The corner house, the mystery--everything was now forgotten. Bruce called for hot water, he made a sign for it, he simulated the mixing of mustard in a pot. Fortunately his companion's native intelligence was equal to the strain. She vanished with a quick nod of her head.
The house was wonderfully quiet; not a sound came from anywhere. The repulsive figure of the man lay there like some new and hideous form of death. Who he was and why he came there Bruce did not dare to think for the present. Perhaps the dark owner of the house had returned; perhaps this was the very man himself. Certainly there was no foul play here, no audacious criminal invasion of the house, seeing that the light in the hall could be seen from the street.
Surely they were a long time getting that hot water. In such a case as this hurry was everything. Bruce crept from the room and looked over the banisters. The whole place was in darkness!
Bruce caught his breath sharply. He had scarcely time to consider what it all meant when the light flared up again, and the fair woman returned with a kettle and basin and a tin of mustard.
The doctor slipped off his dress-coat and turned up his sleeves. In a prim sort of way his fair attendant took the coat away and hung it up carefully in the dim recesses of a big cupboard at the far side of the room. With great care and patience Bruce contrived to coax a quantity of the hideous mixture of mustard and water down the unconscious man's throat.
For the next hour the struggle between life and death was a severe one. Once the strong emetic had done its work something like consciousness returned. The patient staggered backwards and forwards across the room on Bruce's arm until the latter was fagged and weary and the moisture dripped from his forehead. The first faint streaks of dawn were breaking as Bruce donned his coat and deemed it safe to proceed home. He made the woman with the golden hair understand that he would come again.
She shook her head and smiled as she held out three pounds and three shillings.
Evidently this kind of thing had happened before, and this was the fee usually paid. Bruce slipped the money in his pocket, feeling that he had earned it. The guide picked up a Bradshaw from the table and indicated Dover therein. Two strapped portmanteaus were on the floor.
The meaning of this was all plain enough. Bruce had had his fee and was dismissed because these strange people were leaving for the Continent at once, provided the patient was well enough to travel. Suddenly the hall light went out again, and once more the house was in darkness. There was the sound of a heavy footfall outside. Bruce put his back to the wall prepared for eventualities.
A scraping of a match, a flood of light again, a queer half-amused smile on the Spaniard's face, as she noted Bruce's expression. Then the front door was opened, and he was bowed out politely. Before he had time to cross the road the light was out again, and the whole house in darkness.
The cool morning air was grateful after the stuffy atmosphere of the corner house. Here was an adventure to think about and ponder over. Strange coincidence that he of all men should have been called there! It never occurred to Bruce that the thing could be anything but coincidence.
Should he keep the whole matter to himself, he wondered. At any rate he need not tell anybody but Hetty. Perhaps that drunken lunatic was some relation to the master of the corner house; he might have found his way into Lytton Square in a state of semi-insanity by favour of a careless servant. The thing was capable of a very practical solution.
Bruce put the thing out of his mind for the time being. The next morning was a busy one. When the back of it was broken he drove to Tottenham Court Road, where he managed to secure the old-fashioned furniture which had so taken his fancy. He felt pleased with his bargain, but as he repaired to the Lotus Club to lunch with Gilbert Lawrence nothing remained of the old Dutchman's banknotes.
Lawrence was deep in the early edition of "The Star." He nodded to Bruce and looked up from his paper eagerly.
"By Jove, listen to this," he exclaimed. "Here's a strange thing for you. Some houses seem famed for tragedy, like some men are."
"Something in your line?" Bruce asked.
"Well, I should say so. Listen:"
"'The Corner House keeps up its reputation. A mysterious murder in Raven Street where an undiscovered crime happened years ago.
"'At a little past twelve today a policeman on duty in Raven Street saw that the door of an unoccupied furnished house was open, and proceeded to investigate the premises. In a room upstairs he found the body of a man with his throat cut and a horrible wound at the back of his head. Robbery appears to be the motive. The matter is all the more mysterious as the place called the Corner House has been supposed to be shut up for years. It was here that the famous "Corner House" poisoning mystery took place.
"'Later.--The murdered man is described as being of misshapen appearance, a nose very much hooked on one side, and long hands, covered with orange-coloured warts----'"
"What?" Bruce cried. "Read that over again."
"Do you mean to say you know anything about it?" Lawrence asked.
"He was my patient," Bruce said hoarsely. "I was with him at daybreak."
Lawrence dropped "The Star" and gazed at the speaker with absolute amazement.
There was something about the Corner House mystery that gripped the public imagination. There was about it both the realism and the romance that always go to make up a popular sensation.
In the first place, the corner house was already marked as the scene of one unsolved tragedy. For years it had been shut up, for years the boys of the locality had challenged one another to go down the area steps after dark, for years nobody had crossed the threshold. Then the door had been left open for the public eye to look on another tragedy.
The victim was no ordinary man either. People flocked to view the body as morbid folks will do on such occasions. The victim of the crime was no more attractive in death than he had been in life. There were the crooked limbs, the hideous hooked nose, the claws with the orange splashes on them.
But nobody identified the dead man; the police had not expected anything of the kind. The inquest had been formally opened at the corner house, and at the suggestion of Sergeant Prout, who had the case in hand, was adjourned for a fortnight. It was hard to get the people out of the house afterwards.
They were gone out at last, and Sergeant Prout was left to make his investigations in peace. Up to now he had hardly as much as examined the body. An attempt had been made to find the owner of the house, or the agents, but without success.
"It's a queer thing," said Prout, scratching his snaky little head reflectively; "a very queer thing. Now here's a house for you. Given a man of energy and pluck who has learnt its story, and what is to prevent his taking possession and living here as if the place was his own? He comes and picks the lock, he has his servants in, and gives out that he is Jones or Robinson, and there's an end of it so long as he holds his head high and pays his creditors. Of course there is the risk of the real man turning up, but criminals must always take chances. In a way that's what happened. The poor fellow was lured here to be murdered by some one who pretended that the house was his. It's a very pretty case."
It was a puzzling one, too. Every policeman who had been on night duty in Lytton Avenue for months was closely examined. Once or twice a night the doors of the house had been tried without effect. Nobody had ever been seen to come away or enter. No suspicious characters had been seen loafing about. Not one of the officers had ever seen a light in the place.
"I'll go and look at the gas meter," said Prout.
He was an efficient officer in his way, only, like most members of the force, he lacked imagination. Give him something to work on, and there was not a more efficient detective in New Scotland Yard. But there was no clue here, so he had to fall back on the old familiar methods.
Here was the gas meter under the stairs as usual. Behind it was the grimy, dirty card, which showed no entry for years. It was marked "taken 5 Feb.," in other words the meter had been read the day the owner had disappeared. By reading the index Prout saw that a hundred odd cubic feet of gas had been used since.
Here was something to go upon. Beyond doubt that gas had been used lately. Prout made a careful examination of the burners, sniffing and blowing at all of them. He found out one thing, only the burners in the hall and the bedroom where the murdered man had been found had been used for a long time. In a bedroom at the top of the house was a paraffin lamp with quite a new wick in it. With a stump of pencil Prout made a rapid calculation on the wall-paper.
"Lamp used by murderer waiting for his victim," he deduced. "Did not want any more light than was necessary, so probably lay low in a back room. When the hour for the victim came, lighted the hall gas so as not to look suspicious. Then why the dickens didn't the officer on duty notice it?"
"Because it wasn't there when he passed, Prout," said a quick voice that caused the detective to turn with a start. "There was a confederate, of course. Nothing easier than for the confederate to listen for the officer's footsteps and put out the gas till he had gone by. Other people didn't matter."
"Right as usual, Mr. Lawrence," said Prout, beaming approvingly on the great novelist. "Why don't you come and join the force?"
Lawrence modestly disclaimed the compliment. As a strong romantic writer he found a fascination in crimes of this kind; indeed, he boasted that practically all his living dramas were founded on life. He had a wonderful faculty for tracing the motive of a crime. Many a useful hint had he given to Scotland Yard.
"What's the theory here, sir?" Prout asked respectfully.
"A vulgar one," said Lawrence. "Robbery either from the person or indirectly. I don't see how anybody could possibly be jealous of a poor misshapen creature like that. We can put the socialistic element out of the case. Have you found anything?"
Prout had found nothing. He had not had time yet to examine the deceased's coat and clothing. He was just about to do so. The first examination disclosed a pocketbook containing some score of more or less recent pawn-tickets made out in various names and a letter in an envelope.
"This looks like business," Prout exclaimed. "The letter is not sealed. Anyway, it was written here with the pen on the mantelpiece and that penny bottle of ink; see how pale it is and what shabby paper, evidently a ha'porth purchased from some huckster's shop. Isn't that right, sir?"
Prout scrawled in his pocketbook with the pen. The ink was just the same pallid hue. The pen was a "J," and the letter had evidently been written with a "J" too. Prout had every reason to be satisfied.
"What do you think of the letter, sir?" Prout asked.
There was no date and no address. There was a deal of flourish about the letter as if the writer had learned his craft abroad. It ran as follows:
Dear Friend And Partner,--At last the luck of the deuce has departed and my virtue has its own reward. I have found my man. At first my man blustered, but logic, mon cher, logic gets the best of temper always. I parted with him and he parted with £400. In sovereigns. Mark the cunning of the man! No notes or cheques for him. But money in cash I dare not send to you. Therefore I have changed my gold for notes, and £200 in forty lovely crisp bits of paper I forward herewith. They are numbered from 190753 to 190792. This I tell you for precaution's sake. I am waiting for the cipher from K and this I will enclose. Next Saturday I propose to salute you. Till then with my most distinguished admiration,
Number One.
"What do you think of that?" Prout asked.
"Proves robbery," Lawrence said, crisply. "The murderer got away with the notes, but knew nothing of the letter. You go your way and I'll go mine. I am greatly mistaken if I don't throw a strong light on the mystery yet."
"You mean that you have a clue, sir."
"Certainly I do. This is a most amazing case. Why, it is copied from the plot of one of my own novels. And, stranger still, that novel has not yet been written!"
It was late in the afternoon before Prout hit upon the trail he was looking for. He had been keeping the telegraph and the telephone busy. The scent was still hot, and it was just possible that he might come upon some trace of the missing notes before they left the country.
At any rate, it could only have been hours since they found their way into the hands of the murdered man. According to his letter, he had received £400 in gold--probably the result of some blackmailing transaction--after which he had hastened to turn them into banknotes for transmission, probably abroad.
Now there is only one place of business where a man can turn so large a sum of money into notes, and that place must be a bank. There are a great many banks in London, and the difficulty in finding the right one was enhanced by the fact that nobody besides Prout knew that there was anything wrong about these particular notes. On the face of it, the transaction was a very casual one.
It was nearly four o'clock before Prout raised the trail. On the previous day but one a cashier at the National Credit Bank had changed £400 in gold into notes for a stranger who answered to the description of the murdered man. Prout dashed down to Leadenhall Street in a fast hansom. The cashier was a little nervous, but quite willing to speak freely.
"I remember the transaction perfectly well," he said. "We do a lot of money-changing and that kind of thing, as our foreign connection is a large one. I should not have heeded the matter but for noticing the curious disfigurement of the man's hands."
"Covered all over with orange blotches, eh?" asked Prout.
"Quite so. The man was all twisted from his hip, and he had a crooked nose."
"You needn't say any more," Prout said crisply. "That's the man. You changed the gold for the victim of the Corner House tragedy. Got the numbers?"
The numbers were forthcoming, of course--190753 to 190832, the first half of which eighty £5 notes had been alluded to in the murdered man's letter.
"So far so good," Prout remarked. "It's not a very pleasant experience, but I am sorry I have not finished yet. I shall have to trouble you to come as far as Raven Street with me and identify the body."
It was well over at length, but the mild little cashier had nothing to say except that he really must go over to the Raven's Arms and have a little brandy. Abstemious man as he was, he felt it was necessary. Presently the blood came back to his face again, and his dilated pupils contracted.
"That's the man, sergeant," he said. "And I hope I have seen the last of him. Are you going to advertise those notes?"
Prout replied for the present he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. The thief knew nothing about the letter, or he assuredly would have destroyed it. He would imagine that he had got off scot free with his booty, and thus might walk into the trap prepared for him.
"We shall lie low for the present," Prout said. "And I will ask you to do the same. You may mention this matter to your manager, but not to another soul. I'll try and get down before five and see your manager myself."
It was not a bad day's work, and it spurred on Prout to fresh endeavours. He carefully examined the fireplace, he tested the windows, but nothing rewarded his endeavours beyond a blacklead-brush thrown into the corner of the scullery together with a cake of blacklead recently opened.
"Now where does this come in?" he asked himself. "There isn't a grate in the house that has been touched for years. And this cake is not quite dry yet. And a bit of yellow soap in the tray over the sink that would be as hard as a chip if it had been here since the people left. But it hasn't. Murderer may have washed his hands, which is exceedingly likely, but what did he want blacklead for?"
Prout looked keenly around him. He opened the back door into a yard that gave on to a lane at the back of the house. The bricks were damp and mossy, and on them was something that looked like the print of wheels. The door leading to the lane was wide, and on the edge on both sides something patchy glistened. Prout touched it with his fingers.
"Now what does it mean?" he asked himself. "What game were they playing?"
The black edging of the gate-posts was fresh blacklead.
The little discovery gave a new twist to Prout's thoughts as he drove down to the National Credit Bank. He had no particular object save to see the manager and impress upon him that in the interests of justice the whole thing must be kept a profound secret. There was no difficulty about that: the cashier was indignant, for he had already given his promise on the matter.
"Not that you will ever see those notes again, sir," Prout said. "By this time they are probably on their way to the Continent, whence they may begin to dribble back one by one in the course of months. Still, one never can tell."
The manager was sympathetic; at the same time he looked at the clock, which was drawing very near to closing time. There was a lull outside in the traffic. Prout took up his hat and prepared to depart.
But the same moment his friend, the cashier, came rushing in. His eyes were gleaming behind his spectacles.
"A most extraordinary thing, sir," he stammered. "Those notes that Sergeant Prout came about just now are----"
"Get on," the manager said impatiently, "Get on."
"Have been paid in to the credit of a customer, or part of them."
"Numbers?" Prout snapped. "Which part of them?"
"190753 to 190792," the cashier replied.
"Every note," Prout cried, "every blessed note mentioned in the dead's man's letter."
Gilbert Lawrence lighted a cigarette and waited for Bruce to speak. It wanted some little time to luncheon. The doctor's statement was likely to add piquancy to the meal.
"Well, one hears some queer things," the novelist said at length. "I've been fascinated with that corner house for years. As I told you before, I built up a romance round it. Some day I mean to take the papers out of my pigeonhole and work it up."
"Did you ever put me in it?" Bruce asked gravely.
"Well, upon my word, I fancy it was something like it," said Lawrence. "There was a hero like yourself, only he wasn't a doctor, and a girl like Hetty. Also there was a mysterious assignation in the corner house after midnight, and, as a matter of course, a body. None of these stories are complete without a body."
Bruce chafed under the flippancy. He was quite undecided what to do. Beyond all question the patient whom he had attended under such mysterious circumstances was the murdered man. Was it his duty at once to go to the police and tell them all he knew? On the other hand he had no desire to violate professional confidence. Certainly the lovely Spaniard and the people of the house could have nothing to do with the murder. If they had, they would never have called in a doctor's aid and paid him a handsome fee to save the life of that poor dissipated wretch. It must have happened after they had gone.
"Tell us all about it," Lawrence asked eagerly.
Bruce related his story without going into details. Rarely had a raconteur a more flattering audience. Most men would have laughed the whole thing to scorn. But the novelist knows the vast possibilities of life, and Lawrence paid his companion the compliment of believing every word that he said.
"Upon my word, a most remarkable thing," he exclaimed.
"You have said that before." Bruce replied irritably. "What I am thinking about at present is my own awkward position. Shall I go to the police and tell them everything or shall I respect confidence?"
"Pursue a policy of masterly inactivity," Lawrence suggested after a thoughtful pause. "Say nothing for the present. The matter has not been brought before you officially yet. There will be an inquest, which will only last a few minutes, for the simple reason that the police will ask for an adjournment. Meanwhile I will go and have a chat with the man who has the case in hand. If the time comes when you must speak, why speak, of course."
Bruce fell in with this suggestion, and sat down to lunch with what appetite he could. He was terribly disturbed and uneasy. He was dining that night with Countess Lalage, who was giving one of her brilliant little parties. There would be a chance of a cosy little chat with Hetty afterwards, but all the same as Bruce dressed he wished that he was not going.
Even the great beauty and the refinement of his surroundings failed to soothe him this evening. Usually this kind of thing pleased him. He noticed vaguely that the Countess was dressed in some cloudy lace, all like sea foam, and that the dark eyes were unusually brilliant and glittering.
There was a score of guests in the drawing-room, all laughing and chatting together. Hetty was there also, looking, to Bruce's eyes, the sweetest and prettiest of them all. She owed nothing to artificial beauty.
"I owe you a deep apology," the Countess whispered, as she held Bruce's hand. "I was exceedingly rude to you the other night. I ought to have waited for your ice, and more especially, I ought to have waited to congratulate you. I am very glad for Hetty's sake. She is a good girl, and I shall miss her."
The voice ran true and clear; there was deep sincerity in the eyes of the speaker. Bruce was melting, despite himself. Hetty must be wrong. A brilliant woman like that would never throw herself at the feet of a mere doctor. Nobody could look in her eyes and doubt her goodness and truth.
"It is very good of you to say so," Bruce murmured feebly.
The Countess pushed him from her with a merry smile.
"You are distant tonight," she said. "Go and talk to Hetty. Not that I am going to let her monopolise you all the evening. I am too jealous of your reputation for that. Now go and make the most of your time."
Hetty looked up shyly. There was a faint little smile on her face. She wore a single stone diamond heart on her breast. But for this Bruce would not have known how quickly she was breathing.
"What is it?" he asked. "What is the matter, sweetheart?"
Hetty smiled up into her lover's face. From under her long lashes she could see that Leona Lalage was regarding her intently.
"Talk in an ordinary manner," she whispered; "say anything foolish--the sort of bald nonsense young men chatter in drawing-rooms. And don't forget that the Countess is watching every gesture intently."
"She struck me as being rather nice," Bruce replied. "And I am quite sure that she was sincere in her congratulations."
Hetty said nothing further on that head. The Countess was a wonderful actress. She would have deceived the strongest, coolest head in the world. But even that magnificent actress could not blind a woman's instinct.
"Perhaps," Hetty said, after a long pause. "Perhaps. And yet something tells me that you are in great danger. Smile and say something foolish--I feel those eyes going through me. That woman loved you, and you never gave her a thought. You passed her by for me. And who would look at me when she was about?"
"I would for one," Bruce laughed. "I am not fond of your tempestuous woman. Have there been any other signs and manifestations?"
"Don't laugh at me, Gordon," Hetty whispered. "I knew there was something wrong with that dreadful corner house. You have heard of the tragedy?"
Bruce nodded. He would keep his secret for the present even from Hetty. In any case this was not the place to discuss the great adventure.
"Well, I fancy I can tell you more about it," Hetty went on. "Only you must not look so interested. Try and assume the idiotic expression of a lover on the stage. Last night I could not sleep. I have been terribly restless lately. I got up to fetch a book from the schoolroom, which is in the front at the top of the house. The blind was up, the window was not closed, so I looked out. The air was so cool that it did my head good. I was there about a quarter of an hour. I heard the noise of a door being closed and whispers on the pavement. Those people had come out of the corner house, two of them--a man and a woman."
"What time would that be?" Bruce asked as casually as possible.
"About half-past-four. It must have been about that time, because just after I got back to my room the clock struck five. A motor car came up, one of the quietest I have ever heard. As the woman got in she stumbled, and the man swore at her. Then there was the strangest thing, the dull side of the motor car gleamed in places like silver, as if something had been rubbed off it by the woman as she fell. What do I think it was? Well, so far as I could make out, the car was all hung with black crape."
The best part of two days had passed, but there was no abatement in the sensation caused by the fresh tragedy of the corner house. An enterprising newspaper had made a determined effort to trace the whereabouts of the real owner of the premises and drag his pitiful story afresh into the daylight, but he was not to be found. No relative came forward with the hope of gain. And it looked as if the new tragedy was going to be as deep a mystery as the old one.
Of course the police knew nothing. Sarcastic remarks were made at their expense. Other papers hinted at startling disclosures to be made at the adjourned inquest. There were many startling rumours contradicted as soon as they were made.
"Even you are puzzled, uncle," Hetty said to Lawrence. She was off for the afternoon; she had called at the novelist's chambers to meet Bruce there with an eye to a little shopping and a visit to the new house in Green Street. "I know you are interested. Can't you make anything out of it?"
"Well, I can and I can't," Lawrence said thoughtfully. "I'm puzzled, of course, and I am very much interested in this kind of thing. But really I am puzzled over one of the most remarkable coincidences that ever happened in the experience of a man who has made a pretty penny out of coincidences. In this instance 'the long arm' has taken a form that is positively uncanny."
"Perhaps I can help you," Hetty suggested.
"So you shall later on," Lawrence replied. "For the present I have my hands full. I've had some hard problems to solve in the way of plots, but never one like this. Here's Bruce coming along the street. Run away and leave me to my puzzle."
Hetty determined to think no more about it for the present. It was a lovely afternoon, she was conscious of the fact that her dress suited her to perfection, and was she not going to spend a long afternoon with the man of her choice in the fascinating occupation of house furnishing?
It was the first half-day Bruce had taken off for a long time. All his patients this morning had behaved in a perfectly satisfactory manner. The sun was shining out of a cloudless sky, everything seemed fair and prosperous. It was one of the days when everything seems well--the kind of day that often precedes disaster.
Hetty chatted along by the side of her lover happy enough. She would have made light of the fears had they occurred to her now. After all, what could the Countess do? That love and revenge business was all very well in books. Gordon was a resolute man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and the Countess was not likely to do anything to prejudice her position in society.
Thus Hetty out of doors and in the sunshine. She and Bruce had a thousand plans to make, a score of shops to look into. Their tastes were the same, and principally lay in the direction of the old and antique.
"We won't bother about the drawing-room," Hetty said gaily. "That can take care of itself for the present. Two fans and a bulrush as somebody says. And the other rooms, so long as they are light, won't matter. But the dining-room must be quite the thing. Oh, if you could only afford to get the lovely oak we saw at Capper's! We must think of you alone, just at first, Gordon."
She looked up with such a sunny smile that Bruce regretted the presence of others. There was not a happier pair in London. They turned into Capper's presently, and for the first time that day Hetty was conscious of a little pang of envy.
"I am not going to look at another thing," she said. "But it does seem hard that we have not got another hundred pounds, Gordon."
Bruce kissed her behind the demure corner of a Japanese screen. His eyes were dancing with mischief and pleasure.
"You can spend the hundred pounds as you please, dearest," he said. "I am going to tell you a secret. I have had a lovely slice of luck. Forty five-pound banknotes that I never for one moment expected came my way."
"Then you can buy the old oak," Hetty said rapturously.
"Always thinking of others," Gordon smiled. "To tell you the truth I have bought and paid for the old oak. Consequently the money set aside for that goes to your side of the house. No, I have no choice in the matter. I am going to let you do exactly as you please."
The sedate head of the firm in personal attendance smiled. The lovers were not sorry to be rid of him when he was called away for a moment. An official-looking person was standing by the desk with a package in his hand.
"These banknotes were paid to your firm?" he asked.
Mr. Capper admitted the fact as he glanced at them. They had been paid to him two days ago and by him passed on to a wholesale firm of upholsterers.
"In fact," he said, "the customer who gave them me is now in the shop."
The official-looking man stepped forward. As he came into the light Bruce recognised him for Sergeant Prout. A sense of uneasiness came over him. Prout touched his cap and then indicated the notes.
"A word with you, Dr. Bruce," he said. "These notes, 190753 to 190792, were in the possession of the man found murdered at the corner house in Raven Street. We know they were stolen from him. The next day they were paid here in purchase of some furniture."
"Some mistake," said Bruce. "I certainly paid forty five-pound notes here the day after the murder, but they came into my possession the night before. If those are the notes you say they are I never touched them."
Prout turned the notes over and opened them out like a pack of cards.
"Is not that your signature endorsed on every one?" he asked.
"Good heavens," Bruce cried hoarsely, "it is. It would be futile to deny it."
Hetty moved instinctively to her lover's side. His face was ghastly pale, but he held his head high and looked Prout proudly in the eyes. The latter waited. He had made no accusation; it was not his cue to express an opinion one way or another. Hetty looked at him approvingly.
"If there is anything wrong about the notes," Capper began, "I can only----"
"From your point of view there is nothing wrong," said Prout. "A mere coincidence, sir. If I could only, have a few minutes' private conversation with you, doctor?"
Bruce led the way outside. He was utterly bewildered. Those notes had passed into his possession quite honestly, they were for value received, and they never left his possession until he parted with them to Capper. Why, they were in his possession hours before he was called into the corner house.
The strangely assorted trio turned into a tea room close by. They had a table to themselves where they could talk freely.
"Now say it all over again," Bruce asked. "I am perfectly dazed. Let me know what I am accused of doing."
Prout replied that for the present there was no accusation.
"It's like this," he said, laying the fateful notes on the table. "A man who has got to be identified is found dead--murdered, beyond a doubt, in an unoccupied house in Raven Street. All the circumstances of the case point to robbery. On searching the body we find a letter written by the deceased to a friend saying that he is forwarding some banknotes. He gives the number of those banknotes amongst others--numbers 190753 to 190793. All this is set out clearly in the letter. Now, will you please to examine those notes, doctor, and tell me the numbers?"
Bruce turned them over one by one. There was no mistake about the matter at all. They were the same numbers as those given in the handwriting of the dead man. The whole thing seemed impossible, but there it was.
"One moment," Hetty asked eagerly. "How do you know that the letter in your possession really was written by the murdered man?"
Prout glanced admiringly into the pretty flushed face.
"That's a clever question, miss," he said, "but I have a reply to it. We have found a woman near the docks where the unknown stayed for a day or two. As she cannot read or write she got him to write her a line or two to her landlord's agent, sending some arrears of rent and promising the balance shortly. That scrap of paper has come into my possession."
"And of course it tallies," Bruce said moodily. "Those things always do."
"It does, sir," Prout went on. "The question of handwriting is established. How those notes came into your possession we have yet to find out."
"They never came into my possession," Bruce cried. "There is some mistake----"
Prout tapped the pile of papers significantly.
"Here they are, with your signature on the back of every one of them," he said. "There is nothing singular about that, seeing that so many tradesmen insist upon having banknotes endorsed. Question is, What's the explanation?"
For the life of him Bruce could not say. It was absurd to suppose that by some mistake the Bank of England had issued two sets of notes of the same series of numbers. There was no mistake about the murdered man's letter either.
"Perhaps you'd like to tell your story, sir," Prout suggested.
"My story is quite simple," Bruce replied. "Some little time ago I bought a picture by J. Halbin. I gave a few pounds for it. Early in the evening of the day preceding the corner house murder I had a visitor. He was an elderly Dutchman, who gave his name as Max Kronin. He had heard of my purchase, and wanted the picture for family reasons. He offered me £200 for it, and paid me in notes--the notes that are on the table there."
"Which identical notes must have been in the possession of the murdered man for many hours after you say they passed into your possession."
"Take it or leave it," Bruce said desperately. "It's like some horrid nightmare. From the time I received the notes from the elderly Dutchman till I parted with them to Capper they were never out of my possession."
"Of course, you know where the Dutchman is to be found?"
Bruce shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"He took the picture away," he said, "and I thought no more of the matter, he said something about going to Antwerp. In the face of the damning evidence you have piled up against me, my story sounds hysterical and foolish."
Prout was not so sure of that. He had seen too many startling developments in his time to be surprised at anything.
"Of course, it wants a bit of explaining away," he said. "Still, supposing for argument sake you were the thief, how could we possibly connect you with the corner house and the poor fellow who was murdered there?"
It had come at last. Bruce braced himself for the ordeal. Just for the moment there was a terrible temptation to hold his tongue. The story of his visit to the corner house was known to those only who would not dare to speak. Once he told the truth he realized that he was putting a noose around his neck.
And yet as an honourable man he was bound to speak, indeed he had already spoken, for Gilbert Lawrence had been made privy to part of the story.
"You couldn't prove it," he said, moodily, "but I can, I must. Prout, I am the sport of either a most amazing piece of misfortune or else the victim of the most cunning and diabolical scheme that man ever dreamed of. I was actually in the corner house within an hour or so of the murder."
A queer little cry broke from Hetty. Her face was deadly pale, her eyes dilated with horror. It was only for a moment, then she slipped her hand into that of her lover and pressed it warmly. Even Prout seemed uneasy.
"You are not bound to say anything further, sir," he muttered meaningly.
"Ah, I know what you mean," Bruce went on recklessly. "Don't you see that as an honest man I am bound to speak out? Just as I reached my rooms that night a motor drove up to my house with a note for me----"
"Ah! I should like to have a look at that note," said Front.
"I destroyed it. There was no object in keeping it. I tore it up then and there and pitched it on the pavement. The motor was driven by a dumb man, who conveyed me to the corner house. It struck me as strange, but then the owner might have returned. When I got there I found the man subsequently murdered suffering from a combination of alcoholic poisoning and laudanum. It was hard work, but I managed to save him. A Spanish woman--the only creature besides my patient I saw--paid me a fee of three guineas, and there ends the matter."
Prout's expression was that of a man who by no means shared this opinion, but he said nothing on that head.
"Did you speak to the Spanish woman?" he asked.
"I couldn't, for the simple reason that she knew no English," said Bruce. "I know I am putting a terrible weapon in your hands but I have no alternative. If there is anything else that I can tell you----"
Prout rose and bowed to Hetty.
"It's not fair, sir," he said. "It's giving me too great an advantage. If you take my advice, you'll go at once and explain the position to some smart solicitor--Ely Place for choice."
Hetty clung to Bruce's arm as if fearful for her safety. Of course, he was absolutely innocent, but how far the world would believe it was quite another matter. For the girl was quick and clear-sighted, and it needed no explanation to show her Bruce's terrible position.
Her nimble wit pointed to conspiracy.
But it was only a vague idea at present. She forced a brave smile to her lips.
"We won't discuss it, dearest," she said. "The mere idea of your guilt is absurd to any one who knows you. I cannot realize it yet, the whole thing is so terribly mixed up and involved. The one man to get to the bottom of things is Gilbert Lawrence. The police will see nothing here beyond a mere vulgar crime. My uncle Gilbert will bring a novelist's imagination to work on it, And, whatever happens, there will be one person who believes implicitly in you."
Bruce pressed the little hand under his arm silently. He did not feel equal to speaking just for the moment. Despite the pain and trouble at her heart Hetty spoke bravely. She forced a smile to her face. Bruce felt that he had never loved the girl by his side so much as he did at that moment.
Lawrence was fortunately at home. He had just finished a story, so that his frame of mind was complaisant. But as he listened to the dramatic events of the afternoon he grew deeply interested.
"We thought you would help us," Hetty said.
"I am probably the only man in the world who can help you," Lawrence replied. "To a certain extent I seem to have got you into this mess, and I must get you out of it. My dear young people, I am going to astonish you presently. Now, all I know up to now is that these notes have been traced to Bruce, and that, by a dreadful coincidence, he actually was one of the last people to see the murdered man before the tragedy. His little part Bruce has already told me, but I purposely asked no details. He has not yet informed me how the notes really reached his pocket, because the assumption that he stole them is ridiculous."
"Thank you for that," Bruce said gratefully.
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. Now let me open your eyes. Behold the great force of a man who is gifted with second sight. Where did you get those notes? Was it not on the same evening as the murder?"
Bruce nodded. He was beginning to have some feeling of hope.
"Score one to me. Recently you bought some article of value. Say it was a piece of Battersea china or a Chippendale chair, an engraving after Reynolds, or a picture. On the whole I am inclined to suggest a picture of the Dutch school with a history."
Lawrence's eyes fairly beamed as he spoke.
"Another one to you," said Bruce. "I did buy an old Dutch picture recently. But how on earth you managed----"
"Never mind that yet. I didn't get this information from you. Behold the picture! You are sitting in your room on the night previous to the murder--a few hours before it in fact. Enter to you a more or less picturesque individual who tells you a story of a picture. It is an heirloom in his family. The family have had to part with it in their dark days. Now the same picturesque individual has become rich. Imagine his delight when he sees this family treasure in a shop window."
"Amazing," Bruce cried. "That is exactly what did happen. But how could you possibly have known that considering that until an hour ago not a soul knew of it, not even Hetty!"
Lawrence puffed his cigarette in huge enjoyment.
"So far the oracle has spoken correctly," he went on. "The picture was in the shop window. The old man had no cheque book. He hurried home to get it, and by the time he returned the picture was gone. There's a pathetic little incident for you, quite in the fashion of a lady's novelette. The picturesque old man wants the picture and he offers you £200 for it, which you accept. He pays you in bank notes and you place these notes in your inner coat pocket."
"I shall wake up presently and find it a dream," said Bruce. "If you had been present at the interview you could not have described it better."
"End of the first act," Lawrence said with pardonable triumph. "You are just going into your rooms when a motor comes up. It looks like a coincidence, but the driver has been lurking about waiting for you. Do you suppose it was chance that you were picked out of all the doctors in London?"
"I thought, perhaps," Bruce began, "that my name----"
"Fiddlesticks! You are the victim of a vile conspiracy, my dear fellow, if ever there was one. Now let me go on with my visions. The motor is an unusually silent one, and it was painted a dull, lustreless black."
"Correct to a fault," Bruce cried.
"Well, we shall hear more of that lustreless black motor later on when I come to go closely into the mystery and show the police what asses they are. You address a question to the driver and he turns out to be dumb. He takes you to the corner house, where you are received by a fair woman with a mantilla over her head so that you have the very vaguest idea of her features. If you were asked to swear to her identity you couldn't do it I suppose?"
"At the present moment I could not swear to my own," Bruce said helplessly.
"Well, you can leave other people to do that. You find your patient half dead between drink and drugs, and after a time you pull him round. As you go away you sign to the Spanish woman that you are coming again. She says no, and by means of a Bradshaw and some labelled luggage--say to Dover--leads you to believe that the people of the house are going abroad at once."
"Marvellous!" Bruce cried. "It is exactly as you have said."
"Of course it is," Lawrence replied. "One question more. How many times did the hall gas go out when you were there?"
Bruce looked at the speaker absolutely too astounded to say a word.
Hetty was conscious of a sea of curious eyes and white, eager faces. As the days went on public interest in the Corner House mystery had not abated. All sorts of vague stories had got about, and in some mysterious way the name of Dr. Gordon Bruce was mixed up in it.
Why he had not been arrested Bruce could not imagine. The tale he had volunteered to Prout and his signature on the back of the notes were almost in themselves enough to hang a man. Perhaps a little private conversation between Prout and Lawrence had had the effect of postponing matters. Bruce was not in the least likely to run away; on the contrary, he had volunteered to give evidence at the adjourned inquest. Hetty also would have something to say that would be in favour of her lover.
"After all, they can't definitely say that those notes were ever in the possession of the murdered man," she whispered to Bruce. "He wrote the letter, of course, but they don't know he really possessed the notes."
"I am afraid they do," Bruce replied. "They are going to call a cashier from the National Credit Bank who positively identified the deceased as the man who changed £400 in gold for notes, part of which notes were numbers 190753 to 190792, or the notes I paid to Capper. That piece of evidence cannot possibly be shaken."
Hetty admitted the fact with a sigh. She had no illusions as to the future. Unless something like a miracle happened Gordon was certain to stand in the dock charged with the murder of a man unknown. Examined in the cold light of day, Gordon Bruce's story was an extraordinary one. Hetty was forced to admit that from the lips of a stranger she would not have believed a word of it.
And Gilbert Lawrence now refused to say anything. He was the one person who seemed to be thoroughly satisfied. There was some comfort to be derived from this, but not much, as Hetty told herself miserably.
The inquest was sensational from the very start. After the dead man's landlady of the house by the docks and her landlord's agent proved the handwriting of the deceased, Sergeant Prout told the story of the missing banknotes. A good few of the packed audience knew Bruce by sight, and as the evidence proceeded he found the scrutiny of so many eyes quite trying.
Even the most guilty when brought to book are not without some feeling of shame, however defiant they may appear, but it is a horrible thing when the innocent has to stand and answer to a criminal charge. A wave of indignation passed over Bruce, to be followed by utter helplessness.
"Courage, dear old boy," Hetty whispered. "It will all come right in the end. Good will come out of this evil."
Bruce shut his teeth tightly and nodded. Still, in Prout's evidence he seemed to hear the voice of his judge passing sentence.
Prout concluded his evidence at length, every word of which told dead against the one man seated there. Not half a dozen people in the room would have acquitted him on the criminal charge.
"Do you propose to go any further today?" the coroner asked.
Prout was understood to say no, when Bruce rose. His face was deadly pale, a tiny red spot burning on either cheek. But he had his voice under proper control; there was no look of guilt about him.
"If you have no objection, sir, I should like to give evidence," he said.
The presiding official was decidedly taken aback. He looked at Prout, who made no sign. He was not so prejudiced as most of the people there.
"Really if you will be guided by my opinion you will do nothing of the kind," he said, much as a magistrate might address a prisoner in the dock. "If you were called it would be a different matter. On the whole the best plan would be for you to be represented by a solicitor, who would put questions likely to--er--tell in your favour."
Bruce smiled grimly. He knew perfectly well what a terrible significance lay behind these formal words. At the same time, he had no desire to take any advantage. There was an electric thrill in the audience as he was sworn. They thrilled with a deeper intensity as he proceeded. If ever a man stood up and committed moral and social suicide Dr. Gordon Bruce was that man at this moment.
There was scarcely a sound to be heard till he had finished. People thrust forward, eager that no word should be missed. A sudden sneeze caused the whole court to start violently. It was a strange weird story, that only one listener believed in, and that was Hetty.
The coroner had nothing to say. The thing was bad enough, and he did not wish to be too hard on a medical colleague. A curious juryman had a lot of questions to ask, especially about the mysterious Spanish woman and the motor car.
"You left that lady behind you?" he said. "Who is to testify to that? If you can prove such to be the case, why----"
The curious one shrugged his shoulders. Then a loud clear voice rang to the roof, the voice of a woman who declared that she could prove it. A ripple of amazement followed. Before it died away Hetty became conscious of the fact that the voice was hers, and that she had spoken.
In a dreary kind of way she found herself answering questions. Somebody had placed a book in her hands and had told her to kiss it.
"I live next door to the corner house," she said. "I could not sleep on the night in question. At a little before five----"
"How do you fix the time?" came from the inquisitive juryman,
"Because my bedroom clock struck the hour as I got back. I heard somebody leave the corner house. I looked out of the window and saw a motor car that appeared to be draped in black. As a woman from the house got on to it she seemed to push some of the drapery aside, for I saw the gleam of the rail. She was a fair woman with a mantilla over her head. The car went off without the faintest noise, and that is all I know."
"Are you a friend of the prison----, I mean of Dr. Bruce?" asked the inquisitive one.
Hetty was bound to admit that she was more than that. The interrogative juryman sniffed and suggested that Dr. Bruce might have been in the house then.
"Impossible," Bruce cried. "At a quarter to five I was at home. The hall porter and two of the maids were down and will testify to the fact."
A ripple of excitement followed. A reporter rose and held up his hand.
"I desire to be sworn, sir," he said. "It so happens that I can throw a little light on this matter. I did not leave the office of my paper till four in the morning of the day to which this young lady alludes. The clock on Gregory's store struck five as I reached Garrett Street, which, as you know, runs into Raven Street. A few seconds later a fast motor passed me without the slightest noise."
"Perhaps you had better describe this motor," said the coroner.
"It was draped or some way disguised in black. A woman sat by the driver, with a cloud of lace over her head. I could just catch a glimpse of a brass rail where the drapery was disturbed."
Prout snapped his note-book together and put it in his pocket.
"After that," he muttered, "I give it up; it's beyond me."
The puzzled and slightly dissatisfied audience poured out of the inquest hall with a feeling that they had been defrauded. There was no chance of a verdict of murder against Bruce after the last two bits of startling and quite unexpected evidence. Two credible witnesses had proved that one of the people who had called Bruce to the corner house had remained after he had left. The case was just as fascinating, and at the same time as puzzling as ever. The real culprit as yet might have to be found, but there was no getting away from these facts about the stolen banknotes. Still, the coroner's jury were not called to try that question, and at the suggestion of Prout the matter was adjourned for a month.
Bruce was allowed to take his own way, a result he had not confidently expected. The vulgar curiosity of the passing crowd annoyed him. Standing outside the vestry hall was a carriage and a pair of horses. Leona Lalage, seated inside, smiled brilliantly on Bruce and his companion, and the footman opened the door.
"I managed to get inside," the Countess said. "Did anybody ever hear so foolish a fuss? And that silly juryman!"
"I am afraid I should have shared his opinion under similar circumstances," said Bruce. "You see my guilt----"
"I shall not listen to a word of it," the Countess cried. "The mere suggestion is revolting to one's common sense. Fancy you committing a vulgar crime like that! Jump in, and let us get away from this awful crowd. Where shall I drive you?"
It was all the same to Hetty so long as she got away from the insolent people. They must go back and have tea at Lytton Avenue. There would be nobody present, and the Countess would not be at home to anybody. Nothing could be sweeter or more sympathetic than her manner.
To lounge there in that dimly-lighted and perfectly appointed room was soothing and restful. Bruce carried his head a little higher as he made his way home.
There was a smell of tobacco in his room and a vision of Lawrence with his heels on the mantelpiece smoking a cigarette. He was looking at a paragraph in an early edition of theGlobethat seemed to give him satisfaction.
"So you've got back," he said. "Rather a sensational bit of copy for the papers over the inquest, eh? That pompous juryman's face was a study when Hetty and that reporter chap knocked him out of time."
"I didn't see you," said Bruce.
"All the same I was there all the time. I fetched the Countess Lalage in. As I entered I bought a copy of theGlobe. The first thing that took my eye was the very strange advertisement inside by the theatrical notices."
Bruce glanced carelessly at the paragraph. Then his eye brightened. It ran as follows:
"Danger.--The danger lies in the second floor back bedroom of the corner house.--Z."
"Toujours the corner house," Bruce cried. "What do you make of it?"
Lawrence looked at his friend with a twinkle.
"I'll tell you my opinion later on," he said. "I think that after an exhibition of my marvellous powers, you can safely leave the matter to me. Should you like to have a little bit of an adventure this evening?"
Bruce replied that he was just in the frame of mind for something of the kind. He was far too restless to settle down to anything.
"It may be lively and it may be the reverse," said Lawrence, "but it is nothing more or less than an hour or two spent in the corner house. We are going there after ten, and I prophesy that we shall catch something; if we are very lucky it may be the being with the secret."
"In other words you propose to drag my unlucky self into house-breaking?"
"Nothing of the kind. I have procured the key to the back part of the premises from Prout, who has the profoundest respect for my sagacity. When I pointed out that notice in theGlobeto him he proposed to have the house watched, which is so like a policeman's intellect."
It was a little past ten when the two friends set out upon their errand. There was nothing of note until the house was reached. The blinds were all closely drawn, so that the adventurers had to grope their way from room to room, the suggestion of a light being out of the question.
"We'll sit in the hall," said Lawrence. "We'll take it for granted that the owner is a hospitable man, and permit ourselves the luxury of tobacco."
It was a long and weary vigil, and when the clock struck midnight Bruce heartily wished himself out of it. It was a strain on the nerves, too, sitting in that dark silent house waiting for something that might not come. Lawrence did not usually display any bulldog qualities, but he sat on grimly now.
The traffic grew quieter, only a solitary pedestrian or a tramping policeman passed the house. Then came a firm footstep that paused before the house, with a suggestion of listening or waiting for someone on the part of the wayfarer.
Bruce's heart beat a little faster as he heard a scuffling on the step and the muffled rattle of a latchkey in the door. There was a breath of welcome fresh air in the stuffy place, the impact of two bodies, and Lawrence rushed upon the newcomer. There was a muttered curse and a fall.
"Got him," Lawrence cried. "I knew we should. Or he's got me. Light the gas, Gordon; we'll have to risk it this time."
Bruce fumbled for the bracket, and found it at length. There was a flaring rush and then dazed eyes made out a tall man with a pair of blazing angry dark eyes, and a beard quivering with rage.
"Come my man, what's your name?" Lawrence panted.
"My name, sir," said the other coolly and clearly, "is Mr. Garrett Charlton, the owner of this house. And who are you?"
For once in his life Lawrence was utterly taken aback. He could do no more than stammer out an apology and assure the stern dark-eyed stranger that nothing in the way of a liberty was intended.
"You see, I have found something out," he said. "I rather hoped--indeed, I have still hopes--that the culprit----"
"What on earth are you talking about?" Charlton asked impatiently.
"But, surely, my dear sir, the tragedy that took place here so recently----"
"So recently! Ah, this is a veritable house of tragedies. I must get you to explain. I have come here direct from Paris to get certain papers. Put the gas out and come into the dining-room where the shutters are up. We don't want the police fussing about. You can tell me everything. If I don't make a mistake you are Mr. Gilbert Lawrence, the novelist."
"And I remember you now," Lawrence replied. "So you know nothing of what has been happening lately?"
The story was told at length, Charlton listening with a certain amount of interest. He looked like a man under the cloud of a great sorrow, the contemplation of which was never far from his eyes.
"This is an accursed house," he said presently. "My father went mad here and committed suicide. My wife did the same thing, but then she was the victim of one of the greatest fiends that ever took mortal guise."
Mr. Charlton's melancholy eyes seemed to be fixed on space. Just for the moment he had forgotten that he was not alone. Lawrence gave a sympathetic cough. As a matter of fact, he had not yet explained what he was doing there, and the longer the explanation was postponed the better he would be pleased.
"You remember the case of my wife?" Charlton asked suddenly. "Ah, I see you do. Well, I am going to tell you my story. You are a man of sentiment and feeling, or your novels greatly belie you. And a doctor always respects confidence. When my wife died there was an inquiry extending over many days. The great question was: Had she poisoned herself, did she take poison by misadventure, or did I kill her? Nine people out of every ten believed I was guilty. I let them believe it at the risk of my neck, and why?"