“Because Edwin Lawrence is dead, don’t suppose that the £1880 are paid. You have not hit on a new way to pay old debts. A knife in the back is not a quittance. You are wrong if you suppose it is. Have the money ready; hard cash—notes and gold; all gold preferred. NO CHEQUE. Edwin Lawrence has left an heir; to whom all that he had belongs, your debt among the rest. Be prepared to pay when asked. If the request has to be made a second time it will come in a different form.“The Goddess.”
“Because Edwin Lawrence is dead, don’t suppose that the £1880 are paid. You have not hit on a new way to pay old debts. A knife in the back is not a quittance. You are wrong if you suppose it is. Have the money ready; hard cash—notes and gold; all gold preferred. NO CHEQUE. Edwin Lawrence has left an heir; to whom all that he had belongs, your debt among the rest. Be prepared to pay when asked. If the request has to be made a second time it will come in a different form.
“The Goddess.”
That was what the envelope contained—an anonymous letter.
“Who sent this?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.”
“Possibly not; and yet you might know who was the sender.”
“I don’t see how. I’d just been on an errand right over to Finchley. As soon as I came in that was given me. All I was told was that there was no answer.”
The messenger spoke in a tone of resentment, as if suffering from a grievance. He was a small youth, with crisp black hair and sharp black eyes; combativeness writ large all over him.
“You didn’t see who brought this to the office?”
“I did not.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Victoria.”
“What’s your name?”
“George Smith. Though I don’t see what that’s got to do with you.”
“Then that only shows that your range of vision’s limited. Because, Mr. George Smith, although there’s no answer to this little communication, you’re likely to hear of it again. Good-day.”
The young gentleman withdrew with something like a sniff of scorn. I read the letter through again. As Hume stood watching me, his curiosity got the upper hand.
“What is it?”
“I was wondering if I should tell you. I don’t see why not.” I handed him the sheet of paper. He scanned it with eager eyes. “What do you make of it?”
“It is for me, rather, to put that question to you.”
“I’ll tell you one thing I make of it—that the typewriter, from the anonymous letter-writer’s point of view, is an excellent invention. In the case of a written letter, one can occasionally guess what kind of person it is from whom it comes; but, when it’s typewritten, the Lord alone can tell.”
“‘The Goddess.’ Does the signature convey no meaning to your mind? Think.”
“I’m thinking. The Goddess? I certainly don’t know any one who’s entitled to write herself down like that. Let me look at the thing again.” He returned me the sheet of paper. “This seems to suggest that some one else is disposed to take a hand in the game—some person at present unknown.”
“But who knows that you owed Lawrence £1880? And—who knows how much besides?”
“Just so. I wonder!”
Hume eyed me as if he were endeavouring to decipher, on my face, the key to a riddle.
“If some one applies to you for the money what shall you do?”
“Hang him, or her, straight off. That is, I should hand the gentleman, or lady, over to Symonds, with that end in view. Don’t you see what such an application would imply? Lawrence was murdered within an hour or two of our playing that game of cards. How comes any one to know what was the amount he claimed to have won? No one saw him between the finish of the game and his death, except the man who murdered him.”
“Miss Moore saw him—and you.”
“Are you suggesting that Miss Moore wrote this letter—or I?”
“I see your point. You infer that whoever did write it killed Lawrence, because it discloses knowledge which could only be in possession of his murderer. There is something in the inference. But, if the thing’s so plain, isn’t it an act of rashness to have written you at all—rashness which is almost inconceivable?”
“‘De l’audace’—you know the wise man’s aphorism. I don’t say the thing is plain. On the contrary, I believe it’s more obscure than you think. Granting that whoever wrote that letter killed Lawrence—and I fancy you’ll find that is the case—the question is who wrote it. It’s signed ‘The Goddess.’ I believe ‘The Goddess’ was the writer. Query, who’s ‘The Goddess’? There’s the puzzle.”
“Are you intentionally speaking in cryptograms? May I ask what you mean?”
“I’m not quite sure that I know myself. I don’t go so far as to say that there is anything supernatural about the business, but—it’s uncommonly queer.”
“Supernatural! You had better make that suggestion to the police. The English law does not recognise the supernatural in crime.”
“Possibly not. You say it was a man, Symonds thinks it was a woman; I believe both of you are wrong—that Lawrence was killed neither by a man nor a woman. Who or what is ‘The Goddess’? Find that out, you’ll have found the criminal!”
His lips curled in an ironic smile.
“I really wonder if you think that you can successfully play a game of bluff with me.”
I laughed. The man was so full of verjuice that he could not resist an opportunity of squirting a drop or two in my direction. His intentions had not been over and above friendly before. Now that the shadow of a woman had come between us, I felt that he would stop at little which would help him hang me. That my innocence might be shown was a matter which would concern him not at all—so long as he had hung me first.
While I hesitated what to answer, for, though, I hoped, at the proper time, to take him by the neck and drop him from the window, my desire was, in the mean time, to treat him with the utmost courtesy—some one came rushing into the room. It was Turner, the night-porter. He seemed to have been in the wars. He held his handkerchief to his nose, and his uniform was disarranged as if he had just emerged from a scrimmage.
“There’s Mr. Philip Lawrence just gone down the service stairs.”
We stared at him—not, at first, gathering what he meant. Our thoughts had been occupied with other themes, as, for instance, our love for one another. He, perceiving that we did not understand, went on, like a man in a rage—
“Yes, he just went down the service stairs, did Mr. Philip Lawrence, and a nice sort of a gentleman he is! I was standing in the doorway, finishing my pipe, when I saw him coming. ‘Mr. Lawrence,’ I said, ‘this is a very sad thing about your brother. I’ve only just come, so I’ve only just heard of it;’ which I had, and it had took me quite aback. He never said a word; he gave me no warning, but, as soon as I opened my mouth, he came at me like a mad bull, hit me right on the nose, and sent me crashing down on to the back of my head in the road. It’s a wonder he didn’t knock me senseless, I was so unprepared, and he hit me so hard. As soon as I could pick myself together I saw him rushing down the street, and tear round the corner as if he was running for his dinner. And well he might run, for a nice sort of gentleman he seems to be.”
Hume and I looked at Turner, then at each other.
“Are you sure that it was Mr. Philip Lawrence?”
Turner gazed at me resentfully.
“Am I sure? Do you think I’d say a thing like that of a gentleman if I wasn’t sure that it was him? Not likely!”
Hume interposed.
“Do you wish us to understand that Mr. Philip Lawrence attacked you in the manner you describe without having, first of all, received provocation from you?”
“I don’t know what you call provocation. All I said to him I’ve said to you. I don’t know what provocation there was in saying that it was a sad thing about his brother.”
“You did not say, or do, anything else?”
“I didn’t do anything at all—he did all the doing; and what I’ve said I’ve told you.”
“Turner, I know Mr. Philip Lawrence intimately. He is not a man to commit an unprovoked assault. Either you have mistaken some one else for him, or, consciously or unconsciously, you have kept back from us something which appeared to him to be a sufficient justification for what he did.”
In his surprise Turner removed his handkerchief from his nose. The blood trickled on to his waistcoat.
“Well! That beats anything! I suppose my word’s worth nothing. If you ask those who know me perhaps better than you do Mr. Philip Lawrence they’ll tell you I’m no liar. I say that he hit me like a coward, for nothing at all, and then took to his heels; and it was well for him he did, for if I do get within reach of him I’ll perhaps give him as good as he sent, though it’ll be after I’ve given him warning first. I’ll let you know, Dr. Hume, that though I am a porter I’m not going to let a gentleman knock me about as it suits him, even though he is a friend of yours; and I don’t think any the better of you for taking his part.”
Going up to Turner, I clapped him on the shoulder.
“That’s right! That’s how I like to hear a man speak out. Don’t think that I doubt you in one little jot or tittle. Mr. Philip Lawrence hit you like a coward because he was a coward. He was afraid of you; and had good reason for his fear, as Dr. Hume knows very well.”
“You—you——”
Hume stopped; looking as if he were allowing “he dare not” to wait upon “he would.”
“Well, Hume, go on. Your friend did not give Turner an opportunity to punish him for his bad behaviour. If you behave badly, I assure you that I shall avail myself of any chance which may offer to punish you. Pray finish the remark you were about to make.”
Hume said nothing. He did not even glance in my direction. But he looked at Turner, and walked out of the room.
“He looks like killing some one himself,” said Turner, when he was gone.
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
I wonder how much he would have given, at that moment, to have made sure of killing me—for choice, upon the gallows.
I wentat once to the house in Arlington Street. The door was opened by Mr. Morley.
“Have you heard anything of Mr. Philip? Is he at home?”
Mr. Morley had opened the door about six inches, peeping through the crevice as if he expected to see some dreadful object on the doorstep. The sight of me seemed to reassure him. He addressed me in a sepulchral whisper.
“Would you mind stepping inside for a moment, sir?”
I went into a front room on the ground floor. Mr. Morley came in after me, and, behind him, Mrs. Morley. I was conscious that the room was filled with old oak furniture. It is, perhaps, because I am not a man of taste that I would not have an apartment in which I proposed to live filled with that funereal wood. Old black oak furniture reminds me of an African swamp. It is dark and sombre—heavy, stiff, ungainly.
Without, the shadows had deepened; in the house it was darker still. The room was still unlighted. The figures of the old man and woman, revealed in the half light, harmonised with the ancient blackness of the furniture. As they stood side by side, as close together as they could get, with, on them both, an air of timidity which the darkness could not hide, I felt that there was a blight upon them, and on the room, and on the house; that it was a place of doom.
“I take it that Mr. Philip has not returned.”
They looked at one another; as if each was unwilling to incur the responsibility of a reply. At last the husband took it on himself.
“No, sir; he’s not returned, but——”
“Well, but what?”
For the old gentleman had paused. He spoke to his wife, in a whisper which was perfectly audible—
“Shall I tell him, Emma?”
“It’s not for me to speak. That, Joe, is for you to say.”
“This is Mr. Ferguson; he’s Mr. Philip’s friend.”
“If he’s Mr. Philip’s friend——”
“Come,” I said, “I see you’ve heard from him.”
“Yes, sir, we’ve heard from him. That—that’s the trouble.”
“What is it you’ve heard?”
Again the reference to his wife.
“Shall I—shall I tell him, Emma?”
“I’ve already told you, Joe, that that’s for you to say. It’s not for me to speak.”
Plainly Joe hesitated, then arrived at a sudden decision.
“Well, sir, this is what we’ve heard.”
He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket, which he gave to me.
“I can’t see what’s on this, man, without a light! Mine are not cat’s eyes; it’s dark as pitch in here.”
“Before I light up, sir, I’ll lower the blind. There’s no need for folks to see what’s going on in here.”
He not only lowered the blind, he drew the curtains, too, leaving a darkness which might have been felt; then started groping for a match upon the mantelshelf. When he had found one he lit the gas—a single burner. By its radiance I examined the paper he had given me. In shape, size, appearance, it was own brother to the sheet which had come to me. On it was a typewritten letter; which, however, in this case, was not anonymous.
“To Joseph Morley,“Dear Morley,“I’m in a bad scrape. I can’t come home. And I’ve no clothes, and no money. I send you my keys. Look, you know where, and send me all the money you can find; and my cheque-book, and my dressing-case, and two or three trunks full of clothes. As you know, I took nothing away with me except what I stood up in. I don’t know when I shall be able to send, but it will be as soon as I possibly can. Have everything ready, for when I do send I shan’t want my messenger to be kept waiting. And keep a sharp look-out; it may be in the middle of the night.“Philip Lawrence.“Tell any one who asks that I shall be home in about a week; and that you’ve instructions to send all letters on. I don’t want people to think that you’re not in communication with me, or that everything’s not all right. And you’re not to listen to any tales which you may hear; and you’re not to worry, or people will notice it. You understand?”
“To Joseph Morley,
“Dear Morley,
“I’m in a bad scrape. I can’t come home. And I’ve no clothes, and no money. I send you my keys. Look, you know where, and send me all the money you can find; and my cheque-book, and my dressing-case, and two or three trunks full of clothes. As you know, I took nothing away with me except what I stood up in. I don’t know when I shall be able to send, but it will be as soon as I possibly can. Have everything ready, for when I do send I shan’t want my messenger to be kept waiting. And keep a sharp look-out; it may be in the middle of the night.
“Philip Lawrence.
“Tell any one who asks that I shall be home in about a week; and that you’ve instructions to send all letters on. I don’t want people to think that you’re not in communication with me, or that everything’s not all right. And you’re not to listen to any tales which you may hear; and you’re not to worry, or people will notice it. You understand?”
The eyes of the two old people did not leave my face while I was reading. So soon as I lowered the paper Mr. Morley faltered out his question.
“Well, sir, what—what do you think of it?”
“That it’s a curious epistle. Who brought it?”
“That’s more than I can say. There was a knock at the door, and I saw that in the letterbox. I looked out into the street, but there was no one in sight who seemed a likely person to have dropped it in.”
“No messenger-boy?”
“No, sir, no one of the kind.”
“And the keys came with it?”
“Yes, sir, in a small brown-paper parcel.”
“Addressed to you?”
“No, the parcel was addressed to no one. There was nothing on it at all.”
“You are sure they are Mr. Philip’s keys?”
“Of course they are. Whose should they be? Why—why do you say that?”
“Has Mr. Philip been in the habit of sending you typewritten letters?”
“He has never done such a thing in his life before.”
“In this even the signature is typed—as if he had made up his mind that you should not have a scrap of handwriting which you could recognise. I don’t see why he need to have had such a letter typed at all. Is he himself a typist?”
“Not that I know of; I never heard him speak of it.”
“Then to have had such a letter typed by some one else was to add to his risk. Why couldn’t he have trusted you with a letter written by his own hand?”
“I can’t say.”
“Are you yourself sure that this letter is from Mr. Philip?”
“Not a doubt of it. I wish there were. Because it shows that he’s in hiding; and what should he be in hiding for, except one thing? What—what are we to do? If—if he has his brother’s blood upon his hands.”
“Joe!”
“Well, Emma, if he has, he has! And where’ll he find a place big enough, and out-of-the-way enough, for him to hide in? All the world will soon know what he’s done, and all the world will be in search of him. He won’t dare to come here—he daren’t already; soon he won’t dare to write to me; the police will be watching me like cats a mouse. He’ll be an outcast, shunning the places which he knew and the friends who loved him—and he the most sociable gentleman who ever lived, who never could bear to be alone; with a host of friends, and not a single enemy. And—and what are we to do—the wife and I, here, in his house alone? To whom are we to look for help—for guidance—for orders? We—we’re almost afraid to stop in the place as it is; it—it’s as if it were haunted. We seem to see him wherever we turn; we hear his footstep on the stairs—his voice—his laughter.”
“Joe!”
“Well, Emma, so we do. Our nerves won’t stand it. We—we’re getting all broken up; we’re not so young as we were, and used to regular ways, and—and this sort of thing’s beyond us. Every knock at the door starts us trembling. Who—who’s that?”
As Mr. Morley was speaking, there came an assault on the front-door knocker which seemed to shake the house. I do not think I ever heard quite such a clatter made by a similar instrument before. That the nerves of the old folks were in a curious condition was immediately made plain; the attack might have been made on them, instead of on the knocker. They drew closer together, clinging to each other for support; consternation was written large all over them. Their behaviour was not that of persons on whom I should have cared to lay the burden of a great responsibility; especially one in which coolness and presence of mind were necessary factors.
The visitor was in a hurry. There had hardly been time to reach the front door when the knocking began again—crash, smash, crash, crash, crash, crash! I really thought the door would have been broken down. The faces of the proper guardians of the house grew whiter, their limbs more tremulous.
“Hadn’t you better go and see who’s there? Or shall I?”
They let me go. On the doorstep I found an individual who had his own notions of propriety. With scant ceremony he endeavoured, without a word of explanation, to force his way into the house. I am not a man with whom every one finds it easy to play that kind of game. When I am pushed, I push. Placing my hand against his chest, he went backwards across the pavement at a run.
“Manners, sir! Manners!” I observed.
He seemed surprised—as a man is apt to do, who, proposing to play the bully, finds himself bullied instead. His hat had fallen off; he himself had almost fallen too.
“Who the devil are you, sir?”
“Saving a reference to any acquaintance of yours, that is the question which I should like to put to you, sir.”
Picking up his hat, he came towards me, with a blusterous air.
“I want to see Philip Lawrence—at once.”
“Do you indeed! That’s unfortunate. You have come to the wrong place for your want to be supplied. Mr. Philip Lawrence doesn’t happen to be in.”
“Tell that tale to some one else; don’t try it on me; I’ve heard it before. I’ll wait till he is in.”
“By all means; let me show you the way inside.”
Taking him by the collar of his coat, I conducted him through the doorway, across the hall, and into the front room—where Mr. and Mrs. Morley were still clinging to each other, as if under the impression that the end of the world at last had come. The visitor was a big, black-haired man, inclined to puffiness, whose whiskers and moustache seemed to have been blackleaded, they shone with such resplendence. He was clad in gorgeous attire.
“What do you mean by such disgraceful behaviour?” I inquired.
“On my word, that’s good!” He was settling in its place the collar of his coat. “Seems to me that the boot’s upon the other foot.” He turned to Mr. Morley. “Who is this man?”
“This man,” I explained, to save Mr. Morley trouble, “is a person who is competent to resent any impertinence which you may offer. So, if you have come to play the bully, you will have every opportunity afforded you to play your very best.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, sir, you don’t know who I am. If I’d liked I might have made Philip Lawrence bankrupt four and twenty hours ago; only I thought I’d give him a chance. But I’m not going to stand that sort of thing from you.”
“Pray how could you have made Mr. Philip Lawrence bankrupt?”
“I hold overdue bills of his for £5000. Some men would have made him bankrupt on the nail, and run him up a tidy bill of costs. I’m too soft-hearted; I gave him a chance. But I’ve had enough bother already; I’m not going to have any more. If a satisfactory arrangement isn’t made before I leave this house, there’ll be trouble.”
“So you are the person who habitually trades in forged acceptances.”
“Forged acceptances! What—what the devil do you mean, sir?”
Unless I was mistaken, he increased in puffiness.
“You know. You were aware that they were forged, and by whom. You had a hand in arranging the whole matter; buying them for a song, with the intention of securing as much out of Mr. Philip Lawrence as you possibly could.”
The gentleman began to bluster. Plainly he was not happy.
“I—I don’t know who you are to talk to me like that, sir. Your behaviour’s altogether most extraordinary. I’ll let you know that I’m not going to have you speak to me like that: I’m not going to have such language addressed to me. I came into possession of these bills in the ordinary course of business.”
“How much did you pay for them?”
“I paid—— Never mind what I paid for them! What’s it got to do with you?” So far he had been wearing his silk hat. Now he took it off to wipe the brim. “As I say, I’m a soft-hearted man, and if it’s not convenient to Mr. Lawrence to pay up all at once, why, I’m willing to do my best to meet his conveniences; but I—I’m not going to be talked to like that, certainly not!”
“Hand them over.”
“Hand what over?”
“The bills.”
“Against money.”
“Hand over those bills.”
“I haven’t got them on me; they’re in the safe at my office, under lock and key. Do you think I carry about with me documents of that value? You never know what sort of characters you may encounter.”
This with a meaning glance in my direction.
“Hand over those bills.”
“Help! Murder! Thieves!”
As he showed a disposition to make a noise, I took him by the throat. Lifting him on the big oak table, and laying him flat upon his back, I kept him quiet while I went through his pockets. As I expected, I found in the inside breast-pocket of his coat a leather case. In this were five promissory notes for £1000 each, purporting to have been drawn by Philip Lawrence, and to have been endorsed by his brother Edwin. I let him get up.
“I hope I have put you to no inconvenience. Since you left the bills in your office safe, under lock and key, no doubt you will find them, still under lock and key, on your return.”
“Give me back those bills!”
“They will be quite safe with me.”
I put them into my coat pocket. He turned to the Morleys.
“I call you to witness that the man has robbed me, with violence! Mind, with violence!” Then to me: “You give me back those bills, this moment, or it will be a case of penal servitude for you; and I shouldn’t be surprised if there were the cat thrown in.”
“And what will it be for you? Judges and juries are not apt to look with lenient eyes upon gentlemen who habitually traffic in forged acceptances for the purposes of levying blackmail.”
“Don’t talk to me like that; I tell you that I won’t have it!”
“You won’t have it!”
“Upon my word, I don’t know who you are, but I believe you’re a —— highwayman. Give me back those bills, or I go to the front door, and I call a constable.”
“Call one—do. I will give him the bills, with an explanation of what they are, pointing out to him that you will presently have to stand your trial on a charge of conspiracy; and that, also, you are disagreeably associated with a case of murder.”
“The man’s stark mad. I never heard any one talk like he does—never!”
“Possibly you are not aware that Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night.”
“Edwin Lawrence murdered?”
The man turned a greenish hue.
“Beyond doubt his death was the direct result of the crime which you incited him to commit. The whole story’s known. I heard myself, this morning, a confession from the lips of the miserable tool who actually concocted the fraudulent documents. You will find him quite willing to turn Queen’s Evidence. The bills will be produced in Court, when you will have an opportunity to tell your story.”
He put his hand up to his collar, as if it had suddenly become tight.
“It’s a lie that Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night. It’s a lie.”
“By the way, sir, what is your name?”
“What’s it to do with you?”
“Chancing to notice in your letter-case some visiting-cards, I ventured to abstract one. We will refer to that.” I produced it from my waistcoat pocket. “From this it appears that you are Mr. Isaac Bernstein, of 288, Great Poland Street. Very good, Mr. Bernstein. Your bills are in safe keeping. You will hear of them again, never fear. Their history will be threshed out to your complete satisfaction—when you will be wanted again. Until then you can go.”
“It’s a lie that he was murdered—it’s a lie.”
“On that point you may be able to obtain information from Mr. and Mrs. Morley, or from the first policeman you meet in the street.”
“God help us all!” groaned Mr. Morley.
Apparently there was something in the old gentleman’s ejaculation which carried sufficient corroboration to Mr. Bernstein’s alert intelligence. He quitted the room to presently return.
“Who—who killed him?”
“In due course that will be made plain; also your association with the motive which was in the murderer’s mind, causing him to compass the death of the man whom you had incited to the perpetration of a hideous and unnatural crime.”
Mr. Bernstein went out of the house without another word. When I heard the door bang, I turned to the old people.
“You see? That is the way in which to treat impertinent persons who presume upon your master’s absence to traduce his name and to take liberties with the establishment which he has left in your charge.”
The old gentleman shook his head.
“It’s easy talking, but we haven’t all got your persuasive manner, sir.”
It was an absurd thing for him to say, for no one knows better than myself that my manner is rude and awkward, and that I am unskilled in all those arts which go to make the master of persuasion. As I followed Mr. Bernstein out of the house, almost immediately, I had an illustration of how true that is. And again, in a more serious matter, a little later on.
AsI left the house a man came across the pavement as if with the intention of knocking at Philip Lawrence’s door. At sight of me coming down the steps he stopped short. It was young Moore. His appearance set the blood tingling in my veins; his hat was cocked at an acute angle on one side of his head; a cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was something in his bearing, and about the way in which he spoke, which showed that he had been drinking.
“What are you doing in that house? You answer me that! Seems to me that you’ve got a finger in every pie.”
He addressed me in tones which were probably audible in Piccadilly.
“Might I ask you, Mr. Moore, to pitch your voice a little lower?”
“You may ask, but as for paying attention to anything you ask—not me. I’m not afraid of any one hearing what I’ve got to say. This is the public street, this is, and if you so much as lay a hand on me—— Here, drop that! Help! Police!”
As I moved towards him, he sprang out of my reach, shouting in a fashion which could not fail to attract attention. Indeed a man, apparently a respectable artisan, who had passed us a few seconds before, turned to look at us.
“What’s the matter there?”
Mr. Moore was quite at his ease.
“Nothing—at least, not yet there isn’t. But there will be soon, if he so much as lays a finger on me.”
The man went on.
“You seem to be a pretty sort of idiot,” I observed.
He flicked the ash off his cigar with a jeering laugh.
“We can’t all be as wise as you, nor as big. Size goes for something, you great overgrown monster. Barnum’s museum is where you ought to be, not walking about the streets.”
I hardly knew what to make of him. If I had had him in a room I might have taught him manners; out in the street he had me at an advantage. He was plainly disposed to court, rather than avoid, a public scandal, while I was anything but inclined to find myself an object of interest to a curious crowd. While I hesitated he went on:
“A nice sort you seem to be, all round. A pretty lot of lies you stuffed me with this morning—Adair and you together. On my honour! Making out that Eddie Lawrence had had his throat cut, and the Lord knows what! Setting me thinking that my sister’d cut it for him—my goodness! What is your little game? I wish she had!” He burst into boisterous laughter. “Bessie cut Eddie Lawrence’s throat!—that would be an elegant joke! I only wish she’d done it! D’ye hear? I say I only wish she’d done it! You can put that into your pipe and smoke it.”
He swaggered off up the street. I made no attempt to stop him—crediting him with the wild utterances of a drink-fuddled brain. I did wonder what errand had brought him to Philip Lawrence’s; for that he had been going there when I interrupted him I felt sure. But that, in his present condition, I should get no information on that point, or any other, from him was evident.
I returned home. As soon as I entered the sitting-room, I became conscious that some one was in the bedroom beyond.
“If that is Hume again——”
It would have gone hard with him, if it had been; but it was not. It was Inspector Symonds and a colleague. It came upon me, with a rush of sickening recollection, that I had actually gone out without putting the room to rights, but with all my possessions lying about just as Hume and I had left them. On the bed was still that irrepressible cloak. Why had I not burnt the thing? Or torn it into rags? Or got rid of it somehow? Anything would have been better than allowing it to continue in existence. The two men were examining it minutely from top to bottom.
“What—what are you doing here?”
There was a choking something in my throat. They had taken me by surprise; and I was conscious that this was not a case in which physical force could be advantageously employed.
“Our duty, Mr. Ferguson. We are acting within the limits of our authority. I have a search-warrant in my pocket. Shall I read it to you, sir?”
“What are you searching for in my room?”
“For something that will throw light upon the murder of your friend, Mr. Edwin Lawrence. As that is an object for which you will, no doubt, be willing to do anything which lies in your power, you will be glad to hear that we have come upon what looks like a very important piece of evidence. Whose cloak is this, Mr. Ferguson?”
“Cloak? What cloak? Oh, that! That’s my cousin’s.”
“Indeed. What is your cousin’s name?”
“Mary—Miss Mary Ferguson. She was here a few days ago, and, as her nose bled very badly, she left her cloak behind.”
My wits were wool-gathering. It was the first invention I could think of.
“And were these marks upon the cloak made by your cousin’s nose bleeding?”
“Exactly.”
“She must have almost bled to death. Did a blood-vessel break?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“That is, I’m sure. She has suffered very badly from bleeding at the nose her whole life long; some people do—as you are perhaps aware.”
“How long is it since she was your visitor?”
“Oh, some days. Quite a week—if not more.”
“Is that so? It’s odd that the blood should have continued in a liquid state so long. Some of it is not dry yet.”
“Well, perhaps it wasn’t so long as that.”
“So I should imagine.”
“If you’ll give it to me I’ll pack it up and send it to her at once. I meant to have done so before.”
“Let me have her address, and I will send it to her. Or, rather, I will take it to her at once. That will save both time and trouble.”
“You are very good, Symonds, but I won’t put you to so much inconvenience. I prefer to take it to her myself.”
“You are sure that your cousin’s name isn’t Moore—Miss Bessie Moore?”
“What do you mean? Are you presuming again?”
“Are you prepared to assert, Mr. Ferguson, that this cloak was not worn by Miss Bessie Moore when, last night, she came out of Mr. Edwin Lawrence’s room?”
“I’ll swear it.”
“You will have an opportunity of doing so in the witness-box. Though I warn you to consider what are the pains and penalties of committing perjury, because I shall bring trustworthy witnesses who will prove not only that she wore this cloak, but that the fact of her wearing it was well within your knowledge.”
He began to roll it up.
“You are not going to take it away, Symonds—my cousin’s property.”
“Your cousin’s property! Listen to me, Mr. Ferguson. I’m told that you’ve lived a good deal abroad. I don’t know what may be the manners and customs in those parts, but I can assure you that, at home, you cannot do a more serious disservice to a person suspected of crime than to resist, on his or her behalf, due process of law. And I may add that, in the eyes of judge and jury, a prisoner is not assisted by the discovery that a witness has been endeavouring to bolster up his or her cause by swearing to a series of unmistakable falsehoods. I know that Miss Bessie Moore was wearing a cloak when she went to see Mr. Edwin Lawrence. Mrs. Peddar says that she had on nothing of the kind when you hid her in her apartment. What has become of it? In the interval, between her leaving Lawrence and going up to Mrs. Peddar, she was in your room. I search your room. In it I discover the cloak which Miss Moore has been described as wearing. You will do that lady a very serious injury by endeavouring to persuade me, or anybody else, that this garment is the property of a suppositious cousin, who never existed except in your imagination.”
As he continued to speak in his measured, emotionless tones, I felt as if something was being drawn tighter about my throat; something against which it was vain to struggle. I endeavoured to collect my thoughts. But, somehow, all at once, I had grown stupid; more stupid, even, than I was wont to be. I could not get my ideas into proper order. They eluded me. My brain was in confusion. I could not see what was the wisest thing to do. I came to a desperate resolve, which I put into execution with sufficient clumsiness.
“You’re on the wrong tack, Mr. Symonds.”
“I’ve not said what tack I am on.”
“You police are famous for your blunders. I’ll save you from making another.”
“That’s kind.”
“I killed Edwin Lawrence.”
They looked at me, then at each other, smiling. The inspector’s colleague gave a short, dry laugh.
“It’s a little too thin,” he said.
“I repeat that I killed Edwin Lawrence.”
The inspector gazed at me with twinkling eyes.
“What do you propose to gain by that?”
“Gain? Nothing; except, I suppose, the gallows. But I don’t care. Life has no longer any charms for me, with this—this upon my soul. His blood is on my hands. I admit it.”
“With a view, I presume, to getting his blood off the hands of somebody else, eh?”
“What on earth do you mean? You seem to be some sort of monomaniac—possessed with but one idea. I tell you that I am the man’s murderer. You can take your prisoner. And there’s an end of it.”
“Hardly. What we want to know just now is, how you account for these stains upon Miss Moore’s cloak.”
“I know nothing at all about it.”
“They are not the results of your cousin’s bleeding at the nose?”
“—— you, Symonds!”
“Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. That’s scarcely a matter which is likely to come within your province. You must take us for a pair of really remarkable simpletons, Gray and I, to wish us to believe that you know so much about the one thing and nothing at all about the other. It is odd.”
“As you please. I have admitted my guilt. If you decline to arrest me, I certainly shouldn’t be the one to grumble.”
“You shouldn’t be, but it seems that you are. Tell us the story of these stains. It may be that the explanation will make your guilt clear. Then we’ll arrest you with the greatest pleasure.”
I thought about what Hume had said about the advisability of concocting a plausible story which could hold water. I wished heartily that I had availed myself of his assistance to frame one there and then. I am one of the worst liars living. More than once, when the situation could have been saved by a lie, I have made a mess of things. I am without the knack which some men have; no one would mistake a lie of mine for truth. I felt that the two officers were watching me, with keenly observant eyes, incredulity written large all over them. I was conscious that I must say something. If Hume had only been there to prompt me! Bracing myself together, I made a plunge.
“I will tell you everything. I’ll keep back nothing. What would be the use? You’d be sure to find out.”
“Quite so.”
“She saw me kill him. She tried to save him. She rushed forward, as he fell back into her arms, so that his life’s blood dyed her cloak.”
“That was the way of it—as he fell back. From the position in which he was found, the idea was that he fell forward.”
“Well, it might have been forward. I—I was hardly in a state of mind to pay close attention to every detail.”
“With what did you kill him?”
“With—with a knife which I brought home with me from a tribe of negroes on the West Coast of Africa.”
“Might I see the weapon?”
I had an armoury of such things, but was conscious that there was nothing among them which could have been responsible for the injuries which had been inflicted on Edwin Lawrence.
“I haven’t it. I took it out with me just now, and—threw it into the river.”
“That’s unfortunate. Because, apart from anything else, it must have been a truly extraordinary weapon—worth looking at, since the doctors were under the impression that at least fifty knives were used, of varying sizes.”
“My knife had several blades.”
“Is that so? All of the same length?”
“All lengths.”
“But fitted into one handle?”
“Yes; but it was a peculiar handle.”
“So I should imagine. I’m afraid, Mr. Ferguson, that you’ll have to make a drawing of this knife of yours, in order to make the judge and jury and the doctors understand what kind of article it was. When you entered the room, was Miss Moore already there?”
“Yes; she was there on an errand of mercy.”
“Indeed. Did she stop the proceedings in order to tell you so?”
“I know.”
“I have already remarked that you seem to know a good deal about some things and nothing at all about others. How long was it after your entrance that the murder began?”
“I rushed at him instantly, without a word of warning.”
“Describe how the crime was committed—in detail.”
“He was standing with his back to me. I stabbed him before he had a chance to turn; when he did turn, I stabbed him in the chest.”
“And then in the face?”
“Yes; and then in the face.”
“What was Miss Moore doing all this time?”
“She was taken by surprise. So soon as she understood what was happening she rushed to the rescue.”
“I suppose, by then, you had stabbed him thirty or forty times. The corpse is disfigured by hundreds of wounds.”
“I can’t say.”
“And, after the rescue, did you continue stabbing him?”
“I did.”
“And what did Miss Moore do—nothing?”
“She tried to prevent me—she did all that she could.”
“Struggled with you, for instance?”
“Yes.”
“Do you say that Miss Moore struggled with you?”
“Look here, Symonds, confound you, and confound your questions! Do you know that I’m beginning to feel like killing you?”
“Steady! Keep a little farther off. You’re not the sort of man with whom I should care to struggle; especially as now, for the first time, I believe you. I have no doubt that, at the present moment, you feel much more like killing me than you ever felt like killing Edwin Lawrence. No, Mr. Ferguson, I’ve an inkling of what you’re driving at, and I’m not sure that, policeman though I am, in a sort of a way I don’t admire you. But you’re no hand at a game like this. You’re no fictionist, it’s not your line; your plots don’t dovetail. We still have to find out how these stains came upon the lady’s cloak.”
“Aren’t you—aren’t you going to arrest me?”
“I am not, at present. Perhaps, when you are in the witness-box, you may succeed in inducing the judge to order your arrest; but, in that case, I’m afraid that it will be for perjury. Come along, Gray. If I were you, Mr. Ferguson, I’d let things take their course; they will, however you may try to stop them. If the lady is innocent, it will be made plain; if she is not, that also will be made plain; and, you may take my word for it, that it’s just as well for every one concerned that it should be.”
The Inspector went out of the room with the cloak rolled up under his arm—I making no sort of effort to prevent him. The truth is that I was conscious that I had succeeded in making an ass of myself, and in nothing else, that the backbone had all gone out of me, and I felt as limp as a rag.
And yet that imbecile old Morley had prated of my persuasive manner!
HadI had my way, that night, Miss Moore would have sought a place of refuge, where she could have lain hidden till the cloud passed over and her integrity was made clear. Anything, to my mind, was better than that she should run even a momentary risk of a policeman’s contaminating hands. But Hume would have none of it.
Some one knocked at the door, while I was sitting on the side of the bed, wondering, since I had failed to do murder, if suicide was not the next best thing. It was Hume. He gave me one of his swift, keen glances as he came in.
“Anything fresh?”
“Man, I’ve made an idiot of myself—an idiot.”
“Ah! But what I said was, Is there anything fresh?”
I told him the story of my interview with Symonds. He kept on smiling all the time, as if it had been a funny tale. When I had finished he rubbed his chin.
“You’ve burned your boats, that’s clear. You’ll never hang for the lady. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put that murder story of yours together again. You’ve managed very well, my dear Ferguson.”
I cared nothing for his sneers. Other thoughts were racking me.
“I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone off to arrest her right away, and all because of my—my cursed blundering.”
“I think not. The lady’s safe for to-night. The police don’t always move so fast as you appear to think. They’ll know where to find her when they want her.”
“That’s it! Hume, couldn’t—couldn’t she be induced to go where they wouldn’t know where to find her?”
“I hope she’s not so foolish. To run away would be about equivalent to pleading guilty. She’d have all England hot-foot after her. Better stay and face the music. The inquest’s for to-morrow. As one of the most important witnesses, you will be able to make the whole thing clear, and establish her innocence in the eyes of all men.”
The inquest! I had never thought of it. And for to-morrow? The idea came with a shock of surprise. That was what Symonds had meant by his ironical allusions to my conduct in the witness-box. In my present state of mind, with my muddled head, and stumbling tongue, an expert heckler might goad me into saying anything—into hanging her with the words out of my own mouth.
I had a wild notion of flying myself, so that there might be no risk of doing her an injury by my inability to hold my own in a tongue-match with the lawyers. But I remembered what she had said about feeling safe when I was near; and I myself had a sort of suspicion that, if the worst came to the worst, I still might do her yeoman’s service. So, as I could not keep still at home and think, instead of going farther from her I went closer to her. After I had swallowed a hurried dinner I took a cab Bromptonwards, and hung about Hailsham Road for hour after hour.
I passed and repassed the house. A light was burning in the window of an upper room. I wondered if the room was hers. I would have given a good deal for the courage to inquire, but my nervous system was disorganised. I was as afraid of being seen as if I had been there for an improper purpose.
When any one came into the street from either direction I quickened my pace and almost bolted. Once, when some one raised a corner of a blind, with the apparent intention of peeping out into the street, I fairly took to my heels and ran.
On one point I derived some negative satisfaction—so far as I could judge, the house was not being watched by the police. The lady was free to come or go. I was the only person who was taking an obvious interest in her proceedings.
Perhaps that was in some degree owing to the weather, which was bad, even for London. There was a delightful fog, which, for some inscrutable reason, was seemingly not at all affected by a cutting east wind; and a filthy rain. I had on an overcoat; but was conscious that I was not getting drier as the night wore on. What I was waiting for I could not have told myself, until, towards midnight, a hansom dashed into the street, in which, as it passed, I saw the face of Miss Adair. I was after it like a flash, catching it just as it reached the door of No. 22.
“Miss Adair!” I cried, as the lady was preparing to descend into the mud and rain.
“Good gracious, Mr. Ferguson, is that you? Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I—I thought I’d call and inquire how—how Miss Moore was getting on.”
“Well, and have you called?”
“No, I—I thought I’d wait till you came home from the theatre and—and ask you.”
From her post of vantage in the cab Miss Adair looked me up and down, perceiving that I was neither so well groomed nor so dry as I might have been.
“And, pray, how long have you been waiting for me to come home from the theatre?”
“Oh, some—some few minutes.”
“A good few minutes, I should imagine. And where have you been waiting?”
“Oh, I—I’ve been hanging about.”
“In the mud, I should say, from the look of you. You are a disreputable object. So I cannot but hope that you’ve enjoyed your vigil. I may tell you, for your satisfaction, that when I left home Miss Moore was ill.”
“Ill! Not—not really ill?”
“Really ill. This time there’s not a doubt about it. She’s in bed. Dr. Hume says that it’s the result of the breakdown from the overstrain which might have been naturally expected.”
“Hume! Has Hume been here?”
“Certainly. And another medical man.”
“But—what did Hume want?”
“My good sir! Dr. Hume’s a doctor; and a very clever one.”
“Yes; but only in special cases. This sort of thing is not his line.”
“I think you are mistaken. I should say that everything was in his line. Besides, he is a very old and a very intimate friend of Miss Moore’s.”
“Oh—I—I wasn’t aware that he was quite—quite so intimate as that.”
I felt that the woman was regarding me out of the corner of her eye. She knew that she was torturing me.
“Oh dear, yes. Not that I fancy that Bessie’s very fond of Dr. Hume. Indeed, it’s rather the other way. It’s my belief that she can’t bear the sight of the man. Though I don’t know why. He’s most charming—and so clever. Don’t you like clever people?” No, I did not, I never did, and never shall. “Should I ascertain how Bessie’s progressed since I went out, or don’t you care to stay?”
“If—if you would let me know how she is!”
Letting herself in with a latchkey, she made inquiries of the maid who appeared in the hall.
“How is Miss Moore?”
“I don’t think she’s quite so well, miss. I sent for Dr. Nockolds, and I did think of sending for Dr. Hume.”
“Hume!” I cut in. “I shouldn’t send for Hume. The other man’s as good, if not better.”
Miss Adair turned to me.
“But, my dear Mr. Ferguson, Dr. Hume is a most skilful practitioner.”
“Yes; but not—not in these sort of cases. I’m sure the other man’s better. And, if you like, I’ll send in a man; I—I know a most wonderful man.”
“And what did Dr. Nockolds say?”
“He seemed to think she was going on all right, only a little feverish. But he sent in a nurse, who’s going to sit up with her to-night.”
“She’ll be all right with the nurse, not a doubt of it. Good night, Mr. Ferguson. So good of you to call.”
That woman showed me to the door without giving me a chance to slip a word in edgeways. I went home in the cab which had brought her from the theatre. Hume indeed! Why had I not been trained to be a doctor? If there was a more miserable man in London that night than I was, I should have liked to have seen him.
And on the morrow it was worse! They held the inquest, after the agreeable English custom, in a public-house—the Bolt and Tun—the sort of place no decent person would have entered in the ordinary way. There, in a long room, with a sanded floor, the coroner sat with his jury. The witnesses hung about as if they did not know what to do with themselves. The police were very much in evidence. And a heterogeneous collection of doubtful-looking men, women, and children represented the general public.
The coroner was a man named Evanson—a Dr. Reginald Evanson. A small, thin, sharp-faced man with sandy hair, who looked as if he drank. I am very much mistaken if it was not only because he failed as a medical practitioner that he got himself elected coroner. I disliked the fellow directly I caught a glimpse of him; and I do not think that he took an inordinate fancy to me. As for his jury, he and they were a capital match; there was not one man among them to whom, on the strength of his appearance, I would have lent a five-pound note.
They commenced proceedings by viewing the body. Edwin Lawrence still lay on his own bed, so that they had a walk of a hundred yards or more. It seemed as if they enjoyed the little excursion, for two or three of them were sniggering and joking together when they returned; I should not have been surprised to learn that they had refreshed themselves with a glass of something at the bar, on the way upstairs. Then evidence was called. George Atkins.
It was Atkins and I who had discovered the tragedy. They did not keep him long. He said his say in a crisp, business-like manner, which I only hoped that I might be able to imitate when my turn came. He told how he had taken his morning cup of coffee to Lawrence’s bedroom door; how he had failed to receive an answer; how he had brought my coffee to me, telling me of his inability to make the man hear; how I had gone along the balcony, looked through the window, called to him; how we had entered the room together, and what we had seen lying on the floor.
When Atkins had told them so much they let him go.
“Call John Ferguson.”
It was unnecessary. John Ferguson was waiting, close at hand, completely at their service—or, at least, as much at their service as he was ever likely to be.
I stepped up to the table.
“Large size in blokes, ain’t he?” whispered one idiot to another, as I passed through the little crowd.
The other idiot chuckled. I could have hammered their heads together, so sensitive was I at that moment to everything and anything, and so calmly judicial was my frame of mind, in excellent fettle to cut a proper figure on an occasion when everything—happiness, honour, life itself—might hang upon a word!
Asfor the coroner, he was prejudiced against me directly I took up my stand at the table; he being one of those diminutive opuscula who instinctively object to a man who is of a reasonable size. My height has been against me more than once. It placed me at a disadvantage then. There was not a creature present in the room who did not look upon me as a sort of raree-show, and who was not prepared to enjoy the spectacle of my being put to confusion. Nor had they long to wait for the sort of pleasure they desired; I made a hash of things almost from the start.
A little fellow, who had informed us that he had been instructed by the Treasury, took me in hand. He might have been a cousin of the coroner’s; he, too, had sandy hair and the same peevish countenance. His questions at first were not particularly objectionable, but ere long they became of a kind which, if I had had my way, I would have been careful not to answer in any fashion save one. He had a trick of holding his hands in front of him, fidgeting a piece of paper between his fingers. His voice was, like himself, small and insignificant; but, when he chose, it had a singularly penetrating quality, which, for some reason, reminded me of the sound of sawing wood. He kept his eyes fixed almost continually on my face, glancing hungrily from feature to feature, as if desirous not to miss the movement of a muscle. Altogether he was like some pertinacious terrier who worried, not only in the way of business, but also for sport. I should like to have taken him by the scruff of the neck and shaken him.
He wanted to know if Edwin Lawrence had been a friend of mine; how long I had known him, what I knew about him, when I had seen him last. I told him about the game of cards, but, somewhat to my surprise, he made no allusion to my loss, nor the terms on which we parted.
And here began my blundering. I wished the Court to understand that, at parting, we were on the worst possible terms, and that I was in just the proper mood for committing murder. But Jordan—that was the little terrier fellow—would have none of it. He told me to confine myself to answering his questions; and that I would have an opportunity of making any statement, on my own account, which the Court might think fit to allow, when he had done with me. I wished to make my statement then; but with him against me, and the coroner, and an ass of a foreman, who said that the jury were unanimously of opinion that I was wasting time, I never had a chance.
He had his way. Then began the real tug-of-war with his very next question. He asked me if, after I had retired to rest, I had been disturbed in the night. Then I saw a chance to score, after all. I said I had, by a dream; but when I was about to tell them of that mysterious vision, he stopped me.
“Never mind about the dream. Dreams are not evidence.”
Some of the audience tittered. I have not the faintest notion what at. I should have liked to supply them with an adequate reason.
“But my dream is evidence—very much evidence. If you will let me tell it you, it will throw more light——”
“Thank you. But were you disturbed by nothing beside a dream?—for instance, by some one coming through your bedroom window?”
“I was not.”
“Mr. Ferguson, take care. Do you say that no one came through your window?”
“I say that I was not disturbed by any one.”
“I see. You are particular about the form in which the question is put. I will alter it. I ask you—did any one come through your bedroom window after you had retired to rest?”
“I decline to answer. It’s no business of yours. I suppose I can have what visitors I choose.”
“Do you suggest that the visit was intended for you—in your bedroom, alone, at that hour of the night? Consider what your suggestion implies.”
“I never said that any one came.”
“You as good as said so. But we will have it from you in another form. Who was it, Mr. Ferguson, who came through your bedroom window?”
Beads of perspiration were already standing on my forehead.
“I have told you,” I shouted, “that I decline to answer!”
Jordan turned to the coroner.
“Perhaps you will allow me to explain, Mr. Coroner, that the police are in possession of a body of evidence which tends to implicate a particular person. This fact the witness is aware of and resents. He has not only thrown obstacles in the way of the police, but has gone so far as to assert his own guilt. That this assertion rests on no basis of truth there can be no sort of doubt. Its only purpose can be to throw dust in the eyes of the police; and, especially, to render his own evidence ineligible. His own evidence is of capital importance. And I ask your assistance, Mr. Coroner, in my endeavour to prevent a miscarriage of justice, owing to Mr. Ferguson’s refusal to answer any questions which I may put to him.”
“Certainly. Witness, you will answer any proper questions which are put to you, at once, and without any beating about the bush.”
“I rather fancy that that’s a point on which I shall please myself.”
The coroner banged his hand upon the table.
“Don’t speak to me like that, sir, or you’ll find yourself in the wrong box. If you don’t answer the questions which are put to you, I’ll commit you for contempt of Court.”
“Commit.”
I should have liked to commit an assault upon the coroner. But he thought proper to ignore my challenge, and addressed himself to Mr. Jordan.
“Put your question again. I am amazed to find a person of the apparent position of the witness behaving in so discreditable a manner.”
“Now, Mr. Ferguson. I ask you again: Did any one come through your bedroom window after you had retired to rest?”
“And I say to you, Mr. Jordan, that you have my sympathy in the position in which you find yourself. Don’t you think if I were to put one or two questions to you, it might vary the monotony?”
“You hear, Mr. Coroner, what the witness says?”
“I do. And I regret to find that such conduct can be treated with levity.” A titter had gone round the room. “If there is that sound again, I will immediately have the court cleared. Witness, look at me.”
“If you desire it, with the greatest pleasure. Though there doesn’t seem to be much to look at.”
“How dare you speak to me like that?”
“No offence, my dear Mr. Coroner. A plain statement of a plain fact.”
“Have you been drinking, sir?”
“That is said with an insolent intention. Is it impossible for an official person to be courteous?”
“Your behaviour is most extraordinary. You evidently cannot realise the serious nature of the occasion which brings us here. Are you aware, sir, that if you decline to answer the questions which are put to you, I can commit you to prison for contempt of Court?”
“I am not aware of any reason why impertinent questions should be answered under one set of circumstances rather than another.”
“Don’t argue with me. Will you answer the question which counsel has put to you?”
“My good Mr. Coroner——”
“I commit you for contempt. Officer, arrest this man.”
“If the gentleman in question is wise enough to take my seriously offered advice, he will not attempt to do anything so foolish.”
Hume, who was sitting opposite, rose and leaned towards me across the table.
“Are you stark mad? What useful purpose do you propose to serve by going to gaol? Or what good do you suppose you will do her by fumbling with the questions? You will have to speak out sooner or later. Speak out now! Tell the truth! That is the only way in which you can do her a service.”
Jordan struck in; still twirling the scrap of paper into spirals with his fingers:
“Might I ask you, Mr. Coroner, to request your officer to refrain for a moment from carrying out your instructions? Perhaps Mr. Ferguson may be disposed to listen to this gentleman’s wise and friendly counsel. Don’t you think, sir, that you had better?”
I laughed.
“I do. I am prepared to answer any questions which you may put to me.”
“That is more promising. I assure you that I have no desire to do or say anything to hurt your feelings. I believe I know what they are, and I respect them. But I must do my duty and you must do yours; and I do not think that you will hurt any one by doing it.”
“Don’t lecture me, man.”
“Now, tell me; did any one come through your bedroom window after you had retired to rest?”
“No one.”
“That you swear.”
“Miss Bessie Moore did not come through your window?”
“Certainly not. How dare you drag in that lady’s name?”
“Was she in your rooms at all that night?”
“She was not.”
“Did you go up, between one and two in the morning, to tell the housekeeper that she had come through your window?”
“I did not.”
“Did the housekeeper come down and find her in your room?”
“She did not.”
“Did Miss Bessie Moore spend the night in the housekeeper’s apartments?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t—or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
“Are you aware that you have sworn to speak the truth?”
“I am.”
“Are you acquainted with the pains and penalties of perjury?”
“My good man, pray don’t, even by inference, attempt to measure others’ ignorance by the standard of your own.”