These words, spoken loudly and emphatically, acted like a spark upon gunpowder, and it was not until the Coroner threatened several times to clear the Court that order was again restored. From Lady Wharton the attention of the audience was turned to Reginald, whose head was bowed in shame. Some pitied him, some condemned him, and all were feverishly curious to hear the outcome of Lady Wharton's disclosures. The only crumb of comfort Reginald received was expressed in the close clasp of Florence's hand. Fearlessly and indignantly the young girl faced the eyes that were directed towards her and her husband; her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, as though crying shame upon those who seemed to be mutely accusing the man she loved. Dick looked contemptuously upon these silent accusers, and Aunt Rob glared at them; it was with some difficulty that Uncle Rob prevented her from addressing Lady Wharton in terms of indignant reproach. "Keep still, mother, keep still," he whispered, "you will only make matters worse." So she held her tongue, and nursed her wrath in bitterness of spirit. During the course of this drama of human passion and emotion Mr. Finnis, Q.C., rose and addressed the Court.
"Lady Wharton," he said, "has suffered a grievous wrong, and however strongly she may express herself, it cannot for one moment be doubted that she is speaking what she believes to be the truth. An endeavour has been made to prove that Mr. Samuel Boyd was murdered on the Friday or Saturday night of the week before last. We do not impeach the witnesses, we do not say that they have spoken from interested motives. What we do say is that they are in error. That Mr. Samuel Boyd did not meet his death at the time mentioned is proved by the fact that Lady Wharton saw and conversed with him five or six days afterwards. Her testimony is supported by that of her brother, Lord Fairfax, who is now in Court, and who also saw and conversed with him. As you may gather from her evidence we go farther than that; we say that Mr. Samuel Boyd has not been murdered. Her ladyship, as you will presently learn, has had, unfortunately for herself, some business transactions with Mr. Samuel Boyd, and in view of the strange mystery which surrounds the case, I have advised her to make these transactions public. I ask you now, Mr. Coroner, to permit her to relate her story with as little interruption from yourself as possible; and I would also ask Lady Wharton to control her feelings, and to refrain from strong language. There are persons in Court related to Mr. Samuel Boyd, to whom such epithets as she has applied to him must be extremely painful."
The Coroner: "The extraordinary turn this inquiry has taken renders it imperatively necessary that a full disclosure be made of all that has passed between Lady Wharton and Mr. Samuel Boyd. Now, if your ladyship pleases."
Lady Wharton: "And kindly do not interrupt me. I have mentioned that I paid Mr. Samuel Boyd a visit on the evening of Friday, the 1st of March. On that occasion I gave him bills for a considerable amount in renewal of bills shortly to fall due, and I foolishly forgot to ask him for the return of the old bills. In the course of the interview I requested him--(it is perfectly abominable that I should be compelled to speak of it, but I suppose it cannot be prevented)--I requested him to advance me a thousand pounds for my personal use, quite apart from the business between him and Lord Wharton. With some idea of the character of the man I was dealing with, I had brought with me as security for the loan certain articles of jewellery of great value, for which I had no immediate use, and which I handed over to him. After inspecting them he consented to advance the money, but said he could not let me have it immediately--which, of course, was a trick and subterfuge. I told him that I was going out of town, to our place in Bournemouth, and he said he would bring the sum to me there on Thursday night--last Thursday, you know--in bank notes. With that understanding I left him. Two days afterwards it was brought to my recollection that Mr. Boyd had not returned the old bills, and I wrote to him about them. At the same time I mentioned that I needed a much larger sum for my private personal use than we had arranged for, and I requested him to bring £1,500, promising to give him further security in the shape of additional jewels, for there is only one way of dealing with these Shylocks: theymusthave their pound of flesh. He replied that he would bring the money and the old bills on Thursday night. We were giving a ball on that night, and as I did not wish such a person to mix with our guests I decided to finish the business with him in a retired part of the grounds, and I instructed my servants to that effect. He had the assurance not to present himself till one in the morning, when a servant brought me his card. I went to the spot I had appointed, and there I saw Mr. Samuel Boyd. I asked him if he had brought the money; he answered that he had, and he produced a small packet, which he declined to part with till I gave him the additional jewels I had promised as security. The scoundrel assumed an air of saucy independence which completely deceived me The jewels were in the house, and Lord Fairfax happening to be passing at that moment I called to him and requested him to remain with Mr. Boyd while I went to fetch them. When I returned I gave them to Mr. Boyd, who then handed me the packet, saying that it contained the £1,500 in bank notes and the old bills. As I could not count the money in the grounds I went to the house again, accompanied by Lord Fairfax, and opening the packet, discovered that I had been robbed. There were no bills inside, and no money, nothing but blank paper cunningly folded to make it feel like bank notes. I hurried back, with the intention of giving the thief into custody, but though search was made for him in every direction he was not to be found. I want to know what has become of him and of my property."
The Coroner: "This is a strange story, Lady Wharton, and is in direct conflict with the evidence that has been tendered."
Lady Wharton: "The evidence that has been tendered is in direct conflict with the facts of the case. In all my life I have never heard such a tissue of misrepresentations and delusions."
"May you not yourself be labouring under a delusion?"
"You had better say at once that I am not in my right senses."
"Pray do not speak so excitedly. May you not have been deceived by an accidental likeness to Mr. Samuel Boyd in the person who presented himself?"
"It is an absurd suggestion. There is no possibility of my having been mistaken. I tell you it was the man himself."
The Coroner: "Did you keep a copy of the letter you wrote to Mr. Boyd?"
Lady Wharton: "I am not in the habit of keeping copies of my letters. I leave that to tradesmen."
"Have you the letter you received from him?"
"I have brought it with me."
Lady Wharton handed the letter to the Coroner, who read it aloud:
"Mr. Samuel Boyd presents his compliments to Lady Wharton, and will have the pleasure of waiting upon her ladyship on Thursday night with the bills which he forgot to return last Friday evening, and with the additional advance her ladyship requires. Mr. Boyd hopes that her ladyship will be prepared with the jewels she speaks of, and that they will be adequate security for the increase in the loan.
"Catchpole Square, N., 5th March, 1896."
Lady Wharton: "And people come here and swear that at the time the man wrote that letter he had been dead five days! Can anything be more preposterous?"
The Coroner: "We shall have witnesses before us who are familiar with Mr. Boyd's handwriting, and this letter will be submitted to them. Have you the visiting card Mr. Boyd gave your servant in Bournemouth?"
"Here it is."
"Could you identify the jewels?"
"I can swear to them, if they are fortunately recovered."
"That is all I have to ask you at present, Lady Wharton. If Lord Fairfax is present perhaps he will come forward."
Lord Fairfax (advancing from the body of the Court): "No objection."
"You have heard the account given by Lady Wharton of the visit of a person last Thursday night who announced himself as Mr. Samuel Boyd?"
"Quite true."
"You saw that person?"
"Yes."
"Have you had any dealings with Mr. Boyd?"
"Happy to say, no."
"Then you are not acquainted with him?"
"Not the pleasure."
"Then you cannot say it was Mr. Boyd."
"Take Lady Wharton's word for it. Her ladyship presented him. She said, 'Mr. Samuel Boyd, Catchpole Square.' I said, 'Ah.'"
"You conversed with him?"
"He conversed with me. Fifty words to my one."
"What was the subject of the conversation?"
"Money. Asked if I wanted it. I said every fellow wanted it. Said he would be happy to oblige. I said, 'Ah.'"
"When Lady Wharton returned did you remain with them?"
"At her request. Saw her give him jewels. Saw him give her packet. Saw her dismiss him. Glad to be rid of fellow."
"You went back to the house, and was present when she opened the packet?"
"Yes. Blank paper. Infernal scoundrel."
"Was information given to the police?"
"Wanted to. Lady Wharton said no, go to lawyer. Went to Mr. Finnis Saturday. Then, surprising report in papers. Man murdered, or supposed to be."
"That is all you know, Lord Fairfax?"
"All I know."
The Coroner (to the jury): "Before we call Mr. Reginald Boyd I wish to ask Mr. Richard Remington a question or two, arising out of Lady Wharton's evidence."
The profound amazement with which Dick had listened to this evidence was not reflected in his countenance as he stepped airily forward. Never in his life had he so strongly felt the need for dissimulation as at the present time. It was forced upon him--by the discoveries he had himself made and by the testimony of the witnesses who had been examined--that in this mystery another agency was at work the existence of which he had hitherto only dimly suspected. The person who had presented himself to Lady Wharton as Samuel Boyd and had committed the fraud upon her must have been intimately familiar with the business operations of the murdered man, and must have had free access to the house in Catchpole Square. He must also have a talent for disguise to have so imposed upon Lady Wharton. He could think of but one person who had the knowledge requisite to carry out the deception--Abel Death. But to do what Lady Wharton had described needed courage, coolness, skill, and an evenly balanced brain; none but a master of resource, and one who had perfect command over himself, could have brought to a successful issue a task so difficult. Dick could hardly believe that Abel Death was equal to a man[oe]uvre so daring, a scheme so full of peril, in which a single false step would bring destruction upon him. Dick felt as if every hour added a new mystery to those that lay unsolved. He had one cause for deep gratitude, and he gladly welcomed it. These disclosures helped to dispel the cloud of suspicion that hung over Reginald. Whatever else he might have done, he could have had no personal part in the duplicity and in the robbery of the jewels. How far this would help to clear him in the minds of others who might suspect him had yet to be seen. They might argue that he was in league with another man, and that the imposition practised upon Lady Wharton was part of a cunningly laid scheme, all the details of which had been carefully considered and mapped out beforehand. There was, indeed, but little light in the cloud that hung over Florence's husband.
This was the state of Dick's mind when he submitted himself for the third time to the Coroner.
The Coroner: "Since you were examined on Monday, have you continued your search in Mr. Samuel Boyd's house?"
Dick: "Yes, I have carefully searched every room, every cupboard, every drawer."
"Have you found any jewels?"
"None."
"Any bills of acceptance?"
"None."
"Nothing of any value?"
"Nothing."
"Look at this visiting card which was presented to Lady Wharton on Thursday night in Bournemouth. Do you recognise it as one of Mr. Samuel Boyd's regular visiting cards?"
"It is exactly like. There are thirty or forty similar cards in a drawer in the writing table."
"You are doubtless familiar with Mr. Boyd's handwriting?"
"I was very familiar with it, but that is some time ago. I may err in my recollection of it."
"So far as your recollection serves is this letter received by Lady Wharton on the 6th of March, and dated the 5th, in his writing?"
"It cannot be his writing because on the 5th of March he was dead."
"Confine yourself strictly to answering the questions put to you. Should you say it was in Mr. Samuel Boyd's handwriting?"
Dick examined the letter with great care. He had in his pocket at that very moment proof positive in the shape of the incriminating document written by Samuel Boyd only a few hours before he was murdered, the production of which would have caused Reginald's instant arrest. The writing on the letter was like it, and he would have given much to be able to compare them. After a long pause he said, "It looks like his writing, but I am not an expert in caligraphy."
The Coroner made a gesture as if he had exhausted his questions, and Dick was about to step back, when the Juror interposed.
The Juror: "Have you found a pistol of any kind in the house?"
"Now, who is prompting you?" thought Dick, as he confronted the Juror, a sallow-faced, pock-marked man, with an aggressive voice. "No," he answered aloud, "I found no pistol."
The Juror: "The detective officer who has been examined spoke of a recently fired bullet which he extracted from the wall of the office. How is it that in your evidence on Monday you said nothing of this bullet?"
Dick: "In the first place, because I was not asked. In the second place, because on Monday nothing was known about it."
There was a titter in Court at this, and the juror flushed up and was silent.
The Coroner: "When was the bullet found?"
Dick: "Yesterday."
"It had escaped your notice before the detective officer pointed it out?"
"It was I who first pointed it out. We were examining the wall together when I said, 'What is this?' My question led to the discovery of the bullet."
The Coroner: "Call Mr. Reginald Boyd."
A firm pressure of Florence's hand, and Reginald faced the jury. Dick moved a little nearer to the young wife, whose heart was throbbing violently. Reginald was very pale, and traces of the sickness he had passed through were visible in his face, though he bore himself with composure.
The Coroner: "You have been ill, and probably would like to be seated."
Reginald: "Thank you, Mr. Coroner, I prefer to stand."
"As you please. We understand that you went to your father's house in Catchpole Square to see the body of the deceased?"
"Yes, I went there on Sunday.'
"You saw the body?"
"Yes."
"And identified it?"
"Yes. It was my father's body."
"In the teeth of the conflicting evidence that has been given, you are positive?"
"I am positive. I wish with all my heart and soul that there was room for doubt."
"We recognise that your position is a painful one, and we should, of course, wish to hear all the evidence it is in your power to give, but I consider it right to say that you are not compelled to answer every question put to you."
"There is no question that I shall decline to answer. I am a willing witness in a most unhappy tragedy."
"When did you last see your father alive?"
"On Friday the 1st of March."
"Before that day were you in the habit of visiting him regularly?"
"Before that day I had not seen him for two years. I regret to say we were not on friendly terms."
The Juror: "What was the cause of the disagreement between you?"
The Coroner: "We cannot have that at this point of the inquiry."
The Juror: "The witness states that there is no question that he will decline to answer, and the inquiry will be incomplete unless we arrive at all the facts of the case."
Reginald: "I am willing to answer everything."
The Coroner: "We will proceed in something like order. The last time you saw your father alive was on Friday the 1st of March. Did the interview take place in his house in Catchpole Square?"
"Yes, on that day I paid two visits to the house, the first in the afternoon, the second at night."
The Juror: "How did you obtain admittance in the afternoon?"
The Coroner (to the Juror): "I must request you not to make these frequent interruptions; they tend to confuse the issue."
The Juror: "With all due respect, sir, it is the jury who have to return the verdict"----
The Coroner: "Under my guidance and direction."
The Juror: "Not entirely. We are not simply machines. You can advise us, and clear up knotty points, but you cannot dictate to us. Otherwise you might as well hold this inquiry without our aid. The question I put to the witness is a very simple one."
The Coroner: "Very well." (To Reginald.) "Did you obtain admission into your father's house on Friday afternoon in the usual way?"
Reginald: "No. I knocked at the door two or three times, and receiving no answer, admitted myself with a private latchkey I had in my pocket."
The Juror: "You see, Mr. Coroner, I had an object in asking the question."
The Coroner: "How did you become possessed of the latchkey?"
Reginald: "It was one I used when I lived in Catchpole Square with my father. When I left the home I took it with me."
"Having let yourself in, what then did you do?"
"I went upstairs to the office in the expectation of seeing my father. He was not at home. The only person in the house was his clerk, Abel Death."
"You were personally acquainted with Abel Death?"
"Yes."
"And on friendly terms with him?"
"Yes."
"Why did he not open the street door for you?"
"He had been instructed not to admit anyone during my father's absence."
"Not even to go down to the door to see who it was who sought entrance?"
"Not even that. He was ordered not to stir out of the office."
"Was your father a very strict man?"
"Very strict."
"Had you a definite object in view when you paid the visit, apart from the natural desire to see him?"
"I had. My circumstances were not good, and I went to see if I could not improve them. My mother had left me a small fortune, and had appointed a trustee to administer it. This trustee had given me to understand that when I was of age I should come into possession of £8,000. I spent my youth and early manhood abroad, and when I returned home my trustee was dead, and my father had the disposition of my inheritance. He wished me to join him in his business, but I had a distaste for it, and we had many arguments and discussions on the subject."
The Juror: "Quarrels?"
"I suppose they would be considered so. We were equally firm, and the consequence of our disagreement was that there was a breach between us, which ended in my leaving his house."
"Voluntarily?"
"He sent me away. Before I left he asked me what I intended to live upon, and I answered that I had my inheritance. Greatly to my surprise he informed me that all the money had been spent upon me during and three or four years after my minority. He showed me a statement of accounts which I did not understand."
"Interrupting you here, has that statement of accounts been found among your father's papers?"
"No statement of accounts has been found. Shall I proceed?"
"If you wish."
"It is hardly my wish, but I certainly desire to anticipate questions which might be put to me by the jury."
The Juror: "Quite right. It will save trouble."
Reginald: "I questioned the correctness of these accounts, and my father said he was ready to prove their correctness in a court of law. Such a course was repugnant to my feelings, and we parted, my resolve being to carve out a path for myself. I was not fortunate, and on the day I visited my father I was practically penniless. I was then married, and I desired to make a home for my wife, which in my then circumstances was not possible. It was this which drove me to making another appeal to my father to restore money which I believed was rightfully mine. On the occasion of my afternoon visit I remained only a short time with Mr. Abel Death, and before I left I informed him of my intention to come again at night. I paid my second visit at about ten o'clock, which I thought was the best time to find my father alone. I knocked at the door, and he came down and asked who was there. He recognised my voice when I answered him, and he refused to admit me. I told him from without that I was determined to see him, if not that night, the next day or night, and if not then, that I would continue my efforts until I succeeded. Upon that he unlocked and unbolted the door, and I entered and followed him upstairs into the office, where I explained the motive for my visit. I informed him that I was married, and that it was necessary I should provide for my wife. We were together half an hour or so, and he refused to assist me, and denied that any money was due to me. I offered to accept a small sum, and to sign a full quittance, but he turned a deaf ear to all my appeals, and at length I left him. Mr. Coroner, I am aware that in this disclosure I have touched upon matters which do not come strictly within the scope of your inquiry. I have done so because I wish to avoid the suspicion of any reluctance on my part to make known to you and the jury all my proceedings with respect to my father. Private matters have already been introduced which affect me closely, and while I dispute the justice of the direction which this inquiry has taken I recognise that more mischief may be done by silence than by a frank and open confession."
The Coroner: "Your statement is a voluntary one, and much of it is not pertinent to the inquiry. You say that you visited your father at about ten o'clock?"
"At about that hour."
"You left the house before eleven o'clock?"
"Certainly before that hour."
"Were you and your father quite alone?"
"Quite alone."
"Did any one apply for admission while you were with him?"
"No one."
"There was no other person except yourselves in the house?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Did your father accompany you to the street door?"
"I do not think he did."
"Cannot you say with certainty?"
"No. I regret that, as regards the last few minutes of the interview, I cannot entirely depend upon my memory. I was deeply agitated, and my mind was in confusion. I have endeavoured in vain to recall every incident and word, and it has occurred to me that the fever from which I immediately afterwards suffered, and which kept me to my bed for several days, may have been upon me then. I have a recollection--not very clear--that as I went downstairs I felt in my pocket for the latchkey."
"For what reason? You did not need the key to open the door from within?"
"I cannot say why I did it. I can only tell you what is in my mind."
"Have you the latchkey now?"
"No, I have lost it."
"Where?"
"I do not know where."
"Have you searched for it?"
"Yes, without success."
"Between your two visits to your father on that Friday did you come into communication with Mr. Abel Death?"
"No."
"Did you not see him in Catchpole Square, or in its vicinity?"
"I repeat that I did not see him, and had no communication with him."
The Juror: "Angry words passed between you and your father?"
"I am afraid so."
"Threatening words?"
"Not on my part."
"On his?" (A momentary pause.) "I do not insist upon a reply."
"Oh, I will reply. My father threatened to bring an action against me for a balance of £1,200, which he said was due to him on the account."
"You disputed the correctness of the account?"
"Certainly I disputed it."
"Did you accuse your father of fraud?"
The Coroner: "Order, order!"
The question was not answered.
The Juror: "Is it true that during these last two years you have been living under an assumed name?"
"I have been passing as Mr. Reginald. Reginald is my Christian name."
"Was it as Mr. Reginald you introduced yourself to the family of Inspector Robson?"
"I was introduced to them by that name."
"They did not know you were the son of Mr. Samuel Boyd?"
"They did not."
"And you did not inform them?"
"Not for some time--not, indeed, till I was married."
"That is quite lately?"
"Yes."
"Have you any objection to inform us why you suppressed the name of Boyd? Were you ashamed of it?"
"You are pressing me rather hardly."
The Coroner: "I quite agree. Many of these questions are totally irrelevant."
The Juror: "Surely, Mr. Coroner, it is of importance that we should be made acquainted with the true state of the relations existing between Mr. Samuel Boyd and his only child. Putting aside Lady Wharton's statements and impressions, and assuming that the medical evidence is correct, the witness is the last person who saw the deceased alive."
Reginald: "That is not so. Some person or persons must have seen him after I left him on Friday night."
The Juror: "Well, the last person who has given evidence in this Court?"
Reginald: "Yes."
"Have you taken out letters of administration?"
"Yes."
"As matters stand at present you are the only person who has benefited by the death of your father?"
The Coroner: "I will not allow questions of this nature to be put to the witness, who has given his evidence very fairly, and has shown every disposition to assist the Court."
Reginald: "I should like to explain that I did not know my father had not made a will. My impression was that he had made one, disinheriting me. Even now, although no will has yet been found, one may be forthcoming."
The Juror: "Extremely unlikely. There has been plenty of time for its production."
The Coroner: "You have heard the evidence respecting the bullet in the wall. Is it within your knowledge that your father kept a pistol by him?"
Reginald: "During the time I lived with him he always had a loaded pistol. It was a Colt's revolver. I do not know whether, during the last two years, he continued to keep it."
"Did your father ever fire the pistol?"
"Never, to my knowledge."
"On what day were you taken ill?"
"On the day following my visit to my father. I recollect feeling giddy and light-headed when I returned home that night. I went to bed about midnight, and the next morning I was too ill to rise. The circumstances of my marriage have been made public in the course of this inquiry. I was living alone in Park Street, Islington, and I had intervals of consciousness during which I wrote from time to time to my wife, who was living with her parents. Eventually she came to nurse me, and then the secret of our marriage was at an end. She has related how, being alarmed at my condition, she went to Catchpole Square last Tuesday night to inform my father, and, if possible, to bring him to me. I am deeply, deeply grateful to her for the love and devotion she has shown towards me, and to her parents for their kindness and consideration."
"Where were you on Thursday night?"
"Ill in bed. For a week, from Saturday to Saturday, I did not leave my room."
Reginald's loving look towards Florence, and his tender accents in speaking of her, made a strong impression upon the spectators as, his examination concluded, he retired to his seat by her side.
The Coroner (to the jury): "An hour ago I received a communication from a gentleman who stated that he had evidence of importance to tender which he thinks we ought to hear with as little delay as possible. This gentleman, I understand, is in waiting outside. It may be a convenient time to examine him. Call Dr. Pye."
There was an interval of almost breathless suspense as, upon the Coroner's instructions, an officer left the Court. Dick looked forward to the entrance of Dr. Pye with no less curiosity than the other spectators, but mingled with this curiosity was an element of alarm. Dark forebodings crossed his mind; he feared he knew not what, but still he smiled confidently at Florence when she turned imploringly to him, for she also was in that state of tension which made every fresh feature of the inquiry a terrifying presage. Presently the officer returned, followed by Dr. Pye.
The new witness was tall, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, his face was ashen gray, his brows knit and concentrated, his eyes habitually downcast, but, when raised, irradiated with a keen steady light, giving one the impression that the pupils might be of steel, which was indeed their colour, his mouth with its thin long lips compressed, his hands long and nervous, his voice calm, clear, and deliberate, his manner altogether that of a man of supreme moral strength and self-possession, who could hold his passions in control, and make them subservient to his will.
"In volunteering a communication which may have some relation to your inquiry," he said, addressing the Coroner, without bestowing a glance upon the spectators, "I am impelled simply by a sense of public duty. As to its value you will be the best judge. What I have to offer to the Court is merely the narration of an occurrence which came under my observation on the night of Friday, the 1st of March, when I was making some experiments in chemistry in a room at the back of my house in Shore Street, the window in which looks out upon Catchpole Square, and commands a front view of the house in which Mr. Samuel Boyd resided. It is my habit to work late, and it was not till three in the morning that my labours were at an end. At that hour I was standing at the window, gazing aimlessly into the solitude of Catchpole Square, when my attention was arrested by movements at Mr. Boyd's street door. It was gradually opened, and the form of a man emerged from the house. The night was dark, and what I saw was necessarily dim and uncertain in my sight, but it appeared to me that the man, halting on the threshold, lingered in the attitude of a person who wished to escape observation. This impression impelled me to a closer scrutiny of the man's movements. I have in my room a device of my own construction in the shape of a small box containing a coil of magnesium wire. By withdrawing the curtain from a glass globe set in this box, and by pressing a spring, I can, upon lighting the wire, throw a powerful light upon objects at a great distance, remaining myself in darkness. There appeared to me to be something so suspicious in the shadowy movements of the person at Mr. Boyd's door at such an hour that I brought my box to the window, and threw the light upon the Square. It was the work of a moment, but in that moment I had a clear view of the man's features. They were of deathlike paleness, and seemed to be convulsed by fear, but, I argued inly, this might have been caused by the fright occasioned by the sudden glare of light falling upon him--resembling in some respects a flash of lightning, and calculated to startle the strongest man. In his attitude of watchfulness--which I may call the first stage of my observation of him--he stood holding the street door partially open, thus providing for himself a swift retreat into the house in the event of a policeman entering the Square. The second stage was his fear-struck appearance, from whatever cause it proceeded. The third stage--occurring when the light was extinguished--was the shadowy movement of a man gliding out of the Square. Then his final disappearance."
The Coroner: "You say, Dr. Pye, that you had a clear view of the man's features. Did you recognise them?"
Dr. Pye: "No, sir, the man was a stranger to me."
"There appears to be some kind of connection between the death of Mr. Samuel Boyd and the disappearance of a clerk in his employ, Mr. Abel Death? Have you any knowledge of this clerk?"
"No, I never saw the man."
"Were you acquainted with Mr. Samuel Boyd?"
"Very slightly."
"If you saw the man again, could you identify him?"
"I think so."
"Have you ever seen any other man in Catchpole Square leaving Mr. Boyd's house in the middle of the night?"
"Never. It was the unusualness of the incident that attracted my attention."
As he uttered these words he raised his eyes and slowly looked around. When they reached the spot where Inspector Robson and his family were seated his gaze was arrested. The eyes of all the spectators, following his, were now fixed upon the group. A wave of magnetism passed through the Court, and, to a more or less degree, affected the nerves of every one present. Aunt Rob clutched her husband's sleeve, and Florence's eyes dilated with a nameless fear. The long pause was broken by Dr. Pye, who murmured, but in a voice loud enough to be heard by all,--
"It is a very strange likeness."
"To whom do you refer?" asked the Coroner.
"To that gentleman," replied Dr. Pye, pointing to Reginald. "He bears a singular resemblance to the man I saw leaving Mr. Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square in the middle of the night."
Reginald started to his feet with an indignant protest on his lips, and there was great confusion in Court, in the midst of which Dick gently pulled Reginald down to his seat. "It is easily disproved," he said, in a low tone. "You were home and in bed before midnight. Be calm, Florence, there is nothing to fear, nothing to fear." But his heart fell; he saw the net closing round those he loved.
The Coroner (to Dr. Pye): "The gentleman you are pointing to is Mr. Samuel Boyd's son."
Dr. Pye: "I did not know. I say he resembles the man."
"Are you sure?"
"Who can be sure of anything? In hundreds of my experiments all my calculations have been overturned at the last moment. I have been sure of success, and the crucial test has given me the lie. It is the same in human affairs, and in this case I can do no more than record my impressions. In spite of the conditions under which I saw the man his likeness to this gentleman is very striking; but I would impress upon you that great wrongs have been committed by accidental likenesses, and there are cases on record in which men have been condemned to death, the proof of their innocence coming too late to save them." Florence shuddered and closed her eyes. To her fevered mind her beloved husband was on his trial, surrounded by pitiless judges. Dr. Pye continued: "There is a notable instance of this in Charles Dickens's story, 'A Tale of Two Cities,' where, happily, a life is saved instead of being sacrificed. The incident, strangely enough, occurs also in a court of justice."
The Coroner: "That is fiction. This is fact."
Dr. Pye: "True. If you have nothing more to ask I shall be glad to retire. The atmosphere of this Court is unpleasant to me."
The Coroner intimating that he had no further questions to put, Dr. Pye retired, and the inquiry was adjourned till the following day.
In great agitation Reginald and his party left the Court and turned in the direction of home, followed at a short distance by a few persons, whose appetite, whetted by what had transpired, thirsted for more. Those whose fate seemed to hang upon the result of the inquiry exchanged but few words on the way. Dick was plunged in thought, and Florence clung more closely to Reginald. Inspector Robson and Aunt Rob exchanged disturbed glances; she was wildly indignant, but his official experience warned him that Reginald was in peril.
With respect to the evidence given by Dr. Pye the one chance for the young man lay in his being able to prove that he had returned to his lodgings before twelve o'clock on that fatal Friday night, and did not leave them again. This proof would not only clear him of the suspicion which naturally attached to him through Dr. Pye's evidence, but would clear him in other respects. But was the proof obtainable? Reginald's silence on the point rendered it doubtful. Could he have brought it forward he would have been eager to speak of it.
When the little party reached the street in which Aunt Rob's house was situated Inspector Robson, turning, saw Mr. Lambert, the detective who had given evidence about the finding of the bullet. Telling his people to go into the house, and saying he would join them presently, he crossed over to the detective, and gave him good day, to which the inspector responded. Then they stood a moment or two without saying anything further.
"On duty?" asked Inspector Robson.
"Partly."
"Anything new stirring?"
"Nothing new."
"I won't beat about the bush," said Inspector Robson, "you have been following us."
The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Come, come, Lambert," continued Inspector Robson, "you and I have been friends this many a year, and friends I hope we'll remain. Be frank with me."
"Is it fair to put it that way, Robson?" said the detective. "When duty calls does friendship count?"
"Perhaps not, perhaps not," replied Inspector Robson, hurriedly, "but you see the close personal interest I have in this unfortunate affair. Are you shadowing my son-in-law?"
The detective rubbed his chin again. It was a habit with him when there was anything unusually grave in his mind, and Inspector Robson understood the meaning it conveyed.
"Now, I ask you, Lambert," he said, "could any man in the world have given his evidence more fairly?"
"No man," answered the detective; "but there's the outside of a man, and the inside of a man. We've had some experience of that, I think. If it's intimated to me to take up a case, I take it up. I won't go farther than that, so don't press me. It isn't often that a case so full of mystery crops up, and there'll be a lot of credit for the man who manages to get to the heart of it. It's something more than bread and butter: it's cake, and I don't want another man to get that cake. Now, mind you, I don't offer an opinion, but so far as this case has gone there are two or three parties to it."
"My son-in-law for one?" asked Inspector Robson, anxiously.
"Yes, your son-in-law for one. I don't say that he's not as innocent as the babe unborn, but you've got to convince people. Just you ask a hundred men and women, and half of 'em 'll wag their heads at mention of Mr. Reginald Boyd's name. The other half 'll wag their heads at mention of Mr. Abel Death's name. I'd give a lot to lay hands on that chap. He's the second party in the case. That's a queer story Lady Wharton told, and of course a true story, only it wasn't the real Samuel Boyd she saw. Somebody made up for him. If it wasn't Abel Death, it was the third party in the case. What a nerve!" said the detective, admiringly. "I couldn't have done it better myself."
"That ought to remove the suspicions against my son-in-law," said Inspector Robson. "There are three or four witnesses who can prove he never left his bed for a week."
"That's all right, but lawyers will say collusion, conspiracy. We're speaking confidentially, you know."
"Yes, and I'm obliged to you, Lambert."
"No need to be. We've been long in the service, you and me--boys together, weren't we?--and we can take credit for keeping one thing steady before us. Duty. The case, you see, doesn't hang only on what took place in Bournemouth last Thursday night; it hangs quite as much upon what took place in Catchpole Square the Friday before. A man is accountable for his actions, and if there's a mystery that's got to be cleared up, as this has got to be, and Mr. Reginald Boyd is concerned in it--which there's no denying--the law calls upon him to explain his actions."
"There's many a man held responsible and accountable for what, in the absence of witnesses, he finds it out of his power to explain, and which, in the nature of the circumstances, he couldn't reasonably be expected to explain. But that doesn't prove him guilty."
"I don't say it does. The hardship to that man is that the law is the law, and, in the absence of an explanation that can be proved to be true, refuses to be satisfied. 'Guilty or not guilty?' says the law. 'Not guilty,' says the man. Does the law accept it? No. It proceeds to open the case. Robson, you've my best wishes, and I hope you and yours will come well through it. Let us leave it there. We've had a comfortable chat; let us leave it there."
"Very well," said Inspector Robson, rather stiffly, "we'll leave it there. If any charge is brought against my son-in-law he will be ready to meet it. I pledge you my word that he'll not run away. Perhaps, if any decided step is resolved upon you will give me timely notice, for old friendship's sake, in return for my promise that you will meet with no obstruction in the performance of your duty. It will help me to soften the shock to my dear daughter--our only child, Lambert, the sweetest girl!"----
He turned his head, to hide his emotion. Lambert pressed his hand, and said,
"You shall be the first to hear of it, Robson. Cheer up. Things mayn't be so bad as some people suspect."
Inspector Robson nodded and left him, and rejoined his family in the house. Aunt Rob had seen him talking to the detective from the window, and had been so successful in instilling courage into Florence and Reginald that cheerful faces greeted his entrance; the cloud left his own at this unexpectedly bright reception.
"We've been talking about things, father," said Aunt Rob in a brisk voice, "and have made up our minds not to mope and mourn because a bit of trouble seems to be coming on us. If it passes all the better, but if we've got to fight it we'll fight it bravely."
"Bravo, mother," said Uncle Rob, "that's the right spirit to show. Here's my hand, Reginald."
"And here's mine," said Aunt Rob, "with my heart in it."
"Thank you both," said Reginald. "I can bear anything rather than that you should doubt me."
"No fear of that, my dear. You've behaved like a man, from first to last. Never speak ill of the dead, they say, and I'm not going to. He was your father, and if his ways were not our ways, we're the better for it, and while he lived he was the worse for it. You were right in refusing to take up his business, right in trying to carve out an honourable career for yourself, right in going to see him that Friday, and trying to get the money you were entitled to. Not that youwouldhave got it--but, there, I won't say anything against one that's gone to where I hope he'll be forgiven. You were right in everything, Reginald."
"God bless you, mother," said Florence.
"Right even in falling in love with our dear Florence?" said Reginald, tenderly.
"Who could help it, bless her sweet face! Give me a kiss, my son, and you, too, Florence, and you, too, Dick, and you, too, father. And mind you, lad, I'm as glad as glad can be that you gave your evidence as you did to-day, and made a clean breast of it. You spoke the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, with love and innocence in your heart. Now, father, what did the detective have to say to you? Don't be afraid to tell us. Is he keeping an eye upon Reginald?"
"He is, mother; and I said if any charge is brought against him he'll be ready to meet it."
"Of course he will, and we'll stand by him, shoulder to shoulder. Father, you've been thirty years in the service, and you ought by this time to be pretty well used to the ways of witnesses. What is your opinion of Dr. Pye as a witness?"
"He gave his evidence in a straightforward manner," replied Uncle Rob, guardedly. "What one has to consider in reckoning up a witness is the effect he produces upon judge and jury, whether they put faith in what he says, or throw doubt upon it."
"Which way would it be with Dr. Pye?"
"They'd believe every word he spoke."
"What do you think, Dick?" asked Aunt Rob.
"I don't trust him," Dick replied.
"Give your reason."
"Can't. Haven't any?"
"Prejudice, then, Dick," said Uncle Rob.
"Perhaps. Call it that. Aunt, have you never seen a man you disliked, without being able to account for it?"
"It's happened more than once."
"And you've found him out afterwards to be a bad lot?"
"That has happened, too."
"A kind of instinct, you see," said Dick.
"What gets over me," said Aunt Rob, shaking her head, as though she had not made up her mind, "is the way he stood up for Reginald. All he seemed to want was fair play."
"Yes, seemed to want," said Dick, doggedly.
"At all events it was honest in him not to be too positive about the resemblance to the man he saw. Do you know anyone, Dick, that answers to the description and that might be mistaken for Reginald?"
"No one, aunt."
"Not Abel Death?"
"Not a bit like Reginald."
"In the name of all that's mysterious, what is he keeping out of the way for? Did you ever know a case in such a tangle?"
"Never. I don't wonder that Lambert is keen upon it. It would make his fortune to unravel the tangle."
"I mean to unravel it," said Dick. "Oh, you may shake your head, aunt. I've certain ideas I'm not going to speak of just now; you would think me mad if I were to tell you what they were. If you keep your mind upon a thing it's wonderful how ideas crowd upon you."
"Leading too often to confusion," observed Uncle Rob. "The main thing is a starting point."
"I've a dozen," said Dick.
"That's the mischief of it. You put a bloodhound on the track. What's the consequence unless he gets a scent? He flounders; he might as well be a mongrel for all the use he is. Coming back to the evidence that was given in Court to-day, might not the man who presented himself to Lady Wharton as your father, Reginald, be the same man Dr. Pye saw, who made himself up to resemble you in case any one caught sight of him. Such things have been done, you know."
"Look out!" cried Dick, starting forward, and catching Reginald, who was swaying forward.
"We'll talk no more of this miserable business to-day," said Aunt Rob, in a tone of stern decision. "Take him up to bed, Florence, and keep him quiet. If we're not careful he'll be having a relapse."
Reginald, indeed, had overtaxed his strength, and the caution did not come too soon.
"I must be off," said Dick, when Florence and Reginald were gone. "If I'm not back before nine o'clock you need not expect to see me again to-night."
In point of fact he had made up his mind to sleep in Catchpole Square, and to keep secret vigil there. But first he must go to Reginald's old lodgings in Park Street to speak to the landlady. So much depended upon proof being forthcoming that Reginald's account of his movements after leaving his father's house was true that Dick could not rest until he had questioned her.
When Dick said to his uncle that he had ideas which would be considered mad if he revealed them, it was no mere figure of speech. So weird and grotesque was one of these ideas that, even in the midst of his gloomy forebodings, he could not resist a smile as he pondered upon it. "It's a game that two can play at," he muttered, "and my short experience on the stage ought to carry me successfully through. It may be time wasted, but it's worth the trying. We'll see whether that flashlight invention of Dr. Pye will come upon the scene again. If it does he'll see something that will astonish his weak nerves."
He brightened up when he presented himself to the landlady, who not only welcomed him because he was a favourite with every one, but because he might be able to impart something new relating to a mystery with which, through the fact of the son of Samuel Boyd being her lodger, she was indirectly connected. Mrs. Weevil was one of those women to whom a gossip is one of the most enjoyable things in life, and she gave Dick good day with glad anticipation in her voice.
"And 'ow's the poor young gentleman, sir," she said, "after 'is day at the inkwich? I've been readin' about it in the papers, but wot I say is, if it wos the last word I spoke, it ain't no more like 'im than chalk is to cheese."
"What is not like him?" inquired Dick.
"'Is pictcher, sir, and yours, too, sir,' I ses to Mrs. Porter, the 'am and beef shop across the road, 'It's a shame,' I ses, 'that sech things is allowed. If a portrait it is, a portrait it ought to be. Actions 'ave been brought for less.' 'Wot you say, Mrs. Weevil, I say,' ses Mrs. Porter, 'but we're obliged to put up with it. Them newspaper men don't mind wot liberties they take.'"
Dick listened with patience to this and to much more to the same effect, and then approached the object of his visit.
"I've come to ask you," he said, "whether you recollect what occurred last Friday night week."
"Ah," she said, abstractedly, running her eye along the hem of her apron, "there's them as 'as cause to remember; there's them as won't forget to their last hour."
"Meaning?" he asked.
"Mr. Abel Death, sir, and Mr. Samuel Boyd."
"His last hour has gone by; he's past remembering."
"A truer word you never spoke, sir, and it's wot we must all come to. But Mr. Abel Death ain't past remembering, and wot 'e's got on 'is conscience I shouldn't like to 'ave on mine."
"That is one of the things that has yet to be settled," said Dick, ambiguously.
"And settled I 'ope it will be, sir, and better sooner than later, for Mr. Reginald's sake. You see, sir, I speak of 'im as Mr. Reginald because that's the name he went by when he first come to me. 'A reference, is usual, sir,' I ses to 'im, 'if so be as you'll egscuse me for mentionin' of it.' 'Mrs. Weevil,' he ses, 'I can't give you a reference, but I can give you a month in advance.' Wot gentleman could say more? A month in advance 'e paid, from first to last, and never a word between us when I give 'im the book on Monday mornin'--puncchual, because 'e said 'e liked to be. When I 'eard 'e wos Mr. Samuel Boyd's son you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather. I ses to Mrs. Porter, while she wos spreadin' mustard on a sangwitch for a gent as eats six every afternoon of 'is life as the clock strikes three, 'Well,' I ses to 'er, 'of all the strange things!' 'That'smyopinion, Mrs. Weevil,' she ses."
"Last Friday week," said Dick, taking up the threads of the subject. "I wish you to tell me at what hour of the night Mr. Reginald came home."
"And you ain't the first as wishes me to tell you. There's been two detectives 'ere, and three newspaper men. 'Do you recollec',' they ses, 'wot time Friday night young Mr. Boyd come 'ome?' Your own words, sir, as if they wos turned out of a mould. 'No, I don't,' I ses to them. 'I went to bed at ten, when Mr. Reginald was out. I knocked at his door,' I ses, 'to see if 'e wanted anythink, but he didn't answer, and I jest peeped in to make sure 'e was out. Which he wos.' 'Oh,' ses they, 'did 'e keep 'is door unlocked?' 'Yes, 'e did,' I ses, 'and everything else as well. 'E wos always as open as open can be. I wish all wos like 'im, but that can't be egspected, because it takes all sorts to make a world.' They wanted to go up to 'is rooms, but I ses, 'No, you don't. I know my duties as a landlady,' I ses, 'and I won't 'ave no pokin' and pryin' in a gentleman's private apartments.' Would you believe it, sir, they orfered me money to let 'em go in, but they couldn't wheedle me. I ain't one of that sort."
"Try and remember," urged Dick, earnestly, "whether, after you were in bed you didn't hear him come in on Friday night."
"If I tried ever so 'ard, sir, I couldn't recollec' wot I don't remember. Why should a gentleman be spied upon when 'e pays 'is rent reg'lar? Mr. Reginald 'ad 'is own street door key, and wos free to come and go. 'E might 'ave come 'ome any time in the night without me knowin' it.
"It is a very important matter," said Dick, greatly disheartened. "Perhaps your servant may recollect something."
"I'll ring for 'er, sir, and you can arsk 'er yourself."
In answer to the bell the servant came up, a heavy lumbering girl of twenty, in a chronic state of sulks, with whom Dick fared no better than he had with her mistress. She did not know what time she went to bed, nor what time she got up. Sometimes she awoke in the middle of the night, and sometimes she didn't; she generally didn't, and if she did she did not know what time it was. She did not recollect when Friday night was, she could not think so far back as the week before last. All she knew was that it wasn't her night out, and if the gentleman kept talking to her all day long how could she get her work done? So Dick reluctantly let her go, and took his departure himself, no wiser than when he came. 'Reginald's statement that he had returned to his lodgings before midnight was of no value in the absence of corroborative evidence. Thicker and blacker grew the clouds around him.
From Park Street he proceeded to Draper's Mews, and there he met with another disappointment. Mrs. Death opened the door for him, and he saw a change in her. She was embarrassed, suspicious, sorrowful, angry. The old cordiality was gone.
"Is Gracie at home?" he asked, looking around without seeing the sallow, wistful face.
"No, she isn't," answered Mrs. Death, in a constrained voice, "and I don't know where she is. I haven't had misfortune enough, I suppose, that my own child should go against me."
She dashed away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, and Dick gazed at her in pity and surprise.
"Go against you, Mrs. Death!" he exclaimed. "No, no. It isn't in Gracie's nature."
"It wasn't," she retorted, "till you stepped between us."
"You are labouring under some grievous error," he said, sadly. "I have not seen Gracie. I came to ask how she was--as a friend, Mrs. Death, as a true friend."
"Oh, yes," she cried, bitterly, "as a true friend! I'm learning the meaning of that word. It's time, it's time. Hush children!" For one or two, alarmed at their mother's loud voice, began to cry. They were all huddled together on the floor, and had looked up eagerly when Dick entered. "If you're not quiet I'll give you a beating all round." She turned to Dick. "Come into the next room; it isn't right that they should hear us. There, children, there, be good."
With compressed lips, and eyes that seemed to be inwardly searching for an explanation, Dick accompanied her to the adjoining room. Night was coming on, but there was still light enough for them to see each other's face.
"Be fair to me, Mrs. Death," he said, in a gentle tone. "Whatever you may think of me now, think of me for a moment as I was, and tell me first about Gracie."
"There isn't much to tell," she returned; and she, also, seemed to be searching inwardly for something she could not understand. "She does nothing but talk of you. Dr. Vinsen walked home with us from the funeral yesterday, and Gracie wouldn't keep by our side; she walked behind. Two or three times he beckoned to her, but she was rebellious. 'What have you been thinking of, child?' he asked when we got home. 'I've been thinking of Dick,' she answered. 'Always of Dick, Gracie?' he said. 'Yes,' she answered, 'always of Dick.' 'Never of me?' he asked, and no one in the world could have spoken more kindly. 'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I think of you a lot, but in another way.' 'Now, tell me, child,' he said, 'what you think of me?' 'You'd best not ask,' she answered, and ran away. When we were alone I asked her what she meant by behaving so to our best friend. I will not tell you what her reply was; I was shocked and grieved that a child of mine could be so ungrateful. She looked out for you yesterday afternoon and evening, and this afternoon, too. 'Why doesn't Dick come?' she kept on saying. 'Where's Dick?' It's three hours now that she went away, and I don't know what's become of her. That's all I've got to tell you about Gracie, if you didn't know it before. I want my child, I want my child! Do you hear, Mr. Remington. I want my child! I have lost my husband--am I to lose my Gracie, too?"
"I sincerely hope not," said Dick; "I honestly believe not. She will come back presently. But there is something else in your mind against me, Mrs. Death."
She stepped close to him, and looked fiercely into his eyes.
"Who killed Mr. Samuel Boyd?" she said, in a hissing whisper. "Tell me that."
"I wish to God I could!" he replied.
"I wish to GodIcould!" she retorted, still speaking in a low, fierce whisper, so that the children in the next room should not hear. "But though we don't know, we have our suspicions. I know what mine are. What are yours? Tell me, if you dare!"
He did not answer her. In the presence of misfortune so undeserved, of suffering so keen, how could he breathe a word against her husband?
"No, you do not dare," she continued. "You haven't the courage to say to my face that you believe my poor husband to be guilty of the crime; but you can say so behind my back, you can go about poisoning people's minds against him, and then come to me smiling in pretended friendship. Oh, Mr. Remington," she said, with a remorseful sob, and her changeful moods showed how her heart was torn, "I would not have believed it of you. You make us trust you, you make us love you, and then you turn against us. See here!" She pulled up the sleeve of her gown, and bared her emaciated arm to his pitying gaze. "As this is, so my whole body is, and my soul is on the rack. You have seen us in our poverty, you know the state to which we have been driven, you have witnessed how we live. Is it the work of an honest man to oppress and malign us?"
"It would be the work of a coward," he answered, "if I had done a hundredth part of what you bring against me. I have done you no wrong, no injustice. I think I know who has instilled these thoughts into your mind, but I will not ask you for his name. Doubtless he has laid the seal of silence on your lips----"
"He has not," she interrupted. "What he has said to me he would say to you if you stood before him."
"I think not," said Dick.
"He would. He has been kind and generous to us; if it had not been for him my children would have starved."
"I would have done as much if I could have afforded it," said Dick, with set teeth. "Has it not crossed your mind, Mrs. Death, that you are being deceived?"
"How, deceived?" she asked, and despite the warmth of her championship there was doubt in her face.
"In being led to believe that those who are your friends are your enemies?"
"I speak as I find."
"No," said Dick, firmly, "you speak from ideas which have been put into your head, heaven knows for what purpose. What that man's motive may be----"
"Yes, yes, yes," she interrupted again. "Motive, motive, motive. I've heard enough of motive. What is yours, Mr. Remington? Who is more deeply interested in the death of Mr. Samuel Boyd, who is more directly connected with it, who has more to gain from it, than you and your friend. You speak of motive. What motive brings you here?"
"I have told you."
"You have not told me," she said, violently. "You come to seek information about my poor husband."
"Yes," he admitted, "partly."
"And," she said, very slowly, "to cast suspicion upon him, if the poor dear is alive, and so avert it from yourself and Mr. Reginald Boyd."
Dick was too startled to reply. No need to ask the source of this insidious suggestion.