He then went to see Miss Rutland in her bed, wrote out a prescription, gave certain instructions, and left the house.
"I have come to you," said Dr. Daincourt to me, "with these letters and the playing-cards; I will leave them with you. You said that the Nine of Hearts was a tangible link in the chain of Edward Layton's innocence. Is it not most mysterious and strange that three of these identical cards should be found in Miss Rutland's desk, and that one should be found in the pocket of Edward Layton's ulster which he wore on the 25th of March? Does not this circumstance, in conjunction with what you now know of Mabel Rutland's movements on that night, go far to prove that the lady whom Edward Layton met in Bloomsbury Square was none other than his old sweetheart? Heaven knows what conclusions are to be drawn from the coincidence. I will make no comments indeed, I almost tremble to think of the matter. Your legal mind will, perhaps, enable you to deduce something from Eustace's letter to his sister which may be of service to you and Edward Layton. To me they are simply incomprehensible. Before I visit Miss Rutland to-morrow I will call on you. You may have something to say to me. I sincerely trust I shall not be the means of bringing fresh trouble upon her and hers."
With that he wished me good-night, and I was left alone. I set myself sedulously to the task of discovering the key to these mysterious letters. Dr. Daincourt had not opened the two sealed letters which had arrived during Miss Rutland's illness, and I did not immediately do so. I felt a delicacy with respect to Edward Layton's letter to the young lady which he had given me in prison to post for him. I put them aside, and selecting the first of the two letters from Eustace Rutland which had been found in Mabel's desk (judging from the post-marks on their envelopes which of the two she had first received, for they bore no date), I devoted myself to a study of it. This is an exact copy of the singular communication, the size of the paper and the arrangement of the words, and of the figures and alphabetical letters, being faithfully followed:
p161
It appeared to me that the first thing I had to consider was the relation, if any, that the alphabetical letters and figures bore to the words to which they formed a frame. I did not lose sight of the suggestion which immediately arose that this framework of figures and alphabetical letters might be placed there as a blind, although the evident care and pains which had been bestowed upon them was opposed to the suggestion. But then, again, the care thus exercised might be intended to more deeply mystify any strange person into whose hands the missive might fall. In order not to deface or mutilate the original, I made two exact copies of it for my own purposes, using as a kind of ruler one of the playing-cards which Dr. Daincourt had also found in Mabel Rutland's desk.
There were two words in the missive which soon attracted me. These were the third word, "diamond," in the fifth line, and the second word, "bracelet," in the sixth line. "Diamond bracelet." I did not doubt that this was the diamond bracelet which Mr. Rutland had presented to his daughter, and which she could not wear at the dinner-party because it was not at that time in her possession. Here, then, was a clew, but here I stopped. No ingenuity that I could bring to bear enabled me to connect other words with "diamond bracelet." I cudgelled my brains for at least half an hour. Then all at once it occurred to me (what in the excitement of my pursuit I may very well be excused for not having thought of before) that the playing-card, the Nine of Hearts, must bear some relation to the missive. I placed it upon the paper. Every word was hidden by the surface of the card; only the figures and the alphabetical letters were visible. "Doubtless," thought I, "if I cut out the pips of a Nine of Hearts, and place it upon the paper, I shall see certain words which will form the subject-matter upon which Eustace Rutland wrote to his sister." In that case the mystery was confined to nine words which, whatever their arrangement, would not be too difficult to intelligibly arrange. I would not mutilate Miss Rutland's playing-cards. I had packs of my own in the house, and from these I selected the Nine of Hearts and cut out the pips. It was not an easy matter, and in my eagerness I pretty effectually destroyed the surface of my table; but that did not trouble me. My interest was now thoroughly aroused, and grew keener when, placing the Nine of Hearts upon Eustace Rutland's mystery-letter, I found these words disclosed:
Face--stares--in--send--money--death me--instantly--the.
Here, then, in these nine words, was the communication which Eustace Rutland intended his sister to understand. I copied them on a separate sheet of paper, and arranged them in different ways until I arrived at their correct solution:
"Death stares me in the face send money instantly."
Congratulating myself upon my cleverness, I came to the conclusion that Eustace Rutland, being banished from his father's house, and not being able to obtain from his father the funds necessary for his disreputable career, was taking advantage of his sister's devoted affection for him, and was in the habit of calling upon her to supply him with money--which, no doubt, the young lady did to the best of her ability. Curiosity led me to the task of endeavoring to discover whether the alphabetical letters and the figures in the framework bore any relation to this communication. With only the nine words exposed through the pips of the Nine of Hearts which I had cut away, I saw that the first word, "death," was the sixth, and the second word, "stares," was the second, and the third word, "me," was the seventh. The sequence of the figures, therefore, was 6, 2, 7. Now, how were these three figures arranged in the framework? The figure 6 came after the letter M, the figure 2 came after the letter X, the figure 7 came after the letter H. Satisfied that I had found the key, I began to study how these figures from 1 to 9, representing the nine words in the communication and the Nine of Hearts in the playing-card, were arranged in the framework in such a manner as to lead an informed person at once to the solution. There must be a starting-point with which both Eustace and his sister Mabel were acquainted. What was this starting-point? One of the letters of The Alphabet. What letter? A. Starting, then, from A in the framework, I found that the figures from 1 to 9 ran thus: 6, 2, 7, 3, 9, 1, 4, 5, 8. Upon following, in this order, the course of The words which were exposed by the playing-card with the nine pips cut out, I came to the conclusion that I had correctly interpreted this first mystery-letter. I was very pleased, believing that the key I had discovered would lead me to a correct reading of Eustace's second and third letter to his sister.
So absorbed had I been in the unravelling of this mystery-letter, which occupied me a good hour and a half, that I had lost sight during the whole of that time of the two words which had at first enchained my attention--"diamond bracelet." "Death stares me in the face send money instantly" had appeared to me so reasonable a construction to be placed upon the communication of a man who must often have been in a desperate strait for want of funds, that the thought did not obtrude itself that these words might be merely a blind, and that, in the words that remained after the obliteration of this sentence, the correct solution was to be found. The longer I considered, the stronger became my doubts: with "diamond bracelet" staring me in the face, I felt that I had been following a Will-o'-the-wisp.
I had asked Dr. Daincourt the date of the dinner-party at which Mr. Rutland had detected the absence of the diamond bracelet on his daughter's arm. That date was the 8th of September. I examined the post-mark on the envelope of Eustace Rutland's first communication; it was the 26th of September. Mr. Rutland had laid upon his daughter the injunction that the diamond bracelet was to be shown to him before the end of the month. What month? September. She had produced it in time, and her brother's missive must have conveyed to her some information respecting the missing article of jewellery. The elation of spirits in which I had indulged took flight; I hadnotdiscovered the clew.
I set myself again to work. I felt now as a man feels who is hunting out a great mystery or a great criminal, and upon the success of whose endeavor his own safety depends. It seemed to me as if it were not so much Edward Layton's case as my own in which I was engaged. Never in the course of my career have I been so interested. I determined to set aside the words, "Death stares me in the face, send money instantly," and to search, in the words that remained, for the true meaning of Eustace Rutland's first communication. I copied them in the order in which they were arranged, and they ran as follows:
p167
I counted the number of words; there were twenty-two. Now, was the true reading of the communication contained in the whole of these twenty-two words, or in only a portion of them, and if in only a portion, in what portion? In how many words? There lay the difficulty. The words "diamond bracelet" gave me a distinct satisfaction, but there were other words which I could not by any exercise of ingenuity connect them with, such as "birds"--"trees"--"river"--"gayly"--"cherry"--"singing." Undoubtedly the communication was a serious one, and these words seemed to be inimical to all ideas of seriousness. How to select? What to select? How to arrange the mystery? What was the notation? Ah, the notation! I had discovered the notation of the sentence I had set aside for the time. What if the same notation would lead me to the clew I was in search of? The arrangement of the figures from 1 to 9 was arbitrated by the first letter in the alphabet, A. I would try whether that arrangement would afford any satisfaction in the twenty-two words that remained. It would be an affectation of vanity on my part if I say that this idea occurred to me instantly. It did not do so. It was only after long and concentrated attention and consideration that it came to me, and then I set it immediately into practical operation. The first figure in the sentence I had discovered was 6. I counted six in the present arrangement of the words. It ended with the word "Got." Crossing out the word "Got," and placing it upon a separate sheet of paper, I proceeded. The second figure in the sentence I had discarded was 2. I counted two on from the word "Got," and arrived at "Your." I crossed out this word "Your" and proceeded. The third figure in the sentence I had discarded was 7. I counted seven words on from "Your," and came to "Diamond." I treated this word in a similar way to the last two, and continued the process. "Got your diamond." Now for "Bracelet." The next figure was 3. I counted on three words from "Diamond" and came to "Bracelet."
I was more excited than I can describe. There is scarcely anything in the world that fills a man with such exultation as success, and I was on the track of success: "Got your diamond bracelet." The following figure was 9. I counted on nine and came to the word "Back." "Got your diamond bracelet back." I continued. The next figure was 1. This was represented by the word "I." The next figure was 4, represented by the word "Won." The next figure was 5, represented by the word "Four." The next figure was 8, represented by the word "Hundred." I continued the same process and came back to the figure 6, represented by the word "On." The next figure was 2, represented by the word "Cherry."
I stopped here, for a reason, and I read the words I had crossed out and written on a separate sheet of paper. They ran thus:
"Got your diamond bracelet back I won four hundred on Cherry."
It was not without a distinct reason that I paused here. Mixing with the world, and moving in all shades and classes of society, I must confess--as I have no doubt other men would confess if they were thoroughly ingenuous--to certain weaknesses, one of which is to put a sovereign or two (seldom more) upon every classic horse-race, and upon every important handicap during the year. I nearly always lose--and serve me right. But it happened, strangely enough, that in this very month of September, during which Eustace Rutland sent his mysterious communications to his sister Mabel, one of the most celebrated handicaps of the year was won by a horse named Cherry, and that I had two sovereigns on that very horse. It started at long odds. I remembered that the bet I made was two sovereigns to a hundred, and that I had won what is often called a century upon the race. I was convinced that I had come to the legitimate end of Eustace Rutland's letter: "Got your diamond bracelet back. I won four hundred on Cherry."
This young reprobate, then, was indulging in horse-racing. His sister Mabel had written to him an account of the scene between herself and her father at the dinner-party. She had given him her diamond bracelet to extricate him from some scrape, and he had been luckily enabled, by his investment on the horse Cherry, to redeem it most likely from the pawnbroker--in time for his sister to exhibit it to her father. So as to be certain that I had got the proper clew, and had arrived at the gist of Eustace's communication, I wrote down the words that remained, which were,
"Birds--the--the--in--are the trees--runs--rivers--gayly--singing."
It was an easy task now for me to apply the same test to these remaining words, and I found that they formulated themselves in this fashion:
"The river runs gayly. The birds are singing in the trees."
I was curious to ascertain whether there were any special sign in the framework of Eustace Rutland's communication by which the person engaged with him in the mystery-letter could be guided. I counted the words in each sentence. The words in the first sentence were nine--the Nine of Hearts. The number of words in the second sentence was eleven. The number of words in the third sentence was eleven. After the alphabetical letter A in the framework I saw the figure 11, and I was satisfied, the last eleven words being meaningless, that it was the second sentence of eleven words, referring to the diamond bracelet and to his winning on Cherry, that Eustace wished his sister Mabel to understand. At the same time I was satisfied in my own mind that, without the Nine of Hearts to guide him, a man might spend days over the cryptograph without arriving at the correct solution.
I had taken no count of the passing time. Engrossed and absorbed in my occupation, I was surprised, when it had reached what I believed to be a successful termination, to find that it was nearly six o'clock in the morning.
Dr. Daincourt called while I was dressing, after a few hours' sleep. I am not usually a dreamer, but I had a dream so strange that I awoke with the memory of it in my mind. It was of hands--ladies' hands--every finger of which was covered with rings. Holding the theory, as I have already explained, that the imagination during sleep is not creative, but invariably works upon a foundation of fact, I was endeavoring to trace the connection between my singular dream and some occurrence or circumstance within my knowledge, when Dr. Daincourt entered.
"Well," were his first words, "have you made anything of the letters which I left with you last night?"
"I was employed only upon one," I said, "which kept me up until six o'clock this morning. I don't begrudge the time or the labor, because I have discovered the clew to Master Eustace Rutland's communications to his sister."
"That means," said Dr. Daincourt, excitedly, "that you have discovered the mystery of the Nine of Hearts."
"In so far," I replied, "as respects the playing-cards found in Miss Rutland's desk--yes, I have discovered that part of the mystery; but I have not yet discovered the mystery of the particular Nine of Hearts which was found in the pocket of Edward Layton's ulster."
I showed Dr. Daincourt the result of my labors on the previous night, and he was delighted and very much interested, but presently his face became clouded.
"I am still disturbed," he said, "by the dread that the task you are engaged upon may bring Miss Rutland into serious trouble."
"I hope not," was my rejoinder to the remark, "but I shall not allow considerations of any kind to stop me. Edward Layton is an innocent man, and I intend to prove him so."
"If he is innocent," said Dr. Daincourt, "then Miss Rutland must also be innocent."
"Undoubtedly," I said, with a cheerful smile, which did much to reassure the worthy doctor.
"Have you opened the two sealed letters," asked Dr. Daincourt, "which I brought from Mrs. Rutland's house?"
"No," I replied. "I have devoted myself only to the first of the opened letters found in Miss Rutland's desk. I shall proceed immediately with the second, and then I shall feel myself warranted in opening and reading the letters which arrived for Miss Rutland during her illness. By-the-way, doctor, I have had a singular dream, and upon your entrance I was endeavoring to track it. It was a dream of ladies' hands, covered with rings."
"Any bodies attached to the hands?" inquired Dr. Daincourt, jocosely.
"No; simply hands. They seemed to pass before my vision, and to rise up in unexpected places pretty, shapely hands. But it was not so much the hands that struck me as being singular as the fact that they were covered with rings of one particular kind."
"What kind?"
"I must have seen thousands of rings upon the shapely fingers, and there was not one that was not set with diamonds and turquoises."
A light came into Dr. Daincourt's face.
"And you mean to tell me that you can't discover the connection?"
"No I can't for the life of me discover it."
"That proves," said Dr. Daincourt, "how easy it is for a man engaged upon a serious task to overlook important facts which are as plain as the noonday sun."
"What facts have I overlooked, doctor?"
"Have you the newspapers in the room containing the reports of the trial?"
"Give me the one containing the report of the third day's proceedings?"
I handed it to him, and he ran his eyes down the column in which the evidence of the waiter in Prevost's Restaurant was reported.
"The waiter was asked," said Dr. Daincourt, "whether the lady who accompanied Edward Layton were married, and whether there were rings upon the lingers of her ungloved hand?"
"Yes, yes," I cried, "I remember! And the waiter answered that she wore a ring of turquoises and diamonds. Of course--of course. That explains my dream."
"Yes," said Dr. Daincourt, "that explains it."
"I need no further assurance," I said, "to prove that it was Miss Rutland who was in Edward Layton's company on the night of the 25th of March, but I wish you to ask her mother whether the young lady possesses such a ring, and is in the habit of wearing it. Your face is clouded again, doctor. You fear that I am really about to bring trouble upon Miss Rutland. You are mistaken I am working in the cause of justice. If I prove Edward Layton to be innocent, no shadow of suspicion can rest upon Miss Rutland. You must trust entirely to me. Can you not now understand why Edward Layton refused to be defended by a shrewd legal mind? He would not permit a cross-examination of any of the witnesses which would bring the name of Mabel Rutland before the public. To save her honor, to protect her from scandal and calumny, he is ready to sacrifice himself. He shall not do so. I will prevent it. Your patient is in a state of delirium, you tell me. She knows nothing of what passes around her, she recognizes no one, she has not heard of the peril in which Edward Layton stands. Say that she remains in this state of ignorance until Edward Layton is sentenced and hanged for a crime which he did not commit--say, then, that she recovers and hears of it--reads of it--why, she will go mad! It would be impossible for her to preserve her reason in circumstances so terrible. There is a clear duty before us, Dr. Daincourt, and we must not shrink from it. I need not urge upon you to use your utmost skill to restore Mabel Rutland to health, and to the consciousness of what is passing around her. If before Edward Layton is put again upon his trial I do not clear him, I shall not hesitate to make some kind of appeal to Miss Rutland which, even should she remain delirious, shall result in favor of the man who is so nobly and rashly protecting her good name."
"Remember," said Dr. Daincourt, gravely, "that she is in great danger."
"You man that she may die soon?"
"Yes."
"But not suddenly?" I asked, in alarm.
"I think not suddenly."
"Still," I said, "there is a chance of her being restored to health?"
"Yes, there is a chance of it."
"If the worst happens," I said, "is it likely that she would recover consciousness before her death?"
"It is almost certain that she would."
"Then it would be necessary," I said, "to take her dying deposition. Doctor, it is my firm conviction that the man and the woman who entered Edward Layton's house after midnight on the 25th of March were not Edward Layton and Mabel Rutland."
"But the coachman drove them home!" exclaimed Dr. Daincourt.
"So he said."
"And took them from Prevost's Restaurant."
"So he said. Recall that part of the coachman's evidence bearing upon it. He says that Edward Layton, accompanied by a lady, issued from the restaurant at five minutes to twelve; that Layton appeared excited; which he, the coachman, attributed to the fact of his having taken too much wine. To rebut this we have the evidence of the waiter, who declared that Layton simply tasted the wine that was ordered. He could not have drunk half a glass. The man and the woman who came from the restaurant jumped quickly into the carriage, and but one word, 'Home!' was uttered in a thick voice. Now, Layton, in his ridiculously weak cross-examination, put two questions to the witness. 'Did it occur to you,' he asked, 'or does it occur to you now, that the voice which uttered that word was not my voice?' The witness replied that it had not occurred to him. Then Layton said, 'You are certain it was my voice?' And the witness replied, 'Yes, sir.' To me, these two questions put by Layton are convincing proof that it was not he who entered the carriage from Prevost's Restaurant."
"But he wore his ulster," said Dr. Daincourt.
"Here, again," I said, "we have evidence which, to my mind, is favorable. The waiter testifies that when Layton entered the room in which the supper was ordered he took off his ulster and hung it on a peg in the wall, at some distance from the table at which he sat. Moreover, he sat with his back to the coat. Layton, in his cross-examination, asked the waiter, 'Did I put the overcoat on before I left the room?' The waiter replied, 'Yes.' The judge intervened with the rebuke, 'You have said in examination that you did not see the prisoner and his companion leave the room.' And the witness replied, 'But when I returned, after being away for three or four minutes, monsieur was gone, and the coat was also gone.' The prisoner put his last question to the waiter, 'You did not see me put on the overcoat?' And the witness answered, 'No.' Doctor, I see light. Bring me news of the ring set with turquoises and diamonds. I shall be at home the whole of the evening."
After Dr. Daincourt's departure I made a hurried breakfast, went through my correspondence, and resumed my task of examining Eustace Rutland's letters to his sister. The second opened communication was exactly of the same shape and form as the first which I had deciphered. I give here an exact copy of it:
p179
The notation of the nine figures, representing the nine pips in the playing-card, in Eustace's first communication, was 6, 2, 7, 3, 9, 1, 4, 5, 8. Taking as my guide the alphabetical letter A, I found that the notation in Eustace Rutland's second communication was 3, 6, 1, 5, 2, 9, 4, 8, 7. I placed the playing-card, with its pips cut out, over the paper, and the following was revealed:
"Of--street--at--night--chester corner o'clock--nine--Tuesday."
Arranging these words according to the new notation of figures, they formed this sentence:
"At corner of Chester Street Tuesday night nine o'clock."
"Now," thought I, "this may have been an appointment."
If so--and nothing was more likely--I could derive no assistance from it. It conveyed no information, and contained nothing which would assist me in my inquiries. It was very likely that I should light upon something further, and I proceeded with my task. The figure immediately following the alphabetical letter A was 12, which meant, if I were on the right track, that the second sentence in this communication was composed of twelve words. I followed the same process I had previously employed, and the twelve words formed themselves thus:
"Awfully hard up ida is an angel I love her to distraction."
So as to finish this communication, I unravelled the last ten words, and found them to be,
"I will do all in my power yours till death."
This I set aside as being intended to convey no meaning. The first sentence, making an appointment at the corner of Chester Street, was, whether correct or not, of little importance. I concentrated my attention upon the second sentence of twelve words: "Awfully hard up ida is an angel I love her to distraction."
So the young scamp was hard up again, and knew that his sister would respond to his appeal. And he was in love, too, and ida was an angel. Ida, of course, with a capital I.
I jumped to my feet as if I had been shot. Ida! What was the name of Mrs. Layton's maid who had given such damning evidence against the man I meant to set free? Ida White!
Not a common name. An unusual one. I walked about the room in a state of great excitement. Ida White, the angel, and Eustace Rutland, the scamp. But the woman must be at least eight or ten years older than Eustace. What mattered that? All the more likely her hold upon him. Young fools frequently fall in love with women much older than themselves, and when the women get the chance they don't let the youngsters escape easily. Yes, opposite to each other stood two men--one a worthless ne'er-do-well, the other a martyr! Opposite to each other stood two women--one a scheming woman of the world, the other a suffering, heart-broken girl! I would save the noble ones. Yes, I would save them! The chain was forming link by link.
* * * * * *
I broke off here to despatch telegrams to two of my confidential agents. My instructions to them were to employ themselves immediately in discovering where Ida White, the maid who had given evidence against her master at the trial, was living, and having found it, not to lose sight of her for a single moment, but to set a strict watch upon her, and to take note of her proceedings and movements, however trivial they might be. These telegrams being despatched, I returned to my task.
The two sealed letters which Dr. Daincourt had received from Mrs. Rutland lay before me. I took up the first, which I knew to be in Eustace's handwriting. I opened it. It was of a similar nature to the two I had already examined and interpreted. There is no need here to repeat the details of the process by means of which I read this third communication, a copy of which I also append:
p183
I will simply say that the notation was 7,1, 9, 5, 6, 3, 4, 8, 2, and that the words resolved themselves into the following:
"Yon know where to find me. The old address."
"An awful charge may be laid against me. I am not guilty."
"Do not desert me. I swear that I am innocent."
I decided that the whole of this was intended to be conveyed to Mabel Rutland's understanding, and that in the last of Eustace's communications to his sister there was not one idle word.
"An awful charge may be laid against me." That charge, undoubtedly, was the murder of Mrs. Layton. "I am not guilty. I swear that I am innocent." But all guilty men are ready to swear that they are innocent. Not a moment was to be lost in setting my agents to work to discover Eustace Rutland's address as well as the address of Ida White. I quickly opened the letter which Edward Layton had written in prison to Mabel Rutland, and which I had posted. It was very short, to the following effect:
"Dear Miss Rutland,--All is well. Have no fear. Do not write to me until you hear from me again. Believe me, faithfully yours,
"Edward Layton."
Thus it was that he endeavored to keep from the woman he loved the true knowledge of the peril in which he stood. To save her good name, he was ready to go cheerfully to his death.
I rose early this morning in the expectation of a busy day. Dr. Daincourt called on Saturday evening, as I had expected, and narrated to me the result of his inquiries respecting Mabel Rutland's jewellery. Among it there was a ring set with turquoises and diamonds which had been given to her by her mother, and which she wore constantly. Dr. Daincourt had received from Mrs. Rutland further instances of the profound attachment which Mabel bore for her twin-brother.
"Deep as was her love," Mrs. Rutland had said, "for Mr. Layton, there is in her love for her brother an element so absorbing that she would not hesitate to make the most terrible sacrifices for his sake. My poor Eustace! It is weeks since I saw him, and I have no idea where he is. He is not altogether to blame, doctor he has been led away by bad companions. Ah, when I think of him and Mabel as little children, and see them, as I often do, playing their innocent games together--when I think of the exquisite joy we drew from them, and of the heavenly happiness they were to us, it seems to me that I must be under the influence of some horrible dream, that things have changed so!"
At half-past nine o'clock one of my confidential agents, Fowler by name, made his appearance.
"Found, sir," was the first thing he said to me.
"Who?" I quickly asked.
"Ida White. Living at Brixton. The drawing-rooms. Quite a swell in her way, sir."
"Is she living alone?"
"So far as we can make out. There are two men now on the watch, one to relieve the other."
"And Mr. Eustace Rutland?" I asked.
"Haven't got track of him yet, sir. The week is rather against us."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, sir, you don't forget that it is Derby week, do you? I suppose you backed one, but I can give you the straight tip if you want it."
"I backed Paradox for a couple of sovereigns," I said. (Where is the man who does not take an interest in the Derby?)
"Not in it, sir. There is only one horse will win, and that is Melton."
"But," I said, coming back to the all-engrossing subject I was engaged upon, "what difference will the Derby week make to you?"
"Well, you see, sir, London is so full. There is too much rushing about for calm, steady work. In such a task as ours a man wants a double set of eyes this week. Suppose my lady takes it into her head to go to the Derby? It will be all a job not to lose sight of her."
"What lady do you refer to?"
"Ida White, to be sure. She's a bit of a blood, sir, and the result of the Derby may mean a lot to her."
"Does she bet, then?"
"There is not much doubt of that, sir."
"How did you discover it?"
"Oh, easily enough. We have ways of our own. Why, sir, when I found out last night where she lives, what did I do an hour afterwards but present myself to the landlady of the house and ask her whether she could let me have a room for a week or two? I didn't tell you that there was a bill in her window, 'A Bedroom to Let to a Single Young Man.' Well, if I ain't a single young man, what is that to do with anybody--except my wife? I'm a soft-spoken chap when I like, and before the landlady and me are together five minutes I'm hand-and-glove with, her, and already a bit of a favorite. So I take her room and sleep there last night, and the first thing this morning down-stairs I am at the street door when the postman comes with the letters. Well, sir, would you believe it, he delivers five letters, and every one of them for Miss Ida White? I, opening the door for the postman, take the letters from him, and hand them one by one to the landlady, who comes puffing and panting up from the basement she weighs fourteen stone if she weighs an ounce. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the first letter. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the second letter. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the other three, one by one. 'Why, it is quite a correspondence!' All these letters are from Boulogne, sir, from betting firms. I know them by their outsides; I believe I should know them by the smell. Then, sir, there's something else. My lady is fond of newspapers. What kind of newspapers? Why, the sporting ones, to be sure. TheSportsman,Sporting Life,Sporting Times,Referee, and the like. Put this and that together, and what do you make of it, sir?"
"You are progressing, Fowler," I said.
"Yes, sir, we're moving. The landlady, bless her heart, she doesn't suspect what the letters from Boulogne are, but in less than a brace of shakes I worm out of her that Miss Ida White has received any number of them since she came to live in the house."
"Have you an idea what horse she has backed?"
"I have an idea that she has backed half a dozen, and that neither of the favorites is among them. When a woman bets, she wants fifty to one as a rule, and as a rule she gets it, and has to part."
I debated a moment or two, and then I showed Fowler one of the envelopes addressed by Eustace Rutland to his sister.
"Are you certain that none of the envelopes you saw this morning were addressed in this handwriting?"
"Quite certain, sir."
"I should like to see the house that Miss Ida White lives in, Fowler."
"Nothing easier but I shouldn't go as I am, if I were you."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, she had a pretty long examination in court at the Layton trial, and you were there all the time. She has sharp eyes in her head, has Miss Ida White, and she might recognize you, and smell a rat."
"You are right. I had better not go."
"I don't see why you shouldn't, if you let me fix you up."
"Fix me up?"
"Yes, sir."
He took from his pocket a small box of paints, and two or three sets of wigs and whiskers and mustaches.
"I always travel with them, sir. I can make myself into another man in five minutes or so, and as for a change of clothes, any handy cheap-clothes shop will serve my turn. Put on these sandy whiskers and mustaches--always hide your mouth, sir--and this sandy wig, and let me touch you up a bit, and your own mother wouldn't know you."
I doubted whether she would when I looked at myself in the glass after carrying out Fowler's instructions, and in less than a quarter of an hour we were riding in a four-wheeled cab to Brixton. We alighted within a couple of hundred yards of Miss Ida White's lodgings, and Fowler took me boldly into the house, requesting me on the way thither to try and discover the men working under him who were keeping watch upon the lady's-maid's movements. To his gratification, I failed to discover them.
"Then you didn't see me give the office to them?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"I did, though, under your very nose. That is a guarantee to you, sir, that the thing is being neatly done. Miss White is in the house. If she were not, my men wouldn't be in the street. Did you hear the snapping of a lock down-stairs?"
"No."
We were sitting at the window of Fowler's room, which was situated on the second floor. It was the front room, and we could therefore see into the street.
"It was the key turning in my lady's room. She is going out. There's the street door slamming. You heard that, of course?"
"Yes, I heard that."
"And there is Miss Ida White crossing the road to the opposite side of the way, and there, sir, are my men following her, without her having the slightest suspicion that she is being tracked."
My sight is strong, and I had a clear view of Ida White. She was stylishly dressed, and was certainly good-looking.
"It is my opinion," said Fowler, "that she feathered her nest when she was in Mrs. Layton's service but I don't care how much money she may have saved or filched, if she goes on betting on horses the book-makers will have every penny of it."
There was nothing more to be done, and feeling somewhat ill at ease in my disguise, I prepared to leave.
"I will see you out of the street, sir," said Fowler. "It happens often enough that watchers are watched, without their being aware of it."
Before I bade Fowler good-day I impressed upon him that no money was to be spared in the business had intrusted to him, and that he had better engage two or three more men, to be ready for any emergency that might occur. He promised to do so, and I made my way home.
Before commencing an account of what has been done, and what discovered, I cannot refrain from writing one sentence. Success has crowned our efforts.
There is no need here to minutely describe our proceedings on Monday and Tuesday. Sufficient to say that I was in constant communication with Fowler--who As a most trustworthy fellow, and shrewd to the tips of his nails--and that I had occasion on Tuesday to again assume my disguise. On Tuesday night I saw Dr. Daincourt, and was glad to learn from him that there was an improvement in Miss Rutland's condition.
"Due," he observed, "in a great measure to certain assurances I imparted to her in a voice so distinct and cheerful as to impress itself upon her fevered imagination."
"That is good news," I said. "You are administering what she requires--medicine for the mind."
I come now at once to the account of one of the most exciting days--the Derby Day of 1885--I have ever passed through. Fowler was in my house at seven o'clock in the morning, and brought with him a suit of clothes which he wished me to wear. He had forewarned me that he intended to make a change in his own appearance, and I was therefore not surprised when he presented himself in the guise of a well-to-do farmer who had come to London to see the Derby.
"Miss White is going, sir," he said, "and we are going, too. I have been living in the house with her these last two days, and it is important that she should not recognize me. I have a piece of satisfactory information for you. It is an even bet that before this day is out I bring you face to face with Mr. Eustace Rutland."
"If you do," said I, "you will lose nothing by it. Bring me into the same room as that young man, and I will wring from him what I desire to know."
"Don't get excited, sir," said Fowler. "Keep cool. You have had a good night's rest, I hope?"
"Yes, I slept well."
"That's right. Make a hearty breakfast, as I am going to do. We shall need all our strength. It is going to be a heavy day for us."
"Where does Ida White start from?" I asked.
"I can't tell you, sir. I pumped the landlady of the house, but she knew nothing except that a new bonnet had arrived for our lady-bird. Miss White is as close as wax, but that new bonnet means the Derby, if it means anything. She can't very well start before nine o'clock, and we shall be on the watch for her not later than half-past eight. I have six men engaged in the affair, sir. It will cost something."
"Never mind the cost," I said "it is the last thing to be considered."
"That is the way to work to success. Many a ship is spoiled for a ha'porth of tar. We shall come out of this triumphant, or my name is not Fowler."
His confident, hopeful manner inspired me with confidence, and after partaking of a substantial breakfast we both set out for Brixton. Fowler had hired a cab by the hour, with a promise of double fare to the driver, to whom he gave explicit instructions. We did not enter the house; we lingered at the corner of a street at some distance from it, and at twenty minutes to ten Miss Ida White closed the street door behind her. Secret signals passed between Fowler and his men, and we followed the lady's-maid, the cab which Fowler had engaged crawling in our rear without attracting attention. Miss White sauntered on until she came to a cab-stand, and entering a cab, was driven away. We were after her like a shot. Two other cabs started at the same time, and I learned from Fowler that they were hired by his men.
"Don't think I have drawn off all my forces, sir," he said. "Although Miss White has left the house, there are two men on watch, who will remain there the whole of the day. She has started early. It will make it all the easier for us."
Miss White's cab stopped at Victoria Station, and we stopped also.
"She's a smart-looking woman, sir," whispered Fowler to me.
"She has a splendid complexion," I remarked.
"Put on, sir," said Fowler, smiling.--"put on. Leave a lady's-maid alone to learn the tricks of the face."
Ida White purchased a first-class ticket for Epsom Downs, and we did the same. Had I followed my own judgment I should have avoided the carriage in which Miss White travelled, but Fowler pushed me in before him, and got in afterwards, and being under his command, I did not hesitate. He had purchased a number of newspapers, and shortly after we started he surprised me by opening a conversation with a stranger. He spoke with a Lancashire accent, and I should have been deceived by his voice had he not been sitting by my side. The subject, of course, was the Derby, and he appeared to be eager to obtain information as to the merits and chances of the various runners.
Meanwhile, Miss White, who had also purchased every sporting paper she saw, had taken from her pocket a Racing Guide, in which the performances of the horses were recorded. She studied this Guide with great seriousness, and was continually consulting the newspapers to ascertain how far the opinions of the sporting prophets agreed with the information of the authority with which she had provided herself. "So," thought I, "this young woman, whose whole soul seems wrapped up in racing matters, is the same young woman who in court declared that she hated races and betting men." Before we were half an hour on our journey I felt perfectly at ease in her presence. It was clear that she considered herself safe, and among strangers. The conversation between Fowler and the gentleman became more animated; others joined in, and I observed that Miss White's attention was attracted to their utterances, Every now and then she made a memorandum in a small metallic book, and before we arrived at Epsom Downs she allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and freely expressed her opinions upon the horses that were to run for the blue ribbon of the turf. I did not venture to address her, but Fowler had no fear, and extracted from her the names of the horses she believed to have the best chances. He slapped his thigh, and declared that he should back them.
We alighted at Epsom Downs, and rode to the race-course. The great rush of the day had not yet set in, but although the Grand Stand was scarcely a third part filled, there were already many there who had taken up a favorable position from which to see the principal race of the day. Fowler improved upon his acquaintance with Miss White, and I obeyed the instructions he managed to convey to me not to stick too close to him. I did not lose sight of him, however, and presently he came and said to me, in an undertone,
"It's all right, sir; I'm making headway. I've told her where I come from in Lancashire, and that I am a single man with a goodish bit of property which has just fallen to me through the death of my father. I've given her my card--I had some printed yesterday in case they might be wanted. We are going up-stairs to have a bit of luncheon before the races commence."
Up-stairs we went to the luncheon-room, where Fowler called for a bottle of dry champagne, in which we drank good-luck to each other. It was only by great exertions that we managed, after lunch, to squeeze ourselves into the Grand Stand. The crush was terrific up the narrow stairs, and Miss Ida White would have fared badly had it not been for Fowler's gallant attentions.
I have no intention to describe the race. It presented all the usual features of a Derby, to which I paid but little heed, my attention being concentrated upon Miss Ida White. She was greatly excited. There were some book-makers on the Grand Stand shouting out the odds, and she must have invested at least a dozen sovereigns on different horses, the odds against which ranged from 40 to 60 to 1.
The race was over. Melton was hailed the winner. I knew that Miss White had not backed Melton for a shilling, and I watched the effect the result of the race had upon her. Her lips quivered, her eyes glared furiously about. "Ida is an angel, is she?" thought I. "Ah! not much of the angel there."
A stampede commenced to the lower ground. The Grand Stand was half empty. Then it was that I saw a man who had just come up give a secret look of intelligence to Fowler, after which he strolled a few paces away, and stood with his back towards Miss White. Fowler joined him with a negligent air, and very soon returned.
"I am very sorry you lost," he said to Miss White, "and quite as sorry that I must wish you good-by."
He took her aside, and had a brief conversation with her, in the course of which he slipped something into her palm, upon which her fingers instantly closed. Shaking hands with her, he beckoned to me, and we left the Grand Stand.
"What did you give her?" I asked.
"Only a card," he said, "with an address in London, to which she could write to me if she felt inclined. I told her that I had never seen a lady I admired so much, and that I hoped she would give me the opportunity of becoming friends with her. In an honorable way--oh, quite in an honorable way!" he added, with a laugh.
"And what are you leaving her for now?" I inquired.
"Because I know where Mr. Eustace Rutland is to be found," he replied. "It will take two or three hours to get to the place, and I suppose it is best to lose no time."
"Decidedly the best," I said "but how about Ida White?"
"She is safe enough. My men are all around her. She won't be left for an instant, wherever she may go. The gentleman I entered into conversation with in the train was one of my fellows. You are a great lawyer, sir, but I think I could teach you something."
"I have no doubt you could. Where does Eustace Rutland live?"
"In Croydon, at some distance from the station."
We did not reach Croydon until past six o'clock, and it was nearly another hour before we arrived at the address which Fowler had received.
"That is the house, sir," he said, pointing to it. "It doesn't look very flourishing."
It was one of a terrace of eight sad-looking tenements, two stories in height, and evidently occupied by people in a humble station of life.
"Before we go in, sir," said Fowler, "I must put you in possession of the information I have gained. Mr. Eustace Rutland does not live there"--I started--"but Mr. Fenwick does. The young gentleman has thought fit to change his name that is suspicious. He has lived there the last two weeks, having come probably from some better-known locality, the whereabouts of which I shall learn by-and-by. When I say hecamefrom some better-known locality I am not quite exact it will be more correct to say that he wasbroughtfrom some better-known locality. He was very ill, scarcely able to walk, and is still very weak, I am given to understand. Now, sir, what do you propose to do? Do you wish me to go in with you, or will you see this young gentleman alone, without witnesses?"
"You are the soul of discretion, Fowler," I said, "and of shrewdness. I must see the young gentleman alone, and without witnesses. Meanwhile you can remain in the house, ready at my call, if I should require you. Keep all strangers from the room while I am closeted with him."
I knocked at the door, and inquired of the woman who opened it for Mr. Fenwick. She asked me what I wanted, and who Mr. Fenwick was.
"Mr. Fenwick lodges here," I said. "I am a friend of his, and I wish to see him."
"How do you know he lodges here?" asked the woman.
"Simply," replied Fowler, "because we happen to have received a letter from him with this address on it. What's your little game, eh, that you want to deny him to us?"
As he spoke he pushed his way into the passage, and I followed. The woman looked helplessly at us, and when Fowler said, with forefinger uplifted warningly, "Take care what you are about," she replied, "I don't know what to do; I am only following out my instructions."
"Your instructions," said Fowler, "were not to prevent Mr. Fenwick's friends from seeing him."
"I was told to admit no one," the woman said.
"And pray who told you?" demanded Fowler. "The lady?"
"Yes, sir," said the woman. "Miss Porter."
"Oh, Miss Porter," exclaimed Fowler. "A friend of ours also. Dark-skinned. Black hair. Black eyes. Red lips. White hands. Rather slim. About five foot four."
"Yes, sir," said the woman.
Fowler had given a pretty faithful description of Miss Ida White.
"Well, then," said Fowler, whose ready wit compelled my admiration, "there is no occasion to announce us to Mr. Fenwick. Show this gentleman the room, and while they're chatting together I will have a little chat with you."
"It is on the first floor," said the woman.
"Of course it is," said Fowler; "the first floor front, the room with the blind pulled down. Do you think I don't know it? How is the young gentleman?"
"Not at all well, sir."
I heard this reply as I ascended the stairs, in compliance with a motion of Fowler's head. When I arrived at the door of the room occupied by Fenwick, otherwise Eustace Rutland, I did not knock, but I turned the handle and entered. A young gentleman who had been lying on the sofa jumped up upon my entrance, and cried,
"Who are you? What do you want?"
I closed the door, and turned the key in the lock.
"What do you do that for?" he exclaimed.
"You will very soon know," I replied. "I am here for the purpose of having a few minutes' conversation with Mr.--shall I say Fenwick?"
"It is my name."
"If I did not come as a friend I should dispute it, and even as a friend I shall venture to dispute it. Your proper name is Eustace Rutland."
He fell back upon the sofa, white and trembling.
"What do you mean? Why are you here?" he gasped.
"I will tell you," I said. "The time for evasion and concealment is past. Your sister--"
"My sister!" interrupted Eustace. "I do not understand you."
"You do understand me. You have a sister--a twin-sister--whose name is Mabel. She lies at the point of death, and you have brought her to it."
He covered his face with his hands, and I judged intuitively that there sat before me a young man who, weak-minded and easily led for evil as he might be, was not devoid of the true instincts of affection.
"Did you know of her condition?" I asked.
"No," he replied, in a trembling voice. "Is it true? Is it true?"
"It is unhappily true, and it may be that it lies in your power to rescue from the grave the innocent young girl who has devoted her life and happiness to you."
"My God! my God!"
"I will not deceive you. Such happiness cannot come to pass if you are guilty."
"I am not guilty!" he cried, starting to his feet. "God knows I am not guilty!"
"Swear it," I exclaimed, sternly.
"By all my hopes of happiness," he exclaimed, falling upon his knees--"by my dear Mabel's life, by my dear mother's life--I swear that I am innocent!"
He was grovelling on the floor, and 1 assisted him to rise.
"And being not guilty," I said, solemnly, "you were content to remain in hiding while another man was accused of the crime which neither he nor you committed! And being not guilty, you would have waited until he was done to death before you emerged once more into the light of day! I believe you when you say you did not know of your sister's peril, but you knew of the peril in which Edward Layton stood. Don't deny it. Remember, the time of evasion has passed."
"Yes," he murmured, "I knew it."
"Why did you not come forward," I said, indignantly, rushing as if by an inspiration of reasoning to the truth, "to affirm that you and Ida White were in Prevost's Restaurant, in the very room in which Edward Layton and your sister entered, on the night of the 25th of March? Why did you not come forward to affirm that it was you who--by a devilish prompting--took Edward Layton's ulster, unknown to him, from the peg upon which it was hanging, and went out with your paramour to the carriage in which he and your sister had arrived? Answer me. Why did you not do this, to prevent a noble and innocent man from being condemned for a murder which he did not commit?"
"It was no murder!" cried Eustace. "It was no murder! She died by her own hand!"
"She died by her own hand!" I echoed, bewildered by this sudden turn in the complexion of the case.
"Yes," said Eustace, "by her own hand. Upon the table by her bedside there was written evidence of it."
"Which you removed!" I cried.
"No, not I, not. I! Of whichshetook possession!"
"Speak plainly. Whom do you mean by she--Ida White?"
"Yes."
I paused. Truth to tell, I was overwhelmed by these disclosures.
"Bear this steadfastly in mind," I said, presently, in a calm, judicial tone. "You are in the presence of a man who has sworn to rescue the innocent. You are in the presence of a man who has sworn to bring the guilty to justice. Upon me depends your fate. I can save or destroy you. If by a hair's-breadth of duplicity and evasion you attempt to deceive me, your destruction is certain. This is the turning-point of your life. Upon your truthfulness rests your fate. Open your heart to me, not as to your enemy, but as to your friend, and relate to me, without equivocation, the true story of your life, from the time you commenced to plunge into dissipation and disgrace."
Awed and conscience-stricken, he told me the story. In the course of his narration I was compelled frequently to prompt and encourage him, but that, in the result, it was truthfully told I have not a shadow of doubt.
His career at college ended, he came to London. There he made the acquaintance of Edward Layton's father, a man who, although well on in years, was as weak-minded as he was himself. They entered into a kind of partnership, in which, no doubt, the elder man, now in his grave, was the leader and prompter. From Eustace's description of Edward Layton's father I recognized a man weak-minded as Eustace himself was, and whose inherent honor and honesty were warped by his fatal passion for gambling. Old Mr. Layton, for a long time, kept his infatuation from the knowledge of his son, and it was not until he was actually involved in crime and disgrace that Edward became aware of it. Long before this Edward had, through his engagement with Mabel Rutland, been employed in the helpless task of endeavoring to save her beloved brother, but when the knowledge of his own father's disgrace was forced upon him, he knew that all hope of Mabel's father consenting to his marriage was irretrievably gone. It was not only that the young and the old man had lost money in betting--it was that they had actually been guilty of forging bills, which Mr. Beach, the father of the woman whom Edward Layton afterwards married, held in his possession. It was this that first took Edward Layton to Mr. Beach's house. Mabel had implored him to save her darling brother, against whom Mr. Beach had threatened to take criminal proceedings. I do not at this moment know whether Edward Layton had revealed to Mabel the disgrace which hung also above his father but that is immaterial. Agnes Beach, Mr. Beach's only child, saw and fell in love with Edward Layton, and her father, disreputable as he was, being devoted to his daughter, was guided by her in all that subsequently transpired. The bills he held he determinedly refused to part with, unless Edward Layton married his child.
In the terrible position in which he was placed, knowing that Mabel Rutland was lost to him forever--knowing how deeply and devotedly she loved her brother Eustace--knowing the disgrace which hung over his own name, he saw no other way to prevent utter ruin than to enter into this fatal engagement, and to marry a woman whom he did not love. But, with a full consciousness of the disreputable connection he was about to form, he laid no pressing injunction upon his father to recognize the unhappy union; and, indeed, old Mr. Layton, aware that he was in Mr. Beach's power, was by no means desirous to meet him. Love lost, honor lost, the sword hanging over his head, Edward Layton submitted to the sacrifice. There was no duplicity on his part. Agnes Beach knew full well that he did not love her. He received, as he believed, the whole of the forged bills which Mr. Beach held, and it was not until some time after his marriage that he discovered that three of these fatal acceptances had been withheld from him. At the time he made this discovery he was leading a most unhappy life with his wife, and on more than one occasion she taunted him with the power she held over him.
It was shortly after the marriage that weak-minded Eustace made the acquaintance of Ida White. She was an attractive woman, well versed in the wiles of her sex, and she played upon him and entangled him to such an extent that there was no escape for him. It is unnecessary here to enter into the details of this connection. It is sufficient to say that Ida White held Eustace Rutland completely in her power, with a firm conviction that if she could induce him to marry her, she could, after the marriage, obtain the forgiveness of Eustace's father--which would insure her a life of ease and luxury. But there was still a certain firmness in the young man.
"Marry me," she said.
"I will marry you," Eustace replied, "when I get back the forged acceptances."
Where were they? In Mrs. Layton's possession.
Close as was the intimacy which existed between the unhappy lady and her maid, Mrs. Layton retained so jealous a possession of these incriminating documents that Ida White was not able to lay her hands upon them. In the company of Eustace Rutland she was supping in Prevost's Restaurant on the night of the 25th of March. She had slipped away from Mrs. Layton's house, as she had often done before, to meet her young and foolish lover. She saw her master and Mabel enter the room, and observed Layton taking off his ulster. Then the idea suddenly entered her head that Eustace and she should personate her master and the young lady--with a full knowledge how deeply those two were compromised by their being together and arrive home before them, by which time, doubtless, Mrs. Layton would be asleep. She knew that under her pillow Mrs. Layton kept the documents which Eustace frantically desired to obtain, and the possession of which would make her, Ida White, his wife. If Mrs. Layton awoke and resisted while the forged bills were being abstracted, Eustace would be at hand to use force, if necessary; and it was principally from the wish to compromise her lover so deeply that he would not dare to break his promise to marry her that she determined to put her idea into execution. She knew that ordinarily Edward Layton kept the latch-key of the street door in the pocket of his ulster. She disclosed the scheme to Eustace, and threatened him with exposure if he did not do as she desired. It was she who took the ulster from the wall of the restaurant, and it was she who, secretly and expeditiously, assisted Eustace to put it on; then they stole out together and entered the carriage. Before acquainting Eustace with her design she had ascertained that Edward Layton's carriage was waiting for him and for Mabel. She trusted to her own resources to keep her master out of his house after she and Eustace had entered it.
Here a word is necessary as to the true meaning of Edward Layton's proceedings during the day and night of the 25th of March. Abandoned as were the hopes in which he and Mabel had once fondly indulged, she still relied upon his efforts to save her brother from harm. Eustace had lost heavily upon certain races. He had made a despairing appeal to her, and she called upon Layton to assist the erring lad. It was in the endeavor to discover Eustace that Edward Layton had driven from place to place to obtain from him the information necessary to rescue him from his peril. Mabel had, by letter, engaged to meet Edward Layton in Bloomsbury Square at ten o'clock on the night of that day, in order that he might relieve her anxiety with respect to her brother. How they met, and what transpired after they met, have been already sufficiently detailed.
Ida White's manœuvres were successful up to a certain point. She and Eustace entered the carriage, were driven home, and, unsuspected, obtained entrance into the house. The correspondence between Eustace and Mabel had been for some time conducted through the medium of the system of the Nine of Hearts, and it was either by an oversight or by accident that Eustace, during the drive from Prevost's Restaurant to Edward Layton's house, took from his own pocket one of these cards and let it drop into the pocket of the ulster. But when they were safely in Layton's house, and crept stealthily and noiselessly into Mrs. Layton's bedroom, they made the horrible discovery that Mrs. Layton, in a moment of frenzy, had emptied the bottle of poisonous narcotics, and had by her own will destroyed herself. The proof was at her bedside: When she had swallowed the fatal pills, the horror of the deed overwhelmed her. She summoned up sufficient strength to rise in her bed, to take paper and the pen from the inkstand, and before the death-agony commenced in her sleep, to write upon that paper the confession which fixed upon her the crime of suicide.
Having reached this point of the strange story, I demanded to know from Eustace Rutland what had become of that confession.
"Ida took possession of it," he said, "and I have not seen it from that moment to this."
"Why did you not come forward and make this public?" I cried.
"Because," was his reply, "Ida told me that, if what we had done became known, nothing could save us from the hangman."
"Did she obtain possession of the forged acceptances?"
"Yes."
"How was it that the tumbler from which the fatal draught was taken was on the mantle-shelf?"
"Ida placed it there."
It was enough. The entire facts of this mysterious case were clear to me. I required nothing more to prove Edward Layton's innocence than the possession of the document written almost in her death-throes by his unhappy wife.
I unlocked the door and called up Fowler. Briefly and swiftly I told him what was necessary, and said it was not at all improbable that this document was in Ida White's lodgings at Brixton; and I had scarcely uttered the words before a rat-tat-tat came at the street door.
"It is she!" cried Eustace.