I pause here to say all the time Maxwell was speaking he was watching my face, as if for confirmation of certain of his statements. I did not observe it during the interview; it occurred to me afterwards when, in a calmer mood, I thought of what had taken place between us. He continued:
"Of your life in Australia I know little or nothing. It is more than likely you made a fortune there; you were always a lucky devil, with a handful of trumps in your hand that ensured a winning game. Even now—with me for a partner—the game is not lost. Now let us see what brought you back to England. It was not, perhaps, because you were tired of Australian life and longed for London pleasures, though that motive is sufficiently strong. But there was Barbara to reckon with. What an encumbrance! Too bad altogether. (Your way of thinking, John; it is your point of view.) By a fortunate fatality—your view again, John—the encumbrance is removed. Barbara is dead; the road is cleared for you. The winning game is in your hand. You lose no time; home you come—to marry the other woman. Am I right? Silence gives consent."
He threw away the stump of his cigar and lit another.
"Now begins the chapter of accidents. On the 30th of November I happened to be in Liverpool; business called me there for just one day, and of all days in the year just that day. In the night my business finished, and not to my satisfaction (all my life I have been robbed right and left, but that's a detail which will not arouse your sympathy), I walked back to my hotel in no very agreeable frame of mind. What a night it was! You remember it, John—you will remember it all your life. It was the most awful snowstorm in my recollection—a record. My way to my hotel lay through Rye Street. The wind cut me in pieces, the snow blinded me; I give you my word I could not get along. I was literally blown back every step I took, actually and literally blown into a house the street door of which was open when I was trying to pass it. I stood in the passage to recover my breath, and then going to the door saw the madness of endeavoring to reach my hotel through such a frightful storm. I did the sensible thing.
"'Here is a house,' thought I, 'the street door of which has been accidentally left or blown open; the inmates will surely accord me shelter for the night; if not a bed, at least a seat by the fire."
"I was so nipped and frozen with cold, that after closing the door, it took me some time to get my matchbox from my pocket and strike a light, for the passage was in intense darkness. Then the fear came over me that I might be mistaken for a burglar. So I called out at the top of my voice without receiving a reply. Thinking it very strange I made my way upstairs to the first floor, and entered a room in which there was no light. I called out again, and still received no reply. I must make the people hear, thought I, and I left the room and ascended the second flight of stairs. To cut a long story short, I went all over the house, and came to the conclusion that it was uninhabited. But I had observed in the room on the first floor signs of some person having been there, but whether recently or not I could not judge without further examination. So I groped back to that room, and by good luck happened to put my hand on a small piece of candle on a sideboard. This I lighted, and you will understand how startled I was at what I saw.
"The furniture seemed to have been violently hurled in all directions, a table at the further end of the room was upset, and an object which I did not immediately distinguish lay beneath it. My first impulse was to fly from the house; there had evidently been a desperate fight in the room, and I might be implicated in what had taken place. Upon second thoughts I became reassured. I could account for every minute of my time during the day and night, up to the moment I had entered this strange house; and my curiosity led me to ascertain the nature of the proceeding which had brought about such confusion. That done I could proceed to the police station and report what I had seen. I will not attempt to describe my horror when I saw the body of a dead man beneath the table, and when, examining the mutilated features, I discovered that the murdered man was Louis Fordham. It makes me sick to think of it. I must have another drink."
He tossed off a full glass of brandy and water, and rose and paced the room. I sat in silent agony, waiting for what was to come.
"Let me make an end of it as quickly as possible," he said. "Louis lay there before me, stone dead. Who was the murderer? At whose cowardly hand had he met his death? The newspaper report says that his features were unrecognizable, but though his face, when I saw it, was dreadfully disfigured, I could not mistake it. Then, the fortnight that has elapsed may have made some change in him; then again, there may be some exaggeration in the report. Such sensations are always made the worst of; newspaper writers like to pile up the agony. I searched for some evidence that would help to bring the guilt home to the murderer. It is curious, John, that they generally leave something behind that proves fatal. You did. The first thing I found was the knife with which the deadly stab had been inflicted. There was blood upon it. Now, why should the discovery of that knife have directed my thoughts in your direction? A kind of lame explanation can be given, but it doesn't quite account for it. Perhaps it was what we call Providence, perhaps it was because the knife was not one which a man living in England ordinarily carries about with him. It was such a knife as gold-diggers use, and carry in a sheath. Do you see the connection? A gold-digger's knife. You have been in Australia, and most likely on the goldfields. A steamer from Australia had that very day arrived at Liverpool. That formed a sequence, which I accepted all the more readily because I had no cause to love you. I am frank, you see; I am always frank. I detest duplicity.
"Continuing my search I found a watch. It was like a watch you used to wear in happier days, but of this I could not be sure. However, as I have said, the history of a watch can be traced. It was not such a watch as Louis was in the habit of wearing. Still continuing my search, I found a matchbox, and on the lid the initials, J. F. They stand for John Fordham. They stand also for John Fletcher. Did it strike you when you assumed that name that the initials were the same? Your having been in Australia, the arrival of an Australian vessel, the gold-digger's knife, the watch, the matchbox with the initials, J. F., formed a complete chain. I said to myself, 'My brother-in-law, John, is the murderer.'"
He had spoken all through with zest, and as he went on his enjoyment of the story he was relating seemed to increase. Having now reached a dramatic point he paused again to give it greater weight.
"What now remained to me to do?" he continued. "To denounce you—to put the rope round your own neck? Undoubtedly that would have been the right course, and had I acted upon the impulse of the moment the whole country would be howling at you for a cold-blooded monster, who had since boyhood nursed his vindictive hatred of his brother, and only waited a favorable opportunity to barbarously murder him. For it was a murder of the most savage kind, John; poor Louis' body was frightfully battered and bruised. But second thoughts deterred me. You were related to me by marriage; disgrace to you meant, in some small measure, disgrace to me; I might, after all, be mistaken in the conclusions I had drawn; it would only be fair, before proceeding to extremities, to give you a chance of saying a word in your own defense; and, though it may be hard to believe, I have really a sneaking regard for you. Upon the top of this came the reflection that you might invent some sort of story, upon the strength of which you would give yourself up and take the chances of the law. A voluntary surrender would go far in your favor, and you might issue from the trial a free man, or if not free, with a nominal punishment for manslaughter. It was perhaps foolish of me to allow these considerations to prevail, but it was the course I adopted. So, bearing away with me the articles which prove your guilt, I stole from the house unobserved. The next day I was in London. A week passed by, and no news relating to the murder appeared in the papers, nor was there any notice of your giving yourself up. This deepened my conviction that you were the murderer. Innocence proclaims itself, guilt hides its head. And every hour that was passed fixed the rope more firmly round your neck in case of discovery. Then I set myself to the task of finding you, and here you behold me with my round, unvarnished tale delivered. I think I am entitled to ask a question. Innocent or guilty, John?"
"Both," I answered.
"Ah. You have heard my story. Let me hear yours."
I related it to him without distortion or exaggeration. As I related the events of that fatal night I was filled with dismay at the weakness of the only defense I could make. Conscious of my innocence, I recognized that my silence and concealment had made the web in which I was entangled so strong that there was no human hope of escape. At the conclusion of my tale Maxwell shook his head and smiled.
"It won't do, John. You will have to invent something more plausible than that."
"You don't believe me?"
"Ask yourself whether a jury would. The clumsiest lawyer would sweep away such a cobweb. 'Your story true,' he would say, 'why did you not come forward immediately and relate it?' Your answer,' I was afraid it would not be believed.' 'Exactly,' he would say, 'it would not be believed.' I see the jury putting their heads together; I hear the judge pronouncing sentence, 'to be hanged by the neck till you are dead, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!' No, no, John, it will not hold water. Capital cigars, these of yours; wish I could afford to buy a box or two. Well, it may be. I am a very worldly man, John; I sigh for the fleshpots of Egypt. You would like to know, perhaps, how I found you out. It wasn't easy. I may thank your lawyer for the information."
"Did he give you my address?"
"Oh, no. I have held no communication with him. He hasn't a high opinion of me, I am afraid. Believing that you were in London, and that you had business to transact with him in connection with Barbara's money, which ought to have been settled absolutely upon her, and which, by her will, would have fallen to me—we were very short-sighted not to have insisted upon the settlement—I kept watch upon him, and followed him, among other places, to this house. He paid his second visit to you this evening, but I was not sure you were here till you made your appearance at the door to purchase a newspaper. The rest you know."
"Is it the first time you have seen me?"
"The first time since you left England."
It was a great relief to hear this, and to be convinced—as I was—that he spoke the truth. I was afraid he might have followed me, earlier in the day, to Ellen's lodgings. He would not spare her; whether he intended to spare me I had yet to learn. It was to this end I now spoke.
"Having tracked me down," I said, "what do you intend to do?"
"It depends upon you, John," he answered. "I am disposed to stand your friend."
"In what way?"
"By keeping silence. It is just on the cards that the body may not be identified, in which case the secret is yours and mine. If I don't appear against you, if I destroy the evidence in my possession, you are safe."
I did not stop to consider. My one, my only thought, was how to secure Ellen's peace of mind. The means were at my disposal, the opportunity was offered to me, and I availed myself of it. It was cowardly, the confession I have made now might as well have been made then, but I did not foresee the use which Maxwell made of the power he held over me. He needed money; I gave it to him. He needed more money; I gave it to him; more, and I still gave it to him. At first I submitted to his exactions without remonstrance, but as they became more oppressive I offered resistance. Then he threatened, and I became a coward again. The honest course was before me and I stepped aside. At all hazards I should have taken it, and submitted to the ordeal. Too late I see my error.
Alas, those fatal words—too late! How often have they wrecked life and honor and happiness; how often have they brought misery and shame not only upon the cowardly doer of wrong, but upon those who trusted and believed in him! And yet it was to save Ellen and my son from the misery and shame which my punishment would have brought to them that I did as I have done. I have no other excuse to offer.
Again and again has Maxwell pointed out that the arguments he used were not fallacious, and in this he was right. Up to the present moment the body of Louis has not been identified. For a few weeks after the discovery of the murder the newspapers continued to give their readers such information as was supplied by the police—meagre and unsatisfactory enough, and leading to no solution of the mystery—until another tragic sensation thrust it from the public mind. All this time I have been in hiding, with Maxwell ever dogging and robbing me; all this time I have been sending letters to Ellen in the care of my solicitor, making false excuses for my detention in Australia; all this time I have been receiving letters from her, every line in which proved the faith and trust she had in me, and her confidence that what I did was right. The sweetest, the dearest letters! With eyes over-brimming I have read and re-read them—read them with shame, with terror, with remorse, with the distracting thought eternally in my mind, "If she but knew—if she but knew!"
Would it have been better for me had Louis' mother been alive? This reflection has frequently occurred to me. She loved him and hated me, and this love and hate linked us together in her mind. His disappearance would have brought into play the full power of her malignity and love. She would have moved heaven and earth to unravel the mystery, and I do not doubt that she would have dragged me from the frightful haven of unrest in which I have been lurking. Would it have been better for me? Perhaps.
Not much that Maxwell says deserves to be remembered, but certain words he spoke have burnt themselves into my heart. "Innocence proclaims itself; guilt hides its head." It is not always true. Proclaiming myself guilty I protest my innocence of evil intent.
And now I am ruined and a beggar. Maxwell's exactions have brought me to this pass; all that remains is Ellen's pitiful allowance. Maxwell, by some means, has discovered this, and has repeatedly threatened to denounce me if I do not hand it over to him. If I were weak enough to yield he would devise some new form of torture when that small sum was squandered.
It shall not be. Hope is dead; my life is desolate. Despairing days, sleepless nights—I live in purgatory. The end has come, my confession is made. Solemnly I declare that every word I have written is true. Dear Ellen, forgive me, comfort me, console me!
It is not often that a private detective—that is my occupation, and I am not ashamed of it—takes up a case for love, but that is what I did when I took up the great Rye Street murder. I don't deny that professional pride had something to do with it, for any man would have been proud to be employed in putting together the pieces of so celebrated a mystery. It was love that gave me the command, and that is not the least curious part of an affair which filled the newspapers for weeks, and puzzled the cleverest heads in Scotland Yard. The way of it was this. A few years ago business took me to Swanage, where I met Miss Cameron, her Christian name, Ellen. She and her mother (since dead) had gone there for Mrs. Cameron's health. I was, and still am, a bachelor, and I fell in love with Miss Cameron. I proposed and was not accepted, and I left Swanage a sadder, but I can't say a wiser man. Proverbs and popular sayings don't always apply.
In such circumstances some men are angry; others pretend not to care, and say there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Others are sorry for a week or so, and then see another girl who takes their fancy. It was not the case with me. I knew I had lost a prize, and that it would be a long time before I got over it. Between you and me I don't think I have got over it to this day, and that, perhaps, is a thing I ought not to say. It is down, however, and there it shall remain.
Before I bade Miss Cameron good-bye in Swanage I couldn't help saying that if it was ever in my power to serve her I would do so willingly. I hadn't the least idea that I should ever be called upon, and I should have called the man a fool who said, "One of these days you will find yourself engaged in a murder case that has set all the country ringing, and in which the happiness of the woman you love is at stake." Clever writers say it is the unexpected that always happens. It happened to me.
On the morning of my introduction into the case I was sitting in my office, idling away my time. I had nothing particular to do, and was waiting for something to turn up in the way of business. It seemed as if I should not have long to wait, for my clerk came in and said that a lady wished to see me. I brisked up. Ladies don't come to a private detective for nothing. "Divorce case," thought I.
"What name?" I asked.
"Name of Cameron," my clerk answered. "Lady didn't have a card."
I jumped up, all my nerves tingling, and told the lad to show the lady in. I didn't wait for him to do it, though; I pushed past him, and there stood Ellen Cameron, the woman I loved and had never forgotten. I held out my hand with a smile, and she took it with a sigh. Her sad face showed that she was in trouble; her lips quivered as she asked whether I could give her a few minutes of my time, and her hand was cold as ice.
"If any one calls," I said to my clerk, "I am busy." And I led Miss Cameron to my private room.
"You want my advice," I said, drawing a chair up to the table; "sit down and tell me all about it. How did you find me out?"
"I saw your advertisement in the paper," she answered; "and I thought you would be willing to assist me."
The newspaper in which I advertise twice a week was on the table.
"You thought right," I said, and would have said more if I had not observed that her eyes were fixed with fear upon the newspaper. I looked over her shoulder, and saw that she was gazing upon a paragraph headed, "The Rye Street Murder."
It will clear the ground if I give the substance of this paragraph, which I had already read with great interest.
On the previous evening John Fordham presented himself at the Marylebone Police Court, and had charged himself with the murder, stating that the murdered man was his half-brother, that the name (up till then unknown) was Louis Fordham, and that he had acted in self-defense. According to his tale this John Fordham landed in Liverpool from an Australian vessel on the night of a great snowstorm, and being anxious to get to London without delay, was walking to the Lime Street station to catch a train. Passing through Rye Street, a man rushed out of a house and attacked him. A desperate struggle ensued, in the course of which he was dragged into a house and up the stairs into a room on the first floor, where he fell down in a state of unconsciousness. When he came to his senses he saw the body of the man by whom he had been attacked, and was horrified by the discovery that it was his half-brother, Louis Fordham. Distracted, and scarcely knowing what he was about, he left the house and took a morning train to London, where, living under an assumed name, he had been in hiding ever since. He made no disclosure of the motive which had induced him to give himself up after this lapse of time. His statement was taken down by the inspector; who, of course, asked him no questions.
This was the bare story, and I attached no credence to it, having made up my mind at once that John Fordham was guilty, and that he had been driven by remorse to take the last step.
"What will be done to him?" asked Miss Cameron, in a trembling voice, pointing to the paragraph.
Surprised at the question I drew the newspaper away, saying it was of no importance what became of this John Fordham, and that she had better proceed to the business she had called upon.
"But what will become of him?" she asked again.
I shrugged my shoulders, and to satisfy her said he would be brought up at the police court, and would be remanded.
"And then?"
"He will be remanded two or three times to enable the police to make inquiries, after which he will be committed for trial."
"And acquitted?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and with such an appealing look in her eyes—as though I were the judge who was trying the man—that I held my breath and made no reply. The suspicion that flashed upon me—that she had come to ask my assistance in this very murder—staggered me; but I steadied myself, and inquired if it really was the case.
"Yes," she answered. "You believe him guilty?"
"From what is stated here I can come to no other conclusion."
At this she fairly broke down, and I sat staring open-mouthed at her tears and misery. Dropping her veil over her face she tottered to the door, and was about to leave when I stopped her.
"No, Miss Cameron," I said; "you must not go away like that. You have come to ask my assistance, and I will give it you. There may be some mystery here which needs unraveling. I place myself honestly and unreservedly at your service. But you must be absolutely frank with me; to enable me to serve you nothing must be concealed—understand, nothing."
Let me confess, though the stronger reason for this offer was to be found in the interest I took in Miss Cameron, in my sympathy for her, that I was urged thereto by a less powerful motive. My professional pride was aroused by the suggestion of a mystery which I might be the means of bringing to light. To a man like myself, nothing more attractive could present itself.
She turned to me with a gasp of thankfulness.
"I will conceal nothing," she said. "You will condemn me, perhaps, but I must not allow that to stand in the way. There is no other man I can trust, there is no other man that can serve me, there is no other man who can prove John Fordham to be innocent of the crime of which he accuses himself."
"You believe him to be innocent."
"To believe him otherwise would be to lose my faith in the goodness of God. This will explain all. When you have read it you will know what John Fordham is to me, and whether there is any chance of proving his innocence. You have used the word 'mystery.' There is a mystery here which only a man in your profession can solve, which only a true friend would take the trouble to solve. How thankful, how thankful I am that I came to you!"
She took a large packet from beneath her mantle, and placed it in my hands; then, giving me her address, and saying she would always be at home, or would call upon me at any time I might appoint, she left me to the perusal of the manuscript. But I did not apply myself to it immediately, beyond glancing at the opening words. Thinking I might be in time to see John Fordham brought up at the police court, I posted off to Marylebone, and there I found the case proceeding. Fordham was in the dock, a pale, worn man, with an expression on his face of one who had undergone much suffering. He looked like a gentleman, but I did not allow that to influence me, for I put no trust in appearances. There are men standing high in public esteem whose faces would condemn them if they were charged with a criminal offense; and guilt itself too often wears the aspect of innocence. Asked if he had anything to say, Fordham replied that he hoped to be able on his trial to make a statement, which would be accepted in extenuation of his crime; until that time arrived he would be silent, but if he could assist the police in any way, he was ready to do so. This unusual reply awoke within me a stronger interest in him, and I studied his features carefully; there was stamped upon them the expression of a man who had prepared himself for the worst. The police asked for a remand, which was granted, and he was taken back to the cells. As I issued from the court a cab drove up, and Miss Cameron alighted; she had taken a four-wheeler, and was too late for this preliminary examination. I hastened to her, and told her what had taken place.
"Shall I be allowed to see him?" she asked.
I said there would be no difficulty, but that it would be best to consult a solicitor. She mentioned the name of one who had acted for Fordham for several years, and I advised her to go to him. She thanked me and drove off, and I returned to my office to read John Fordham's Confession.
If I were to attempt to describe at any length the impression it produced upon me I should fail. I am very fond of fiction, and I have read most of the leading novels of my time, but I doubt if I have ever read anything in which a man's trials and sorrows were more powerfully portrayed. I do not speak in a literary sense, for in that respect I am a poor judge, but the effect of this Confession upon me was startling. I seemed to see the man's heart and soul, and sometimes I lost sight of the fact that I was perusing a story of real life. The kind allusion to myself and the thoughtful suppression of my name affected me strongly, and John Fordham's description of the character of Ellen Cameron showed me what a treasure I had lost. But I should have been a despicable fellow to bear him any animosity for having won the love I sought, and I thought none the worse of him or Ellen Cameron for having thrown their lots together.
So much for my private feelings and for the small part I had played in Miss Cameron's life. I set them aside entirely, and threw myself heart and soul into the mystery which surrounded the murder.
It was plain enough to me that the Confession was worthless as evidence; a clever writer might have invented and written it for the purpose of exculpating himself, and by Fordham's own admission he was a writer of great power. I had read the articles he wrote on drunkenness, and I knew that the pictures he presented were drawn from life. But if they were cited at his trial they would tell against instead of for him, and would serve to discount the speech he might make in his defense. The mystery must be grappled with in a more practical manner, and I was the more determined to grapple with it sensibly and with as little sentiment as possible, because, when I finished the Confession I was convinced that Fordham was quite truthful in all he had set down. It would be hoping too much to hope that the judge and jury would think so, but I might succeed in discovering something that would lead to a verdict of manslaughter, and the passing of a light sentence; and it was not altogether impossible that a verdict of complete acquittal might be compassed. In which case what becomes of the censure passed by Fordham's solicitor upon the class to which I belong? I cast the word "vermin" in his teeth. He and others are glad enough to avail themselves of our services when they need them.
Fordham says that to establish his innocence (or bring about his acquittal, which I suppose means the same thing) a miracle is needed. Not at all. If it is done, common sense will do it. So, to work.
How many persons in the drama? Leaving out Ellen Cameron, who is not connected with the mystery, six.
Mrs. Fordham, John Fordham's stepmother. Dead.
Louis Fordham. Dead.
Barbara, wife of John Fordham. Dead.
Annette, the French maid. Disappeared. No mention of her.
Maxwell. Alive. Where was he?
John Fordham. In prison.
There remained, therefore, only one person upon whom there was a likelihood of laying hands. Maxwell. I must see him. John Fordham would be able to give me his address. I decided to seek an interview with John Fordham early in the morning.
But would it be easy to find Maxwell? He was accessory after the fact. John Fordham seems not to have thought of that. Maxwell, with better knowledge of the law, undoubtedly thought of it. Natural conclusion—Maxwell would keep out of the way. No reason why he should not be tracked. It was something in my line.
About the house in Rye street, in which Louis Fordham met his death, and the circumstances of the fatal struggle. Was it likely that Louis alone knew of the house and had no confederates? Not at all likely. Who were his confederates? I put the name of one on paper—Maxwell. Good! A ray of light. Like looking through a chink in the floor. I saw possibilities.
Who took the house, and for what purpose was it taken? Certainly not for the purpose of killing John Fordham. I dismissed the idea instantly. The confederates, even if they knew the name of the vessel in which John Fordham was traveling, could not have known that it would arrive at such and such an hour on such and such a day; could not have known that he would walk through Rye Street on his way to the railway station; could not have known that a great snowstorm would arise to cloak their proceedings; could not have timed the moment that he would pass the house. Natural conclusion that the meeting between him and Louis was accidental, and that during the struggle, Louis was as little aware as John of the identity of his assailant.
And here I was confronted with those elements of the affair which added to John Fordham's danger. His taking Louis' ulster to hide the stains of blood on his clothes, his accidental picking up of Louis' watch, believing it to be his own, his assumed name, and his remaining in hiding for so long a time. To all these I had satisfactory answers, but no jury in the world would entertain them. My hopes fell almost to zero.
I was setting these details down in the order of their occurrence. Of the strange discoveries I subsequently made I will make no mention till the proper time arrives. Before I went to bed I posted a comforting letter to Miss Cameron, in which I said much of my hopes and nothing of my fears.
On the following day I paid a visit to John Fordham. He looked at me suspiciously, and was not satisfied with my friendly professions until I related the manner of my introduction into the business. When I mentioned Miss Cameron's name his eyes became suffused with tears.
"What do you expect to do for me," he asked, "when my own evidence proves my guilt?"
"Do you believe yourself to be guilty of murder?" I asked in return.
"No," he answered.
"Would it not be a good thing to convince others of that?"
"Indeed it would," he said, but shaking his head at the same time, as though it were not possible.
"At all events," I continued, "it is your clear duty to do all you can to remove the stigma from those you love. There is a mystery to be solved; at Miss Cameron's request I have undertaken the task—with what success remains to be seen. If you will have confidence in me it will make the task all the easier. Surely it is not for you to throw difficulties in the way of your friends."
"Forgive me," he said. "I am ungrateful. I will tell you anything you wish to know."
"First, as to Maxwell. Had he any suspicion of your intention to give yourself up?"
"I do not think so."
"It will come upon him as a blow. Can you give me his address?"
"I do not know it."
"Since your arrival in England have you never visited him?"
"Never."
"Nor written to him?"
"No."
"He visited you frequently?"
"Two or three times a week for the purpose of obtaining money from me."
"He wrote to you?"
"Occasionally."
"Was there no address on his letters?"
"None."
"Did it not strike you as somewhat singular?"
"I never gave it a thought."
"And of course you did not examine the postmarks on the envelopes?"
"I did not."
"Did you destroy his letters?"
"Not all. There may be one or two in a desk in my lodgings."
I scribbled an order which he signed. It gave me authority to enter his rooms and look through the desk, the lock of which he informed me was broken. He then furnished me with a precise description of the personal appearance of Maxwell.
"Your wife's maid, Annette, had another name?"
"Her full name was Annette Lourbet."
"Have you any idea what has become of her?"
"No."
"I want you now to take your mind back to the night of the struggle. It appears very strange to me that in the course of the fight you should both have ascended a flight of stairs. Much more likely to have stumbled down than up. Can you account for it?"
"No."
"When you finally left the house, Louis Fordham's body was lying at the end of the room opposite the door. Can you be sure of that?"
"I am quite sure."
"The table was in the middle of the room?"
"Yes."
"Some significant details have escaped your notice. Do you not recollect that in the newspaper reports it was stated that Louis' body was beneath the table?"
He started at this, and I perceived that he was becoming more interested.
"I recollect it, but it did not strike me at the time, my mind being occupied by but one thought. Louis was dead. I had killed him."
"It appears strange to you now?"
"Very strange," he answered, thoughtfully.
"In order to argue this out," I continued, "I will suppose that when you left the house, you were mistaken in your belief that Louis was dead. Shortly afterwards he came to his senses. Getting upon his feet he staggered about the room in the dark till his hands touched the table. In his endeavors to reach the door the table was upset."
"Yes, that explains it."
I smiled at his readiness and simplicity. "But the fairer assumption is that he would have fallen upon the table, not under it."
He stared at me; a light seemed to be breaking upon him. In an unsteady voice he asked, "What deduction do you draw from that?"
"That another person entered the house after your departure; that another person hurled the table—a massive oak table, according to the newspaper reports—upon the body in such a way as to purposely mutilate the features."
"Another person did enter," said John Fordham.
"I know. Maxwell."
"Yes, Maxwell. He happened, as he said, to be passing through the street on the night of the snowstorm, and found the street door open."
"I have read the particulars in the document you sent to Miss Cameron. Do you believe his statement?"
"What reason is there for disbelief?" he asked, "when he was acquainted with so many things which I thought no one knew but myself?"
"Which you thought. It would, perhaps, be more correct to say that you accepted his statement without thinking. Mr. Fordham, it is not my habit to throw discredit upon coincidences; at the same time I do not accept them blindly, and I decline to accept this. In an inquiry such as this upon which I am engaged my mind is open not only to probabilities but to possibilities; everything humanly possible must be taken into account. Let one of the reins slip through your fingers, and you upset the coach. Maxwell says he found the street door open; you state that when you left the house you closed it behind you. I range myself on your side. The street door was shut."
"Then to enter the house Maxwell must have had a key?"
"Exactly. He had a key, and he and your half-brother were accomplices. From your experience of them, probable or possible?"
"Probable. But this will not exculpate me."
"I do not know where it will lead, but I intend to follow it up if I can. By the way, where was your wife buried?"
"In the Highgate Cemetery," he answered, with a look of surprise, "where my father lies. We have a family grave there."
"Your stepmother must have been buried in that grave."
"Very likely—but these are idle questions."
"Not so idle as they seem, perhaps. Another question, more to the point. Maxwell states that he found three articles belonging to you in the Rye Street house—your watch, your gold-digger's knife, and your matchbox. Did he return them to you?"
"No. He retained them as evidence against me."
"I shall be astonished if they are ever brought against you. My impression is that he will keep out of the way. I may not have time to see you again this week. If you have anything to communicate—if anything occurs to you that may assist me—write to my office."
I proceeded immediately to John Fordham's lodgings, where he was known as John Fletcher, and had a chat with the landlady. She spoke in the highest terms of her lodger; he was polite and civil, "a perfect gentleman," and gave no trouble; but she knew "all along that there was something on his mind." He always paid in advance, and there was a fortnight of his last payment still to run. In his desk I found only one letter from Maxwell; the envelope had been destroyed. It was friendly, and contained nothing incriminating. There was a reference in it to "low spirits" from which "dear John" was suffering, and the writer, who signed himself "M.," could not understand why John Fordham should be so melancholy. "Cheer up, old fellow," said "M.," "I shall come and see you tomorrow, and shall try to put some life into you." I understood why the letter was so carefully worded; Maxwell was guarding himself against the chance of his correspondence falling into other hands. Before I left the house, with the letter in my pocket, I inquired of the landlady whether she had seen Maxwell and had spoken to him.
"Oh, yes," she answered. "Mr. Maxwell is a very pleasant gentleman, and often asked me if I knew what made Mr. Fletcher so low-spirited, but of course I couldn't tell him."
Maxwell had evidently acted with great caution.
A few hours afterwards I got out at the Liverpool station. My business in that city did not take me long, but it led to something of the greatest importance.
In Fordham's written story of his life which he had sent to Miss Cameron he says he is uncertain whether the man who attacked him rushed out of a courtway or a house. There is no court near the house in which the struggle took place, therefore that point is settled. The house is still uninhabited, and I had no difficulty in obtaining admission. Mentally following the course of the fatal struggle between John and Louis Fordham from the street door to the room on the first floor in which Louis' body was found, I was struck by the peculiar formation of the staircase. There were two sharp turns in it, one of them being nearly an acute angle. That two men striking blindly at each other, and fighting for life or death in dense darkness, should have ascended this staircase, seemed to me exceedingly improbable, and the doubt presented itself whether John Fordham's account of the conflict was to be depended upon. When a man's sober senses are at fault, he is apt to be misled by his imagination. Was it so in this instance?
I examined the oak table in the room. It is of unusual size, six feet square, exceedingly heavy, and set on four massive legs. All the pressure I could bring to bear upon it was ineffective in tilting it, and I came to the positive conclusion that it could only have been overturned by a powerful effort from beneath. This proved that neither John nor Louis was responsible for the position in which the table was found by the police. I was convinced that a third person was implicated in the tragic affair; but though it was inevitable that my suspicions should point to Maxwell, I did not pledge myself to it. There might have been a fourth.
My interview with the agent who had let the house to a "Mr. Mollison" for a month upon trial opened up the field of conjecture, and was the means of leading to a direct clue—in fact, to two. He had seen Mr. Mollison on one occasion only, and he gave me such a confused and bungling description of that person that I felt it would be foolish to place any dependence upon it. In relation to this description I put but one question to him.
"Did you observe a scar upon Mr. Mollison's forehead?"
"No," he answered, after a little hesitation: "I do not think there was any scar."
We then spoke of the London reference which Mr. Mollison had given him, and he produced the letter he had received in reply to his own. It was signed "R. Lambert," and addressed, 214 Adelaide Road, N. W. From subsequent inquiries I learned that this house had been inhabited for only a few weeks during the last six or seven years, and then not by a person of the name of Lambert.
Now, I do not profess to be an expert in handwriting, but placing F. Lambert's letter by the side of Maxwell's, which I had taken from John Fordham's desk, a certain resemblance (by no means perfect) forced itself upon my attention. Accompanied by the agent, I went to the office of an expert, who partially confirmed my suspicion, but declined to pledge himself to it without a more minute examination. I left the letters with him, and directed him to forward them to London with his report. This was one of the clues I obtained during my brief stay in Liverpool. The more important one (which led to a startling result) was obtained in the following manner:
On our way from the office of the expert in handwriting to that of the agent, the latter mentioned that, although he had seen Mr. Mollison only once, a clerk in his employ had met him in the street after the house was taken. Without delay I interviewed this clerk, who admitted that he had seen Mr. Mollison a fortnight after the agreement was signed. Having taken no particular notice of that gentleman, he could furnish me with no better description of him than his master had supplied, except that he looked like a gentleman.
"Which was more than the man who was with him did," he added.
"Oh," I said, "he was not alone?"
"No," was the reply, "he was walking with a friend."
"With a friend?" I said. "Though one was a gentleman and the other was not?"
"Well, I suppose they were friends, because they were laughing at something."
"What did the other man look like?"
"A common sort of man; but he was dressed well enough. I can't say he seemed easy in his clothes."
"What made you notice him particularly?"
"As I came up to them Mr. Mollison said, 'You did it cleverly, Jack.' 'Oh, I can show 'em a trick or two,' said the man he called Jack; and then they burst out laughing. That made me turn round and look at the clever one."
"What did you notice in him?"
"That his face was pock-marked, and that he had a club foot."
"Was he tall or short?"
"Short."
"Did they see you looking at them?"
"I think so, because just then they turned the other way."
"And did you not follow them?"
"What should I follow them for?"
I pressed him hard, but he could tell me nothing more.
All the way back to London my thoughts ran chiefly on this club-footed, pock-marked Jack. Such a business as mine brings a man into queer company, and, without boasting, I may say that I am acquainted with half the bad characters in London. Some years ago I was a detective in the police force, but thinking I could do better, I said good-bye to Scotland Yard, and started a private office of my own. I like a free hand, and I got it and have done well with it.
Jack. With a club foot. A short man, who did not seem easy in good clothes. His face pock-marked. What better marks of identification could a detective desire? I was on the threshold of discovery, and yet some perverse streak kept me from seeing it. Not till the train was a mile from St. Pancras did I suddenly cry aloud—for all the world as though the name flashed itself out on one of the advertisements in the carriage—"Jack Skinner!"
Yes, Jack Skinner. He answered the description perfectly. He was short, he was pock-marked, he had a club foot, he was accustomed to wear fustian. I was really annoyed with myself that I had not thought of him at once. But it happens so sometimes.
Jack was his proper name. I dare say. Skinner was a nickname, bestowed upon him for certain peculiarities by which he was distinguished. The house-agent's clerk heard him say, "I can show 'em a trick or two." I should think he could. No man better. But for all that, he hadn't done any good for himself. Jack and I were old friends. I nicked him once as clean as a whistle, and got him three months. "You're too much for me, guv'nor," he said with a grin. He had a wholesome fear of me, but it was a long time since I had set eyes on him.
The board was before me, with a lot of pieces on it. My next move was to hunt Jack down. I will not waste time by relating how I did it. A fortnight it took me before I had him under my thumb. I don't mind confessing (I didn't tell him as much) that I was not prepared for the disclosures he made. They took me fairly by surprise, and let a lot of light upon the Rye Street Mystery.
I shall let Jack speak for himself. The story he related shall be told in his own words.
Look 'ere. It ain't a plant, is it? I'm a bad lot, I know, about as bad as they make 'em, but when it comes to committin' a murder, it ain't in me to do it. If I 'ad the 'eart to kill a man, I ain't got the pluck—Wot's that yer say? I 'ad a 'and in it? I'll take my oath on my mother's Bible I 'adn't. I don't remember my mother—I wos chucked on the world wery young, guv'nor—and I don't know as she ever 'ad a Bible, but that don't make no difference, do it? If she did 'ave a Bible, and it was afore me now, I'd take my oath on it. I can't speak fairer nor that, can I? I wos there—I don't deny I wos there when it wos done but I 'adn't no more to do with it than the babby unborn. If it wos the last word I 'ad to speak with my dyin' breath, I'd swear I didn't 'ave no 'and in it, and I couldn't prevent it no more nor you could, guv'nor, bein', as I dessay you wos, a 'undered mile away at the time. Why, it come upon me like a clap of thunder, and upon Mr. Louis, too, pore chap, and there 'e wos—good Lord! I can 'ardly bring my tongue to say it—there 'e wos, layin' on the flore, stone dead, and the blood porein' out of 'im.
'Ere, I can't stand it no longer, I can't. From that night to this I've never 'ad a easy minute. 'Underds and 'underds of times since then I've seed 'im layin' afore me as 'e laid that night. It wos only yesterday, while I wos playin' a game o' pyramids, and the red balls wos scattered all over the table, that all of a suddent there wos the pore chap layin' on the green cloth in the middle of a dozen large, round clots o' blood. It was only a wision, I know, like any number of others I've 'ad, but it turned me sick, and put me off my play so that I couldn't pot a ball all through the game. Never a green field I see but there 'e is, layin' in the middle of it, with the grass all red about 'im. It ain't a pleasant sight, guv'nor, is it? It sets me all of a tremble, and over and over again I've sed to myself, "Make a clean breast of it, Jack, and bring it 'ome to the man wot done the deed. You can't be 'ung for it, you can't, Jack," ses I to myself, "cos your 'and wos never raised agin 'im. Make a clean breast of it, wunst and for all, and get rid of the wisions that's a 'aunting of yer day and night." And now, on the top o' that, you come to me, guv'nor, and ses, "Yer've got to tell me everythink, Jack, about that there murder. Prove to me yer didn't do it, and not a 'air of your 'ead shall be touched. Scot free yer shall go, and for wunst in your life yer'll 'ave the satisfaction of bein' on the right side o' justice." Ses you to me, "Keep yer mouth shut, and yer'll find yerself in a 'ole. Queen's evidence is your game, Jack, if yer know wot's good for yerself."
Well, guv'nor, when I put alongside o' that wot I've read in the papers about somebody givin' of 'isself up for the murder, it makes me think I'd best accept yer orfer. Guv'nor, I do accept it. 'Ere's my 'and. But there's somethink you've got to do fust. You've got to take yer Gospel oath that yer'll be as good as yer word, and that I sha'n't be 'urt for wot I didn't do. You're willing? Well, take it.
That's bindin', mind yer, and don't forgit yer'll be burnt in 'ell fire if yer've swored false. 'Ave yer got anythink else to say afore I start? I don't want to be meddled with once I begin, 'cause it'd be bound to muddle me, and I should git off the track. I must tell everythink I know about myself and my pals and Mr. Louis? It's a large order, but all right. A clean breast I've promised to make, and a clean breast it shall be. 'Ere goes.
There wos three of us, outside of 'im that's gone. Maxwell (that's the only name I knowed 'im by), and Morgan (that's the only name I knowed 'im by), and me. They called me Jack, and if yer don't mind I'll call the other Louis. It saves a lot of time to drop the misters.
There ain't much to tell about myself up to the time I fust set eyes on Maxwell and Morgan. I never learnt a honest trade, and in course I 'ad to do somethink for a livin'. I've been a billiard marker, a race-course runner, a ticker snatcher, a crossin' sweeper (not longer at that nor I could 'elp, it wos playin' it so low), a tout for sharps, a decoy for mugs, a thimble-rigger, a tipster, a nigger minstrel, and I don't know what else. Wunst I wos that 'ard up that I carried a Punch and Judy for a showman mean enough to skin a flint; 'e wouldn't pay me wot wos doo, so me and Toby took our 'ook together. There wos a week I run arter cabs from the railway stations on the chance of a job to carry the luggage in. Yer can't play it much lower nor that, can yer, guv'nor? The things I could tell 'd fill a book if I 'ad the gift to set 'em down. If I'd been eddycated up to it I might 'ave done well among the swells, I'm that neat with the pasteboards. I can shuffle 'em in any way I want, kings at top, aces at bottom, in the middle, anywhere you like. My fingers wos made for it. Set down at all-fours with me, and I'll tell yer every card in yer 'and. With three peas and a thimble I've earnt many a thick 'un. And now yer've got my pickcher. If open confession's good for the soul, I ought to feel comfortable about mine.
It wos billiards as fust brought me and Maxwell and Morgan together. I wos marker at the Jolly Ploughboy under a false name, and when they come in I wos practising the spot stroke, no one else bein' in the room. I'd made thirteen spots, and wos well set for a run, but the minute I set eyes on 'em I began to kid, and missed a lot of winnin' 'azards. I wosn't born yesterday, yer know. They stood watchin' me a little till I laid down my cue and arst 'em if they wanted a game. They looked at each other, and larfed. "O-ho," sed I to myself, "'untin' for mugs."
"If he ain't 'ere at four o'clock," sed Maxwell to Morgan, "we needn't egspect 'im till five."
"That's so," sed Morgan.
They waited till five minutes past four, but the party they wos egspectin' didn't turn up.
"We'll secure the table," sed Maxwell, and arst me 'ow many I'd give 'im in a 'undered.
"'Ow many 'll yer give me?" wos the question I put to 'im.
"That's cool," sed 'e, "a billiard marker wantin' points."
"I ain't been long at the game," sed I, by way of apology.
"We want the table till seven," sed Maxwell, "to play with a friend wot's comin' to see us, so you and me 'll 'ave a game even."
"I'll try my luck," sed I, and we set to work, Morgan bein' so obligin' as to mark for us.
"Let's 'ave a bet on it," sed Maxwell.
"I'm agreeable, as fur as a shillin' goes," sed I; "it's as much as I can afford to lose."
It wos a funny game. 'E 'adn't taken 'arf-a-dozen shots afore I sor 'e wos kiddin', missin' easy shots, and makin' difficult ones, and pretendin' they wos flukes. But I could kid as well as 'im, and I don't think 'e suspected my play 'arf as much as I suspected 'is. We passed each other over and over agin; now 'e wos a'ead, now me. Morgan seemed to be amused at the game, and wos wery free with 'is remarks. At 'arf-past four Maxwell wos eighty-two, and I was twelve behind.
"Let's make it two 'undered," 'e sed, "and double the stakes."
"All right," sed I, "we ain't dabs either of us."
We went on with the game, scorin' wery slow. At ten minutes to five we wos "140 all," neck and neck. Maxwell looked up at the clock.
"Our friend 'll be 'ere in ten minutes," sed 'e; and I'm blest if 'e didn't set to work and score fifty-eight off the balls, within two of the game.
"Ten to one in shillin's you lose, marker," sed Morgan, when 'is pal commenced 'is big break.
"Done with you, sir," sed I, but I didn't like the bet a bit when I sor wot Maxwell could do with the balls. Luckily for me 'e missed 'is last shot, a loser off the white, and I knew it wos all up with me if I give 'im another chance. So I pulled myself together, and played up in real earnest. I wanted sixty to win, and I run 'em out jest as the clock struck five. They looked staggered a minute, and then they bust out larfin', and threw me my winnin's. As I wos pocketin' the twelve bob with a innercent look (the money come wery 'andy jest then, guv'nor) the friend they wos waitin' for pops 'is 'ead in. It was pore Louis. I can't say I ever took to 'im, 'e wos that stuck up, but when a cove comes to sech a end as 'e come to it sorftens the 'eart.
The minute I sor 'im I spotted wot they wos up to. Maxwell and 'im wos old friends accordin' to their talk, but Morgan wos a new pal, and it wos 'im as tackled Louis at billiards. Louis had plenty of money to sport; 'e'd been backin' winners, and 'ad pulled off a double event, two thousan' to twenty. It made my mouth water to 'ear 'em talk about it. Maxwell 'ad been nicked the other way through backin' losers.
"Wot does it matter?" 'e cried. "Every dawg 'as 'is day. It'll be our turn next."
"You think yerself clever, you do," sneered Louis. "You've only got to touch a thing to make a mess of it."
"You're the clever one," sed Maxwell, but I sor 'e didn't like the slap.
"Wot do you think?" said Louis, rattlin' the money in 'is pocket.
Morgan and 'im played pyramids at fust, a dollar a ball. Louis fancied 'isself a bit, and they kep' praising 'is good shots, but 'e wos as much a match for the man 'e wos playin' with as a mouse is for a cat. It didn't take me long to see that Morgan could give Louis four balls out of fifteen, and beat 'is 'ead off. But the way 'e kidded! I never sor anythink like it. 'E let Louis win three games right off, and then they played a match at billiards, five 'undered up. Maxwell backed Louis, and they 'ad any amount of larfin' and charfin' over the game. It wosn't my place to say anythink; it's a marker's business to 'old 'is tongue if e' wants to keep 'is place. Besides, wosn't I as bad as they wos, and wouldn't I 'ave won money of Louis if 'e'd give me 'arf a chance? Not that Morgan took any of 'is tin that afternoon. 'E won five pound, and so did Maxwell, and 'e chuckled over it as if 'e'd won a 'atful. They went away when the game wos over, and didn't come into that billiard room agin while I wos marker there.
"I didn't stop long, it's true. There was a devil of a row one night, and a man who knew me rounded on me and called me a thief. While the row wos goin' on in come the landlord with 'is fightin' potman, and I was bundled out neck and crop. It ain't easy to get a honest living, guv'nor. I wasn't flush of tin, when I lost my situation; 'arf a quid was all I 'ad, and that was soon blooed. Then I 'ad sech a spell o' bad luck that it drove me fairly wild. Windsor races wos on, and I thought I'd try my luck there, so I borrowed a old pack o' cards, a deal board, and a couple of tressels, and tramped it to the course, startin' in the night to get there in time. I give yer my word I wos 'most starved, and as for my togs—well, I 'ad to tie the soles of my boots to the uppers with bits of string. Between the races I set up my table, and begun to show my card tricks. Unfortunately I ain't wery good at patter, and you know, guv'nor, no one better, wot a long way that goes with a crowd. I tried to make clever speeches, but couldn't, and the consekence wos that the day wos nearly over, and eightpence was all I managed to screw out o' the mangy lot. A tanner o' that went in 'ard-biled eggs, and bread, and a go o' stooed eels, and there wos I with tuppence left to take me back to London. It wos Saturday, and there wos no chance of gittin' anythink to-morrer. A tight 'ole, wasn't it? A life like mine ain't all beer and skittles, I can tell yer.
"Down-'earted as I wos, I went on with my tricks, and never did 'em better in all my life. But it wos no go; them as gathered round wouldn't part. I wos beggin' of 'em to chuck in their coppers when who should I see among 'em but Maxwell. 'E didn't speak to me jest then and 'e didn't give me nothink; presently 'e went away, and come back with Morgan, and they stood watchin' me shuffle the pasteboards. Then they looked at each other, and sed somethink I didn't 'ear. Morgan walked off, leavin' Maxwell be'ind. 'E took me aside.
"Yer down on yer luck," said 'e.
"Never 'ad sech a cussed run in all my born days," sed I, showin' my rags.
"You're clever with the pasteboards," sed 'e.
"Wish I could git my livin' out of 'em," sed I.
"Per'aps yer can," sed 'e. "If I orfer yer a job will yer take it?"
"Will a duck swim?" I answered.
'E scanned me all over, jest as if 'e was measurin' me for somethink, and sed, "You ain't over-partickler, I suppose?"
"Me over-partickler!" I cried. "That's a good 'un. Wot sort of a job?"
"Pickin' feathers," he said, as serious as a judge.
"Wot sort of bird?" I arst.
"Pigeon," he answered. "A fine fat 'un."
"I'm yer man," sed I, and then 'e took a card from 'is pocket, and told me to call at the address to-morrer at one o'clock. 'Is rooms wos on the fust flore, 'e said, and I was to march straight into the 'ouse and up the stairs, and say nothink to nobody. As 'e wos tellin' me this Morgan came runnin' up to 'im and whispered somethink about a 'orse that wos goin' to run in the next race, and they made off together.
"Mean cuss!" thought I, for the least 'e could 'ave done wos to give me a bob or two on account, seein' the state I wos in. 'Owsomever, the chance of a job cheered me up a bit.
When the races wos over I looked about for Maxwell or Morgan, but they wosn't in sight, and there wos nothink for it but to shoulder my traps and tramp it to London. Not a pleasant journey, guv'nor, with the rain comin' down in torrents. Past five in the mornin' when I got back, and I wos that 'ungry I could have eat a brick if I could 'ave got my teeth in it. I ain't tellin' yer this to egscuse myself for wot I did afterwards, only I want yer to know that I wos never in my life so desperately 'ard up as I was that night when I footed it from Windsor to London through the peltin' rain. I wouldn't like a dawg belongin' to me to go through wot I did, and if it 'adn't been for a woman givin' me the best part of 'er mug of corfey at a night stall at two in the mornin' it's my opinion I should 'ave 'ad to throw up the sponge.
The address on the card was Newman Street, Soho, and I wos there to the minute. Up I limped—I'd run a nail into my foot—to the fust flore, as Maxwell told me to do, the street dore bein' on the swing. If anybody 'ad opened it to me they'd 'ave slammed it in my face, and small blame to 'em, I wos sech a scarecrow. The landin' was so dark that I could 'ardly see, but my 'and touched a knocker, and I used it free. Maxwell 'imself answered it, and I follered 'im to 'is room.
"By gum," said 'e, "you've got yerself up for egshibition! 'Ave yer spent that twelve bob yer won of us at billiards?"
"Give me somethink to eat," sed I. "I'm 'arf starved."
He took a pie of some sort out of a cupboard, and I made short work of it.
"Beer or whisky?" 'e sed, when I wos arf way through.
"Both," I answered, and 'e laughed as 'e put a bottle o' beer and 'arf a tumbler of whisky afore me. I finished the beer and put the whisky atop of it. It warmed me, I can tell yer.
"Now for business," he sed; "but fust go into that bath room, and wash the dirt off your 'ands." I got 'em as clean as I could, and then 'e sed, "There's a pack o' cards on the mantelshelf. Let's 'ave a game o' piquet."
I stared at 'im, and sed I didn't know the game.
"I'll learn it yer," he sed. "You beat me at billiards; I want to see if yer can beat me at piquet."
"I ain't got no money to lose," sed I.
"We'll play for nuts," sed 'e with a wink.
'E told me all the pints of the game, and in 'arf-a-hour I 'ad it at my fingers' ends, and knew as much about it as 'e did 'isself.
"D'yer want me to play on the square?" I arst.
"I want to see 'ow yer can palm the cards," he answered. "I told yer at Windsor yesterday that the job I 'ad to orfer yer wos to pick feathers. A fat pigeon, with feathers of gold. Do yer twig?"
"Yes," I sed.
"I can palm the pasteboards pritty well myself," he went on, "but I ain't allus to be depended on. Morgan's a muff, 'is fingers are all thumbs. 'Old up yer 'ands. Good—as steady as a rock. Come on; it's your deal."
We played, and I 'ardly ever dealt myself a 'and without four aces, or four kings, or a point of sixteen or seventeen from the ace. In less than a hour I won nigh upon a thousand points of 'im. 'E watched me close, but 'e couldn't find out 'ow it wos done, and 'e said with a sour grin that I wos the prince o' sharps, and that 'e wouldn't like to play me for money.
Then 'e let me into the secret. There wos a young feller 'im and Morgan wos wery intimate with; 'e 'ad money of 'is own, and 'ad won more at the races, where the three of 'em went together. They'd won a little off 'im at cards, but they 'ad a notion e' wos gettin' suspicious of 'em, though they wosn't sure. Per'aps 'e wos, per'aps 'e wosn't. Their scheme was to introduce a fourth gentleman who'd jine the game.
"You're the fourth gentleman," sed Maxwell.
"Me!" I cried. "Why, I've only got to open my mouth to show wot I am."
They 'ad considered that. I wos a common, ignorant man, with a good 'eart—I wos to be sure to 'ave a good 'eart—as 'd made a fortune on the goldfields. I wos to lose money as well as the pigeon, and that'd make 'im less suspicious. The difference atween me and 'im wos that he paid in good money and I paid in flash notes.
"One night," sed Maxwell, "arter yer've lost double as much as 'im yer'll set down with me while 'e's in the room, and in an hour or two yer'll win back double as much as yer've lost. That'll egg 'im on, and 'e'll try to do the same with me or you—it don't matter which—and then we'll clean 'im out. We'll 'ave every shillin' 'e's got. We play for ready money—no infernal cheques—and when we've done with 'im 'e can go to the devil. See?"
I did see. It wos a artful plot, and like enough to turn out jest as 'e calkylated.
"Wot am I to gain by it?" I arst.
"A reg'lar swell rig-out," 'e answered, "fine togs, a gold watch and chain, and a ring, and two pound a week to keep yerself. When the job's finished yer'll get a fourth of the winnin's."
I didn't throw away the chance—not me! Fine togs, a gold watch and chain, a ring, and two pound a week—why, it wos a reg'lar slice o' luck, with me starving, and not knowing where to git my next meal from!
"I'll jine yer," said I. "'Ere's my 'and on it. Who's the pigeon?"
"D'yer remember that friend of our'n as Morgan played billiards with at the Jolly Ploughboy?" arst Maxwell.
"Send I may live!" I cried. "If that's 'im we're done! 'E'll know me agin as sure as guns."
"I'll eat my 'ead if 'e does," sed Maxwell. "You 'ad a mustarsh and a pair o' whiskers, and you've got 'em now. Shave 'em off, and slip into yer new togs, and yer own mother wouldn't know yer."
He wos right. Yer wouldn't believe the difference it made in me. When I looked in the glass I thought I wos some one else.
Louis never suspected, and Maxwell sed I played my part tip-top. 'E acted square as fur as 'is fust promises went. The watch and chain wos only silver gilt, and the ring was Abyssinian gold and sham stones, but the togs wos all right, and so wos the two quid a week. I told 'im if 'e did me in the end when the job was finished, I'd make it warm for 'im.
I've come across some bad 'uns in my time, but I never come across sech a scoundrel as that Maxwell. 'E'd 'ave skinned 'is own mother if 'e could 'ave made anythink out of it and if 'e could 'ave put the skinnin' on a pal. For that's where 'e beat us—'e knew 'ow to make 'isself safe if we wos blown on. Louis wos mad on 'orse-racin', and so wos all of us, for the matter of that, but 'e took the cake. We went all over the country, whenever there wos any sport on, and yer may bet yer life we never give our own names nowhere. I think that Louis stuck to us because 'e wos mad to git back the money 'e'd lost to Maxwell and Morgan; 'e wos regularly pricked, and sometimes went for Maxwell like a mad bull. But Maxwell kep' cool; 'e only lost 'isself once, and you'll 'ear of it presently. 'E couldn't keep wot 'e won; 'e dashed it down on the race-course, and wos more orfen stone broke than not. 'E wos allus goin' to win a pot on the next race, and it never come off—never once. 'E knowed sech a lot, yer see. That's wot's the matter with most of us. We're so clever.
There wos 'ardly a night as we didn't end up with a gamble. Louis kep' on droppin' 'is money, and the more 'e dropped the closer 'e stuck to us. I dropped twice as much as 'e did, but then it made no difference to me, one way or the other. When 'im and me wos pardners agin Maxwell and Morgan, we lost four times out of five. It wos allus settled before'and if 'e wos to win or lose, and the cards wos dealt accordin'. If they'd been dealt fair 'e'd 'ave lost, but not as much. 'E reckoned 'isself the best player in the crowd, and it 'appened 'e wos the wust. A barn-door fowl wosn't in it with 'im for crowin'.
"Never say die," I sed, when we wos reckonin' up our losses. "Luck must turn. Maxwell don't play a bit better nor you or me. I'll git all my money back, and a bit over, afore I've done with 'im."
It turned out that way 'cause it wos part of the plot.
We'd jest come to Liverpool, and it wos bitter weather. It was snowin' all day and freezin' all night, and the racin' 'ad to be postponed.
"We'll finish the job 'ere," sed Maxwell.
So as to keep ourselves to ourselves a 'ouse 'ad been taken near the docks; it wos only 'arf furnished, but that didn't matter. Morgan took it for a month on trial, and give the name o' Mollison. The agent arst for a reference, and one wos sent 'im from London, I don't know by who. We took possession without anybody noticin' us. There wos a room on the fust flore pritty well stocked with chairs, tables, sideboard, lamps, lookin' glass over the mantelpiece, and all that. We smuggled in grog, and wine, and cigars, and when we built up a big fire the room looked cosy and comfortable. We used to go there after dinner, and smoke, and drink, and play. One night I told Louis that I meant to have a dash at Maxwell single-'anded.
"We ain't lucky as pardners," I sed, "I'm goin' to tackle 'im alone."
By that time Louis 'ad dropped a matter of three thousand quid, accordin' to 'is reckonin', and 'e wos mad to git it back. I never found out where the money went to; Maxwell wos always swearin' 'e 'adn't a shillin'. I'll do 'im the justice to say that 'e threw it away right and left at the races, but 'e never showed us any account of 'ow 'e got rid of it.
"Yer'll give me my revenge, yer'll give me my revenge!" That wos allus Louis's cry when 'e settled up.
"Give yer yer revenge!" said Maxwell. "In course we will. We don't want yer tin."
And perhaps the next time Louis 'ud win two or three pound. That wos the way 'e wos led on. Maxwell knew 'ow to play 'is fish.
Well, Maxwell took up my challenge to play single-'anded, and we set down to our match. Louis and Morgan wos playin' the same game—piquet it wos—in another part of the room, but 'earin' the big talk atween me and Maxwell they left off and come to our table.
"D'yer mind my lookin' over yer 'and?" sed Louis to me.
"Not a bit," I answered. "I'm winnin', and I ain't sooperstitious."
In course I palmed the cards, but it'd 'ave took a cleverer chap nor Louis to ketch me. I ought to be rollin' in money.