"If it happened that you found him here," she continued, "would you give information to the police? Would you say, 'Go into that house and arrest the murderer of Mr. Samuel Boyd?' Oh, I know, I know! But we do not fear the truth, and we have a friend who will see that justice is done. That is all we want, and I pray that I may live to see the day."
She had worked herself into a white heat of passion, and Dick saw that no good would result from prolonging his visit. "May there come a happier day for all of us," he said, and passed from her presence.
Night was coming on as he took his way to Catchpole Square, but he did not heed the falling shadows nor the soft drizzling rain that now began to fall. "This is Dr. Vinsen's work," he thought, "and he does not work without a purpose. What motive can he have in fixing suspicion upon me and Reginald, what motive in taking so deep an interest in Mrs. Death? The mystery seems impenetrable, but I will pierce it till light comes. I will, I will, I will!" He did not hear pattering feet behind him, and was not conscious that anyone was by his side till his hand was clutched.
"Dick!"
"Gracie!" he cried. "I am glad you are here. Your mother is terribly anxious about you. Let me take you to her."
"No," she said, panting, "not yet, Dick. I've been looking for you everywhere. I've got something to tell you first. Come, come, come!"
She dragged him in the direction he had been taking, towards Catchpole Square.
He did not resist. The enterprise to which he was pledged had so fastened itself upon his imagination that the least thing appertaining to it claimed first place. Except that her breath was short there were no symptoms of excitement in Gracie, but Dick was sufficiently conversant with her peculiar manner to know that she had something of importance to communicate.
"Tell me as we go along," he said.
"No," she answered, "you must see for yourself."
"Don't walk so fast, then. We must not attract attention."
There were only two or three loungers in Catchpole Square. Now that Samuel Boyd was buried the general interest in the house had waned, and public attention was chiefly devoted to the proceedings in the Coroner's Court, in consequence of which there had been intervals during this day when the Square was bare of sight-seers. The two or three idle persons who were staring aimlessly at the walls as Dick and Gracie came near regarded the appearance of the new-comers as an agreeable diversion, and gazed at them instead.
"Now, Gracie, what is it?" asked Dick.
She cast a sharp glance at a little iron gate at the side of the next house to Samuel Boyd's, and replied, "Not while they're here, Dick. Stare them out."
Nothing loth, Dick stared so sternly at the idlers that they became nervous, shifted their gaze, to see him still staring at them when they looked at him again, made awkward movements, and finally strolled away, and left the Square to him and Gracie.
"Let's talk inside the house," she said, with a nod of approval.
"No, Gracie, here. I don't care about taking you in."
"I've been in," she said calmly.
"You've been in!" he exclaimed, hastening to the door. "Is anybody inside now? Ah!" with a sudden thought. "Your father!"
"I didn't see a living soul when I was in the place," she said, mournfully.
"Who opened the door for you?"
"Nobody. I won't talk in the Square, Dick; people'll be coming and interrupting us. I'll show you all about it when we're inside. You'll be glad to know."
Recognising the imprudence of running the chance of being overheard, he unlocked the door, and they stood in the dark passage.
"Don't be frightened, Gracie. What has happened within these walls is eerie enough to send the shivers through one."
"I ain't frightened a bit, Dick."
"Very well, then. Remain here while I go and get a light. The candles and matches are upstairs."
"I'll come with you. You do like me a little, don't you, Dick?"
"I like you a good deal. You're the queerest and bravest little girl I've ever met."
She nestled close to him. They reached the office, and he fumbled about for the matches.
"Where are we, Dick?"
He hesitated a moment, and answered gently, "In the office where your father used to work."
"Father?" she sighed. "Dick, what do you see when you are in the dark?"
"Darkness."
"I see more than that."
"Do you see anything now?" he asked, still groping for the matches.
"I see father. There he stands. He looks so white and thin, and he's holding out his arms to me to save him."
"From what? Ah, here they are at last." He struck a match, and lighted a candle.
"I don't know from what, but I'm going to. Now he's gone. No, no! He's there, he's there! Father, father!"
She darted forward to the hooded chair in which the wax figure of the Chinaman was seated.
"Hold hard, Gracie," said Dick, catching her by the arm. "That's not a man; it's a wax figure."
"Let me go, let me go!" It was not a scream, but a fierce whisper that issued from her lips. She twisted herself out of Dick's grasp, and ran to the chair. She stood awhile before she spoke again, and Dick watched her curiously. "Is he dead?"
"Wax images generally are," said Dick, endeavouring to speak lightly.
She gazed earnestly at the dead white face.
"Has he been here long?"
"A pretty long time, I should say."
"Was he here when Mr. Boyd was murdered?"
"Yes."
"If he could only speak, Dick!"
"Ah, if he only could!"
She crept to the bedroom door. "Is this the room?"
"Yes. I wouldn't go in, Gracie."
"Why not? He's dead and buried; and if his ghost is there it can't do me any harm."
Her black eyes travelled over the walls and ceiling and floor, as though in search of a clue to her father's fate. She evinced a disposition to linger there, but Dick pulled her back into the office.
"Now, Gracie, how did you get into the house?"
"I'll show you. Come downstairs."
Taking the candle with them they descended to the lower part of the premises. There were three small rooms in the basement, in addition to the kitchen, all in a state of ruin. He was filled with wonder when Gracie informed him that there was a cellar underneath the kitchen, for neither he nor the officials who had searched the place knew anything of it.
"Pull up the trap door, Dick. There it is, under that old chair."
The wonder still upon him he removed the chair, and, kneeling, lifted the trap door, beneath which was a short fixed ladder.
"I'll go first," said Gracie, "then you can give me the candle, and come after me." It was done as she directed, and he found himself in a dungeon-like room, about ten feet square, without window or door in it.
"I got in through that wall, Dick."
It was the wall that divided the two houses. Dick looked and saw no means of entrance.
"Can't you see how, Dick?"
"No. You are a spirit."
"Can a spirit do things that we can't?"
"It is what people believe," replied Dick, doubtfully.
"And see things that we can't?"
"So they say."
"If I was a spirit I'd soon find out where poor father is. I ain't a spirit, Dick. Look here."
Stepping to a part of the wall which bore traces of crumbling away, Gracie pushed a brick into the cellar of the adjoining house; she pushed another, and that fell; another, and that fell. A rat scampered past, and gave Dick a shock. Gracie laughed. Then she wedged her small body through, and stood apart from him, he being in one house, and she in another.
"Wait a bit, Gracie," he cried excitedly. "Hold the candle."
There were other loose bricks which yielded to his pressure, and in a few moments he had made a hole large enough for a man to creep through. Dick and Gracie were now side by side.
"Easy, ain't it, Dick? We'd best put up the bricks, in case of accidents."
"You ought to have been a detective," said Dick.
"I shouldn't have made a bad one, I don't think," she answered, with unemotional complacency, proceeding to replace the bricks, which she did very carefully, even fixing the loose mortar about them. The work was done so neatly that nothing but the closest scrutiny would have led to the discovery of the unlawful communication between the houses.
"Dick," said Gracie, "Mr. Samuel Boyd was as artful as they make 'em. Do you think he went in and out through this hole?"
"He'd have been in a rare mess if he did," replied Dick, brushing the dust from his clothes. "The puzzle is what he wanted in an empty house. Supposing he did not wish to go back, how did he get out of it?"
"This way."
He followed her out of the cellar up a short, narrow flight of rickety stairs. At the end of the passage was a door, the lock of which was broken. This door opened upon half a dozen stone steps, and at one time had probably been used as a kitchen entrance for tradesmen. A little rusty gate at the top opened into the Square. Only two of the houses had an entrance of a similar description, and Dick inwardly railed at his own lack of foresight in overlooking this means of getting into Samuel Boyd's residence. Upon further reflection, however, he thought it hardly likely that he would have succeeded in carrying his investigations to the point which Gracie's shrewdness and pertinacity had enabled her to reach.
"It's a good job for me the place is empty," said Gracie. "I had to get into Mr. Boyd's house somehow, you know, even if I had to climb the wall at the back, the way the murderer and the newspaper man did. As I was looking at the houses I saw these steps, and when nobody was in the Square I crept down. It was all a job to push the door open, but I did, and there I was, without anybody seeing me. Then I tried to get into the backyard, but couldn't. I knew there was only a wall between me and the next house, and I thought of the way prisoners make their escape from prison. They made holes in walls--why couldn't I? I found a bit of old iron in the cellar here, and I poked at the bricks with it till I came across one that was looser than the others. It didn't take me long to push it through, and when I got that out the rest was easy. That's the way of it, Dick."
"You were in the dark all the time."
"That didn't matter. I've got cat's eyes."
"You're a clever girl."
"Thank you, Dick. When you say anything like that to me I feel warm all over."
"What made you so anxious to get into Mr. Boyd's house? Surely you did not expect to find your father there?"
"I don't know what I didn't expect. I thought I might find a bit of paper with his writing on it that'd tell me where to look for him. I told you about my dream the night before last, and how I promised father I'd catch the murderer. I dreamt of him again last night. 'Don't forget your promise,' he said. 'Look for me in Catchpole Square.' 'You ain't dead, are you, father?' I asked. 'No,' he said, 'look for me in Catchpole Square, and catch the murderer.' It's a large order, ain't it, Dick?"
There was nothing humorous in the question; her voice was perfectly passionless, but Dick had a clear sense of the absorbing earnestness and the pitiful pathos which lay beneath, unexpressed though they were in tone or gesture.
"Poor little Gracie!" he said. "The body of a mouse and the heart of a lion."
"Iamsmall, ain't I? But I shall grow. Did I do right, Dick, in coming to tell you about the hole? Don't say you're mad with me."
"I won't. You did quite right, and I only wish you were a man. You and I together would get at the bottom of a mystery that is making many innocent people unhappy."
"We'll do it as it is, Dick. It's made mother unhappy--oh, so unhappy! The worst of it is"--she paused, and with a grave look added, "Dr. Vinsen. What does he mean by speaking against you?"
"Passes my comprehension, Gracie. There's no love lost between us, that's clear. It is a case of mutual antipathy. But I don't want to do him an injustice. He has been very kind to you."
"Yes," she said. "I wonder why."
"Ah, I wonder."
"I tried to get in at the inquest to-day, but couldn't get near the door. Was he there?"
"I did not see him. His friend was."
"His friend?" she queried.
"Dr. Pye, and he made it hot for us."
"What did he say, Dick, what did he say?"
"Too long to tell you now; you'll hear all about it by and by."
"Give me a ha'penny to buy a paper, Dick, will you?"
"Here's a penny. So, Dr. Vinsen speaks against me?"
"Yes, and smiles and pats me when I stick up for you. He ain't angry, you know; he speaks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 'You'll know better, my child,' he says, 'before you are much older, and then you'll stick up for me.' He'll have to wait a long time for that. Mother's wild with me because I don't like him, but I can't, I can't! I feel sometimes as if I could stick a knife in him. I'm sure he'd do you a mischief if he could, so just you take care of him, Dick."
"I will; and I dare say I shall be a match for him in the end. We've talked enough about him, Gracie, my girl. Now we'll get back to the house, and I'll take you to your mother, who is fretting her heart out about you."
"I'd sooner go by myself, Dick, and I'll tell her you found me and sent me home."
"That will do as well. I know you will not break a promise you give me."
"Never, Dick, never! I'd die first!"
They returned to the house the way they came, and she lifted her face to his.
"Kiss me, Dick," she said.
He kissed gladness into her, and they parted at Samuel Boyd's street door.
At ten o'clock on this night, Dr. Pye was employed looking over a number of manuscripts, setting some aside and burning others, keeping a jealous eye upon the fire as he watched them moulder to ashes. Upon the table were a bottle of wine and two glass goblets of ancient manufacture and design. There were quaint stems to these goblets, one representing a serpent, the other a satyr, whose upraised face seemed to be trying to reach the rim. Priceless treasures of the antique. That the wine was precious, and that Dr. Pye so considered it, was evidenced by the disposition of the bottle, which lay in a basket lined with thick blue felt; the glasses were Venetian. These and the wine were in harmony with the taste displayed in the gathering together the costly and unique collection of articles which adorned the room. One might have expected to see such an apartment in an old palace, for the beautifying of which centuries of treasure had been collected through many generations, but scarcely in a street in Islington where wealth was not abundant, and where the residents, for the most part, were toilers of the humblest kind. Secluded as was the room--its door closed, its one window so closely shuttered that not a chink of light could be discerned from without--the hum of crowded life from the outer street penetrated it and droned like an exhausted bee. Dr. Pye listened, smiled contemptuously, and gazed around upon the precious bronzes and ivories, the rarebric-à-brac, the exquisite enamels, the books with jewelled bindings, which were so arranged that their beauties were seen at a glance. Not one of these examples was of the new school of art; all belonged to times when form and colour were either better understood and valued than now, or received from the artist that whole-souled and loving labour which in this age of hurry-scurry no artist dreams of bestowing upon his work--and thus misses perfection and immortality. In the world of art to-day it is the merchant-author who displays his wares and touts for patronage.
His task completed, Dr. Pye put into a drawer the papers he had set aside, and with extreme care poured out a glass of wine and held it up to the light. His anticipated enjoyment of the precious draught was heightened by the deep ruby colour which shone through the delicate glass, and he gazed long at it, and at its almost living reflection in a jewel on his white hand. He drank it slowly, and drank a second and a third in the same leisurely manner. Then he rose and went to the window, in the closed shutter of which was a small revolving panel. On a bracket within reach of his right hand was the box containing the flashlight, of which he had spoken in his evidence at the Coroner's Court, and within reach of his left was a tap which controlled the gas. This tap he turned, and the room was in darkness. Then he turned the revolving panel, and through the exposed circle of glass looked out upon the night. All was dark in Catchpole Square. Its silence, its gloom, the utter absence of movement, were in keeping with the tragedy which had made its name a household word.
Lifting the box from the bracket he opened it, and, pressing a spring which ignited the magnesium wire, threw a flashlight on the house of Samuel Boyd. For one brief moment the walls and windows were illuminated, as though lightning had struck them. Then all was darkness again.
With thoughtful brows Dr. Pye closed the revolving panel and turned up the gas. Placing the box on the table, he took from it a film which he laid flat on a square of sensitised paper, and poured a liquid over it. Holding it up to the light a photograph of the walls and windows of the house he had illuminated appeared. No living face or form was visible in the picture, nothing but lifeless stone and wood and glass.
As he was replacing the box on the bracket, the sound of footsteps on the stairs caused him to look towards the door, which presently opened and admitted Dr. Vinsen.
"According to my promise, my friend," said the visitor; "always faithful, always a man of my word." His eyes fell upon the bottle of wine, and without invitation he filled a glass, and was about to drink when he paused, as if a sudden suspicion had crossed his mind. Dr. Pye smiled, and refilling his own glass, drank, his example being followed by Dr. Vinsen.
"A rare wine," he said, smacking his lips, "but too seductive----altogether too seductive. Am I mistaken in supposing that you have been testing the flashlight?"
"You are not mistaken," said Dr. Pye.
"Without result, of course?"
"Without result."
Dr. Vinsen stepped to the shuttered window, and Dr. Pye, lowering the gas almost to the vanishing point, turned the revolving panel, and peered through the exposed glass at the windows of the house opposite.
"Look!" he whispered, clutching his visitor's arm. "What do you see?"
"Nothing but a mass of shadows," replied Dr. Vinsen.
"Look again--closer, closer!"
"I see nothing," said Dr. Vinsen, testily. "What do you see?"
Dr. Pye did not answer, but bringing forward the small box, opened it, and sent a flashlight straight into the opposite window.
"God in heaven!" he cried, falling back affrighted.
In that brief moment of light he had seen at the window the face and form of Samuel Boyd!
Dr. Vinsen vainly seeking in the darkness for the cause of Dr. Pye's alarm, could not utter a word. In his listening attitude, with the white fear depicted on his countenance, he presented a terror-struck appearance, and seemed to be waiting for advancing footsteps, or for the sound of voices in the street without, demanding admittance. But the silence was not broken.
"Can't you speak?" he then said in a whisper to his companion. "What is it? Is there anybody in the Square? Turn up the light."
His hand was groping for the tap that controlled the gas when Dr. Pye seized his arm and held him back. Dr. Vinsen winced and impatiently endeavoured to free himself, but the fingers that had fastened themselves upon his muscles were more like rods of steel than flesh and bone.
"Let go!" he muttered. "You are crushing my arm."
"Do not stir," replied Dr. Pye, releasing him. Then he masked the shutter, and brought light into the room.
It was characteristic of this man that, short as had been the interval between his startled exclamation and the lighting up of the apartment, he had regained his self-control, and that on his features no trace of his recent agitation was visible. There are moments of unexpected surprise when the fixed habits of a carefully trained life slip their hold, and the mind becomes as unquestioningly receptive as that of a child. Such a moment had come to Dr. Pye when he beheld the vision of the man the mystery of whose death was on every tongue. It held him only for the moment; before the passing of another his dominant will had reasserted itself, and his face resumed his impenetrable calm.
"Now, what is it?" again demanded Dr. Vinsen. His eyes travelled round the room, and colour came into his cheeks when he saw they were alone.
"You did not see it?" replied Dr. Pye.
"See what?"
"The figure of Samuel Boyd standing at his window?"
Dr. Vinsen stared incredulously at his host, and then a long deep breath of relief escaped him. "Only that!" he exclaimed. "I thought it was something worse."
Dr. Pye repeated his question. "You did not see it?"
"I saw nothing. The dead do not rise from their graves. Dead once, dead for ever. But you can convince me by producing ocular proof. Your ingenious device takes an instantaneous picture of any object upon which it flashes its light. Produce me the picture of the dead and buried Samuel Boyd."
"I cannot. The last film has been used, and I omitted to put in others."
"Very unfortunate," said Dr. Vinsen, dryly. "Suppose you supply the omission, and try again."
Dr. Pye acted upon the suggestion. He placed an automatic arrangement of films in the little machine, again turned down the gas, again opened the circular lid in the shutter, again threw the flash light upon the house of Samuel Boyd. The blank walls and windows confronted them, and no sign of life, physical or spiritual, was visible; and when the film was removed and developed it showed no face of man or spirit.
"I did not expect a result," said Dr. Pye; "there was no form at the window."
"You saw none on the first occasion."
"As clearly as I behold you now I saw the shadow, spirit, or reflection of Samuel Boyd. I was not under the spell of a delusion; my senses did not deceive me. My pulse beats steadily; there is no fever in my blood. I saw it."
"And I refuse to believe it. My friend, you do nothing without design, and if I doubt your protestation I but follow the excellent example you set me. I have no faith indiablerie, nor am I a child to be influenced by a goblin tale. Who thinks me so, mistakes my character--mis-takes my cha-rac-ter; and that might lead to more serious mistakes."
There was no indication that Dr. Pye paid heed to these words, or that they produced any impression upon him; he seemed to be absorbed in a train of thought which he was endeavouring to follow to a logical end.
"I recall a singular case," he said, musingly, "of a man who was brutally murdered in his own apartments while he was engaged in making experiments in photography. It occurred in a foreign country, and the police, investigating the case, had their suspicions directed to a person who had had dealings with the murdered man, and who had been seen entering his apartments within an hour or two of the murder. They followed up the clue, and arrested the suspected man, who energetically proclaimed his innocence. The evidence at the trial was entirely circumstantial, but it was considered conclusive, and the man went to the scaffold, protesting his innocence with his dying breath. Some years afterwards business of a private nature brought me into contact with a man who had but a short time to live, and on his deathbed he confessed to me that he was the murderer. In proof of this he had, by a strange fatuity, carried about with him during all these years a certain piece of evidence which, had it been presented to a jury, would have been fatal to him. The circumstances were these: On the day of the murder he had entered the apartment of his victim at the moment that a prepared plate had been placed in the camera. A quarrel took place between them, which culminated in the murderer suddenly plunging a knife into the heart of the student photographer. Death was instantaneous, and as he fell to the ground his eyes were fixed upon the face of his murderer. There he lay upon the ground, dead, his eyes wide open. The murderer was himself a photographer, and a whimsical fancy seized him to take a picture of those staring eyes, in which a wild horror dwelt. He acted upon it. Focussing the dead face he exposed the plate, and, the picture taken, stole away from the house with the negative in his possession. He subsequently developed the picture and enlarged it, and there, under the lens of a powerful microscope, was the portrait of the murderer upon the pupils of the dead man's eyes. It had been his last living vision, which had fixed itself upon the retina. I have the picture by me now, and since that day have been much interested in the photographic art, in which I have made some curious experiments. Later researches have proved that we can photograph what is invisible to the eye, what is even concealed in a box. The photographs of shadows and the spirits of the dead can be taken. The image of Samuel Boyd being in my mind, found its reflection in a window in a moment of light. Why should we not be able to photograph a vision created by the imagination?"
"Or," said Dr. Vinsen, with a touch of sarcasm, "the thoughts of men."
"Or," said Dr. Pye, with an assenting nod, "the thoughts of men. It will be done; and when it is accomplished it will open the road to greater discoveries."
"Ah," said Dr. Vinsen, shrugging his shoulders, "great discoveries--yourgreat discoveries, ending in visions."
"To you, visions; to me, reality. The age of miracles is not yet past. It is my intention to get out of this country, and return to Italy, where there is light, where the sun shines. This atmosphere, these leaden skies, these black nights, are fatal. I must release myself. My purpose is fixed."
"And mine."
Both spoke in a tone of decision, and both had a motive-spring which had yet to be revealed.
"Let us come back to earth," said Dr. Vinsen, "and above all, let us be practical. There are accounts between us which must be settled--pray do not forget that."
"I will not."
"You were at the inquest to-day," said Dr. Vinsen, rather uneasily, for there was a menace in Dr. Pye's tone. "The papers report you fully. Your warning to the jury not to be led away by a resemblance that might be accidental was a masterstroke. It produced a good effect, but will it assist Mr. Reginald Boyd? We shall see--we shall see. Justice is slow. Were you to formulate a code you would make it swifter, surer--eh, my friend?"
"I would make it swift as sudden death to all who stood in my path," said Dr. Pye, and now there was a cold glitter in his eyes as he looked at his visitor.
"No doubt, no doubt, and no feeling of mercy would restrain you; but we cannot break through the meshes. Sentinels stand at every corner, and slow as justice is in these mean streets, of which you have so poor an opinion, its eyes are never closed. It is fortunate for some that it can occasionally be hoodwinked by a master mind, to which" (here he bent his head, half in mockery, half in sincerity) "I pay tribute. That poor woman, Mrs. Abel Death, has had no news of her husband--singular, is it not? Her strange little child Gracie, I regret to say, views me with disfavour. It is some compensation that her mother regards us as her benefactors; and in some respects we deserve to be so regarded. The expenditure of money in that quarter has not been entirely thrown away--not en-tire-ly thrown a-way. It has assisted me to direct public opinion, and to keep watch upon my friend Remington, whom I would like to plunge to the bottom of the Red Sea, to rot with the bones of the Egyptians."
That a man so mild in voice and so bland in manner should break into sudden malignity was surprising.
"He is better where he is," said Dr. Pye; "his living presence is necessary. People shoot wild when there is no target to aim at, and a chance shot might hit the mark."
"Always profound," said Dr. Vinsen, admiringly, "always, always profound. A target--yes, a target. It is a thousand pities, my dear friend, that you are not in all things more practical and less imaginative. Take, for instance, these gewgaws by which you are surrounded, these flasks and vases, these jewelled trifles, this curiously wrought work from some Eastern country--of what avail are they for the true pleasures of life?" Dr. Pye was silent. "You may say, perhaps, they feed the artistic sense. As I believe only in what I see, so do I believe only in what I feel. Better to feed the material senses--far more rational. If what you have presented to my view in your character is genuine, and not the outcome of a deliberate intention to deceive--in-ten-tion to de-ceive--it is composed of singularly contradictory qualities. In a certain sense, unique, for who would expect to find Alnaschar dreams floating among the fleshpots of Egypt? Your taste in wine is not to be excelled--I approve of it; it is a passion you carry to an excess which I consider as ridiculous as it is unwise--still, in the main, I approve of it. Good wine nourishes the tissues, helps to prolong life. Hippocrates and many long-headed ancients have something to say on this head. But these lifeless memorials of a dead past, in which there is no vitality, which are eternally the same, dumb and expressionless----My dear friend, I fear you are not listening."
"My thoughts are elsewhere," said Dr. Pye, rising and approaching the window. Dr. Vinsen followed him, with suspicion and discontent on his face. For the fourth time on this night the room was plunged in darkness; for the fourth time the circular lid of the shutter was drawn aside.
"There, there!" whispered Dr. Pye. "What do you see?"
Dr. Vinsen peered into the night. "I see nothing."
"Stand back."
Swift as thought he threw the flash-light upon the windows of Samuel Boyd's house. Then he masked the shutter and turned on the gas. Accompanied by Dr. Vinsen, who jealously watched his every movement, he stepped to the table, withdrew the film from the little machine, and developed it. And there before them came gradually into view the pictured presentment of the face and form of Samuel Boyd, standing at the window of his house in Catchpole Square.
Dr. Vinsen's face was pallid, his eyes dilated, his teeth chattered. Dr. Pye's face was thoughtful, introspective.
"Do you believe now?" he asked in an undertone.
Dr. Vinsen passed his hand confusedly across his brows.
"We had certain plans," continued Dr. Pye; "are they to be carried out to-night?"
"Not to-night; not to-night," replied Dr. Vinsen, turning towards the door.
The next moment Dr. Pye was alone.
On the following morning Aunt and Uncle Rob and Florence and Reginald sat at the breakfast table, waiting for Dick, who had not been home all night. Although they had had no word from him since he left them on the previous evening, they knew that he would join them at the earliest possible moment. It had been an anxious night with them, and they had had but little sleep. There were dark rims round Aunt Rob's eyes, and signs of unrest were on Uncle Rob's countenance. Singularly enough, the invalid of the party, Reginald, had gathered strength; his voice was firmer, his step more confident, and there was an expression on his face which denoted that he had prepared himself to meet the worst that fortune had in store for him.
"Florence and I have been considering the straight and honest course to pursue," he said, "and we have decided. She wished me at first to be guided by your advice; but she is beginning to find out that she has married a wilful man."
She gave him a tender smile, and put her hand in his.
"It is not that I don't value your advice; but what would be the use of asking for it if I hadn't made up my mind to take it?"
"No use, my dear," said Aunt Rob. "What have you decided to do?"
"To offer a reward for the discovery of the murderer of my father."
Aunt Rob nodded her approval, and would have expressed it had she not observed the grave look on her husband's face. So she held her tongue, and waited for him to speak.
"It is not a plan we generally approve of," he remarked, after a pause, "and it seldom meets with success."
"Has it ever?" asked Reginald.
"Yes. A fifty to one chance."
"If it were a thousand to one chance it would be wrong to throw it away. Much of the evidence that has been given can be so construed as to cast suspicion upon me. How shall I protect myself except by showing the world that I court the most searching inquiry? Lady Wharton's story is true, and some villain, personating my father, succeeded in imposing upon and robbing her. The offer of a substantial reward will not only quicken the efforts of the police, but will set a hundred people on the hunt. God forbid that I should do anyone an injustice. I cannot conceive that Abel Death is the murderer, and yet in the eyes of the public it lies between him and me. It would be the height of folly to ignore that fact. Here in this paper"--he took up a newspaper, glanced at it, and flung it indignantly aside--"is a veiled allusion to Abel Death and me as accomplices. No names are mentioned, but the inference can hardly be missed. On my way home from the funeral on Tuesday, and yesterday from the Coroner's Court, I saw some of the newspaper bills with their cruel headlines accusingme!I saw the silent accusation in the eyes of the people as I passed. Is it in nature that I should sit idly down under such imputations? They are enough to drive a man mad, and I shall go mad if I do not do something quickly to repel them. The wretch who went down to Bournemouth must have purchased a railway ticket; the clerk who sold it him may have seen his face; passengers travelling the same way must have seen him: he must have been seen by other persons in Bournemouth; he may have taken a carriage there to drive to the Gables; if he went on foot he may have asked his way to the house; when he left Lady Wharton he could scarcely have walked about the town till the trains started in the morning; he must have slept somewhere; a waiter or a chambermaid may have noticed him; there may have been something in his speech or manner to attract attention, however slight. There are a thousand things from which a clue may be obtained and which may be brought to the recollection by the hope of earning money. The offer of a reward will stir people's memories, will cause them to come forward with scraps of information which otherwise would be thought of no importance. Uncle Rob, Aunt Rob--I dare not, and will not, call you father and mother till I am cleared of these vile suspicions--do you not see that Imustdo this for dear Florence's sake, that it is my duty to make her less ashamed of the name I gave her?"
The sobs in his throat prevented him from continuing. Trembling in every limb, shaking with passion and excitement, he turned appealingly to his wife.
She clasped him in her loving arms, crying, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it, and of you, my dear, dear husband! If there is a stain upon our name you shall wipe it away; you shall make it bright and clean and pure, and men and women shall say, 'The son has atoned for his father's faults, and stands before the world an honourable gentleman who has met misfortune bravely, and silenced the slanderers who dared to breathe a word against him.' Oh, my dear, my dear! I never loved you as I love you now, I never honoured you as I honour you now. Mother, father, stand by us--comfort him, strengthen him!"
She glowed with heavenly pity, with indignant pride, with devoted love. The type of a true, brave, honest English girl, she stood embracing the man whose heart, whose life, were linked with hers, ready to defend him, to suffer for him, to fling back the words of scorn flung at him--if need were, to die for him. It is beneath the stress of a heavy stroke of misfortune that men and women such as she show their noblest qualities.
A great peace stole into Reginald's heart; the sobs in his throat died away.
"I will try to prove myself worthy of you," he said huskily. "I pray to God that I may live to prove it."
Aunt Rob's heart throbbed with exultation.
"Our daughter, father, that I nursed at my breast," she murmured to her husband. "God love and preserve her!"
"Amen!" he answered.
So in that humble home those sweet flowers bloomed in the midst of the darkness, and through the lowering clouds one bright star shone--the star of love and hope and mutual faith.
When the excitement had subsided, and they were all seated again, Uncle Rob said,
"Let it be as you have decided, Reginald, my lad. As an inspector of police I might argue with you; as a man and a father I agree with you. And in the nick of time, here comes Dick."
To Dick, with his cheerful face and voice, that bore no traces of his night's anxious vigil, all was explained. He shook hands with Reginald, and said,
"A good move. I'll go a step farther. Let there be two bills put out and posted all over England, one offering a reward for the discovery of the murderer, the other for giving such information of Abel Death as will lead to his being found. You can tell us, perhaps, Uncle Rob--would that be against the law?"
"I don't think the law can touch it," he replied. "It might not be approved of in some quarters, but the law don't apply, so far as I know anything of it."
"If the law," said Aunt Rob, with fine disdain, "can prevent a son from offering a reward for the discovery of his father's murderer the less we have of it the better. Why, instead of one man looking for the monster, there 'll be a hundred! Dick, you must see to the printing of the bills, and they should be got out at once."
"I will attend to everything; but before we go into details I've something to tell you. I should have been here earlier if I hadn't met little Gracie Death. What a brick that mite is! Just listen to what she discovered yesterday, Reginald--that there's a way of getting into your father's house without getting through the front or the back door. You may well look startled; it nearly tookmybreath away. Do you remember that pitiful hoarse voice of hers, uncle, on the night of the fog, when she said, 'Youwillfind father, won't you, sir?'" Uncle Rob nodded. "Well, as nobody has been able to find him, she has made up her mind to find him herself, heaven knows how, but somehow. She thinks of nothing else, she dreams of nothing else, and she's got it into that clever little head of hers that he's to be found in Catchpole Square, the very place, one would imagine, that he'd be likely to avoid. If faith can move mountains, as they say it can, the thing is as good as done. There is such magnetism in her little body that when she speaks she almost makes you believe what she believes. Now, I'm not going to tell you how she got into the house while Uncle Rob is here. As inspector of police he would consider it his duty to make use of the information."
"I certainly should," said Uncle Rob. "I'd best make myself scarce."
"Don't go yet, uncle. I want you to hear something you ought to know. Gracie, talking to me this morning, tells me of a man she saw Dr. Vinsen speaking to last night. She hates that doctor--so do I; and it's because she hates him that she creeps behind them without their seeing her, and hears Dr. Vinsen say, 'You act up to your instructions, and I'll keep my promise.' That's all she does hear, because the doctor, turning his head over his shoulder, sends her scuttling away; but she's certain he doesn't suspect that he'd been followed and overheard. There isn't much in that, you'll say; but listen to what follows. Gracie had just finished telling me this when a man passes us. 'There,' she says, 'that's the man.' I catch sight of his face, and who do you think it was?"
"Out with it, Dick," said Uncle Rob.
"It was the juryman that's been putting all those questions at the inquest about our private affairs, and that's been doing his best to throw suspicion upon Reginald and me and all of us. Queer start, isn't it?"