CHAPTER V
HE saw the girl down to her waiting auto, and went back to his rooms to think. It was curious that at that hour, when the big trouble on his mind seemed likely to roll away, that his thoughts flew instantly to Maxell. What would the prim Maxell say, if he knew? He was satisfied that Maxell would not only disapprove, but would instantly and without notice sever all connection with the adventurous company promoter. Maxell would be outraged, appalled. Cartwright smiled at the thought.
He was under no illusion as to his own conduct. He knew he was acting despicably; but this view he dismissed from his mind as being too unpleasant for contemplation. Maxell was a prig—a necessary prig, but none the less priggish. He was necessary, at any rate, to Cartwright. Anyway, Maxell stood to win if the scheme went through.
Cartwright had reached nearly the end of his financial tether, and his whole future was bound up in the success or failure of the new promotion. He had exhausted every bit of his credit in order to take up the Angera property which he knew was rich in gold, and offered possibilities which no project of his had offered before.
He had milked his other companies dry, he had played with reserves; all except his Anglo-Parisian Finance Company, where the directors were too strong to allow him his own way; and, although Maxell was not aware of the fact, his “partner” had spent fabulous sums, not only in acquiring the land itself but in purchasing other gold-mining property in the region. It was a gamble, and a dangerous gamble. He was risking the substance of his fortune for the shadow of unlimited wealth.
Yet, was it a risk? he asked himself; with the properties that he could include in his new North Morocco Gold Mining Association—that was to be the title of the new company—there could be no doubt as to the result of the public issue. The British public dearly love a gamble, and a gold-mining gamble, with all its mysteries and uncertainties, more dearly than any.
He went to bed late, but was taking his chocolate and roll before a little café on the boulevard before nine. At half-past nine he was joined by the girl.
Cartwright had been undecided as to whether he should take hispetit déjeuneroutside or inside the café, and had decided, since the morning was bright and warm, to breakfast under the striped awning in full view of the street. Such great events hang upon slight issues.
Scarcely had the girl seated herself opposite to him, when a pedestrian, passing on the other side of the boulevard, halted and stared. Mr. Ferreira had sharp eyes and a wit not altogether dulled by his monotonous occupation.
Cartwright produced a bulky package from his pocket and laid it on the table before the girl.
“Put that in your bag and be careful with it,” he said; “there are three hundred thousand francs in notes. When the property is transferred to you, you must bring the transfer along to me.”
“What about your promise?” she asked suspiciously.
“That I will keep,” he said. “Don’t forget that you have the best guarantee in the possession of the transfer. Legally, it is your property until it is made over to me.”
She sat looking at the package absently, and presently she said:
“You’ve got to get me out of Paris at once. Otherwise I am due to leave by the Sud Express—with Brigot.”
He nodded.
“There is a train for Havre at two-fifteen,” he said.
He saw her into her car—another indiscretion since it brought him out of the shadow which the awning afforded, and gave the observer on the other side of the road an unmistakable view.
Brigot was waiting for her—a heavy-eyed, weary-looking man, whose hand shook whenever it rose to stroke his short, pointed beard.
His lawyer watched him curiously as he stepped forward to meet the girl with hands outstretched. It was not the first time that he had seen his client overwhelmed by a pretty face.
“Everything is ready, Nanette,” said the eager M. Brigot. (“Nanette” was the newfound name which Sadie O’Grady employed for this adventure.) “See here, I have all the documents ready!”
“And I have the money,” smiled the girl as she put the package down on the table.
“The money!” Señor Brigot waved such sordid matters out of existence with a magnificent flourish. “What is money?”
“Count it,” said the girl.
“I will do no such thing,” said the other extravagantly. “As a caballero, it hurts me to discuss money in connection——”
But his lawyer had no sentiment, and had slipped the string from the package and was now busily counting the thousand-franc notes. When he had finished, he put them on the desk.
“Can I see you one moment, M. Brigot?” he asked.
Brigot, holding the girl’s hand and devouring her with his eyes, turned impatiently.
“No, no,” he said. “The document, my friend, the document! Give me a pen!”
“There is one point in the deed I must discuss,” said the lawyer firmly, “if mademoiselle will excuse us for a moment——” He opened the door of his inner office invitingly and with a shrug M. Brigot followed him in.
“I have told you, monsieur,” said the lawyer, “that I do not think your action is wise. You are surrendering a property for a sum less than a quarter of what you paid for it to a perfectly unknown woman——”
“M. l’Avocat,” said the other gravely, “you are speaking of a lady who to me is more precious than life!”
The lawyer concealed a smile.
“I have often spoken to you about ladies who have been more precious to you than life,” he said dryly, “but in their cases, no transfer of valuable property was involved. What do you know of this lady?”
“I know nothing except that she is adorable,” said the reckless Spaniard. “But for the fact that, alas! my wife most obstinately refuses to die or divorce me, I should be honoured to make madame my wife. As it is, what a pleasure to give her the land on which to build a beautiful villa overlooking my gorgeous Tangier—I am moving to Tangier very soon to look after my other property—and to know that her blessed presence——”
The lawyer spread out despairing hands.
“Then there is nothing to be done,” he said. “I only tell you that you are transferring a valuable property to a lady who is comparatively unknown to you, and it seems to me a very indiscreet and reckless thing to do.”
They returned again to the outer apartment, where the girl had been standing nervously twisting the moiré bag in her hand.
“Here is the document, madame,” said the lawyer to her relief. “Señor Brigot will sign here”—he indicated a line—“and you will sign there. I will cause these signatures to be witnessed, and a copy of the document will be forwarded for registration.”
The girl sat down at the table, and her hand shook as she took up the pen. It was at that moment that Jose Ferreira dashed into the room.
He stood open-mouthed at sight of the girl at the table. He tried to speak, but the sound died in his throat. Then he strode forward, under the glaring eye of his employer.
“This woman—this woman!” he gasped.
“Ferreira,” cried Brigot in a terrible voice, “you are speaking of a lady who is my friend!”
“She—she”—the man pointed to her with shaking finger—“she is the woman! She escaped! . . . The woman I told you of, who ran away with an Englishman from Tangier!”
Brigot stared from one to the other.
“You’re mad,” he said.
“She is the woman,” squeaked Ferreira, “and the man also is in Paris. I saw them together this morning at the Café Furnos! The man who was in Tangier, of whom I told the señor, and this woman, Sadie O’Grady!”
Brigot looked at the girl. She had been caught off her guard, and never once had the keen eyes of the lawyer left her. Given some warning, she might have dissembled and carried the matter through with a high hand. But the suddenness of the accusation, the amazingly unexpected vision of Jose, had thrown her off her guard, and Brigot did not need to look twice at her to know that the charges of his subordinate were justified. She was not a born conspirator, nor was she used to intrigues of this character.
Brigot gripped her by the arm and pulled her from the chair. He was half mad with rage and humiliation.
“What is the name of this man?” he hissed. “The name of the man who took you from Tangier and brought you here?”
She was white as death and terribly afraid.
“Benson,” she stammered.
“Benson!”
The lawyer and Brigot uttered the words together, and the Spaniard, releasing his hold stepped back.
“So it was Benson!” he said softly. “Our wonderful Englishman who wanted to swindle me out of my property, eh? And I suppose he sent you, my beautiful American widow, to purchase land for your villa! Now, you can go back to Mr. Benson and tell him that, if my property is good enough for him to buy, it is good enough for me to keep. You—you!”
He made a dart at her with upraised hand, but the lawyer was before him and gently pushed him back.
He jerked his head to the girl and, shaking like a leaf, she stepped to the door and went stumbling down the stairs, which she had mounted with such confidence a few minutes before.
Cartwright received the news with extraordinary equanimity.
“It has saved us the bother of going out of Paris,” he said thoughtfully. “And it was my own fault. I never connected that infernal fellow Ferreira with Brigot’s enterprises. And anyway, we should not have met in public. He said he saw us at the café, did he?”
The girl nodded.
“I did my best,” she faltered.
“Of course you did your best,” said Cartwright, patting her hand. “It is tough luck, but it can’t be helped.”
“There was a long silence, then:
“What about me?” asked the girl. “Where do I come in? I suppose you have no further use for my services?”
Cartwright smiled.
“Of course I have,” he said genially. Then, after a longer pause, “Do you know that you’re the only person in this world that I have ever taken so completely into my confidence and shown what, for a better expression, I will call the seamy side of my business? I’d like to tell you a lot more, because it would be a relief to me to get it off my chest. But I’m telling you this, that if I marry you to-day, you’ll have to play your part to save me from everlasting ruin.”
“Ruin?” she said, startled, and he laughed.
“Not the kind of ruin that means you’ll go short of food,” he said, “but the sort of ruin that may mean—well, ruin from my point of view. Now you must understand this thing clearly, Sadie. I’m out for a big stake, and if I don’t pull it off, it’s as likely as not that I’ll go out. You’re a clever, useful sort of kid, and I have an idea that you may be even more useful. But there’s to be no sentiment in this marriage, mind! You have just to sit here and hold tight and do as you’re told, and you haven’t got to pry into my business any further than I want you to. And if I go away and don’t come back, you must reckon me as dead. I’ve a lot of business in America and elsewhere, which often takes me away for months at a time, and you’re not to get uneasy. But if you don’t hear from me—why, you can go down to the Lafayette and buy yourself the grandest little suit of mourning that you can afford!”
“Shall I be able to afford it?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I shall put some Rentes to your credit at the Lyonnais. That will give you a steady income in case anything happens.”
The girl was troubled.
“I don’t quite like this idea,” she said. “What will happen?”
Mr. Cartwright flicked away the ash from the end of his cigar and said cheerfully:
“That depends entirely upon the view which is taken of a certain prospectus issued in London this morning.”
CHAPTER VI
THE New Angera Syndicate was registered as a private company, and its prospectus was not made public. Officially, the shares were not offered to general subscription, and actually they had been subscribed—or the first issue of five hundred thousand had—by a little group of shrewd speculators in the City of London, who, before now, had made vast sums from Cartwright’s promotions. The five hundred thousand shares brought in about half that number of pounds, and nobody doubted that the properties consolidated for the purposes of flotation included the block of claims described in the prospectus as “lately the property of Señor Brigot.”
Gold had been found on the Angera reef, and gold in sufficient quantity to make the new company a very promising speculation. That Brigot’s property could be made to pay, had it been properly managed, was common knowledge in the City of London. A dozen offers had been made for this concession, but none had been quite acceptable to Señor Brigot, whose estimate of the value of the mine varied with the passing hour.
Probably, had it been possible to secure an interview with M. Brigot at one o’clock in the afternoon, when he arose with a splitting head and a dry throat, his possessions might have been acquired at the price of a quart of sweet champagne.
But, as the day progressed and his views of life became more charitable, his estimate expanded until, by seven o’clock in the evening, which hour he as a rule reserved for any business discussion, his figure was awe-inspiring. Nobody in the City doubted for one moment that Cartwright had purchased the property. Though his system of finance might not commend itself to the barons and even the baronets of Capel Court, there was no question of his honesty.
Was it by some extraordinary fluke that Maxell, who had hitherto shared in the profits of promotion, had kept aloof from this last and greatest of Cartwright’s flutters? No application for shares was ever found. He heard (he said at a subsequent inquiry) in a round-about way of the flotation, and saw a copy of the prospectus, and was a little worried. He knew that when he had left Cartwright in Paris, not only was the Brigot mine outside of his friend’s control, but there was precious little prospect of bringing the Spaniard to a reasonable frame of mind.
Cartwright must have done his work quickly, he thought, and have paid heavily; and this latter reflection worried him even more because he had a fairly accurate idea as to the condition of Cartwright’s private finances. His private thoughts on this occasion are set forth in the report of the Attorney-General’s Committee of Investigation.
He was eating his solitary dinner in Cavendish Square when the telephone bell rang and the voice of Sir Gregory Fane, the Attorney-General, saluted him.
“I should like to see you, Maxell,” he said. “Will you come round to Clarges Street after dinner?”
“Certainly,” replied Maxell promptly, and hung up the receiver, wondering what new difficulties had arisen, which called for a consultation; for he was not on visiting terms with Mr. Attorney.
In the tiny drawing-room of the house occupied by the Cabinet Minister, Maxell was surprised to find another visitor waiting—no less a person than Fenshaw, the Prime Minister’s private secretary.
The Attorney-General came straight to the point.
“Maxell,” he said, “we want your seat in the House of Commons.”
“The deuce you do!” said Maxell, raising his eyebrows.
The Attorney nodded.
“We also want to give you some reward for the excellent services you have rendered to the Government,” he said. “But mostly”—his eyes twinkled—“it is necessary to find a seat for Sir Milton Boyd—the Minister of Education has been defeated at a by-election, as you know.”
The other nodded. The communication was a surprise to him and he wondered exactly what position was to be offered him which would involve his resignation from the House. For one brief, panicky moment he had connected Cartwright and his delinquencies with this request for an interview, but the Attorney’s speech had dispelled that momentary fear.
“Quilland, as you know, has been raised to the Court of Appeal,” said the Attorney, speaking of a well-known Chancery Judge, “and we are departing from our usual practice by bringing over a man from the King’s Bench to take his place. Now, Maxell, how does a judgeship appeal to you?”
The K.C. could only stare.
Of the many things he did not expect, it was elevation to the Bench, although he was a sound, good lawyer, and the Bench is the ambition of every silk.
“I would like that,” he said huskily.
“Good!” said the brisk Attorney. “Then we will regard it as settled. The appointment will not be announced for two or three days, so you’ve a chance of clearing up your more urgent work and preparing a letter for your constituents. You might say a kind word for the new candidate who isn’t particularly popular in your part of the world.”
One of Maxell’s first acts was to write a letter to Cartwright. All Cartwright’s correspondence went to his London office, and was forwarded under separate cover to Paris. It was a long letter, recapitulating their friendly relationship, and ending:
“This promotion, of course, means that we can no longer be associated in business, and I have instructed my broker to sell all the shares I possess in your and other companies forthwith. As you know, I have very definite views about the high prestige of the Bench; and whilst, in any circumstances, I feel that I can go to that dignified position with clean hands, my mind will be freer if I cut all the cords which hold me to commerce of every shape and description.”
“This promotion, of course, means that we can no longer be associated in business, and I have instructed my broker to sell all the shares I possess in your and other companies forthwith. As you know, I have very definite views about the high prestige of the Bench; and whilst, in any circumstances, I feel that I can go to that dignified position with clean hands, my mind will be freer if I cut all the cords which hold me to commerce of every shape and description.”
Three days later the letter came to Cartwright, and he read it through with a thoughtful expression on his face. He read it twice before he slowly folded it and put it into his inside pocket.
Maxell was to be made a Judge!
He had never considered that contingency, and did not know whether to be pleased or sorry. He was losing the service of a man who had been a directing force in his life, greater than Maxell himself ever imagined. It was not so much the advice which he asked and received from the King’s Counsel, but rather Cartwright had secured help by the simple process of making a study of the other’s moods and expressions.
He knew the half-frown which greeted some schemes, put forward tentatively over the dinner table, and it was that little sign of displeasure which could squash the scheme rather than any considered advice which Maxell might have given. He was losing a good advocate, a very sound legal adviser. He shrugged his shoulders. Well, it did not matter very much. Fate had put a period to an old phase of life, and many things had come to an end coincidently. He was taking his afternoon tea when the letter had arrived, and the new Mrs. Cartwright marked with interest the depression which followed the arrival of the mail.
The new period was beginning excitingly, he thought. He had found a new method of doing business, bolder and more desperate than any he had attempted before; and with this development he had lost a man upon whom he placed a great deal of reliance. Incidentally, he had just been married, but this fact did not bulk very largely in his reckoning. Maxell might serve him yet. The memory of an old business partnership—for in such an aspect did Cartwright interpret their previous relationship—the memory, too, of favours done, of financial dangers shared, might serve him well if things went wrong. Maxell had a pull with the Government—a greater pull, since he was now a Judge of the Supreme Court.
Maxell a Judge! It seemed queer. Cartwright had all the properly constituted Englishman’s reverence for the Bench. In spite of much experience in litigation, and an acquaintance with lawyers of all kinds and stations, he reserved his awe for the god-like creature who sat in wig and gown, and dispensed justice evenhandedly.
“Have you had a worrying letter?” asked the girl.
He shook his head.
“No, no,” he said, a little impatiently; “it is nothing.”
She had hoped for a glimpse of the envelope, but was disappointed. Curiously enough, she ascribed the fact that her husband passed under a strange name and would not divulge his own, to a cause which was far from the truth, and was a great injustice to a man who, if he had not given her his proper name, had given her a title to whatever name he had. That thought she revealed for the first time.
“Do you know what I think?” she said unexpectedly.
“I didn’t know you thought very much,” he smiled. “In what particular department of speculation does your mind wander?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” she answered. She was a little afraid of sarcasm, as are all children and immature grown-ups. “It was about your name I was thinking.”
He frowned.
“Why the dickens don’t you leave my name alone?” he snapped. “I have told you that it is all for your good that I’m called Benson and known as Benson in this town. When we go to London you will discover my name.”
She nodded.
“I know why you keep it dark.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Why do I keep it dark?” he asked, fixing his eyes on her.
“Because you’re married already.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then burst into such a peal of laughter that the girl knew her shot was wide of the mark.
“You’re a weird person,” he said, getting up. “I’m going out to see an old friend of ours.”
“Of ours?” she asked suspiciously.
“Brigot is the gentleman’s name.”
“He won’t see you,” she said decidedly.
“Oh, won’t he?” said the grim man. “I rather think he will.”
M. Brigot would not willingly have received one whose name was anathema, but Cartwright got over the difficulty of his reception by the simple process of sending up a card inscribed with the name of Brigot’s lawyer.
“You!” spluttered M. Brigot, rising to his feet as the other entered the room and closed the door behind him. “This is an outrage! It is monstrous! You will leave this house immediately, or I will send for the police!”
“Now, just keep quiet for a moment, Brigot,” said Cartwright, seating himself coolly. “I have come to see you as one business man to another.”
“I refuse to discuss any business with you,” stormed his unwilling host. “You are a scoundrel, a conspirator—bah! why do I talk to you?”
“Because you’re broke!” said Cartwright in calm, level tones, and he used the Spanish word for “broke,” which is so much more expressive than any word in English.
The conversation was carried on in this language, for Cartwright had an intimate knowledge of its idioms and even of its patois.
“Your creditors in Paris are gathering round like hawks about a dead cow. Your attempt to sell your Moorish property has been a failure.”
“You know a great deal,” sneered Brigot. “Possibly you also know that I am going to work the mine myself.”
The Englishman chuckled.
“I’ve heard that said of you for years,” said he, “but the truth is, you’re wholly incapable of working anything. You’re one of nature’s little spenders—now, Brigot, don’t let us quarrel. There is a time to end feuds like ours, and this is that time. I am a business man, and so are you. You’re as anxious to sell your property at a good price as I am to buy it. I’ve come to make you an offer.”
M. Brigot laughed sarcastically.
“Ten thousand pounds?” he demanded with gentle irony. “To build a house for a beautiful American widow, eh?”
Cartwright accepted the gibe with a smile.
“I’m not going to show you my hand,” he said.
“It will be infamously dirty,” said M. Brigot, who was in his bright six o’clock mood.
“I know there is gold in the Angera,” the other went on, without troubling to notice the interruption, “and I know that, properly worked, your mine may pay big profits.”
“I will sell out,” said M. Brigot after consideration, “but at a price. I have told you before I will sell out—at a price.”
“But what a price!” said Cartwright, raising his eyebrows and with a gesture of extravagant despair. “It is all the money in the world!”
“Nevertheless, it is the price,” said M. Brigot comfortably.
“I’ll tell you what I am willing to do.” Cartwright stroked his chin as though the solution had just occurred to him. “I will float your property in London, tacking on a number of other properties which I have bought in the neighbourhood. I am willing to pay you two hundred thousand pounds—that is to say, six million francs.”
M. Brigot was interested. He was so interested that, for the moment, he could forget his animosity and private grievances. It was true that, as Cartwright had said, his creditors were becoming noisy.
“In cash, of course?” he said suddenly.
Cartwright shook his head.
“You can have a portion in cash and the rest in shares.”
“Bah!” Brigot snapped his fingers. “I also can issue shares, my friend. What are shares? Pieces of paper which are not worth their ink. No, no, you deceive me. I thought you had come to me with a genuine offer. There is no business to be done between you and me, Mr. Cartwright. Good evening.”
Cartwright did not move.
“A portion in cash—say, fifteen thousand pounds,” he suggested; “that is a lot of money.”
“To you—yes, but not to me,” said the magnificent Brigot. “Give me two-thirds in cash and I will take the rest in shares. That is my last word.”
Cartwright rose.
“This offer is open until—when?”
“Until to-morrow at this hour,” replied Brigot.
As Cartwright was going, a man tapped at the door. It was Brigot’s “secretary,” who was also his valet. He handed a telegram to the Spaniard, and Brigot opened and read. He was a long time digesting its contents, and Cartwright waited for a favourable opportunity to say good-bye. All the time his mind was working, and he thought he saw daylight. Two-thirds of the money could be raised, and he could breathe again.
Presently Brigot folded up the telegram and put it in his pocket, and there was on his face a beatific smile.
“Good night, Señor Brigot,” said Cartwright. “I will see you to-morrow with the money.”
“It will have to be big money, my friend,” said Brigot, and there was a note of exultation in his voice. “To buy my little property will cost you half a million English pounds.”
Cartwright gasped.
“What do you mean?” he demanded quickly.
“Do you know Solomon Brothers, the financiers of London?”
“I know them very well,” replied Cartwright steadily. He had good reason to know Solomon Brothers, who had taken a large block of shares in his new syndicate.
“I have just had a telegram from Solomon Brothers,” said Señor Brigot, speaking slowly, “and they ask me to give them the date when my property was transferred to your syndicate. They tell me it is included in your properties which you have floated. You know best, Mr. Cartwright, whether my little mine is worth half a million English pounds to you—especially if I put a date agreeable to you.”
“Blackmail, eh?” said Cartwright between his teeth, and without a word left the room.
CHAPTER VII
HE went straight back to his flat on the Avenue of the Grand Army, and the girl could see by his face that something had happened.
“You might pack my bag, will you?” he said almost brusquely. “I have a letter or two to write. I’m going to London. Important business has arisen, and I may be gone some time.”
Wisely she asked no questions, but carried out his instructions. When she came back from the room with a little gripsack packed, he was blotting the envelope of the last letter.
“Post these after I have gone,” he said.
“Shall I come down to the station and see you off?”
He shook his head.
“The less you and I are seen together, the better, I think,” he said with a faint smile.
He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a cash-box. From this he extracted a thick wad of notes, and, counting them rapidly, he tossed a respectable bundle into her lap.
“You may want this,” he said. “You know you have a regular income, but you must keep in touch with the Lyonnais. For the moment I should advise you to go to”—he looked at the ceiling for inspiration—“to Nice or Monte Carlo. Keep away from the tables,” he added humorously.
“But—but,” said the bewildered girl, “for how long will you be gone? Can’t I come with you?”
“That is impossible,” he said sharply. “You must go to the South of France, leave by to-night’s train. Give your address to nobody, and take another name if necessary.”
“Are things very wrong?”
“Pretty bad,” he said. “But don’t worry. I may be gone for a year, even more. There are plenty of things you can do, but don’t go back into the profession yet awhile.”
“I thought of taking up cinema work,” she said.
He nodded.
“You might do worse than go to America—if I am a long time gone.”
He stuffed the remainder of the notes into his pocket, picked up his bag, and with no other farewell than a curt nod, left her.
She was only to see him once again in her life-time.
He crossed the Channel by the night boat and came to London in the early hours of the morning. He drove straight away to his hotel, had a bath and shaved. His plan was fairly well formed. Everything depended upon the charity which Messrs. Solomon Brothers might display towards his strange lapse.
At breakfast he read inThe Timesthat “Mr. Justice Maxell took his seat upon the Bench” on the previous day, and that paragraph, for some reason, seemed to cheer him.
At ten o’clock he was in the City. At half-past ten he was interviewing the senior partner of Solomon Brothers, a man with an expressionless face, who listened courteously to the somewhat lame excuses which Cartwright offered.
“It was a mistake of a blundering clerk,” said Cartwright airily. “As soon as I discovered the error, I came back to London to withdraw all the money which had been subscribed.”
“It is a pity you didn’t come back yesterday, Mr. Cartwright,” said Solomon.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said the other, “that we have already placed this matter in the hands of our solicitors. I suggest that you had better interview them.”
Cartwright made a further pilgrimage to the solicitors of Solomon Brothers, and found them most unwilling to see him. That was an ominous sign, and he went back to his office in Victoria Street conscious that a crisis was at hand. At any rate, the girl was out of the way; but, what was more important, she, one of the principal witnesses in so far as Brigot and his property were concerned, was not available for those who might bring a charge against him. She was his wife, and her lips were sealed, and this consequence of his marriage was one which he had not wholly overlooked when he had contracted his strange alliance.
What a fool he had been! The property might have been transferred and in his hands, if he had not antagonised a wretched little Spanish theatrical manager. But, he reflected, if he had not antagonised that manager, he would not have possessed the instrument for extracting the transfer from the amorous Brigot.
At the top of a heap of letters awaiting him was one written in a firm boyish hand, and Cartwright made a little grimace, as though for the first time recognising his responsibility.
“Take A Chance Anderson; my lad, you will have to take a chance,” he said, and pushed the letter aside unopened.
He lunched at his club, sent a brief letter to Maxell, and returned to his office at two in the afternoon. His clerk told him that a man was waiting for him in the inner office. Cartwright hesitated with his hand on the door; then, setting his teeth, he stepped in.
The stranger rose.
“Are you Mr. Alfred Cartwright?” he asked.
“That is my name,” replied Cartwright.
“I am Inspector Guilbury, of the City Police,” said the stranger, “and I shall take you into custody on charges under the Companies Act, and a further charge of conspiracy to defraud.”
Cartwright laughed.
“Go ahead,” he said.
All the week preceding the trial, Cartwright’s heart was filled with warm, gratitude to his erstwhile friend. He did not doubt, when his solicitor told him that Mr. Justice Maxell would try his case, that Maxell had gone a long way out of his way to get himself appointed the Old Bailey judge. How like Maxell it was—that queer, solemn stick—and how loyal!
Cartwright had a feeling for Maxell which he had never had before. At first he had feared the embarrassment which might be Maxell’s at having to try a case in which an old friend was implicated, and had even hoped that the new judge would have nothing to do with the trial. He did not despair of Maxell pulling strings on his behalf, and he realised that much could be done by judicious lobbying.
The charge against him was a grave one. He had not realised how serious it was until he had seen that respectful array of counsel in the Lord Mayor’s Court, and had heard his misdemeanours reduced to cold legal phraseology. But he did not wholly despair. Brigot had been coming to London to give evidence, and on his journey there had occurred an incident which suggested to the accused man that Providence was fighting on his side. The Spaniard had had a stroke in the train to Calais, and the doctors reported that he might not recover. Not that Brigot’s evidence was indispensable. There was, apparently, a letter and two telegrams in existence, in the course of which Brigot denied that he had ever parted with his property; and the onus lay upon Cartwright to prove that he had acted in abona fidemanner—that was impossible of proof, and nobody knew this better than Cartwright.
And ever his mind reverted to the singular act of generosity on the part of his old friend. He did not doubt for one moment that Maxell had “worked” the case so that it fell to him to try it.
It was a bright morning in May when he came up the steps of the Old Bailey and took his place in the dock. Almost immediately after, the Judge and the Sheriff entered from the door behind the plain oaken bench. How well the judicial robes became Maxell, thought Cartwright. He bowed slightly and received as slight a bow in reply. Maxell was looking pale. His face was drawn, and there was resolution in his speech and in his eyes.
“Before this case proceeds,” he said, “I wish to direct attention to a statement in one of the newspapers this morning, that I was associated with the accused in business, and that I am in some way involved, directly or indirectly, in the company promotion—either as a shareholder or an indirect promoter—which is the subject of the present charge. I wish to utter an emphatic denial to that statement.”
He spoke clearly and slowly and looked the prisoner straight in the eye, and Cartwright nodded.
“I can only endorse your lordship’s statement,” he said emphatically. “Your lordship has never had any dealings with me or any business transactions whatsoever.”
It was a minor sensation which provided a headline for the evening newspapers. The case proceeded. It was not particularly involved and the witnesses were few but vital. There were those business men who had subscribed or promised to subscribe to the syndicate. There was Mr. Solomon, who could give an account of his dealings with the prisoner. But, most damning of all, was a sworn statement made by Brigot before an English solicitor, a Commissioner of Oaths. And it was such a statement which only documentary proof, produced by the accused man, could refute.
Cartwright listened to the evidence untroubled of mind. He knew that his counsel’s speech, delivered with such force, was little less than an admission of guilt and a plea for mercy. The last word would be with the judge. A verdict of “guilty” there must necessarily be. But he thought that, when later his counsel pleaded for a minimum sentence, he saw a responsive look in the Judge’s eyes.
The stigma of imprisonment did not greatly distress Cartwright. He had lived on the narrow border-line of illegalities too long; he had weighed chances and penalties too nicely to bother about such ephemeral things as “honour.” His system of finance was reviewed, and certain minor charges arising out of the manipulation of funds were gone into. It was late in the evening when the Judge began his summing up.
It was a fair, if a conventional address he delivered to the jury. Obviously, thought Cartwright, he could do nothing less than call attention to the serious nature of the charge, the interests involved, the betrayal of shareholders, and the like. On the whole, the summing up did not diminish the comforting sense that the worst that lay before him was a few months’ imprisonment and then a start in another land under another name. He never doubted his ability to make money. The summing up was ended, and the jury retired. They were gone twenty minutes, and when they came back it was a foregone conclusion what their verdict would be.
“Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty,” was the reply.
“And is that the verdict of you all?”
“It is.”
Mr. Justice Maxell was examining his notes, and presently he closed the little book which he was consulting.
“The charge against Alfred Cartwright,” he said, “is one of the most serious which could be brought against a business man. The jury have returned a verdict of guilty, and I must say that I concur in that verdict. I am here in my place”—his voice shook a little—“to administer and maintain the laws of England. I must do all that in me is possible to preserve the purity of commercial life and the condition of English commercial honesty.”
Cartwright waited for that “but”—it did not come.
“In view of the seriousness of the frauds and irregularities which the accused has committed, with a cynical disregard for the happiness or fortune of those people whose interests should have been his own, I cannot do less than pass a sentence which will serve as an example to all wrongdoers.”
Cartwright gasped and gripped the edge of the dock.
“You, Alfred Cartwright,” said Maxell, and again looked him straight in the eye, “will be kept in penal servitude for twenty years.”
Cartwright swallowed something. Then he leaned across the edge of the dock.
“You swine!” he said huskily, and then the warders dragged him away.
Two days later there was a new sensation. The newspapers announced that Mr. Justice Maxell had been compelled, on account of ill-health, to resign from the Bench, and that His Majesty had been pleased to confer a baronetcy of the United Kingdom upon the ex-Judge.