“Did you say anything to him upon the subject?”
“I warned him against the folly of being drawn into another entanglement with her, particularly when he was to be married in ten days’ time.”
“You sayanotherentanglement with her? Are we, therefore, to understand that there had been an entanglement before?”
Again Victor paused before he replied.
“I withdraw the word 'another,’” he said, hurriedly. “I did not mean it in that sense. I merely suggested to Mr. Henderson that hisfiancéemight not care to know that he had been seen driving through the streets of London after midnight with an Italian girl, who had once been his model.”
“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey to himself. “And this is the man whom I have trusted and who has called himself my friend for so many years!”
At this point the coroner, addressing the jury, stated his intention of adjourning the inquiry until the following Wednesday morning at eleven o’clock. He had excellent reasons for keeping it open until then, he said, and these reasons he had communicated to the foreman of the jury, who was completely satisfied.The Court thereupon adjourned, and Godfrey presently found himself in the street with Mr. Codey on one side and Sir Vivian Devereux on the other. Victor Fensden was waiting for them on the pavement, and, as soon as they emerged, he approached them with a face that still bore the traces of violent emotion.
“Godfrey,” he began, in a faltering voice, “after what they dragged out of me, I scarcely know what to say to you.”
“In any case, I beg that you will not say it,” said Godfrey, coldly. “You have said quite enough already.” Then, turning to the others, he continued: “Come, gentlemen, let us find a cab. I suppose we had better go back to your office, Mr. Codey?”
“I think it would be better,” said that gentleman. “I must have a talk with you upon this matter.”
Then, hailing a cab, they entered it, leaving Fensden on the pavement looking after them. Godfrey’s face was still very pale. It was impossible for him to be blind to the fact that his kindness to Teresina had been the means of bringing down grave suspicion upon himself. Yet, even with that knowledge before him, he knew that he would not, orcould not, have acted otherwise than he had done.
When they reached the lawyer’s private office, the door was shut and they sat down to business.
“Well, Mr. Henderson,” said Mr. Codey, “what is your opinion now?”
“I think that the public mind is already jumping to the conclusion that I am responsible for the murder,” Godfrey answered, without fear or hesitation.
“I am very much afraid that you must accustom yourself to look upon it in that light,” the other replied. “The man Fensden’s evidence, given in such a manner as he gave it, was unnecessarily damaging.”
“He is a black-hearted scoundrel,” said the old baronet, wrathfully. “I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I didn’t trust him, and that I felt sure he bore you some ill-will. And yet, do you know, Mr. Codey,” he added, turning to the lawyer, “Mr. Henderson has done everything for that man. He has practically kept him for years past, he took him on a tour round Europe only a few months ago, and this is the result. It makes one sick with humanity.”
“When you have seen as much of humanityas I have, you will not be surprised at anything,” said the lawyer. “The greater the obligation in many cases, the deeper the ingratitude. We are wandering from the point, however. Now I am going to be plain-spoken. Tell me, Mr. Henderson, did you ever, under any sort of circumstance, make love, or suggest love, to the woman who is now deceased?”
“Never,” said Godfrey, firmly. “The man who declares that I did, lies.”
“Very probable, but that won’t prevent his saying it. When you left her in Burford Street, did you meet any one near the house?”
“Not a soul. The street, so far as I could see, was empty.”
“I think you said this morning that the night porter let you in at your hotel? Did you make any remark to him respecting the time?”
“Yes, I said to him when he had opened the door, 'I’m afraid I’m rather late,’ then, looking at my watch, I added, 'Why, it’s half-past twelve!’”
“If he’s blessed with a good memory, he will recollect that,” said Codey. Then with his usual abruptness, he continued, “Which way did you walk from Burford Street?”
“Through the Tottenham Court Road, along Oxford Street, and down Bond Street.”
“A man shall walk it quickly to-morrow morning in order to see how long it will take. If only that hall porter has a good memory, and can be relied upon, this should prove an important point.”
“But surely, my good sir,” put in Sir Vivian, “you do not for a moment suppose that Mr. Henderson will be accused of having killed this woman?”
“I should not be at all surprised,” said the lawyer, quietly. “Let us regard the facts of the case. Some months back, Mr. Henderson employed this girl as his model, and retained her services when he really had no need for them. He was on such familiar terms with her that his friend felt compelled to remonstrate with him. As a result they left England hurriedly, the girl following them to Naples. No, no, Mr. Henderson, I beg that you will be silent. Remember, I am telling the story as I should tell it if I were against you instead of for you. As I have said, the girl left for Naples, and I insinuate that she followed you. It can be proved that she corresponded with you, and that you sent your friend on his way to travel alone; always bearingin mind that he was the man who had persuaded you to give the girl up. You, in the meantime, returned to Naples, in order to visit her again. You may dispute the motive, but you can not deny that you took her out to dinner and to a theatre afterward.”
“But her mother was with her,” said Godfrey hurriedly, his face flushing angrily at the imputation put upon his action by the other.
“That point is immaterial,” the lawyer replied calmly. “It is sufficient for the purposes of the prosecution that you met her there. Then you proceeded to England, and, after a little while in the country, became engaged to the daughter of Sir Vivian, now present. The Italian girl had also gone to England. Why? To be with you, of course. You, however, see nothing of her. Therefore, she is unhappy. Why? Because you are about to be married.”
“But that is only supposition,” said Godfrey. “As a matter of fact, she herself was already married.”
“To whom? Why not to yourself?”
“Good Heavens, man,” said Godfrey, starting from his seat, “you don’t surely mean to say that you believe I had married her?”
“I believe nothing,” he replied, still withthe same coolness. “But you will find that the counsel for the prosecution will consider it more than likely. Let me continue my story. I was saying that she was unhappy because you were about to be married. It is only natural. Then you came up to town, visited the theatre, and afterward, quite by chance, met her in the Strand, at midnight. At midnight, and by chance, mark that! Does that meeting look like an accidental one? Could you convince a jury that it was? I doubt it. However, let us proceed. The girl is in trouble, and you take her home in a hansom. The policeman and the cabman will certainly identify you, and, for the reason that you say the street was empty when you bade her good-bye, no one will be able to swear that you did not go into the house with her. Now, Mr. Henderson, I ask you to look these facts in the face, and tell me, as a thinking man, whether you consider the public is to be blamed if it regards you with suspicion?”
“As you put it, no,” said Godfrey. “But it can surely be proved that I had nothing whatsoever to do with it, beyond what I have said.”
“Exactly; and that is what we have got to do. But I don’t mind telling you candidlythat I fancy we shall have our work cut out to do it. You see, we have to remember that, beyond your own evidence, there is absolutely nothing for us to argue upon. The two strongest points in your favour are the facts that you were at Detwich when the box containing the dead woman’s hands was sent off at Euston, and that there would not be sufficient time between the moment when the policeman saw you in Burford Street and the time when you arrived at your hotel, for you to have committed the crime. What we have to do is to find the person who despatched the box from London, and to make sure of the hall porter. In the meantime go back to Detwich, and be sure that you don’t stir from home until you hear from me.”
“One more question, Mr. Codey. I should like you, before we go any further, to tell me honestly whether, in your own heart, you believe me to be innocent or guilty?”
“I believe you to be innocent,” said the lawyer; “and you may be sure I shall try to prove it.”
A more miserable home-coming than Godfrey’s, after the events described in the previous chapter, could scarcely be imagined. They had taken a cab from the lawyer’s office to Euston Station, and during the drive, neither of them referred in any way to the interview they had just had with Codey. It was not until they were seated in the railway carriage, and the train had started upon its journey, that they broke their silence.
“Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey, “I can not express to you my thanks for the kindness which you showed me in standing by me to-day. Believe me, I am very sensible of it.”
“You must not speak of it;” said the worthy old gentleman; “and as for the affair itself, it is a piece of ill-luck that might have happened to the best of us. At the same time, I should very much like to have an opportunity of telling that wretched Fensden what I think of him.”
“Do not let us talk of him,” said Godfrey. “His own feelings must be sufficient punishment for him. There is one thing, however, that I must say to you before we go any further.”
“And what is that?”
“It concerns my wedding,” Godfrey replied. “I am afraid it will be a terrible blow to poor Molly; but until this charge, which I have no doubt will be brought against me, is disproved, she must not think any more of me.”
Sir Vivian stared at him in astonishment.
“Nonsense, my dear lad,” said he. “I know that you love my girl, and that she loves you. It is her duty, therefore, to stand by you and to comfort you when you are in trouble. Believe me, she will have no doubt as to your innocence.”
“I know that,” said Godfrey; “but I do not think it would be fair for me to allow her name to be linked with mine under such painful circumstances.”
“It will be linked with it whether you like it or not,” was the reply. “If I am prepared to stake my honour on your innocence, you may be very sure that she will stake hers. Molly isn’t a fair-weather friend.”
“She is the truest and best girl in the world,” said Godfrey. “No one knows that better than I.”
“Then wait until you have seen her and talked it over with her alone. Put the question to her, and see what she will say. I know her well enough to guess what her answer will be.”
“God bless you for your trust in me!” said Godfrey, in a shaky voice. “I fear I have done very little to deserve it.”
“It is sufficient that I know you for what you are,” the other answered. “I knew your uncle and grandfather before him, and I am as certain that you would not do anything dishonourable as I am of my own name. What we have to do is to put our wits to work and to endeavour to find out, as Codey says, the sender of the box. Then I believe we shall be on the track of the real criminal. It was a very good suggestion on Mr. Bensleigh’s part that we should employ that man; we could not have had a better. I never saw such eyes in my life. He seems to look one through and through. I pity Mr. Fensden when he comes to be cross-examined by him.”
The old gentleman chuckled over the thought and then lapsed into silence.
When they reached Detwich, they became aware that Griffin had travelled from London by the same train. Godfrey beckoned to him.
“Of course you heard the evidence to-day, Griffin,” Godfrey began when the other approached.
“Yes, sir, I did,” said the police official, gravely.
“And you must have drawn your own conclusions from it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Griffin, what I wanted to say to you is that, if I am wanted for anything, I shall not leave the Hall until Wednesday morning; then I shall go up to the inquiry again.”
“I will bear the fact in mind, sir,” said the man. “But there’s one thing I should like to say, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it? Say it by all means.”
“It’s this, sir. Whether it’s going against my duty or not—and there’s nobody here to hear it if it is—whatever verdict they may bring in, I don’t believe for a moment that you had any more to do with that poor girl’s death than I had. You will excuse my saying so, I hope, sir?”
“On the contrary, I am very muchobliged to you for your good opinion,” Godfrey replied, holding out his hand which the other took. “I am afraid that it’s going to be a very unpleasant business for me. That can’t be helped, however. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” the man answered.
Then Godfrey joined Sir Vivian and, as had been arranged, they drove off to the Hall together. The moon was rising above the hill as they went through the park, and as Godfrey looked on the peaceful scene around him and thought of the terrible suspicion that was growing in people’s minds concerning himself his heart sank within him. If only little Teresina could speak, how easily she could clear up all the dark charges against him! She was dead, however, brutally murdered, and he, the only man who had ever befriended her, was suspected of having caused her death.
“Keep up a stout heart, my lad,” said Sir Vivian, as they alighted from the carriage and ascended the steps. “Think of the ladies, and don’t make them any more unhappy than you can help.”
The door was opened by the ancient butler who had served his uncle before him, and Godfrey entered his home, but how differenta man from the young fellow who had left it that morning!
“The ladies are in the drawing-room, sir,” said the servant, when he had relieved them of their hats and coats.
They accordingly proceeded thither, one of them at least with a sinking heart.
“We have just been wondering when we should see you,” said Kitty.
There was a look of anxiety on Molly’s face as she came forward to meet her lover. She placed her hand in his, and they sat down together.
“Well, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, “what have you to tell us? What was the result?”
There was no need for her to say to what she referred. Their minds had been too much occupied with it that day to leave room for any uncertainty upon the point.
“Nothing is decided yet,” said Sir Vivian, who took upon himself the part of spokesman. “The inquiry is adjourned until Wednesday.”
“That means that you will have to go up again,” said Molly. “Why couldn’t they settle it at once?”
Godfrey knew, but he dared not tell her the reason.
“They are searching for more evidence, I fancy,” said Sir Vivian. “You must remember that the matter is, at present, shrouded in the greatest mystery. Until that can be cleared up, nothing can be done.”
“And Mr. Fensden, where did you leave him?” asked Mrs. Henderson.
“We parted outside the Court,” said Godfrey. “I have no idea where he is staying to-night.”
Though he tried to speak unconcernedly, Molly felt certain in her own mind that there had been trouble between the two men. She said nothing to him about it, however. She knew that he would tell her in good time.
That night, when Sir Vivian’s carriage was announced, Godfrey accompanied him to the front door. Before leaving, the old gentleman took him on one side out of earshot of the servants.
“Keep up your spirits, my dear lad,” he said, as he had done so many times before. “Remember that you have many friends and that I am not the least of them. Should anything occur, send for me at once, and I will be with you as fast as horses can bring me. In the meantime do not alarm the ladies more than you can help.”
“You may rely upon my not doing so,” said Godfrey, and then Sir Vivian entered his carriage and drove away.
Later, when Godfrey bade Molly good-night, she looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
“I feel sure,” she said, “that there is something you are keeping back from me. I beg of you not to do so. You know how I love you, and how earnest is my desire to share both your joys and your sorrows with you. Will you not confide in me and tell me everything?”
“When there is anything worth the hearing, you may be sure I will tell you, dear,” he answered, not daring to let her know the truth that night. “In the morning we will talk the whole matter over and you shall give me your advice. And now you must go to bed and try to obtain a good night’s rest, for I am sure you did not sleep well last night.”
“I did not,” she answered. “I was thinking of you all night, for I knew how you were dreading going up to-day.”
He did not tell her that he dreaded going up on Wednesday a great deal more. He preferred to take her in his arms and kiss her, calling her his good angel, swearing that hewould love her all his life long, and that even death itself should not separate them. Then he went to his room, prepared to spend what he knew would be a sleepless night, and he was not destined to be wrong. Hour after hour he tumbled and tossed upon his bed, going over the day’s proceedings again and again, and speculating with never-ceasing anxiety as to what was to happen in the future. At last, unable to bear it any longer, he rose from his bed and went downstairs to his studio, where he lighted his fire and smoked and read until daylight. Then a cold bath somewhat refreshed him, and, as soon as he had dressed, he set off across the park to the home farm. He was always an early riser, and his presence there at that hour excited no comment. He watched the sleek, soft-eyed cows being milked, saw the handsome cart-horses, of which he had once been so proud, set off upon their day’s work, had a quarter of an hour’s conversation with his head-keeper at his cottage gate, and then returned home through the plantations to breakfast. It was his mother’s habit to read prayers to the household immediately before the meal, and, as he knelt by Molly’s side, and listened to the old familiar words, his heart ached when hethought of the misery that any moment might bring upon them.
As the first train from London did not arrive until somewhat late, the morning papers were delivered with the letters, which usually reached the Hall about half-past nine. When they arrived Godfrey selected one, and took it with him to his studio. With a feeling that he had never before experienced when opening a paper, he turned the crisp pages in search of the column which he knew he would find. Then he saw in large type:
There was no need for him to wonder what that evidence was: he knew before he began to read. The prominence given by the paper to the case was a proof of the excitement the inquiry had aroused in the public mind. At last he forced himself to read. Every word rose before his eyes as vividly as though it had been traced in letters of fire. Set down in cold print, the affair presented a very sinister aspect, so far as he was concerned. Every portion of the evidenceseemed to point to himself as being the man who had committed the dastardly deed. He could well imagine what the feeling of independent persons would be who read it, and how readily they would arrive at a conclusion unfavourable to himself. He had just perused it for the second time, when he was startled by a faint tap upon the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and in response Molly entered the room.
“I have been looking for you,” she said, with the parody of a smile upon her face.
“I should have come in search of you in a few moments,” he replied. “The fact is, I have had certain things to do which could not very well be left undone. Will you forgive me, dear?”
“Of course I will,” she answered. “It is impossible for you to be always with me, and yet I am selfish enough to grudge you the time you spend upon anything else.”
He was quick-witted enough to see that what she said was only an attempt to gain time. She, on her side, knew that he stood in need of comfort, and she had come to give it to him.
“Molly,” he said, rising from the chair in which he had been sitting and going towardher, “I feel that I must tell you everything. God knows, this is the crisis of my life, and to whom should I turn in my sorrow, if not to the woman I love, and whom I know loves me? Have you read the account of the inquest in the papers?”
“No,” she answered, “I would not read it, lest I should derive a false impression from it. I am quite willing to hear what you have to say about it, and to accept your version as the truth.”
“God bless you, dear, for your trust in me!” he replied; “but it is necessary that you should hear what other people have to say upon the matter. Read it carefully, and, when you have finished, tell me what you think about it.”
He gave her the paper, and for a moment she stood as if undecided.
“Do you really wish it?” she asked.
“It is better that you should do so, believe me,” he said. “In that case, no one can say that I kept anything back from you.”
“I will read it,” she said, and went toward the window-seat to do so.
While she was reading, he stood before the fire and watched her. He noticed the poise of the beautiful head, the sweet handsholding the paper, on one finger of which sparkled the engagement ring he had given her, and the tiny foot just peeping from beneath the dark green skirt. She was a woman worth fighting all the world for, and, as he reflected how easy it would be for false evidence to separate them, he experienced a fear such as he had never known in his life before.
When she had finished, she crossed the room with the paper in her hand. Deliberately folding it up and laying it upon the table, she went to him, and placed her hands in his. Looking up into his face with trustful eyes, she said:
“I told you yesterday, Godfrey, that I believed in you. I tell you again, that, whatever the world may say with regard to this dreadful affair, it will make no difference in my love. I feel as convinced as I am of anything that, by whatever means, or at whose hand, that poor girl met her death, you were in no sort of way responsible for, or connected with it. You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” he answered, with tears in his eyes. “And I thank God for your trust. Do you know, yesterday I suggested to your father that, situated as we are, it would be betterif I were to give you back your freedom until my innocence is proved?”
“I would not take it,” she answered, firmly. “When I gave myself to you, it was not to be your bride in fair weather alone; it was to be your partner in the rough seas of life as well as in the smooth. No, come what may, Godfrey, I will not let you give me up. Promise me that you will never mention such a thing again? It hurts me even to think of it.”
“Your mind is made up?”
“Quite made up,” she answered. “I should not change, even if you were what—(here she shuddered)—what that paper would seem to suggest. No, darling, I am your wife, if not in the law, at least in God’s sight.”
“I thank you,” he answered, earnestly. “The knowledge that you still trust me will be my most precious consolation.”
“And now tell me of this Mr. Codey, the lawyer you have employed. Is he a clever man?”
“One of the cleverest in the land, I should say,” Godfrey replied. “He has had great experience in these sort of cases, and, if any man can render me assistance, I should say he is that one.”
“Oh, how thankful I shall be,” she said, “when everything is settled! How little we dreamt, when we were so happy together last week, that within a few days we should be made so miserable! Perhaps, after all, it is only our love being tried in the crucible of trouble. And when it is over, and we have come out of it, we shall know each other’s real worth. That is the best way to look at it, I think.”
“Quite the best,” he answered, and kissed her on the forehead.
Then, adopting a brighter tone, he suggested that they should go for a walk together, in order, if possible, to dispel, for the time being at least, the dark clouds that had settled upon them. It was a clear, bright morning, and as they crossed the park, and mounted the hillside toward the plantation, where the rabbits were playing, and the pheasants, who of late had not received the attention their merits deserved, were strutting about on the open grass land, Godfrey found it difficult to believe that the situation was really as desperate as he imagined. Their walk lasted for upward of two hours; indeed, it was nearly lunch-time before they reached the house once more. When they did, Mollywent upstairs to her room to prepare herself for luncheon, while Godfrey made his way to his mother’s sitting room, where he found the old lady quietly knitting by the fire.
“Thank goodness you have come in at last, dear!” said Mrs. Henderson. “I have been wanting so much to have a talk with you! Godfrey, I have read the evidence given at the inquest, and it frightens me.”
“I am sorry for that, mother,” he said, seating himself by her side. “What do you think of it?”
She placed her hand upon his arm, and looked at him with her loving eyes.
“I think my boy is too noble to have done anything of which his mother would have had reason to be ashamed.”
Godfrey rose from his chair and walked to the window. These constant proofs of the love in which he was held was unmanning him. He could not trust himself to speak. When his own little world believed in him so implicitly, how could the greater world be so censorious?
When they went into luncheon, Godfrey soon saw that the ancient butler and his subordinate had become aware of the state of affairs. Attentive to his wants as they alwayswere, on this particular occasion, they were even more so than usual. It was as if they were endeavouring in their own kindly way to show that they too believed in him, and were desirous of proving their sympathy with him. Never before had his own home struck him in the same light. His heart was too full for speech, and, in spite of his sister’s well-meant attempt to promote conversation, the meal passed almost in silence.
After luncheon the bailiff sent in word that he should like to speak to him. The man was accordingly admitted to the smoking-room, where he discussed various matters connected with the estate with his master for upward of an hour. Labouring as he was, under the weight of greater emotions, Godfrey found it difficult to pin his attention to the matters at issue, and when the other went his way, after respectfully touching his forelock, for the first time since he had known the old fellow, he heaved a sigh of relief. At half-past four he joined the ladies in the drawing-room for afternoon tea. To add to his pain, another consignment of wedding presents had arrived, and in order that he should not be thought to be unduly nervous about the future, he was compelled to appear delighted withthe attentions he had received from his friends.
“That makes the fifth pair of asparagus tongs we have received,” said Molly, as she closed the case and placed it with its fellows upon the table. “And what is this? Well, I declare, it’s another set of sweet dishes. That brings the number up to twenty-seven!”
At that moment the sound of carriage wheels outside reached them, followed, a few seconds later, by the ringing of the front door-bell.
“Visitors, I suppose,” said Kitty. “It may be rude, but I must say that I trust it is not the vicar.”
They waited in suspense until Williamson, the butler, entered the room and informed Godfrey that a gentleman had called to see him, and was waiting in the library.
“Who is it?” Godfrey asked. “Did he not give his name?”
“His name is Tompkins, sir,” the butler replied. “He said he should be glad if you could spare the time to see him for a few moments.”
“I will do so at once,” said Godfrey, and, asking the ladies to excuse him, left the room.
On entering the library, he found himselfface to face with a middle-aged individual, who at first glance resembled a sporting parson. He was dressed in black, and carried a black silk hat in his hand.
“What can I do for you?” Godfrey inquired. “I am not aware that I have ever seen you before.”
“Very likely not, sir,” the man replied. “My name is Tompkins, and I am a Scotland Yard detective. I hold a warrant for your arrest on a charge of wilfully murdering Teresina Cardi in Burford Street on the night of Thursday last. I had better tell you that anything you may say will be used against you.”
The blow had fallen at last!
For some moments Godfrey stood looking at the man who had come down from town to arrest him, as if he were stunned. Though he had half expected it, now that the blow had fallen he seemed scarcely able to appreciate his position. At last, with an effort, he recovered his self-possession.
“You may be able to imagine what a very unhappy mistake this is for me,” he said to the detective. “But I have no wish to complain to you; you are only doing your duty. Where is it you desire to take me?”
“We must go up to town to-night,” said the man, civilly enough. “As you may remember, sir, the adjourned inquest is to be held to-morrow morning, and it will be necessary for you to be present.”
“In that case we had better catch the 6.10 train from Detwich. It is an express and gets to Euston at eight. Is your cab waiting, or shall I order one of my own carriages to take us?”
“I told the man to wait,” the other replied. “He is a station cabman.”
“In that case, if you will allow me, I will tell my servant to put up a few things for me. I suppose I shall be allowed to take them?”
“There is no objection to it.”
Godfrey rang the bell, and, when the butler appeared in answer to it, bade him tell his man that he intended going up to London at once, and that he wanted his bag prepared without a moment’s delay. Then, with a fine touch of sarcasm, he added: “Tell him also that I shall not require my dress clothes.”
The detective smiled grimly. It was a joke he could appreciate; he also liked the other’s pluck in being able to jest at such a time.
“That’s the thing with these swells,” he said to himself. “They never know when they’re beaten.”
“In the meantime,” said Godfrey, “I suppose you will permit me to say good-bye to my family? I will give you my word, if you deem it necessary, that I will make no attempt to escape.”
“I will trust you, sir,” said the man. “I know it’s hard lines on you, and I want tomake it as pleasant for you as I can, provided, of course, you don’t get me into hot water.”
“I will endeavour not to do that,” said Godfrey. “And now I’ll go to the drawing-room. If you think it necessary you can wait in the hall.”
“No, sir, thank you. I am quite comfortable here,” said the man; “but I shouldn’t make the interview longer than I could help if I were you. These things are always a bit trying for the ladies. I know it, because I’ve seen it so often.”
Having ordered a glass of brandy and water for him, the man’s favourite tipple, and handing him an illustrated paper, Godfrey left him and returned to the drawing-room. He had an agonizing part to play, and he wanted to spare his women folk as much pain as possible. As he entered the room they looked up at him with startled faces.
“What is it, Godfrey? What is it?” asked his mother, while the two girls waited for him to speak.
“It is a man from London who has come down to see me with regard to the murder,” Godfrey began, scarcely knowing how to break the news to them. “It appears that the authorities are desirous of seeing me priorto the inquest to-morrow, and so I am going up to-night.”
“Godfrey,” cried his mother, springing to her feet and running toward him, “I see it all. They have arrested you on a charge of murder! Oh, my boy, my boy, I can not let you go! They shall not take you away.”
“It is only a matter of form, mother,” he said, soothingly. “On the face of yesterday’s evidence, they could do nothing else. All well, I shall be down again to-morrow. It is only a little temporary inconvenience; for my lawyer, who is one of the cleverest men of his profession, feels certain that he can disprove the charge.”
“It is monstrous even to suspect you of it,” said Kitty. “If they only knew you, they would not dare even to hint at such a thing.”
Molly said nothing. But he knew what her thoughts were.
“I must send a note to your father, dear,” he said. “He anticipated this and made me promise to communicate with him directly it should come to pass.”
He thereupon went to a writing-table in the corner of the room and wrote a hurried note to Sir Vivian, after which he rang thebell and gave orders that it should be taken to the Court without a moment’s delay.
“Now,” he said, when he had examined his watch and found that it was nearly half-past five, “I must bid you good-bye. Do not be anxious about me. I am proudly conscious of my own innocence, and I feel sure that, by this time to-morrow, the public will be aware of it also.”
But his mother was not to be comforted. She clung to him with the tears streaming down her cheeks, as if she could not let him go.
“Mother dear,” said Kitty, “you must be brave. Think of Godfrey, and don’t send him away more unhappy than he is.”
“I will be brave,” she said, and drew his face down to hers and kissed him. “Good-bye, my dear boy. May God in His mercy bless you and send you safely back to us!”
When Kitty had kissed him, she drew her mother back into the ingle nook in order that Godfrey and Molly might say good-bye to each other in private.
Then Godfrey took Molly in his arms.
“Good-bye, my own dearest,” she said. “I shall pray for you continually. Night and day you will be in my thoughts.”
He could not answer her, but kissed her passionately. Then, disengaging himself from her embrace, he left the room.
Returning to the library, he informed the detective that he was at his disposal, at the same time telling him that, if they desired to catch the 6.10 at Detwich, they had no time to lose.
“We had better be going, then,” said the man, and leaving the library they proceeded into the hall. Godfrey’s bag had already been placed in the cab, and the gray-haired old butler, Williamson, was standing at the foot of the stairs holding the door open.
“Good-bye, Williamson,” said Godfrey. “I know that I can safely leave everything in your hands.”
“You can, sir,” the man replied, simply; and then for the first time in his life he allowed himself to become familiar with his master, and laying his hand on his arm he added, “May God bless you, sir, and send you back to us soon!”
Then the cab rolled away down the drive, and Godfrey’s journey to prison had commenced.
For the greater part of the drive into Detwich neither of them spoke. One had toomuch upon his mind to be in the humour for conversation, while the other, who was sorry for his prisoner, and who knew a gentleman when he saw one, had no desire to thrust himself upon him in his trouble. As it happened when they reached the station they found that they had some minutes to spare. They accordingly strolled up and down the platform, while they awaited the coming of the express. On its arrival they secured an empty compartment, and settled down for the journey to London. When Euston was reached they took a cab and drove direct to Bow Street, where Godfrey Henderson, of Detwich Hall, Detwich, was formally charged with the wilful murder of Teresina Cardi, artist’s model. The usual forms having been complied with, he was placed in a somewhat superior apartment in another portion of the building. Then the key was turned upon him, and for the first time in his life was a prisoner.
Early next morning it was announced that two gentlemen had arrived to see him. They proved to be Sir Vivian Devereux and Mr. Codey, the lawyer.
“My dear lad, this is indeed a sad business,” said Sir Vivian, as they shook hands. “I can not tell you how sorry I am for you.But, thank God, we know you to be innocent and are determined to prove it.”
They sat down, and the lawyer, who had been looking round the room, which doubtless he had seen on many previous occasions, began to ply him with questions, which Godfrey answered to the best of his ability. When they had withdrawn, he was left to himself until the time arrived for him to set off for the coroner’s court. When he did so, it was in a cab with a couple of stout policemen beside him to see that he made no attempt to escape. On reaching it, he found that it was packed to overflowing. Victor Fensden was there, seated in the space reserved for the witnesses, but Sir Vivian noticed that he avoided meeting Godfrey’s eyes. With one exception, the proceedings proved comparatively tame. It was only when the hall porter referred to Godfrey’s haggard appearance when he returned to the hotel on the Thursday night, that there was anything approaching excitement. He deposed that Mr. Henderson, who had been staying at the hotel, and whom he now recognised as being in Court, returned to the hotel on the night of the murder between a quarter-past and half-past twelve. He, the porter, was immediately struck by his strange appearance.In reply to a question put by a juror, he replied that he looked very much as if he had been upset by something; his face was deadly white, and he had an anxious, what he should call frightened, look in his eyes. At the other’s request, he had procured him some brandy, and, as he had had some trouble next morning with the head waiter about it, the fact was the more vividly impressed upon his memory. The cabman who had driven them from the Strand to Burford Street was next called. In answer to questions put to him, he stated that, when he was hailed by the person now in court, the deceased woman seemed very reluctant to enter the cab. But the other had at last prevailed upon her to do so, and he had driven them to the house in the street in question. He had identified the body, and could swear as to the identity of the person in court. The police-constable, who had passed a few minutes before he bade Teresina good-night, was next examined. He remembered seeing them together, and thought it a strange place for a gentleman to be in at such a time. His attention was drawn to them because the girl was crying, while the gentleman seemed somewhat excited. Feeling that, as he was not appealed to, he had no right to interfere,he passed on down the street. In answer to the coroner’s inquiry, he was unable to say whether or not the man entered the house.
Ten minutes later a verdict of wilful murder against Godfrey Henderson was returned, and he was committed for trial on the coroner’s warrant.
Instead of returning to Bow Street from the coroner’s court, Godfrey was now driven to Holloway Prison, where he was placed in an ordinary cell. His spirits by this time had fallen to as low an ebb as it would be possible for those of a human being to reach. What had he done to deserve this cruel fate? He was not conscious of ever having done any one an injury; he had always done his best to help his fellow-men. Why, therefore, was he brought so low? He thought of Molly, and pictured her feelings when she should hear that he was committed for trial. He could imagine his mother’s despair and could almost hear poor, sorrowing Kitty vainly endeavouring to comfort her.
During the afternoon Sir Vivian and Mr. Codey came to see him again. The former was very plainly distressed; the latter, however, regarded matters in a somewhat morestoical light. He had seen the same things so many times before, that he had become in a certain measure hardened to it. In all the cases upon which he had hitherto been engaged, however, he had never had one in which the prisoner was a country gentleman, besides being an artist of considerable repute. “You must not give way, Mr. Henderson,” he said, kindly. “There’s plenty of time yet for us to prove your innocence. Doubtless, when this is all over and you are free once more, you will regard it as a very unpleasant experience, certainly, but one which might very easily have been worse. Now, with your permission, I will tell you what I have done. In the first place, we must endeavour to find the real murderer. Only a trained hand could do this, so I have engaged a man with whom I have had a great many dealings in the past. He is a private detective of an unusual kind, and has a knack of securing information which neither the Government men nor the private agents seem to possess. He will be expensive, but I suppose you will have no objection to paying him well for his services, if he is successful, as I trust he will be.”
“You may be quite sure I shall have no objection,” said Godfrey. “Let him get meout of this scrape, and I’ll pay him double, even treble, his usual charges.”
“Oh, he won’t bleed you as much as that,” returned the lawyer. “He is below now, and if you care to see him, I will obtain permission for him to come up.”
The necessary authority being forthcoming, Codey presently returned, accompanied by a burly, rosy-cheeked individual, who might very well have been the landlord of a well-to-do country inn or a farmer in a prosperous way of business. A more jovial countenance could scarcely have been discovered, had one searched England through for it. Merely to look at it was to be made to feel happy, while to hear his laugh was to be put in a good humour for the remainder of the day. He was dressed in a suit of tweeds, more than a trifle pronounced as to colour, a knitted blue waistcoat covered his portly, bow-windowed presence, while he wore a spotted blue and white tie, decorated with a large diamond pin. His feet and hands were enormous, and when he laughed—which he did on every available opportunity—his whole figure seemed to quiver like a blanc mange.
“This is Jacob Burrell, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, when the door had closed onthem. “I have told him that you wish him to take up your case, and he is prepared to do so without delay.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Burrell,” said Godfrey. “Mr. Codey has told me of your cleverness. If you can discover who it was who actually murdered the poor girl, you will not only relieve me from a position of considerable danger, but you will lay me under an everlasting obligation to yourself.”
“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” said the man, jovially, rubbing his hands together, as if he regarded the whole affair as a huge joke. “As Mr. Codey may have told you, I have unravelled pretty tangled skeins in my day, and it won’t be my fault if I don’t do the same here. Now, sir, Mr. Codey, who knows my ways of work, has given me an outline of the case, but if you don’t mind, I should like to put a few questions to you on my own account.”
“Ask me whatever you please,” said Godfrey, “and I will answer to the best of my ability.”
Burrell seated himself opposite Godfrey, placed one enormous hand on either knee, and looked the other full in the face.
“Now, sir, in the first place, when you hadyour old studio in London, before you inherited your present estate, and when you first engaged the girl, can you remember who were your intimate friends? I mean, the friends who were in the habit of dropping into your studio pretty frequently, to smoke their pipes, and perhaps to take a friendly glass?”
Godfrey considered for a moment.
“I had not very many friends in those days,” he answered at last. “I was a hard worker, and for that reason didn’t encourage men to waste my time. Besides, I was only a struggling artist, and couldn’t afford to entertain very much.”
“But there must have been some men who came in. Think, sir, and try to recollect. It’s an important point.”
“Well, of course, there was my friend, Mr. Fensden, who practically lived with me. He used my studio whenever he had anything to do.”
“He is the gentleman who gave the damaging evidence against you on Monday, is he not?”
“He is! Then there was a Mr. Bourke, a leader writer on the Daily Record.”
“I know Mr. Bourke,” said the detective. “We may dismiss him from the case at once.”
“Then there was an artist named Halliday, who occasionally dropped in, but he is now in Dresden.”
“When did he go?”
“Nearly two months before I went abroad myself,” Godfrey answered. “I think I have given you the list of my friends. I can remember no more.”
“Now, sir, that box, in which the hands were sent, had you ever seen it before?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “I am quite certain I had not.”
“When you came home from Egypt, did you make any purchases in Naples?”
“None at all. I was only there one night.”
“Now, sir, I am given to understand that your friend, Mr. Fensden, induced you to go abroad for the reason that he feared you were falling in love with your model. On what sort of terms was Mr. Fensden himself with the girl in question?”
“On very friendly terms,” said Godfrey.
“Was he in love with her, do you think?”
“I am certain he was not,” Godfrey replied, shaking his head. “I do not think he would ever be in love with anybody.”
“And you are quite sure that he saw nothing of the girl from the day he bade her good-bye in your studio, until Monday, when he inspected her dead body in the mortuary?”
“I am sure of it,” Godfrey answered.
“And when did he return to England, for I understand he has been abroad until lately?”
“On Thursday morning. I met him at the Mahl Stick Club an hour or two after his return from Paris.”
“Now, sir, one other question, and the last. The girl, I understand, told you that she was married, and refused to say to whom. I have had an opportunity of examining the wedding-ring from her finger. Somewhat to my surprise, I found that it was of Austrian make. Now, how does it come about that a girl living in Naples should be married with an Austrian wedding-ring? It was, moreover, an expensive one. What I want to know is, was the young woman ever in Vienna?”
“Never, to the best of my belief,” said Godfrey. “At any rate she never told me so.”
“Now, sir, there’s one point I want to clear up, and when I have done that, I sha’n’t be at all certain that I haven’t got the key to the whole mystery. Is it only a singular coincidence,do you think, that Teresina Cardi, your old model, wore a wedding-ring of Austrian make, and that the box in which her hands were sent to you the other day should bear the label of a well-known Vienna firm?”
He chuckled and rubbed his hands together, as he put this question to Godfrey.
“It certainly seems singular,” said the latter; “but why should not the ring have been purchased in Naples, even if it were of Austrian make?”
“There is not the least reason why it should not, but the coincidence is worth remarking. Now, sir, I shall leave you to think over what I have said. I shall telegraph to Naples and Vienna, and meanwhile endeavour to find out who it was handed the box in at Euston. Allow me to wish you good-day, gentlemen.”
They returned his salutations, after which he went away, leaving one little ray of hope behind him.
“A most remarkable man that!” said Codey, appreciatively, when the door was once more closed. “He will follow the trail now like a sleuth-hound. In the meantime, Mr. Henderson, I can not promise you anything very hopeful for to-morrow. I shall apply tothe magistrate for a remand in order to give Burrell more time to look about him. I shall keep in touch with him, you may be sure. I have retained Alfred Rolland as counsel for you. He and I have often worked together, and I don’t think you could have a better man.”
“I place myself in your hands unreservedly,” said Godfrey. “Do whatever you think best, and spare no expense. I have others besides myself to think of in this matter.”
“You have indeed, poor souls!” said Sir Vivian. “I shall go down to-night, and try to reassure them, and come up again first thing in the morning.”
When they left him, half-an-hour later, Godfrey sat himself down on his bed and resigned himself to his own miserable thoughts. What enemy had he who hailed from Vienna? He could think of no one among the circle of his acquaintances who had ever been there. Certainly no one who would be likely to do him such an irreparable wrong. After that he thought of his dear ones at home, and broke down completely. His supper was sent away untouched. He felt as though he could not have swallowed a mouthful, even had his life depended on it. At last he retired to bed, butnot to rest. When he rose next morning, he felt older by a dozen years.
“This will never do,” he said to himself. “If I go on like this, people will begin to think from my appearance that I am guilty. No, they shall see that I am not afraid to look any man in the face.”
Then the door was unlocked, and he was informed that it was time to set off for the magistrate’s court.
The preliminary investigation before the magistrate calls for but little comment. The evidence was, with but few exceptions, that which had been given before the coroner on the Monday and Wednesday preceding. If it were remarkable for anything it was for the number of spectators in the Court. The building, in which the coroner’s inquiry had been conducted, had been crowded, but the police-court was packed, not with the poorly-clad spectators which one usually meets and associates with that miserable place, but by well-dressed and even aristocratic members of society. When Godfrey recovered from his first feeling of shame at finding himself in such a place and in such a position, and looked about him, he recognised several people whom he had once accounted his friends, but who had now schemed and contrived by every means in their power, to obtain permission to watch, what they thought would amount to his degradationand final extinction. Pulling himself together he gazed boldly around him, and more than one person there told himself or herself that a man who could look at one like that could never be guilty of such a crime as murder. Mr. Rolland, the counsel who had been retained by Codey for the defence, was a tall, handsome man, and of others, little above middle-age. He was the possessor of a bland, suave manner which had the faculty of extracting information from the most unwilling and reluctant witnesses. Near him sat Mr. Codey himself, keen-eyed and on the alert for anything that might tend to his client’s advantage. The curiosity of the visitors was not destined, however, to be gratified, for, when certain of the witnesses had been examined, the case was adjourned for a week, and Godfrey returned to Holloway by the way he had come.
How the next seven days passed Godfrey declares he is unable to tell, but at last that weary week came to an end, and once more he stood in the crowded Court. At first glance it looked, if such a thing were possible, as if more people had been squeezed into the building than on the previous occasion. The fashionable world was as well represented as before,while this time there were even more ladies present than had hitherto been the case. The cabman who had driven the pair to Burford Street was examined and repeated his former evidence. He was subjected to a severe cross-examination by Mr. Rolland, but his testimony remained unshaken. The police-constable, who had seen them together outside the house, also repeated his tale. He was quite certain, he assured the Court, that the woman in question was crying as he passed them. At the same time he was not sure whether or not the prisoner was speaking angrily to her. When he left the witness-box Victor Fensden took his place. He described the life in the studio before Godfrey left England, and repeated the story of the attempt he had made to induce him to break off his relations with the girl. When the prosecution had done with him Mr. Rolland took him in hand and inquired what reason he had for supposing that his client had ever felt any affection for the deceased woman.
“Because he himself told me so,” Fensden returned unblushingly. “I pointed out to him the absurdity of such a thing, and was at last successful in inducing him to accompany me abroad.”
“You parted where?”
“In Port Said. I went on to Palestine, while he returned to Naples.”
“En routeto England?”
“I believe so.”
“On what day did you yourself reach London?”
“On the day of the murder.”
“When did you next see the prisoner?”
“He lunched with me at the Mahl Stick Club on the same day.”
“That will do,” said Mr. Rolland, somewhat to the surprise of the Court. “I have no further questions to ask you.”
It was at this point that the great sensation of the day occurred. When Fensden had taken his place once more, Detective-sergeant Gunson was called, and a tall, handsome man, with a short, brown beard entered the box. He stated that his name was Gunson, and that he was a member of the Scotland Yard detective force. Two days previous, accompanied by Detective-sergeant McVickers, he had paid a visit to the prisoner’s residence, Detwich Hall, in the county of Midlandshire. They had made a systematic search of the building, with the result that, hidden away behind a bookcase in the studio, they had discovered along knife of Oriental workmanship and design. The blade was of razor-like sharpness, and was covered with certain dark stains. He found nothing else of an incriminating nature. Detective-sergeant McVickers was next called, who corroborated his companion’s evidence.
Dr. Bensford, an analytical chemist and lecturer at the Waterloo Hospital, stated that he was instructed by the Home Secretary to make an examination of the marks upon the knife in question, now produced, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were the stains of human blood. (Great sensation in Court.)
So overwhelming was the shock to Godfrey, that for a moment he neither heard nor saw anything. A ghastly faintness was stealing over him and the Court swam before his eyes. With a mighty effort, however, he pulled himself together and once more faced the Court. He looked at Sir Vivian and saw that the baronet’s face had suddenly become very pale.
“Good Heavens!” he thought to himself, “will he suspect me also?”
The analyst having left the box, Victor Fensden was recalled, and the knife handed tohim. He took it in his daintily gloved hand and examined it carefully.
“Have you ever seen that knife before?” asked the prosecution.
Victor hesitated a moment before he replied.
“No,” he answered, as if with an effort.
“Think again,” said his examiner. “Remember that this is a court of justice, and it behooves you to speak the truth. Where did you see that knife before?”
Once more Victor hesitated. Then in a somewhat louder voice he said:
“In Egypt. In Cairo.”
“To whom does it belong?”
“To Mr.—I mean to the prisoner. I was with him when he purchased it.”
A greater sensation than ever was produced by this assertion. Godfrey leaned forward on the rail of the dock and scrutinized the witness calmly.
“Your Worship,” he said, addressing the magistrate, “with all due respect I should like to be allowed to say that I have never seen that knife in my life before.”
The prosecution having finished their case, Mr. Rolland addressed the Bench. He pointed out how entirely improbable it wasthat a gentleman of Mr. Henderson’s character and position would commit a murder of such a cowardly nature. He commented on the fact that it would have been impossible, had he even desired to do such a thing, for him to have committed the crime and have walked from Burford Street to his hotel in Piccadilly in the time counted from the moment he was seen by the police officer to the time of his arrival at his hotel. Moreover, he asked the magistrate to consider the question as to whether a man who had committed such a dastardly deed would have been likely to send the mutilated remains to himself as a wedding present. It was useless for him, however, to argue, the magistrate had already made up his mind, and Godfrey was therefore not surprised when he found himself committed to stand for his trial at the next Criminal Sessions, to be held in a month’s time. Bowing to the magistrate, he left the dock, entered the cab that was waiting for him in the yard, and was driven away to Holloway.
“It was the finding of that knife that did it,” said Mr. Codey reproachfully, when he next saw him. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me that it was hidden there?”
“Because I did not know it myself,” Godfreyreplied. “When I told the magistrate that I had never seen it before, it was the truth. I did not buy a knife in Cairo, so how could I have brought one home with me?”
“But who could have placed it behind the bookcase, if you did not?” asked the lawyer.
“That is more than I can say,” said Godfrey simply.
“Look here, Mr. Henderson,” said Codey sharply, “I have met a good many unsuspicious men in my time, but I don’t think I have ever met one so unsuspicious as you are. I have a list of all the people in your house at the moment when that box arrived. Let us run it over. There was your mother, your sister, and yourfiancée, Miss Devereux. As our friend Burrell would say, they may be dismissed from the case without delay. Your butler and footman are old family servants, as are the housekeeper, the cook, and the head parlour-maid. They may also be dismissed. The remainder of the household would be scarcely likely to possess a knife of that description, so we will dismiss them also. There remains only yourself and Mr. Fensden. You declare you are innocent, and we will presume that you are. Now, Mr. Fensden, by his evidence has placed you where you are. That iscertain. You say that he lied as to the fact of your being in love with the woman who is dead, and also when he said that you purchased the knife in Cairo. You say that he came to stay with you on the day that the murder was discovered—why should he not have placed it behind the bookcase, in order that it should be another incriminating point against you?”
“I can not believe that he would do such a thing,” said Godfrey. “He would not be so base.”
“I am not so sure of it,” said the astute lawyer. “What is more, I made a curious discovery to-day. The man in question pretends to be your friend. He gives his evidence with reluctance. Yet I noticed that when that knife was produced his face betrayed neither surprise nor emotion. Had he had your interests at heart, would he have been so callous? Answer me that! Now you have my reasons for arguing that he knew where the knife was, and also the man who had placed it there.”
“The suspicions you suggest are too horrible,” said Godfrey, rising and pacing the cell. “What possible reason could he have for doing me such an injury?”
“One never knows. There are some men who hate the man who is supposed to be their best friend, either because he, the friend, has been successful in money-making, in love, or perhaps he presumes him to be happier than himself. You are rich; he is poor. You have been successful in your profession; he has been a failure. His hatred, like hundreds, might have begun with jealousy and have terminated in this. I have known more unlikely things.”
“In that case what am I to do?”
“Leave it to me and to Burrell to arrange. If things were not going right, my experience teaches me that that astute gentleman would have shown signs of dissatisfaction before now. He has got his nose on the trail, you may be sure, and if I know anything about him, he will not leave it for a moment.”
“But do you think he will be able to prove my innocence?” asked Godfrey.
“All in good time, my dear sir, all in good time,” said the lawyer. “With me for your lawyer (pardon the boast), Rolland for your counsel, Dick Horsden and Braithwaite with him, and Burrell for the ferret that is to make the rabbits bolt, you could not be better served. For my own part, I wouldn’t mindmaking you a bet—and as a rule I am not a man who gambles—that the last-named gentleman has already acquired sufficient information to secure your return to Detwich with an unblemished character.”
“Then do so by all means,” said Godfrey. “I will take it with the greatest pleasure in the world.”
“Very well then,” answered the lawyer. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ve a junior clerk who has the making of a man in him, but who is in consumption. The doctors tell me that, unless he is sent for a long sea voyage to the other side of the world, he will not live a year. I have promised to send him to the South Seas, and, if you like, this shall be our bet: If you get off scot-free, you pay all his expenses—something like five hundred pounds—and also give him five hundred pounds to go on with. If you don’t, then I pay. Will you agree to that?”
“With all the pleasure in the world,” Godfrey replied.
“Then it’s settled. And now I must be going. Good-bye.”