And thus was my deduction proved to be correct. Felix Page'sleftside had been toward the balustrade at the instant Fluette snatched up the candle-stick; on the balustrade was a deep indentation where the base of the improvised weapon had impinged, after glancing; and the fatal blow had struck upon the victim'srighttemple. A single descending blow can not very well pass down one side of a man and end upon the other.
But while Chaya's story gratified me beyond measure, at the same time it was incomplete; it threw no light upon the ruby's resting-place, and for the simple reason that he knew no more about it than any of the rest of the individuals interested in discovering where it had been hidden. I was satisfied that the cipher, once I had interpreted it, would lead me to the gem. Therefore, it remained for me to find it.
Well, the cryptic writing was solved, pretty soon; but the solution came like a crash of thunder, revealing the one twist toward the end that I had least expected.
And, worst of all, I should have known!
Chaya's ante-mortem statement, properly attested by Dr. Larrimer, Dr. De Breen, the hospital secretary, and myself, together with the otherwise complete case I had, was sufficient of course to open the prison doors for Royal Maillot. It should also have lifted the cloud from Alfred Fluette; but, alas! it did not.
To make my story end as all well-conditioned stories ought to end, I should here be able to wave my wand, or invoke some good genie, or however it is that the writer-folk bestow happiness at a stroke upon the helpless creatures whom they have been ruthlessly dragging through a sea of trial and tribulation, and show you the actors in my own drama transported with joy. But I am recording what actually happened. It was a strange fatality that cast itself into the lives of these people. They were dismayed, overwhelmed, rendered helpless, left uncomprehending. However much I may desire to do so, therefore, I can not twist the truth to give my own story precisely the ending that you or I might desire it to have.
As for myself, I couldn't carry the news fast enough to Maillot and to Mr. Fluette, and to Belle and Genevieve. My enthusiasm met its first damper when the cell door swung open, and the young fellow walked out a free man. It is true that his gratitude was immeasurable; he could find no words to express it, and he wrung my hand until—strong man that I am—I had to tear away from him.
But after his elation had time to cool, he grew morose and gloomy; he was more inclined to cling to what he had gone through, than to accept the extremely satisfactory assurance that he stood clear and as far above suspicion as Caesar's wife.
"No use talking, Swift," he responded to my attempts to rally him out of his humor; "the taint will stick to me. People will say I 'm the fellow who was arrested for killing his uncle so that he could inherit his fortune. They 'll always point me out and shake their heads and say I was released only because the police couldn't find evidence to convict me. I hope to Heaven the old man made a will giving all his money to charity."
"Faugh!" Such morbid talk was thoroughly exasperating. "Mr. Fluette had a much narrower escape than you did."
"Perhaps," he admitted heavily. "But nobody knows it outside of you and his family. I can't go to Belle with the odor of prison clinging to me. And what's more, I sha'n't."
"If you don't," I said quietly, "you 'll break her heart. Your suffering has been as nothing compared with hers." Then I lost my patience completely. "Maillot," I flung at him, "you're a damned fool!" And I swung on my heel and strode away.
"Hi! Swift! Come back here!" he yelled after me. In the next second he had caught hold of my arm and jerked me to a standstill.
"Good Lord, man! I did n't know you had such a nasty temper! Here you come and drag me out of jail, telling me I 'm innocent and all that sort of thing, and because I don't strike out hot-footed and throw myself into the presence of the cleanest, sweetest girl in the world, you think I 'm an ass.
"Look here.Iknew I was innocent; but at the same time I did n't try to blink my compromising predicament. I wouldn't blameanyfair-minded person for being suspicious of me. But everything 's happened so sudden—I can't understand,—and—well, hang it, Swift! you have n't made yourself clear, by a long shot. If you think I ought to go to Belle, why, I 'll go."
"Then let's go together," said I.
And we did.
After we had boarded a car, I reverted to the matter of the will.
"I don't think it's likely that any will will turn up," I told him. "I have talked with Mr. Ulysses White about it, and he said that Felix Page was one of the sort who have a holy horror of last testaments. If the old gentleman ever made any such disposition of his property, Mr. White had no hand in it."
To dismiss the matter, I will say here that no will ever did turn up, and that Maillot inherited the entire Page fortune. I merely mentioned this topic to pave the way for that of the ruby.
"Not the least part of the estate," I pursued, "will be the Paternoster ruby."
The young fellow interrupted me impulsively.
"By George, Swift! it's yours. Find it and keep it—or sell it and keep the money. I 'll not have the ghastly thing—chuck it into the lake first."
"That's no proper way to dispose of it; and later on you might regret such a gift to me. This was what I was going to suggest.
"I believe the claim of the Burmese to be just, for I suppose they 're honest according to their lights. They would have a pretty hard time establishing it, though, if you are of a mind to contest the matter."
"Great Scott! Forget that cursed ruby; talk about something else. I want to get the thing out of my mind and never think of it again."
"All right. I sha'n't mention it after to-day. But let me get through. Here 's an easy way to settle the matter.
"Let the Burmese have it after reimbursing the estate for what your uncle paid for it; it would be only fair—at least, in a measure.
"I want to hold Tshen and his entourage of mild-eyed cutthroats until I put Burke through; they 're my best witnesses. We can't hang the rascal, but we have an excellent ease against him for burglary, attempted swindling, and attempted blackmail. After I find the ruby you can do the bargaining."
He agreed to this. After a bit he favored me with a quizzical regard.
"I don't mind explaining that ring episode—now," he said, in response to my look of inquiry. "When you first pointed out the true import of the wax impression on the candlestick, it brought to my mind at once Fluette's capricious notion of wearing a ring on the middle finger of his right hand. I was keeping tab on you the day of the inquest. I knew that he was going to attend, and that the circumstance would be of considerable significance to you. I saw your look dart to his right hand—-saw you watching him—"
"And you thought you 'd confuse me, eh?"
"Exactly. When you saw the ring on his finger only, the circumstance was pregnant—portentous. When you hadtworings ontworight hands, why, you were puzzled, but the effect was scattering and weak."
I approached Mr. Fluette with an enthusiasm decidedly tempered, and so I was not as disappointed as I might have been. My good news seemed to produce not the slightest effect upon him. He appeared to have aged twenty years; and from that day until his death, which occurred only four months later, he remained melancholy and without interest in anything whatever.
However, I was placed in the most embarrassing position that I ever experienced in my life. Before explanations were half made, Miss Belle flew at me—I 'm not attempting a pun, either—with a glad, impetuous cry, threw her arms around my neck, and, drawing herself to her tiptoes—kissed me! I had been far more at ease under her levelled revolver.
In the afternoon Genevieve and I repaired to the old Page place. She was so confident that she could find the originals of the designs on the cipher, that I was anxious to give her the chance. Besides, she was afraid to go alone, and I simply had to accompany her. Belle could not without Maillot tagging along, and—well, we didn't want anybody else.
First of all, Genevieve had to be shown the dent made by the candlestick in the railing of the balustrade. She placed the tip of one little finger in the depression, and drew back with a shudder.
"Let's go," she said, in a hushed voice. "I never expect to come up these stairs again. Let's find the daisies, and go."
She understood as well as I did that Felix Page must have substituted the stones somewhere between the library table and the hidden safe in his bedroom. She proposed to start at the table and examine every object, if necessary, between the two points mentioned.
Our progress was slow until we reached the bedroom. Genevieve drew to an abrupt halt on the threshold.
"There was a table there, by the head of the bed," she said; "where is it?"
"Lying on its side in that corner"—I pointed. "It was hurled there last Friday night, when the dwarf surprised Burke here."
She went over to it, while I raised the blinds. Instantly she recoiled with a cry, and then in a flash was fairly wild with excitement.
"Knowles, Knowles!" she screamed. "Here they are!"
And sure enough, there they were—the brass tacks with which the artificial leather cover had been fastened on. Their heads were ornamental, with just such crenellated edges as might have prompted the circular figures at each end of the cipher.
I stared at them in stupefied silence. The row of gleaming tacks staggered me. How many times had I lingered by that very table while I racked my brain to remember where I had seen the peculiar figure! Why, once I even had paused and drawn the design in the dust on the leather cover! What a dunce—how blind I had been!
The cipher was not difficult to read now. At once I recalled Burke's shadow on the blind; he had been bending over this table, and the agile movements of his hands were no longer mysterious. He, too, had some knowledge of the cipher, and he had been rapidly running over the tack-heads, hunting for the combination that would reveal a concealed compartment.
After a while we grew rational again. I got out the cipher, and once more Genevieve and I put our heads together over it. Here it is; you may follow us while we dig it out:
Cipher
Cipher
"If you remember," I said presently, "I told you that very likely it would have to be interpreted in connection with something not on the paper. Count the tacks along the front edge."
There were nineteen of them.
"Counting from either end," I went on, "the centre tack will be ten. It 's as simple as A-B-C. That's our starting-point from which to find the others. Find the fourth one to the right of the centre tack—number ten."
She placed the tip of one forefinger upon it—a bit gingerly, I smiled to see.
"Why, it gives!" she announced in surprise.
"I 'd be terribly cut up if it did n't," said I. "Now, then, the eleventh to the right."
This carried her to the third one around the side; number thirteen was the fifth on the left side, number seventeen the ninth on the right side, while number five was on the front edge, of course, close to the centre. Each of them yielded a trifle beneath her pressure—until she came to number five. Here she drew back and clasped her hands tightly together.
"Oh, I can't!" she cried excitedly. "I'm just so nervous that I can't put my finger upon it. You do it."
"Nonsense!" said I. "If you don't find the ruby, it will never be found. That's the last one."
At last, with shining eyes and parted lips, the little finger went slowly down upon the fateful tack-head. She screwed up her eyes and closed her lips tightly, as if she feared something would explode, then pushed with all her might. The tack gave; but nothing else happened.
We stared at the table, our faces long with disappointment; then we looked at each other in unspoken questioning. Genevieve's expression was so woe-begone that I laughed. The nerve-racking suspense was broken.
"How silly!" she exclaimed. "There!"
With a quick movement, she bore down upon the centre tack—number ten—and lo! a section of the table edge flew outward, disclosing an aperture perhaps six inches long and a quarter of an inch wide. It was very much like a slit in a door for letters.
But there was no ruby yet, nor any aperture large enough to accommodate the one for which we were looking. I leaned over with a puzzled scowl and peered into the slit.
"There 's a folded paper in there," I announced. My fingers were too large to force into the opening, and Genevieve promptly produced a hat-pin. Next moment we had the paper out—or papers, for there were three sheets folded together.
Across the back, written in Felix Page's small cramped hand, was this inscription:
Memorandum of Agreement betweenFelix PageandCristofano Paternostro, Michele Paternostroand Filippo Paternostro.
"Well, we 're hot on the scent, at any rate," was my comment, as I unfolded the papers. Then I quickly folded them again, without a glance inside.
"Wait!" said I. "This is a solemn occasion, and it should be recognized with some fitting observance."
"Oh, don't tease!" cried Genevieve, dancing up and down with impatience, and trying to pluck the papers from my hand.
"I 'm not teasing, my dear," said I; "I 'm terribly serious. We are pretty near the end of the trail, little girl; after we have read this imposing document we will have reached the end. I 'm halfway sorry, too, notwithstanding the grim tragedy that has hung over us. We must celebrate the last event with an appropriate rite—a fire upon the library hearth."
She flushed with delight, and consented to wait until I had the fire going properly. It was a most successful fire. We dragged the library table up close; I jumped Genevieve to a seat upon it, and then seated myself beside her. She placed a hand upon my shoulder, and our heads were again very close together.
"Now, then!" I shook the papers open.
The more imposing one—the agreement—I placed beneath; its dry legal phraseology was not at all inviting. The other sheets were, however. They too were written all over in Felix Page's hand, but bore the blunt, direct phrases of a man used to expressing himself without any rhetorical embellishment or nonsense.
And this is what we read:
This explanation is written to clear up any misunderstanding or doubt, that may arise after my death, over the stone called the Paternoster Ruby.
In June, 1884, I learned that Alfred Fluette was trying to buy it from the Paternostros. I at once determined that he should not have the stone if money could prevent it. So I too became a bidder.
The first figure set by the dealers was almost prohibitive, but as Fluette seemed willing to meet it, I was ready to go him one better. But the wily Italians hedged. They set us to bidding against each other, and as the price rose my resolution to get the stone grew more set.
While the bids mounted, I was given ample satisfaction for the weight of whatever financial obligations I was incurring by Fluette's increasing worry and chagrin. He was like a pup that does n't know whether the bone is going into the soup-kettle or the garbage-can. I swore to have that bit of red glass if it took every cent that I could rake and scrape together—and I had a few of them.
Finally Fluette drew out, cursing me. I brought the Italians to a showdown.
Still they hesitated. I became suspicious.
One night Cristofano Paternostro, the head of the firm, called at my hotel. He was nervous and ill at ease. He informed me, with many hems and haws, that the ruby Fluette and I had been snarling over was lying at the bottom of the English Channel, and that they would be unable to deliver the goods. He had a good deal to say about the prestige the ruby gave the firm, and much more to the same effect, until I cut him off short. I told him that the ruby was nearer to making him ridiculous.
It seems that after they recovered the stone in Paris, the expert who accompanied them could n't resist the temptation to steal it. Besides being a gem expert and an expert thief, this fellow was accounted an expert swimmer. When the boat was near land he tried to get away with the prize by jumping overboard, under cover of night, and swimming ashore. He did succeed in reaching the nearest land—which is to say, straight down. And that was the last of him, the ruby, and pretty nearly of the three Italians.
Since the ruby could n't be recovered, they agreed to make the best of it. They agreed to keep the matter among themselves, and to continue to reap all the advertising benefits which the supposed possession of such a costly trinket gave them.
It was a joke, that. Here was I, like an old idiot, trying to spend good money for something the other fellow did n't have to sell.
But pretty soon I saw a way to reach my end just the same as though I 'd beat Fluette in the deal. It was a whole lot better than that, in fact. I could get out from under without it costing me a cent, and still make Fluette and the world believe that I had bought the ruby.
"Nice thing for the Paternostros," says I, "when all this comes out."
Cristofano turned green. He begged me not to tell. He promised me the pick of his gems if I 'd only keep the secret.
I looked at him pretty sour. "Very well," says I at last. "You give me the imitation stone. I 'll never disclose the fact that you did n't have the original ruby,if you will announce to the world that it was sold to me for $500,000. As long as you keep your mouth shut, I 'll keep mine."
He was tickled to death. Nothing would do but he must have in the rest of the firm (his brother and cousin). When they came I had a written contract prepared for them, setting forth the terms of our agreement and binding them with a penalty heavy enough to keep them from blabbing. (Contract memo. attached hereto.)
How long we remained silent in the midst of a speechless wonder, I haven't the least idea. Words were wholly inadequate even feebly to express the mingled feelings with which we slowly digested the full force and import of this remarkable document.
So the very heart and essence of the tragedy, the crimson woof that knitted together the dark warp of its fabric, had all along been unreal and without substance! For a gem that can not be applied to its ordained function can scarcely be said to have an existence. Yet the Paternoster ruby had been potent to project its maleficent influence from the depths of its watery grave, and shape the destinies of the living. Verily, Fate never played a grimmer joke.
My thoughts drifted back to the night of the murder. Why had Felix Page paused beside the table while going between the hidden safe and Maillot, who was waiting in the library? I could imagine only one explanation: as he passed the table he was seized with a sudden impulse to impart the secret to the young man, even going to the extent of setting down the jewel-box so that one hand would be free to manipulate the tack-heads. But a second thought had prevailed. He picked up the box and proceeded on his way.
Genevieve, round-eyed, sat staring into the dying fire. (That was a jolly fire!) Presently her head bent over to my shoulder, and without looking up she quoted a familiar couplet which must have occurred to the reader ere this:
"Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear."
I mention the circumstance because it prompted an idea which suddenly set me to laughing. Genevieve looked at me in alarm.
"What in the world!" she marvelled, for the silence had been very sedate.
"Little girl," I at last enlightened her, "it will pay you to go with me when we leave here—to the Central Station. There 's something I want us to enjoy together; it will compensate for a deal of your late trouble and anxiety."
"What is it?"
"I want to hand Alexander Burke these papers, tell him they 're what was hidden in the table—then quietly watch him while he reads."
I meant to do it, too. But Genevieve failed to enter into the spirit of the suggestion.
"Mercy!" she shuddered. "I don't want to gloat over the poor wretch."
I said no more about it, but—well, the result was all that I had anticipated.
Genevieve reminded me that we should be thankful for having been relieved from a final perplexity.
"I don't understand," said I.
"Why, we haven't the ruby to dispose of; that would have puzzled even you."
"I don't know about that. Royal gave it to me. I see where I stand to lose a fortune. Five hundred thousand—whew!"
Suddenly she snuggled closer and clasped her hands tightly upon my shoulder. Her hair teased my cheek, and the delicate perfume of it made me light-headed. Twisting her pretty head sideways, she flashed an arch look at me from under her lashes, then glanced quickly away again. Blue eyes and long dark lashes are a potently disturbing combination.
"Well," she sighed, "the Page case may have cost you a fortune, but—it gave youme. AndI—for one—am very content and happy, Mr. Swift."
THE END