At Charing Cross Dr. Vinsen alighted, and Gracie descended from the roof in the manner generally adopted by females, with her back instead of her face to the horses, which is by far the more dangerous way of the two to climb down from an omnibus. But, Gracie being a girl of unusual sharpness and penetration, it may be that she got down that way for the purpose of keeping her eye upon Dr. Vinsen, and if this were so she was quite successful, for she did not lose sight of him for a single moment, despite the busy throng of people hurrying in all directions, and the bewildering entanglement of vehicles of every description, which render this part of London at mid-day one of the most marvellous demonstrations of the civilised life of a great city that can be met with all the world over.
It was now one o'clock, and the newsboys were shouting out the early editions of the evening newspapers, for if there is one thing upon which modern journalism especially prides itself, it is that it can take time by the forelock and can hurry the rising and the setting of the sun. In these shouts and cries Dr. Vinsen--still lingering with the uncertain air upon him by which his previous movements had been distinguished--appeared to take great interest, listening to them intently and scanning such portions of the contents-bills carried by the boys as were visible in the midst of the hurly-burly. The familiar cry of "The Great Catchpole Square Mystery!" was as potent a bait as ever to purchasers, among whom Dr. Vinsen was not the least eager. Gracie saw on the contents-bills such headlines as "Emphatic Statement of Mr. Reginald Boyd," "The Coroner's Reproof to the Juryman," and "Mrs. Abel Death under examination," and she herself expended a halfpenny in literature, but did not stop to read the paper, her whole attention being required to watch her game and to elude detection.
At the corner of Parliament Street Dr. Vinsen entered a bus that crossed Westminster Bridge. There was no room on the roof for Gracie, and she dared not get inside, so she ran along the pavement, her breath coming thick and fast; there was plenty of space in this wide thoroughfare for the vehicle to put on a spurt, and the horses galloped smartly on. Luckily for Gracie there was a stoppage at the top of Parliament Street to enable passengers to get in and out, and she could recover her breath; and when the omnibus started again the traffic on the bridge was crowded, so that she trotted along quite comfortably, and had no difficulty in keeping her game in view. At the end of the bridge Dr. Vinsen got out and sauntered on past St. George's Hospital and the shabby old site of Astley's Theatre, haunted by memories of Ducrow and Ada Menken--names strange to the rising generation, though once upon a time they made all London ring--and past a medley of mean shops, till, on the opposite side of the road, he called a halt before a warehouse where portmanteaus and travelling trunks were manufactured.
Under a verandah in front of this warehouse were a number of trunks, a few of which bore on their lids the names or initials, newly painted in white, of the customers for whom they had been made. Two bore the same name, Signor Corsi, and it was these which had the greatest attraction for Dr. Vinsen. They were of large size and special make, far superior to the ordinary travelling trunk. Entering the warehouse, he came out presently accompanied by a man, either the proprietor or one of his salesmen, who opened one of the trunks and pointed out its exceptional features. It was of peculiar construction; the interior was padded, and there were receptacles lined with soft material, in which articles could be deposited with little fear of breakage. The interest which Dr. Vinsen took in the trunks and the long conversation between him and the salesman, whetted Gracie's curiosity, and she burned to know the why and the wherefore; but being compelled to keep at a safe distance, she could not hear a word that was spoken. Finally, Dr. Vinsen entered the warehouse again, and did not make his reappearance for twelve minutes by a clock in the shop near which she was lingering. He and the salesman stood chattering at the door for another minute or two, and it seemed to Gracie as if he had given an order, for he made an entry in his pocketbook; then he turned his face Kennington way and hailed a tramcar. Gracie scrambled up to the roof, where she opened her paper and read the report of the inquest up to the time of going to press. Folding the paper carefully, she put it in the bosom of her frock.
Dr. Vinsen did not leave the tram till it had reached its terminus. This part of London was new to Gracie, and they were now some miles from Draper's Mews. "If he lives here," she thought, "it's a long way for him to come to us." That he did live there was proved by his stopping before a house of decent pretensions and opening the door with his own private latchkey. There was a little brass plate attached to the side of the door, and creeping past it Gracie read on it the name, "Ezra Lynn," and beneath it in smaller letters the announcement, "Sums of from £5 to £15,000 advanced at a low rate of interest on promissory note alone, without any sureties or security whatever, and without any beforehand charges. The strictest privacy and secrecy observed." Gracie's eyes dilated at the magnitude of the sum, £15,000, and for a moment her idea was that Dr. Vinsen had gone into the house to borrow that amount; the next moment she fell to speculating upon the strange circumstance that Dr. Vinsen should possess a private latchkey to such an Aladdin's Cave. "I wonder!" she said to herself. It was sufficiently expressive for her understanding, but it went no farther in speech.
She felt hungry, it being now past three o'clock, and she went into a baker's shop nearly opposite the house of Ezra Lynn and asked for a penny loaf. Behind the counter was a motherly woman with a baby in her arms. She gazed kindly at Gracie, and passed the crummiest penny loaf in her stock across the counter.
"You seem tired, child," she said, stopping in the middle of a little nursery song she was singing to her baby.
"Oh, no, ma'am," said Gracie, digging a piece out of the loaf and smiling at the baby. Gracie was fond of babies.
"And hungry," said the woman.
"Yes, Iamhungry."
"Wouldn't you like a bun better?"
"This is more filling," said practical Gracie.
"Dear heart, what a sensible little mite! And how dusty! You don't look very strong."
"Ah, but I am; you mustn't go by looks," said Gracie, and encouraged by the woman's kind voice, she asked if she could have a glass of water.
"You shall have a glass of milk," said the woman, going to an inner room and returning with it.
"It's good of you," said Gracie, simply, "I'm ever so much obliged to you. May I eat my loaf here?"
"Certainly, child, and sit down and rest."
The chair she pointed to had its back to the window from which Ezra Lynn's house was visible; Gracie turned it round, so that she faced it. There she sat awhile, munching her bread and drinking her milk. A man came into the shop, poorly dressed, haggard, with distress in his face, and yet with a certain defiant independence in his manner.
"Will you trust me half-a-quartern, missis?" he said, abruptly.
The woman shook her head. "You're deep enough in my books already, Mr. Mildew, and I can't afford to let you get deeper. Charity begins at home."
"And stops there," said the man. "All right. I thought I'd try. My heart's fairly broke trying to get work. It doesn't much matter. The kiddies must starve!" He turned to leave the shop.
This touched Gracie's heart. She knew what poverty was; she knew what it was to want bread. "The kiddies must starve" fell upon her like a blow.
Of the money which Dick had given to her she had only spent twopence in fares and a halfpenny for a paper, and she had more than half-a-crown left. "The kiddies must starve!" Not if she could help it. The price of bread was marked up in the shop window, "Fivepence per quartern, full weight." She put twopence halfpenny on the counter.
"Please let him have the bread, ma'am."
The man stared at her; the woman's face flushed.
"Take your money back, child," she said. "You shall have the bread, Mr. Mildew: it won't break me."
She weighed the loaf, which was short of two pounds; it needed a piece for make-weight, and, the fount of kindness open, she was not particular to an ounce.
"Thank you, missis," said the man, "I'll pay you the first money I earn, though God knows where I'm to get work. And thankyou, little 'un; you don't live on the fat of the land, from the looks of you. I've got a girl about your size and weight at home." He repeated the word with savage emphasis. "Home! There'll be none to-morrow. Rent owing, money owing. Out into the streets we go. That's the law."
"It's got to be obeyed, Mr. Mildew," said the woman. "It's hard lines, I own, but it's got to be obeyed. What does Mr. Lynn say? Won't he give you time?"
"Not an hour, not a minute. He's sucked me dry, and sucked the last drop out of me. Him give time!--with the law on his side! I'd like to grind my heel into his face!"
"You're not the only one," said the woman.
"That's no comfort. Look here, missis, just cast your eye over this"--he pulled out a tattered penny account book--"it's all set down in plain figures. Twelve months ago--here's the date--he lent me four pounds, and took a bill of sale on my bits of sticks. I didn't get the four pounds--it was eighteen shillings short, for expenses and inquiries and interest in advance. Three pound two, that's as much as I got, and I had to pay half-a-crown a week for fifty-two weeks. If I was a week behindhand there was a fine of sixpence, which kept on being charged and put down against me till that week was paid up. It was all a muddle, and I don't pretend to understand it, but a mate of mine that's quick at reckoning has figured it out, and he says it comes to more than six hundred per cent, interest. All I know is that I've paid five pound ten for that three pound two I got from him, and now he makes out I owe him twice as much again. And the law gives him right. What I say is, damn the law, and them that made it, and them that fatten on it!"
It was pitiable to witness the passion and the helplessness of the man.
Gracie, listening to this tale of wrong-doing, and never losing sight of Ezra Lynn's door, saw it opened, and saw a man come from the house, a thin, slinking, sly-faced man in rusty black, whom she supposed to be Ezra Lynn; but she was presently undeceived.
"There's his jackal," said the man in the baker's shop, "that collects for him, and grinds the poor chaps down that's drawn into his mill. Grinds 'em down, blood, bones, heart, and soul. Mr. Lynn's too grand now to do the small dirty work himself. It was different once I've been told, missis."
"Yes," said the woman, "I remember when Mr. Lynn first set up as a money-lender in the neighbourhood; they say he started with a hundred pounds, but a man like that, who wouldn't step aside to save a human creature's life, soon grows rich."
"He's worse than the lowest pickpocket," said the man "I've heard he could set up his carriage, if he liked. He's got big fish to look after now; he leaves his jackal to look after the sprats."
"I warned you, you know," said the woman, "when you told me you were getting a loan from him."
"I know you did, but I had a child to bury, and I couldn't get the money anywhere else. Then my missis fell ill----"
He broke off suddenly. "I've had my share of trouble, I think."
"That you have, and I'm sorry for you. You're not the first by many a score that that man's ruined. And to talk to him you wouldn't believe that he'd pull a leg off a fly."
"If it wasn't for the law," said the man, morosely, "I'd have his blood!"
The door on the opposite side of the road opened again, and Dr. Vinsen appeared on the threshold, buttoning his glove; a look of hate and fear darkened the man's features.
"You'd hardly believe there was so much wickedness under that smooth face of his," said the woman.
"Smooth face, black heart," muttered the man, leaving the shop hurriedly, and crossing over to Dr. Vinsen.
Gracie rose and made a step towards the door; she dared not leave the shop, for Dr. Vinsen stood immediately facing it. Her heart was beating violently, but her face was quite composed.
"Who is that gentleman, ma'am?" she asked.
"That's the man we've been speaking of," the woman replied, "Mr. Ezra Lynn. I don't call him a gentleman myself."
"Would you mind telling me," continued Gracie, "if you know Dr. Vinsen?"
"Vinsen--Vinsen," said the woman, considering. "I never heard the name. I don't think he lives in this neighbourhood. Bless my soul! What's the child after?"
Gracie had dashed out of the shop. She had seen Mr. Mildew approach Dr. Vinsen and accost him; she had seen Dr. Vinsen smile and shake his head; she had seen the man raise his fist, as if he were about to strike, and then, afraid that his passion might carry him too far, turn quickly upon his heel and walk away; she had seen Dr. Vinsen hail a hansom cab and get into it; and it was then that she ran out of the shop. Off rattled the cab, and Gracie after it. A couple of hundred yards, and her breath was gone, and the cab out of sight.
"It's a good job I didn't catch up to it," said Gracie, panting on the kerb. "He might have seen me, and all the fat would be in the fire. I've got something to tell Dick. We'll make Scotland Yard sit up. But what does it all mean--what does it all mean?"
"The Little Busy Bee" and the other evening papers were kept very busy that afternoon. So far as the examination of the witnesses and the Coroner's address were concerned, the inquest was over, and it had been expected that the verdict would soon be delivered; but although the jury had been deliberating (some persons declared squabbling) since three o'clock, and it was now past five, no verdict was yet returned. It was rumoured that there was a serious difference of opinion between them on more than one point, and it was certain that they had obstinately refused to be guided by the Coroner, whose authority they set at naught. In vain did he argue, remonstrate, and expostulate with them; in vain did he draw up the form of verdict which he said it was their duty to deliver; they refused point blank to sign the paper.
Animated discussions took place as to what the verdict would be, and so keen is the love of sport in the British mind that odds were laid on this or that conclusion. A verdict of Murder against Mr. Reginald Boyd was first favourite; two to one on it. A verdict of Murder against some person or persons unknown was second favourite, six to four against it. A verdict of Murder against Mr. Abel Death, fifty to one against it. The names and the odds were freely bandied about, and there were many persons who discussed them with a light, not to say jovial, air; while Reginald and Florence, and Aunt and Uncle Rob awaited the result with feelings it is not difficult to imagine. Quick to take advantage of opportunity, the newspapers poured out edition after edition, seizing upon the most trivial incidents as headline-pegs upon which to hang their ingenious vapourings.
"At half-past four," records "The Little Busy Bee," "the Coroner again asked the jury whether there was any special or knotty point upon which they needed information or direction. The foreman replied that they did not need direction in matters of fact, but that there was a difference of opinion among the jury, who held such strong views upon certain aspects of the case, that it was doubtful whether any definite verdict would be arrived at.
"The Coroner: 'There must be a verdict of some kind I presume there is no doubt in your minds that a murder has been committed?'
"The Foreman: 'None whatever. We are agreed upon that.'
"The Coroner: 'You know the common form. A verdict of Murder against some person or persons unknown would obviate the difficulty.'
"The Juror: 'It would not. I have followed the case very carefully, and have come to a conclusion.'
"The Coroner: 'You are open to reason, I hope.'
"The Juror: 'As open as yourself, Mr. Coroner, and, strange as you may think it, I claim to possess an average intelligence. Throughout the whole of this inquiry it has been forced upon me that there has been far too much dictation.'
"The Coroner: 'At whose hands, sir?'
"The Juror: 'At yours, Mr. Coroner. You have treated us like a flock of sheep, and I, for one, object to be driven.'
"The Coroner: 'I pass over the want of respect you show in your manner of addressing me. Gentlemen, in my long service as Coroner this is an entirely new experience, and I greatly regret it. In view of the serious differences of opinion between you, it is advisable that you take your law from me.'
"The Juror: 'I shall not. I stand upon common sense.'
"The Coroner: 'Gentlemen, this is foreign to the duty you are called upon to perform. Continue your deliberations, and arrive at your verdict as expeditiously as the interests of justice will allow.'
"It would be obviously improper," said "The Little Busy Bee," "at this stage of the inquiry, to make any comments upon this very unusual scene. When the verdict is given we shall have something to say upon the rights and privileges of coroners and juries, which seem to be imperfectly understood."
One of the most conspicuous headlines in the journals now was, "Deadlock among the Jury on the Catchpole Square Murder." It was weary waiting for the parties vitally interested in the result. Florence and Aunt Rob entreated Reginald to leave the Court, but he refused, and Uncle Rob upheld him. "Reginald must remain till it is over," he said. He suspected that Reginald would be followed by the police if he went away.
Meanwhile, news of the rewards offered by Reginald for the discovery of the murderer and of Abel Death had become widely known, and was freely discussed. And upon the top of this came another piece of news. All over London billstickers were pasting offers of another reward offered by Lady Wharton's lawyers for the discovery of her jewels, of which a detailed list was printed in the bills. Advertisements were also inserted in the evening journals to the same effect. So the excitement was fed and kept up.
Once, when Uncle Rob went from the court to get a little fresh air, Detective Lambert came up and spoke to him.
"A long job," he said.
"A wickedly long job," responded Uncle Rob.
"I saw your nephew this morning," said Lambert, "sticking up the reward bills. He's the kind of chap that nothing comes amiss to; an all-round sort of chap; can turn his hand to anything. Just think of a young fellow like that turning bill-sticker. Not at all a bad move. It's a lumping reward, £500. Do you know what he said to me? 'Why not earn it?' says he, and says it as if he meant it."
"He wouldn't have said it if he hadn't meant it."
"Will it be paid?"
"If it's earned," replied Uncle Rob, "and I hope to God it soon will be!"
"Ah," said Lambert, and gave his brother officer a covert, sidelong look. "See here, Robson. We had a private talk together, and I made you a promise."
"Yes, you did," said Uncle Rob, and accustomed as he ought to have been, as an inspector of police, to strange surprises, there was a flutter at his heart. But then it was a beloved daughter's happiness that was at stake.
"I promised to give you timely notice," continued Lambert, "when something was going to happen."
"Yes."
"I never go from my word. Somethingisgoing to happen. I'm only waiting here till the verdict's given, and then----"
"And then?"
"Your son-in-law's in Court, facing it like a man," said Lambert, branching off, "and I admire him for it. Supposing the verdict runs, 'some person or persons unknown,' he'll be coming out with the ladies on his way home when the sheet's signed."
"Yes, he will; and if it runs the other way?"
"Meaning if it's brought against him by name?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, of course he'll be prepared."
"He's prepared for anything, Lambert; he's made up his mind to it: so have we all." Uncle Rob spoke in a sad tone; these two men perfectly understood each other, though the meaning of what they said would not have been clear to a stranger.
"Step aside, Robson," said Lambert, and his voice was friendly, "and let us talk as if it was the weather we were interested in. Cloudy to-day, fine to-morrow; there's no telling what changes to expect in such a blessed climate as ours. So it is with human nature; up to-day, down to-morrow, and the other way round. All's well that ends well, eh?"
"Yes," said Uncle Rob, mechanically.
"Prepared for anything he is," Lambert went on. "I call that sensible and manly; but he's been that all through. So what I say is, to save a scene, wouldn't it be a good thing to get your wife and daughter out of the way?"
"How?"
"Well, by letting them go home by themselves. When two women are together like that, with trouble ahead, they're a comfort to each other. They must be tired out of their lives sitting in that stuffy court all day. A pair of bricks I call them; I should be proud, I should indeed, Robson, if they were my wife and daughter. Proud you must be of them--in a melancholy way, as things are, but that's natural under the circumstances. Wheedle them home, Robson, and let us get the business over quietly."
Uncle Rob knew what was meant by "the business." "It's decided upon, then," he said.
"Yes, and I've got the warrant in my pocket."
"Whatever the verdict is?"
"Whatever the verdict is."
"Is there anything against him," asked Uncle Rob, with a sinking heart, "beyond what has come out in the inquest?"
"Nothing; but that is supposed to be enough to commence with. Get the ladies away quietly, just whisper a word to him, and we'll walk along as comfortably as possible, and no one the wiser. I've kept it snug on purpose for your sake."
"It's kind of you, but there's no getting the women away; they'll not make a scene," said Uncle Rob, huskily; he was thinking of Florence. "We've talked it over among ourselves, and I think it would alter your opinion if you could have heard my son-in-law this morning."
"How do you know what my opinion is?" asked Lambert, in his most leisurely manner.
"Idon'tknow. We couldn't help seeing the way the case was going, and if it could be done in a lawful and legal way, Reginald would not wait to be brought before a judge. He would go himself and say, 'What have you got against me? Here I am, ready to answer it.'"
"But it can't be done that way. There's a settled form to go through, and we must abide by it. Well, I've given my advice, and it's a pity the ladies should be present, but if you say it can't be helped, well, it can't be, and there's an end of it. What do you think about giving them a hint beforehand. It'll break the shock."
"Yes, I might do that," said Uncle Rob.
He looked up into Lambert's face; he could do that, being the shorter man by two inches. He was well acquainted with Lambert's character, and knew that he was kindly disposed towards him, but there was so much more consideration evinced for his feelings than he could reasonably have expected that it seemed to him as if Lambert was keeping something in the background. Lambert returned his gaze steadily and impenetrably, and passed his hand over his chin with more than his customary thoughtfulness, but there was nothing in that action to enlighten Uncle Rob as to what was passing in his mind. Still he was emboldened to say,
"Speaking as we are in confidence, is there anything behind this, Lambert, that would bring hope and comfort to my wife and daughter?"
Lambert's hand travelled from his chin to his under lip, which he softly pinched as caressingly as if he were smoothing a favourite cat.
"Why shouldn't she hope?" he said. "What's going to be done is only what might be expected. If her husband wasn't prepared for it of course it would be different, but as it is----" He seemed to think the uncompleted sentence sufficiently expressive, for he did not finish it.
"You'll wait till the verdict's given?" said Uncle Rob.
"I'll wait a reasonable time; I can't say more than that, because I shouldn't be surprised--and don't you be--if something happens that I can't call to mind has ever happened before in a murder inquest, and that is, that the jury will either give no verdict at all, or will give one that the Coroner will refuse to accept. There's a man among them who's bent upon having his own way, and that will stick out like grim death if he can't bring the others to his way of thinking. He's a kind of animal not often met with on juries, but there he is, and has to be reckoned with. A curious point, isn't it? But you can make up your mind to one thing. So far as justice is concerned there will be no dead lock. I've got hold of the reins, and I'll see to that."
Uncle Rob searched his mind for a clue, and did not find it. Lambert's voice was resolute and stern, and he was about to arrest a man to save whose life Uncle Rob would have laid down his own; and yet here he was unbosoming himself in a friendly and confiding way to the very person against whose happiness he was conspiring. It would have taken a wiser head than Uncle Rob's to solve the enigma. What Lambert said next did not help to make matters clearer.
"And don't take it too much to heart," he said, with a soothing pat on Uncle Rob's shoulder. "I know what I'm about, so don't take it too much to heart. It's the advice of a friend, Robson."
"There's cold comfort in it when the charge is murder, and a man's life is hanging to it," said Uncle Rob.
"Perhaps so, perhaps so, if you look at it only from the outside; but there's another view."
"What is it?"
"That'smysecret. When I let it out you'll see what I'm driving at. I've done one or two things in my time, and this will be the climax." He smacked his lips with a relish, and repeated, "The climax. I put it to you, Robson, old man, whether it isn't better that the arrest should be made by a friendly hand than by the hand of a stranger? I'm not the only one who's itching to get the credit of clearing up a mystery that's set all London ringing; and we're not half done with it yet, not half done. It's a feather in one's cap to be mixed up with it." He rubbed his hands. "No wonder others are keen upon it, but there s only one man in England that's got his finger on the pulse of the mystery, and that's the man that's talking to you now, and taking you, in a manner of speaking, into his confidence."
"Ana that is why you are going to arrest my son-in-law," said Uncle Rob, rather bitterly.
"And that is why," said Lambert, cheerfully, "I am going to arrest your son-in-law on the charge of murdering his father, Mr. Samuel Boyd, of Catchpole Square. Before long you'll be shaking me by the hand, and thanking me for what I'm doing."
"Then you don't believe him guilty?" said Uncle Rob, eagerly.
"Don't ask me for opinions. I've been open with you for old times' sake, but my opinions, for the present, I keep to myself." He looked at his watch. "What time are you due at the station, Robson."
"I must be there within the hour. I wish I'd resigned, or asked to be suspended."
"The worst move you could have made. Duty's duty. There was a Roman father once--I don't remember his name--that sent his own son to execution, and looked on while it was done."
"What do you mean?" asked Uncle Rob. His voice trembled, his fingers twined convulsively.
"It's plain enough," said Lambert, half roughly. "You're on night duty at Bishop Street Station."
"And the charge will be laid there!" cried Uncle Rob, a cold perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
"It's in the district; it's the nearest station. There's no help for it; I wish there was."
"They'll never forgive me, never!" said Uncle Rob. "My own child, Lambert, my own child! To strike a death blow at my own child!"
"Who's talking of death blows? Pull yourself together. It's better so; you can make things easier for him. As for forgiveness, they're not the women I take them for if they harbour a thought against you. They're true grit, that's what they are." "There's something going on in Court."
They hurried in together, and were present at another altercation between Coroner and jury, the leading actors in it being, as before, the Coroner and the recalcitrant juror. From the flushed faces of the jurymen it was evident that there had been a heated discussion. Finally the Coroner proposed to take the verdict of the majority, and another difficulty presented itself.
"There's no majority," said the foreman, who appeared to be the most helpless of the party. "As a matter of fact we are split into three camps of equal numbers, and no one will give way."
"Is there no possibility of your agreeing?" inquired the Coroner.
"If we were locked up for a week," replied the foreman, "I don't believe we should agree."
"Well," said the Coroner, with a motion as if he were giving up the thing in despair, "let me know in plain terms how the matter stands, and I will see what can be done."
"We will put it down in writing," said the foreman.
Thereupon the jury retired, and after a lapse of twenty minutes or so returned with three documents, which were handed to the Coroner. They revealed an extraordinary state of affairs.
The first, signed by four jurymen, was a verdict of Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown.
The second, signed by four other jurymen, was a verdict of Wilful Murder against Abel Death.
When this was read out a shriek rang through the court, and Mrs. Death, starting to her feet, screamed in wild tones,
"You wicked liars! You liars! You wicked liars!"
With great difficulty she was silenced, and restrained from rushing to the spot where the jurymen were clustered together.
The third document, signed by other four jurymen, was a verdict of Wilful Murder against Reginald Boyd.
"Do you present these to me in all seriousness?" asked the Coroner.
"They are the conclusions arrived at by the jury," replied the Juror. "With eight of my colleagues I do not agree, but for all that I have not hectored them."
"Your conduct during this inquiry is open to severe censure," said the Coroner, "and you strangely misapprehend your duty. Gentlemen, you have presented me with three separate verdicts, which you must have known I cannot accept. The dissensions which have arisen amongst you are deeply regrettable, and I tell you plainly you have not served the cause of justice. I have placed before you a form of verdict which would meet the general view of the case, and leave the matter open to the proper authorities. You have declined to be guided by me, and I am afraid it would be useless to argue any longer with you. What do you say, Mr. Foreman?"
"From the differences that exist between us, sir, quite useless," replied the foreman.
"The position is a difficult one, and I must take time to consider it. I regret, gentlemen, that I cannot discharge you from your labours, but that is no fault of mine. You will attend this court next Thursday morning at eleven o'clock. By that time, perhaps, something may transpire which will settle your doubts--which I trust," he added, "are conscientious doubts."
The announcement that their labours were not at an end was received by the jury with murmurs of dissatisfaction.
"The remedy lies with yourselves," said the Coroner. "In a criminal court where the jury disagree, the case may be put back and tried again before a fresh jury, but this cannot be done in a Coroner's Court. Before I finally discharge you, you will have to return a verdict. You will be here this day week punctually at eleven o'clock in the morning."
The court then broke up.
There were still a great many spectators who had waited in the expectation that a verdict would be delivered, and they filed out slowly, eagerly discussing the position of affairs, one man declaring that the Catchpole Square Mystery, from first to last, was nothing but a series of the most startling sensations, adding, "And I'm greatly mistaken if there's not more to come." He rolled this round his tongue, as if it were a delectable morsel. Detective Lambert, without seeming to notice Reginald, was almost the first to leave the court, and he stood outside, smoothing his chin, a target for all eyes, for his fame had travelled far and wide, and it was already rumoured that he had "taken up" the Catchpole Square Mystery. Two or three of the jurymen still lingered within the court, and glanced with curiosity at the Robson group and at Mrs. Death, whose state of agitation it was pitiable to witness. Now she beat the air with her trembling hands, now she clasped them convulsively, while inarticulate words of protest dropped from her quivering lips. All these persons moved slowly to the door of the courthouse.
"A moment, Reginald," said Uncle Rob, in a low tone, laying his hand on the young man's arm.
As the men fell back a pace or two they came face to face with Mrs. Death. In his heart Reginald believed Abel Death to be innocent, and even in the midst of his own trouble he would have addressed a word of comfort to her, but she, distracted by grief and indignant horror, held up her hands as if to ward him off, and brushed past him into the open. She had been present during the whole of the inquest, but her mind was in too agitated a state to pay close attention to any of the evidence except those parts which affected her husband, and she had therefore, until she heard the Coroner's address to the jury, missed the significance of the contradiction she had given to the statement of Dr. Pye as to the hour he had seen a man come from Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square. In justice to her it must be said that even if she had recognised it when she was under examination she would not have withheld it, for she was a fair-minded woman, and was still grateful for the kindness the young man had once shown them. But it seemed to her now that in weakening the case against Reginald she had strengthened it against her husband, and it was this that caused her to reject with horror the advances which Reginald had made towards her.
"She believes me guilty," thought Reginald, as she disappeared through the door of the court; and then, turning to Uncle Rob, he said, "What is it?"
"Detective Lambert is waiting outside," said Uncle Rob in a low tone.
"For me?"
"For you."
Reginald could not help being startled, though he had been all day inwardly preparing himself. Stepping to Aunt Rob's side he said, in a tone of assumed lightness, "We are full of secrets just now. I have one for you; Florence won't mind." Drawing her away he whispered, "Take Florence home."
He had not time to say more, for Florence, although she had not heard what had passed had caught its sense, and she now glided swiftly to his side, and clung close to his arm.
"Go home, dearest," he said. "I am going to walk with your father to the station."
"We will walk with you," said Florence, and then in an imploring tone, "Do not send me away from you till the last moment!"
"Why, Florence, my love," said Reginald, as if in surprise, but here Aunt Rob interposed.
"There must be no more secrets. Don't keep anything from us, father. Tell us the worst; we can bear it."
Uncle Rob looked at Reginald, who nodded, and passed his arm round Florence's waist.
"Lambert has been talking to me," said Uncle Rob; "he has behaved very considerately, and asked me to break it to you." His voice faltered. "He has a warrant for Reginald's arrest. Courage, my dears, courage!"
This little party, at whom so terrible a blow was dealt, now stood apart and alone, and what they said could be heard only by themselves. Aunt Rob drew a long breath.
"It's what we've been waiting for," she said, "and it had to come. Reginald will face it like a man, and will fling the lie into their faces. Keep a stout heart, my lad."
"If I suffer," he replied, "it is because of the grief I have brought into my dear Florence's life."
"It is not a grief of your creating, dear," said Florence, "and you have brought nothing into my life which has not strengthened my love for you. I put my trust in God." She bent down, and pressed her lips upon his hand; the night had fallen, and those at a distance could not see the action. "Oh, my dear, my dear! He will not allow the innocent to suffer."
"Be brave, for my sake, dearest."
"I will be. I am." And in her heart was the prayer, "God shield my beloved! God protect him!"
They issued into the open air, and stood by Lambert's side in silence. The only movement he made was to beckon to a constable, and, whispering a few words to him, to point somewhat conspicuously to the juror who had shown himself so inimical to Reginald. All the other jurymen had taken their departure; this man alone was waiting.
If Lambert's aim was to arouse in him the aggressive spirit of which he had given frequent instances during the inquest, it was gained, for the juror walked up to the detective, and inquired if he had pointed at him with any particular design, and if so, what it was and what he meant by it. Lambert stroked his chin and did not answer.
"The road's free to all, I suppose," pursued the man, nettled at Lambert's silence; his voice was loud and offensive.
"Now you mention it," observed Lambert, slowly considering the proposition, "it is."
"I thought so," said the man, and was at a loss what next to say, for Lambert had fallen into a meditative mood, and to feel for a pimple on his chin seemed to be of assistance to him.
The appearance of another person upon the scene, who halted, however, at a distance of a dozen yards or so, with her black eyes fixed upon the juror, was not noticed by any of them, except perhaps by the meditative detective.
"Move on," said the constable whom Lambert had addressed, and some idlers, who had shown a disposition to linger, sauntered away. The juror held his ground, but was not at his ease, for he felt that Lambert's eye was on him, and to be thus meditatively observed by an imperturbable detective was enough to make any man uneasy. Presently Lambert roused himself from his brown study.
"Which direction are you going to take?" he said to the Juror.
"Why do you want to know?" asked the man.
"Because I will take the other, and I've a hundred things to attend to."
"Who's hindering you?"
"You, Mr. Rawdon. That's your name, I believe."
"I'm not ashamed of it," said Mr. Rawdon, with a slight start.
"Why should you be?" remarked Lambert quietly. "It's the name you were born to. I'm not ashamed of mine; to tell you the truth, I'm rather proud of it. What we've got to do with our names, whether we like 'em or not, is to make 'em a credit to ourselves and our families. And we're born, not only to names that stick to us, but to tempers that stick to us. Now, when I see a man showing a nasty temper, I cast about in my mind for something that will soothe his ruffled feelings. That's what I've been thinking about. 'What can I do,' says I to myself, 'that will soothe Mr. Rawdon's ruffled feelings?' And it's come over me to put it in the shape of a question, if you've no objection."
"Let's hear what it is," said Mr. Rawdon, upon whom the detective's words did not seem to have a soothing effect.
"'It's a question," continued Lambert, "that I wouldn't put to you publicly if it wasn't that we're playing a sort of game, you and me, a sort of trying to tire one another out, because, you know, Mr. Rawdon, there's many a thing in a man's life he'd prefer to keep to himself. As for tiring me out, you couldn't do it, Mr. Rawdon. It's well known that Detective Lambert is the most patient man in the whole police force, and it's well known, too, that he never mixes himself up with other people's private affairs unless he has the best of reasons for it."
"Aren't you losing sight of your question?" asked Mr. Rawdon sullenly.
"No, I'm not; I'm coming to it; but I'm naturally a slow man--slowandsure. It's happened on occasions that I've been a long time taking aim; but then I never miss; and I never do anything definite--anything definite, mind--or say anything definite (which is what I'm going to say now), without a motive. Now,doyou understand that?" No voice could be more persuasive than that in which he explained himself to Mr. Rawdon.
"Oh, I understand it," said that individual.
"And so could a blind dog, if it was put to him forcible. It eases my mind; I give you my word, it eases my mind. Pay particular attention to the question, Mr. Rawdon: there's a lot hanging to it that the present company--my friend Inspector Robson and his good wife, and my friend Mr. Reginald Boyd andhisgood wife--haven't the slightest understanding of. Which makes it all the more comfortable for you and me, because it's between us. Are you ready, Mr. Rawdon?"
"Quite ready, Mr. Lambert."
"Well, then. What is the amount of the judgment obtained against you by Mr. Ezra Lynn, how much do you owe him altogether, and what arrangement has lately been made between you? And if that's three questions instead of one I hope you'll excuse me."
So saying, Detective Lambert rubbed his chin, and shed a genial smile upon Mr. Rawdon, whose perturbation was so great that he seemed to be deprived of the power of speech.
"If you want time to chew it over," continued Lambert, "take time. There's been many a knotty point raised in this inquiry into the Catchpole Square Mystery; one or two more or less won't matter much. Take your time, Mr. Rawdon, take your time. Go home and chew it over."
In obedience to a motion of his eyebrows imperceptible to all but the constable, that official bustled forward with his "Move on, please, move on"; and as though he were glad of an excuse to set his limbs in motion Mr. Rawdon moved slowly away, in the opposite direction to the Bishop Street Police Station. The other person, little Gracie, who had been watching the group, moved stealthily after him, and in a moment or two the man and the girl had turned the corner of the street.
Lambert smiled in self-approval, and the next moment became grave as he touched Reginald on the arm. "Now, Mr. Boyd."
Florence quivered as though she had been stung, but instantly recovered herself.
"I am at your disposal, Mr. Lambert," said Reginald. "You have a warrant for my arrest."
"I have; and I'll read it to you at the Bishop Street Police Station. I would take you to another, but as I've already explained to the Inspector it is the proper station to take you to, as the charge will have to be heard at the Bishop Street Police Court."
"Will it be heard to-morrow?"
"To-morrow. It will be merely formal, and there'll be a remand, for a week I should say. That is what will be asked for. I am acting under instructions." He turned to Florence and Aunt Rob. "I hope you'll not take it amiss, ladies. Duty's duty, and it's hard to do sometimes. Mr. Boyd and I will walk quietly to the station with Inspector Robson. I'll keep people off while you say good-bye." He turned his back to them, from motives of delicacy, and to serve as a screen.
"Would there be any objection, Mr. Lambert," said Aunt Rob, "to our walking with him as far as the station?" She spoke stiffly and severely: despite the manifest friendliness of the detective she could not forgive him.
"None in the world, if you wish it."
"We do wish it," said Florence, timidly.
"Give an arm to the ladies," said Lambert to Reginald. "The Inspector and I will walk on behind. You would hardly believe it, but at this time every Thursday night I get a singing in my ears that makes me quite deaf. An old complaint; had it from childhood; it comes on suddenly; I've got it now."
He fell back with Uncle Rob, and no person meeting them would have supposed that a man was being arrested for murder. Within two or three hundred yards of Bishop Street Dick ran up to them, and he saw immediately what was transpiring.
"You have come in good time, Dick," said Reginald, pressing the friendly hand. "Florence and Aunt Rob have no one to take them home. You see what is going on." Dick nodded. "Now that the suspense is over I feel relieved. I have something to face, and I can speak out boldly."
"He must have a lawyer, Dick," said Aunt Rob.
"It is being attended to, aunt."
"I would have preferred to defend myself," said Reginald, "but I suppose it would be unwise."
"It would be folly," said Dick. "I saw your solicitor this afternoon, and we have agreed upon the barrister, Mr. Edward Pallaret. He ranks high, and is generally on the right side."
"On the just side, Dick."
"That is what I meant, aunt."
"Did you expect this, that you have gone so far?" she asked.
"I have been expecting it all along. Is Lambert acting on his own responsibility?"
"No, under instructions, he says."
"Ah. Do you approve of Mr. Pallaret, Reginald?"
"Yes. He is an honourable man."
"He is; and a man that judges and magistrates listen to with respect. That is not the case with all lawyers. There are black sheep among them that damn a case the moment their names appear in it. I have a pair of solicitors in my mind now, a couple of sharp, sneaking scoundrels who never yet have had the handling of a reputable case. Mr. Lamb is not a very eminent solicitor, but he is a respectable man, and it was he who suggested Mr. Pallaret. Don't be faint-hearted, Reginald; we'll pull you out of this with flying colours. Have any of you seen little Gracie Death to-day?"
No, none of them had seen her.
"She'll be at your house to-night, aunt, with news, perhaps. Here we are at the station."
He made a secret motion to his uncle as they entered, and saying to the others that they would join them presently, he and the Inspector retired to a small room at the back of the office, where the latter kept his accoutrements, which he now proceeded to put on for the sad duties of the night.
"Do you remember the talk we had together, Dick," said the Inspector mournfully, "on the night of the fog, when Mrs. Abel Death came in with her little girl, and told us of the disappearance of her husband. We argued it out together, and the thought of a murder done was in our minds. It's little more than a week ago, and it seems a year. We didn't think it would come to this."
To Dick, also, it seemed as if months had passed instead of days, and as if he himself were a different being. Aimless, purposeless, then, with no object in life to lift him out of the lethargic state into which he had fallen, the hours now were all too short for the strange and desperate task to which he had set his hand, the strangest and most hazardous part of which had yet to be performed.
"Lambert speaks fair," continued the Inspector, "but you are the rock upon which we must lean for safety. Oh, Dick, my lad, save my Florence if you can from life-long misery!"
"I'm bound to do it, uncle," said Dick, "or sink. Something whispers to me that I shall succeed. And now let me tell you--I may not have another opportunity. I'm going to see Florence and Aunt Rob home, where I've asked little Gracie to come and have a chat with me. After to-night it's on the cards that I shall disappear----"
"Disappear!" cried the Inspector, catching his nephew by the arm.
"Hush! They must not hear us. I mean that neither you nor they will know where I am for a few days. There will be a notice stuck up on the house in Catchpole Square to the effect that all inquiries for me are to be made at your house, and that all letters for me are to be left there. If any inquiries are made, tell Aunt Rob and Florence that they're to say they are expecting me home at any moment, and don't know where I have gone to. Nothing more than that. I must leave this to you, for I cannot confide in them. I am bound to keep my secret, and I could not answer the questions they would put to me in their anxiety."
"But, Dick----"
Dick held up his hand. "There isn't a step I've taken in this affair that hasn't been taken with only one end in view, the end we are all praying for, and perhaps there are things I've kept from you because it would never have done to tell them to a police inspector. There was your duty as a public officer, and there were your feelings as a father. Would it have been right of me to bring these into conflict?"
"I see that, my lad, I see that, and it has been a torture to me."
"Look me in the face, uncle." He moved into the light, so that it could be clearly seen. "Is it an honest face?"
"Yes, my lad."
"A face you can trust?"
"Yes."
"Then trust it, and act as I desire. You ask me to save Florence from misery, and, with God's help and my own wits, that's what I feel Ishalldo if I'm left free to follow out my plans. If I am hampered in any way Reginald will lose his best defender. I've been in danger once to-day, and my wits saved me. We must get back to them, or they'll be suspecting something. If you are satisfied with what I've said, uncle, give me your hand."
They clasped hands, and returned to the front office. Inspector Robson stiffened himself, and walked to his desk. Then Lambert, who held the warrant in his hand, read it aloud, but in a low tone, and advised Reginald to say nothing.
"I am not afraid to speak," Reginald answered, with a proud, defiant look. "Until my innocence is proved I will proclaim it to all the world."
"Well said, my son," said Aunt Rob.
Inspector Robson did not utter a word, but with a set face entered the charge. Then Detective Lambert bade the Inspector good night, and passed out of the scene. He offered no good-bye greeting to the others, and seemingly took no notice of Aunt Rob's action when she held her skirts aside, so that he should not touch them. It was not in her heart to forgive him for the part he had played.
When all the formalities were concluded Florence and Reginald, clasped in each other's arms, exchanged tender words of comfort and hope.
"God bless you, my beloved husband," said the girl-wife. "He will make your innocence clear."
"I have no fears," said Reginald. "God preserve you?"
"Good night, my son," said Aunt Rob.
There was not a tear in their eyes; each strove by outward calmness to sustain the other in this bitter trial. Inspector Robson never raised his eyes from the charge sheet.
"Take care of her, Dick," said Reginald.
"Trust to me, Reginald," said Dick, with a bright smile.
So they left him, and proceeded through the dimly lighted streets to Aunt Rob's house, and there they found Gracie waiting outside for Dick.