square stone house in a dreary piece of ground. The house itself was also remarkably dreary, being painted a dull gray, with all the windows and doors dismally picked out in black. Two stories it was, with five windows in the top story facing the road, four windows and a door with a porch in the lower, and still deeper down the basements guarded at the sides of the house by spiky iron railings of a most resentful appearance. The garden in front had a broad walk running down to a rusty iron gate, on either side a plot of rank green grass, and in the centre of each churchyard-looking plot a tall, solemn cypress. The four lower windows opened like doors directly on to the grass-plots, but were always closed, as Mrs. Binter (proprietress of this charming establishment) thought egress by the funereal front door was quite sufficient.
Over the porch was a broad whiteboard, whereon was inscribed in grim black letters, "Binter's Boarding-house," and although the sight of the unwholesome house was enough to scare timid mortals, Binter's was generally well stocked, and the proprietress did fairly well in her particular line of overcharging and underfeeding.
A tall, gaunt, grim person was Mrs. Binter, arrayed in a severe-looking dress of a dull gray colour (like the house), and picked out in black (also like the house) by wearing an inky ribbon round her throat, a jet-trimmed gauze cap on her iron-gray hair, and rusty black mittens on her lean hands. She also wore round her narrow waist a thin belt of black leather, attached to which by a steel chain was a large bunch of keys, which so jingled when she walked, that in the twilight one could easily believe that Binter's was haunted by a gaunt ghost clanking its rusty chain through the dreary passages.
Mrs. Binter's papa (long since deceased) had been a warder in the county jail, and his one fair daughter having been brought up with an intimate knowledge of prison life, had so accustomed herself to view the world through the bars of a jail, that she had become quite imbued with the routine, the traditions, and the spirit of a first-class penitentiary. It might have been hereditary, it might have been habitual, but Mrs. Binter was certainly very jail-like in all her ways. Having captured Mr. Binter (who had no mind of his own), she made him marry her, and for the rest of his life relegated him to the basement, where he did all the work of a "boots" without the wages of one. His wife looked after the boarders, whom she treated like prisoners, presiding at her own table, where the food was very plain and very wholesome, seeing that they were in bed in their little cells at a proper hour, and altogether conducting the establishment in as near a manner approaching the paternal system as she was able.
Binter's was usually full, as Mrs. B. always advertised it as being in the country, and the worked-to-death clerks of Ironfields were glad to get a breath of fresh air, even when attended by the inconvenience of living in a private jail. But in the evenings all the prison-boarders generally went out on a kind of ticket-of-leave (the understanding being that they were to be in before midnight), and Mrs. Binter had the whole of her private jail to herself.
On this evening, however, all the boarders had gone out with the exception of Monsieur Judas, who was seated in a little cell (called by courtesy the drawing-room), before a feeble little fire which cowered in a large, cold grate. The room was scantily furnished in a very substantial fashion, the chairs very straight in the backs, the sofa just short enough to prevent any one lying down comfortably, the floor covered with a black and white diamond oilcloth, cold and slippery, with a narrow strip of woollen matting in front of the fire. If Mrs. Binter could have chained the fireirons to the wall (after the most approved prison fashion), she no doubt would have been glad to do so; but as she had to preserve a certain appearance of freedom (for which she was profoundly sorry), she let them lie loose, and Monsieur Judas was now sitting with the tongs in his hand adding little bits of coal to the shivering fire.
Mrs. Binter having ascertained through one of the head-warders (the housemaid) that Monsieur Judas was going to stay in all the evening, regarded this as an infringement of the ticket-of-leave system, and went up to the drawing-room cell to speak to him.
Judas heard the rattle of the keys, and knew the head-jailer was coming along, but without desisting from his employment he raised his crafty eyes to the gaunt figure that speedily stood before him.
"Ain't you goin' out?" queried the gaunt figure, folding its arms, that is, the fingers of each hand grasped the elbows of the other arm.
"De fogs is too moch," responded Judas, picking up another bit of coal, "an' I am chez moi for a frien'."
"Oh, that's it, munseer," said the head-jailer, rattling her keys, "you're expectin' of a friend! Why ain't you goin' back to the shop?"
"Eh! ma chère, non! I am home to-ni."
"You'll want the fire, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Binter, grudgingly, as if she would like to take it away with her, "an' the lamp. I was goin' to put 'em both out, but if you must, you must. Would your friend like supper?"
"Je ne sais pas," said Monsieur Judas, putting down the tongs and shrugging his shoulders. "No! I do no so tink."
"Supper's extra, you know," observed Mrs. Binter, determined to have out of the supper what she was losing in the lamp and fire; "but it ain't hospital to let a friend go away without a bite. It may be French manners," added the jailer with scathing irony, "but it ain't English."
Monsieur Judas spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, murmured something indistinct, and then relapsed into silence, much to the disappointment of Mrs. Binter.
"There's two legs of a fowl," said the lady, rattling her keys. "Binter was goin' to have 'em for his breakfast; but I can trim 'em up with parsley, if you like, an' with bread an' cheese an' a bottle of that sour vinegar you call Julia, it'll be quite a little 'oliday for you."
Just at this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Binter hastening to the front door, admitted Mr. Fanks, took him in charge, and having delivered him over to the safe custody of Monsieur Judas, retired with a final rattle of the keys in deep wrath at her failure with the supper idea.
Octavius, who looked rather pale, but with a stern expression on his face, slipped off his fur coat, and having surveyed Judas with a calculating expression, sat down by the fiction of a fire, the Frenchman taking a seat opposite.
"I do wait for you," said Monsieur Judas, smoothing one lean hand with the other, and letting his eyelids droop over his crafty eyes.
"Speak French," replied Fanks, in that language; "we'll understand one another better if you do."
"Eh, certainly, my friend," said Judas, rapidly, "it is easier for me. You speak French very well; eh, yes, very well, monsieur."
Fanks acknowledged this compliment with a stiff nod, and plunged at once into the object of his visit.
"Now, Monsieur Guinaud, about your friend, Melstane?"
"Eh! a moment, if you please," hissed Judas, in his low, soft voice, holding up his hand. "Before we speak of the poor Melstane let us understand each other, monsieur. That is but right, my friend."
"Yes, it is but right; what do you want to know?"
Monsieur Judas placed his elbows on his knees, warmed his claw-like hands over the fire, and looked cunningly at the detective before speaking.
"Your name, monsieur?"
"Rixton."
"It is very well—that name, Monsieur Fanks," replied Judas, with a mocking smile.
"You know my real name, I see," rejoined Octavius, without moving a muscle of his face. "I compliment you on your penetration."
"Eh, it is not much," said the Frenchman, with a deprecatory shrug. "Monsieur Vosk he read to me the papers of Jarlcesterre, and I find one Monsieur Fanks, agent of the police, to be present. He has the box which my poor friend had for the pills. A stranger comes to me and shows the same box, and I say: 'Monsieur Fanks.' Is that not so?"
"Well, you've read the papers," observed Fanks, slowly, "and know all the circumstances of your friend's death."
"The papers say he gave himself the death, monsieur."
"And what do you say?"
"Eh, I do not know," replied Monsieur Judas, shrugging his shoulders, and opening his eyes to their fullest extent (the guileless look). "What is the opinion of monsieur?"
Mr. Fanks thought a moment or two before replying. He wanted to find out all about Melstane's past life, and no one could tell him so much as the fellow-lodger of the dead man. Judas, however, was no ordinary man, and would not speak freely unless he knew the whole circumstances of the case. Now Fanks did not trust Judas in any way. He did not like his appearance, nor his manner, nor anything about him, and would have preferred him to remain in ignorance of his (Fanks') suspicions. But as he could not find out what he wanted to know without telling Judas his suspicions, and as he could not tell Judas his suspicions without letting him know more than he cared to, Octavius was rather in a dilemma.
Guinaud saw this and put an end to this hesitation in a most emphatic fashion.
"Monsieur, I see, does not trust me," he said, with an injured air. "Monsieur would know all and tell nothing. But no, certainly that will not be pleasing to me. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I am a Frenchman, me, I am a man of honour, is it not so? Monsieur knows all of the case; but I—eh! I may know something of good also. If monsieur shows me his heart, the heart of Jules Guinaud is open to him. There it is."
Not the heart of Monsieur Guinaud, but the statement of Monsieur Guinaud's feelings; so Fanks, seeing that he must either give confidence for confidence or remain ignorant, chose the former alternative, and spoke out.
"Very well, I will tell you what I think, but of course you will keep our conversation secret."
Judas blew an airy kiss with a light touch of the long fingers on his mouth, and laughed pleasantly.
"My faith, yes. Monsieur is the soul of honour, and I, Monsieur Fanks—eh, is it not the name?—I am the resemblance of that soul. What you speak this night drops into the open heart of me. Snip, as say you English, I close the heart. The talk is safe; but, yes—you understand."
"Then that's all right," said Fanks, grimly; "we may as well proceed to business. As Mr. Vosk translated to you, the papers say Melstane committed suicide—gave himself the death! Comprehend you, eh? Very well. I say no. It was a crime! Melstane was murdered."
"And by whom, monsieur?"
"That's what I've got to find out."
"And the opinion of monsieur?"
"I will explain. Melstane had a box of tonic pills with him, containing, when it left your shop, twelve pills."
"It is true, monsieur, twelve pills."
"I can account for six pills, and in the box at present there are eight."
"I understand," said Judas, quickly. "Two pills were placed in the box by an unknown. Those two pills contained poison. The poor Melstane took one pill of poison, and died. Monsieur has taken the pills to Monsieur the Dr. Japix to find the other pill."
"You are perfectly right," said Fanks, rather astonished at the rapidity with which the assistant grasped the case.
"Eh, monsieur, I am not blind," replied Judas, shrugging his shoulders; "and now monsieur desires to find the unknown who placed the pills of poison in the box."
"Exactly! And to do so I want you to tell me all you know about Sebastian Melstane's life here," answered Fanks, producing his secretive little note-book.
Monsieur Guinaud looked thoughtfully at the fire, then glanced up at the ceiling, and at length brought his eyes (guileless expression) to rest on the face of Mr. Fanks.
"It is difficult to make the commencement," he said, speaking slowly, as if he weighed every word. "Behold, monsieur, I make the story to myself this way: My poor Sebastian, he is an artist. Eh! not what you call a great artist for the Salon in London, but good in the pictures. Oh! yes, much of the talent. Six months ago, in London, he beholds a pretty lady. It is Mees Mar-rson, the daughter of the very rich monsieur of this town. My friend has the grand passion for the charming mees—eh! I believe it well—and comes to this town to say 'I love you!' Alas, he finds that the too charming mees is to marry the rich Monsieur Sp—Sp—I cannot say your English names."
"Spolger!"
"But certainly that is the name. Yes! she is to marry this rich monsieur; but my brave Sebastian, he mocks himself of that. Here in this house he stays, and I make myself his friendship. He tells me all his love. The father of my charming mees is enraged, and forbids my friend to look, to see, to speak with the beautiful child. But she has a heart, this angel, and loves to distraction the handsome boy, my friend. They meet, they talk, they write the letters, and monsieur the father knows nothing. Then to this pension there comes Monsieur Axton."
"Roger Axton?" said Fanks, biting his lips.
"Yes, truly! You know him? Eh! it is strange," said Judas, inquisitively.
"It is well, it is well, I know him," replied Fanks, waving his hand impatiently; "go on, Monsieur Guinaud."
"Very well! This Monsieur Roger has the love for the beautiful Mees Var-rlins! Eh! you understand? He goes to the house, and is a friend of monsieur the father. The poor Sebastian and this monsieur have not the friendship. Monsieur Roger tells the dear Mees Var-rlins of the meetings of Mees Mar-rson and my friend. Mees Mar-rson is taken away to the Ile de Vite; Monsieur Roger also goes in August. The brave Sebastian, he mocks himself, and moves not. When they return, Mees Var-rlins is the chaperon of the angel, and she meets not my friend. This Sebastian insults Monsieur Roger as a spy—a villain, and Monsieur Roger departs in October."
"Departs for what place?" asked Fanks, making a note of the month in his book.
"I do not know," replied Judas, with a characteristic shrug; "Monsieur Roger is not my friend. In November, my Sebastian, he says to me: 'It is well; I go to Jarlcesterre.'"
"What did he mean by 'it is well'?"
"But, monsieur, I am in darkness. Yes, truly. He had visited the house of Monsieur le Pilule."
"You mean Spolger's house?"
"Yes! He sees Monsieur le Pilule to speak of his love for Mees Mar-rson. When he returns to this pension, he says: 'It is well; I go to Jarlcesterre'—no more. Then my friend, the brave Sebastian, goes to Jarlcesterre, and I see him not more."
"An interview between Melstane and Spolger could hardly have been satisfactory," said Fanks, looking keenly at the Frenchman.
"Eh, monsieur, I know nothing of that," answered Judas, with his guileless look.
"Why did Melstane go to Jarlchester, of all places in the world?"
"I have told monsieur everything," said Monsieur Cuinaud, with oily politeness.
"Humph! I'm doubtful of that," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "And is that all you know?"
"Eh! what would you?"
"It doesn't throw any light on the murder."
"Wait, monsieur," said Judas, earnestly, "a moment. One night before my friend went away, Mees Var-rlins stop her carriage at the shop. She comes in to me and says: 'I cannot get a stamp of postage. Have you a stamp of postage?' I say 'yes,' and give her a stamp of postage. She places the stamp of postage on a letter, and goes away in the carriage. I see the letter."
"And the name on the letter?"
"Monsieur Roger Axton, Jarlcesterre," said Judas, quietly; "now! eh! you see?"
"I see nothing," replied Fanks, bluntly. "Miss Varlins wrote to Axton at Jarlchester. What of that? I know Axton was at Jarlchester; I saw him there."
"Is that so?" said Monsieur Judas, eagerly; "then, behold, monsieur! Axton is at Jarlcesterre; Melstane goes down also to Jarlcesterre. Before he goes," pursued Judas, bending forward and speaking in a whisper, "he buy pills of morphia! eh! is that not so? My friend and Axton are enemies. At Jarlcesterre they meet; the poor Melstane dies of morphia! What would you?"
"Do you mean to say that Roger Axton murdered Melstane?" cried Fanks, trying to control himself.
Monsieur Judas spread out his hands once more.
"I say nothing, monsieur. But because of Miss Mar-rson they fight—they fight desperate. Axton has the pills of morphia. Melstane dies of the pills of morphia! But no, I say nothing."
"I think you've said quite enough," retorted Fanks, coldly. "I don't believe what you say."
"Monsieur!"
"Don't ruffle your feathers, Monsieur Guinaud; I mean what I say, and in order to prove it, I'll ask Roger Axton to come down here and give his version of the story."
"He can but say what I declare."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"Monsieur?"
"Sir."
The two men had risen to their feet, and were standing opposite to one another; Fanks cold and scornful, Judas visibly agitated, with his eyes narrowed down into a dangerous expression. He looked like a snake preparing for a spring, and Fanks was on his guard; but at length, with a hissing laugh, Judas stepped back and bowed submissively.
"Let us not fight, I pray you, monsieur," he said, gently; "when Monsieur Axton comes you will see that I speak truly."
"Till that time comes," replied Octavius, putting on his coat, "we need not meet."
"As monsieur please."
"Good-bye, Monsieur Guinaud."
"Au revoir, monsieur."
"I said good-bye."
"Eh! yes! I replied 'Au revoir,' monsieur."
Octavius turned on his heel without another word, and left the room. In the passage he met Mrs. Binter, hovering round in the hope of supper being ordered. She at once took Fanks in charge, and conducting him to the door, released him from prison with manifest reluctance.
Meanwhile Monsieur Judas, left alone, was leaning against the mantelpiece with a smile on his evil face.
"Eh! Monsieur Axton," he said to himself, in a whisper, "you gave me the insult. To-night I have paid the debt—in part! Wait, Monsieur Axton; wait, Meess Var-rlins; I hold you both. It is I, Jules Guinaud, that can strike—when I wish."
"I don't believe second thoughts are best. I always go by first impressions . . . My first impressions of Judas—I give him his nickname—are bad . . . He's a slimy scoundrel, very difficult to deal with . . . In our interview of to-night I had to tell him more than I cared he should know . . . But it was my only chance of finding out anything . . . What I did find out looks very bad for Roger Axton . . . He was at Ironfields, in spite of his denial . . . He stayed at Binter's boarding-house, and knew Melstane intimately . . . I learn from Judas that they quarrelled bitterly . . . This is very bad . . . Roger left Ironfields in a rage against Melstane . . . When next seen he is down at Jarlchester in the same house as Melstane . . . He has a grudge against Melstane, and while he is under the same roof Melstane dies . . . God forgive me if I should be suspecting my old schoolfellow wrongfully, but things look very suspicious against him . . . Another thing I learned from Judas, viz., that Miss Varlins corresponded with Roger at Jarlchester.
"Query! Can she know anything about the death?
"I have written to Axton, asking him to come down here and see me . . . If he refuses, I'm afraid my suspicions will be confirmed . . . I wish I could disbelieve Judas . . . He looks a secretive scoundrel . . . and yet his story against Roger is confirmed by my own experience . . . I think—no, I dare not think . . . I will wait to hear the other side of the story from Axton . . ."