The lawyer then rolled up a sheet of stiff note paper from his bag into funnel shape, pinned it so, and made a tiny hole in the wall paper of the other room.
Fitting the small end of his funnel to the hole, he commanded a perfect view of the next room.
He was surprised, too, to find how it improved the sight looking through the tube—it was like a telescope, it seemed to bring things so near.
With the framed text hanging on its hook again, there was not the slightest suspicious thing about the room, and when his chop came up, everything was finished.
Soon after his dinner things were cleared away, Gerald returned.
The lawyer had not troubled to enter the adjoining chamber; the fact that it had been left unlocked convinced him that his man carried the notes on his person.
And he did at that stage, for he had just returned from his interview with the dentist.
With locked door, and eye to his funnel, Loide watched.
He was seized with a frenzy as he saw Gerald take the notes from an envelope, and count them one by one—nineteen of them.
Had the look on the lawyer's face been seen by Gerald, that gentleman would not have hummed so blithely and looked so happy.
Gerald put the notes in his breast pocket, and pinned the top of it up—he was taking great care of them.
Loide had made up his mind to get those notes. He rather fancied that he would get them that night.
He generally got what he laid himself out to get. He was not a man to stick at trifles.
Presently Gerald drew from his pocket and opened a little box.
Loide knew what it was—he had seen them in a shop window.
A small alarm with points to be pressed into the floor, so that when the door it lay against was pushed—the lawyer's hope of getting possession of the notes that night received a rude shock.
The moment Gerald had swallowed his meal he went out again. He came back within an hour, and once more the lawyer's eye was busy.
Gerald took a ticket from his pocket and put it on the mantelpiece. To the girl who was dusting the room he said:
"Tell Mrs. Parkes I am leaving to-morrow morning; ask her to have my bill made out, including the morning's breakfast."
The watcher strained his eyes, and ultimately read the ticket on the mantel board.
It was a second class passage on the American liner Cascaria.
Loide heard Gerald order tea for six o'clock, and then putting on his hat and breathing a prayer of thankfulness that it was raining—the devil helps his children—he went downstairs and out into the street.
Had Gerald been looking out of the window he would only have seen an umbrella leaving the house—the man beneath was effectually concealed by it.
Loide entered the nearest news agent's shop, and bought the morning paper. Looking down the shipping advertisements, he found to which line the Cascaria belonged, and took a cab to the company's head office.
The passenger list was open to inspection. Gerald had booked in his own name.
To the lawyer's chagrin, the whole cabin had been booked. What had looked an easy road, now showed a stumbling block.
He had counted on sharing that cabin. He had shared one once before, and the performance therein had been—in a measure—a success.
He had looked to a repetition of it—it had been so easy.
He booked—booked, too, a cabin to himself as Gerald had done. He reflected that there were contingencies likely to arise when his sole occupancy of the cabin might be advantageous.
He hoped to secure the notes without risk. He quite recognized the danger attending the luring of Gerald into his own cabin, and then—besides, perhaps he wouldn't be lured; he might turn a deaf ear to the charmer, charm he never so wisely.
Loide purchased a box of cigars to smoke on the steamer. Then he went into a chemist's and bought a tiny hypo syringe, and a certain drug, the potency of which was known to him.
He rather prided himself on his general knowledge—he was a well read man. His reading was now serving him a good turn.
With that syringe he would inject the drug into one of the cigars—there was no knowing when such a thing might prove useful.
He entered the house at ten minutes past six.
He reflected that Gerald would not be through with his tea in ten minutes, and that there was little likelihood of a meeting on the stairs—he was right; he reached his own room in safety.
Nothing happened that night. The next morning he watched Gerald packing.
He saw by the way he packed his portmanteau that the money was not to be placed in it.
Presently Gerald called out to his landlady for a needle and thread.
The watcher saw him put the notes in the envelopes, then wrap them in brown paper and tie the packet with a piece of white grocer's twine.
The packet lay on the table, and the shape and size thereof were easily seen.
Then the lining of the vest was ripped, the packet pushed in, and the lining sewn down again with the needle and black thread.
Loide made a mental note of further things he needed for the voyage.
Item: needle and black thread; item: brown paper and white twine.
The articles went on board with him in the shape of a parcel—a duplicate of Gerald's.
He guessed the train Gerald would go by, and resolved to travel by it himself.
He did not want to let his man out of his sight more than was absolutely necessary.
Within four minutes of Gerald's departure, Loide left, and a cab took him to the station.
He was in the train first, and, unseen himself, watched Gerald enter. So on to the boat.
He played his cards well, and during the voyage he and Gerald became close acquaintances.
With his syringe and drug, Loide had doctored his cigars. They rested in his case for use when the occasion arose.
One night on deck the conversation turned on moon blindness, and Loide testified to its effects. If the picture he drew of its results lacked truth, it was at least original, and he had a manner which was convincing.
He concluded the conversation by handing Gerald a cigar and saying, "Good-night," and left him to smoke it.
He came back within three minutes. He had watched from a shadowed portion of the boat, and seen the cigar drop from the smoker's mouth and roll on the deck.
Loide picked it up and threw it overboard—it had served its purpose.
He helped Gerald to his feet, and in a dazed, unseeing way, the drugged man was helped to his cabin. There he sank on his bunk unconscious.
Loide turned on the electric light and fastened the door. He did nothing hurriedly; he knew just how long the effects of the drug would last—he had plenty of time.
Undoing the coat and vest, he ripped out the stitches which held in the notes.
He put the packet in his pocket, and replaced it by another similar in shape and size.
Then very carefully he sewed up the vest again with a needle and thread he had about him, buttoned up the coat, turned off the light, and found his way to his own cabin.
There he undid the parcel. His eyes glistened.
Nineteen crackling pieces of paper worth a thousand pounds each!
He rolled and pressed them together till they formed a very small ball, and then he took off his clubfoot boot. The thick clump was for lightness—hollow.
By lifting the inner soles he had been able to put his finger into the hollow—now he put the notes.
With the contents of a penny bottle of liquid glue he glued down the leathers he had raised, one by one, and then left the thing to be dry by the morning—which it was, solidly dry.
Brown paper, envelopes, string, needle, thread, glue were all cast from a port-hole into the sea.
From a bottle he had with him he took a deep drink of brandy—he thought he had earned it.
Then he undressed, carefully fastened his door, turned off the light, and prepared for the earliest night's rest he had had for many a day.
Next morning Gerald woke with a headache—he said nothing of what was not quite clear to him—his finding himself in his bunk with his clothes on.
His first waking movement was to grip and look at his vest—all was secure.
He had not feared anything otherwise, but it was the first night he had slept with his door unlocked.
Still he had the vest on, and after all, he reflected—with a smile—that was the safest place. No one could possibly have tampered with it without his knowing the fact.
When Gerald was turned out of the farm, it was too late to catch a train to New York. He slept in a roadside shed.
Early next morning he was in the city, and he had made up his mind to go to police headquarters, and tell sufficient of his story to justify a stoppage of the notes.
He passed a money changer's on the other side of the way, and looked at the shop.
As he did so, he saw something which turned him rigid.
Emerging from the money changer's was his close companion of the voyage. It was not so much that which came as a shock to him as the change in the fellow's appearance.
The humpbacked man was no longer humpbacked. The club-footed man was no longer club-footed.
The toothless gums were now filled with teeth, and where there had been a long drawn face, there was now a round one.
The glasses off, revealed eyes, sharp, shrewd, keen, piercing eyes, which even with the road between them, Gerald recognized in a moment—Lawyer Loide's!
In that moment there flashed on him the knowledge of how he had been robbed.
Loide boarded a passing car, and was carried away.
Gerald hesitated. Should he follow? No, he must first ascertain beyond a doubt that the notes were in the man's possession.
He could follow the car in a hack, and catch it up if need be.
He dashed across the road, and entered the money changer's.
"You are the principal?"
"Yes. Vat can I do for you?"
"I am an English detective."
"So."
"I am shadowing a man who has just left you. Stolen notes, a thousand pounds each. Has he cashed one with you?"
"No, no, mine frent. He not haf me so. I makes inquiries first."
Gerald pulled out his note-book.
"Was the note he presented one of these numbers?"
"Dat von."
The index finger of the banker's hand was at work.
"What name did he give you?"
"Loide."
"Richard Loide, lawyer, of Liverpool Street, London?"
"Dat vos so. Here vos his cart."
"Has he left the note with you?"
"I haf lock him in mine safe."
"What to do with it?"
"I am at his oxpense cabling to Englant. Dat is all rights, den I vos pay him—but not now."
"What address has he given you here?"
"Oriental Hall, Seventh Avenue."
"You will not do anything with the note till you see me again? We shall probably arrest him to-night, or in the morning."
"Dat vos so."
"Good-bye for the present."
"Goot-bye."
"Seventh Avenue, Oriental Hotel, drive like fury."
Such were Gerald's instructions to the hackman.
He knew he would get there before Loide. As a matter of fact, he passed the car bearing that individual half way.
When he had paid his fare, the number of dollars he had left he could have counted on his finger-tips.
It was a third-rate hotel. While waiting for the hotel clerk, he looked through the visitors' or arrival book. Loide had signed his own name; it stood out boldly, "Richard Loide, London, Eng."
"Is room No. 40 (the next one to Loide's) vacant?" he inquired.
"Yes."
"I'll book it."
He did so; signed a fictitious name in the visitors' book, received his key, and went up in the elevator to his room.
He sat down and waited, waited till he heard the tenant of No. 41 come along the passage, and pass through the room bearing that number.
Then Gerald flung off his coat, stepped into the passage, satisfied himself that no soul was in sight, turned the handle of the door of No. 41, pushed it open, and sprang on its occupant—Loide.
The surprise party generally has the advantage—Gerald had.
Before Loide could utter a cry, or turn to gaze at his assailant, strong fingers were gripping his throat and half choking him.
The lawyer was being garroted. Resistance ceased.
He became limp. Gerald was holding an unconscious man in his arm.
Gerald dropped his burden to the floor and sprang to the door, shot the bolt, and then turned to the man on the carpet.
He felt his heart, it was beating—beating furiously. That was all right.
Gerald knew his victim to be a murderer, but he did not want to become one himself.
He went over the man. In the breast pocket, in an envelope, he found the notes. He counted them—eighteen.
One glance at the man, one more feel of the heart, and he went into his own chamber.
Getting into his coat, and putting on his hat, he went out of his room, and, key in hand, was carried by the lift to the ground floor.
Leaving his key in the bureau, he walked away from the hotel, and inquiring of a policeman where the office of the New York Central Bank was, he made in its direction.
At the bank counter he filled a form paying in to the credit of George Depew eighteen thousand pounds.
"Will you wire through to your Oakville branch, telling them to let Mr. Depew know at once that this money has been paid to his account?"
"Certainly, sir. It shall be done immediately."
"Thank you. Give me the name of the most respectable lawyer near here, will you?"
"Denison, Coomer & Wall—they rank highest around here."
"Thanks."
Gerald went to the lawyers. To the acting partner he said:
"I was recommended here by the New York Central Bank. I was commissioned by Mr. George Depew, farmer, of Oakville, to go to England to collect nineteen thousand pounds, money left him under a will. I got it, and came over by the Cascaria. I was robbed on board. Eighteen thousand pounds of the money I have recovered and paid into the New York Central to Mr. Depew's credit; here is the bank's receipt."
"Yes—that is an order."
"One thousand pounds is missing—I traced it to Myer Wolff's—Exchange Bureau on Broadway. I went in. He has the note.
"I told him not to part with the money for it. The man who left it with him was the thief. He is a shrewd, clever thief; prompt measures must be taken to prevent his getting that thousand pounds."
"Where's Depew?"
"At home in Oakville. I want you to fetch him here express."
"Why don't you fetch him yourself?"
"He thinks I am the thief. I only got hands on the eighteen thousand pounds an hour ago. The whole lot was missing yesterday."
"He'll have to make a declaration and get bondsmen before that thousand pounds can be successfully claimed."
"He can do that—most respectable man in the section."
"I'll write him now to come along, and send the letter through special. How do the trains run? Can he get here to-night?"
"Dead easy. If you catch the next out with your letter, he can be back here before half past four."
"Good. I'll tell him to be here at five o'clock. There'll be justices around at that time. You'll come back?"
"I will—you'll want me?"
"To join in the declaration—that's so."
"Good. I'll be here."
"Till five o'clock then. Good-bye."
Loide lifted himself on his elbow and looked round. Then he remembered—he was in his room at the New York hotel.
He had entered the room and then—of course, some one had sprung on him from behind.
A horrible thought smote him. He plunged his hand into his breast pocket and screamed with rage—the pocket was empty!
The notes were gone!
He sprang to his feet and thought.
What should he do? Give information to the police—would it be safe?
He had—foreseeing possession again—written the Bank of England withdrawing the stop on the notes, saying they were now in his client's possession.
How then was he to account for the holding of them himself? Would not unpleasant inquiries be made?
Would he be able to answer them—without danger?
Had all his labor been in vain? How had the robber possibly known that he had these notes in his possession?
At the money changer's he had purposely only spoken of one.
He knew it was not the work of a common hotel thief, for his studs, watch, and loose money had not been touched. It must have been some one who knew.
He would, at that moment, have cheerfully given one of the missing notes to know who the thief was.
He was afraid to go to the police, to say that he was an English lawyer bringing the money over to his client, Depew, and that he had been robbed, because if there was a real Depew, he would step forward and claim the money, and he—Loide—would be worse off than ever.
Besides, what explanation of his attempt to cash the one note could he give?
There was the thousand pounds fortunately saved from the robbery. This was safe in the money changer's hands. He looked at his watch. By the time he reached the banker's office, time would have elapsed, the reply cable would probably be back.
He would secure the thousand pounds first, and consider what he should do about the others after.
He took a car to Broadway and entered the banker's office.
The money changer looked at him.
"You haf come back—alone, eh?"
"Alone?—yes. I told you I was a stranger in New York."
"Dat vos so. But you haf frents here—frents anxious to meet wit you."
"What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? Have you got a cable back from England?"
"No, mine frent, nor did I cable out there—I saves the oxpense."
"You——"
"You see, von of the peeples vat is so anxious to meet mit you, he comes in directly you leaf here."
"My—friend?"
"Oh, yes. He know you quite well. He say to me, 'Dat vos my very goot frent, Meestair Loide, the lawyer, of London, England, eh?'"
"Said—that—to—you?"
"Ogsactly. I say, 'Yes, dat vos so.' Den your frent he answers that he came after you about stolen notes. He say, 'Dat I change him.' I smile. He go out to seeks you. I am much surprised to see you alone here all by yourself."
"Alone!"
"Yes, because he say that he tink to-day he arrest you."
"Arrest me!"
"Dat is a way vid detectives; dey do dat wid peoples vot steals bank notes."
"Steals!"
"So."
"This is a trick! Give me back my note."
"Your note?"
"Yes—damn you—give me back my money."
"Shacob," the money changer called to his assistant sitting in the glass office behind, "will you oblige me by ring up the call for the police."
"Police," said Loide.
"So."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"Vait, mine frent. Do not get oxcited. It is big mistakes. Vait till the police come. They explain tings bettaire."
"Curse you!"
"So—if it please you, it pass the times."
"I shall go to my lawyer," he was making for the door as he spoke, "you shall pay for this."
Loide disappeared. He saw a couple of policemen coming along the sidewalk, and promptly jumped on a car going in the opposite direction.
It took him the way of the hotel. There would be time to go in, get his bag, and leave before the police turned up there.
There was a little money left in the bag; he must secure that.
He got his key in the hotel office, and was carried in the elevator to his floor.
Locking himself in his room, he tore open his bag, and threw the contents on the floor.
Papers—he crammed them into the grate, and, applying a match, set them burning. He destroyed everything which would link him with the name of Loide.
Then he started to resume the disguise which had been so successful on the boat. He would be safe in it, he thought.
He would wait for the police, and give another name and—and then there flashed to his memory the recollection of the register! He had signed there his full name, Richard Loide. His signature would convict him.
He sank with a groan on the bed. What should—what could he do?
The police were on his track without doubt, or why the call at the money changer's? What a fool he had been to set foot in America—how could he set foot out of it?
If he was to escape, there was no time to be lost. He took his bag in his hand and passed out into the passage.
Looking over the staircase, he saw on the ground floor two policemen talking to the hotel clerk. Was he too late?
One of the officers stepped into the ever moving elevator. Slowly he was being borne upwards.
What should he do? The thought occurred to him that they would find his room empty, and think him gone.
He would hide—on the floor above. They would not think of searching there.
He sprang into the elevator—he should have waited for the next up coming car—the floor was nearly level with his knees when he jumped. The result was that he slipped, staggered, and fell prone on the floor of the lift, his head projecting.
Before he could move, the floor of the compartment reached the next floor of the building.
There was a scream of agony, a sudden wrenching jerk which shook the lift and halted the powerful machinery for half a moment, and then the cars went on in their old automatic way.
But when the policeman alighted on the floor on which room No. 14 was situate, he was horrified to see a bleeding human head staring him in the face, and marked the trail of blood across the floor leading to it, while the policeman below was equally shocked when the lift reached the ground to see the headless trunk of a human body lying on the floor.
The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict.
Loide had at one time feared death by hanging, English fashion; later by electrocution, American fashion; he had never feared a French performance—the guillotine—and yet, after all, decapitation was his end.
At the farm bells jangled. The usual harmony was not prevailing.
No one struck the right key in conversation. After the manner of mothers, Mrs. Depew sympathized with her daughter, with a result that things were not running smoothly with the farmer.
A wife has facilities for disturbing a husband's tranquillity.
Apart from the displeasure of his wife and daughter, George Depew was not that pleased with himself.
Gerald's behavior when leaving had certainly not been that of a guilty man. And when the farmer came to think things over quietly, he came to the conclusion that he had been a large sized fool to lose his temper as he had done.
He realized Gerald's story must have been true—what would have been the sense of trying to pass off that folded piece of newspaper as bank notes? The trick would necessarily be found out at once.
The midday meal was under way, and was being disposed of in unusual silence.
Mrs. Depew did not like the red eyed appearance of her daughter, and her husband did not like the glances his wife occasionally favored him with as a result thereof.
A messenger came to the door with a letter for the farmer. He took it and tried to read it, but could only make out a word here and there.
"Here, Tess, just read this out, will you?"
His daughter took it and read.
The farmer said "Jerusalem!" His wife—after the manner of wives—said, "There! I told you so," and the daughter said tearfully, "And you called him a thief, father!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Depew, rubbing it in, after the manner of her sex, "an almost stranger goes out of his way to bring you more money than you have ever dreamed of, and you call him a thief! I've no patience with the man."
"No, old woman, you haven't," replied the farmer. "Mebbe it would be better for all of us if you had. Give me my store coat and hat. I'm going right away to N'York by the next train."
"And what good's that, I should like to know? Sakes alive! Can't the man understand that the money's to his credit here in Oakville?"
"Yes, the man's got gumption enough for that," answered the farmer grimly. "Just now, it ain't the money that's agitating me—that's all right."
"Then, what on earth do you want to go to N'York for?"
"To make about the most humble apology lips ever vented. I'm going to find Gerald Danvers, and tell him that a bigger old fool don't prowl about this airth than I am; and I'm going to beg him—d'ye hear—beg him to forgive me for insulting him."
"Dear father!"
"That's it, Tess. Because your old dad's a bit of a fool, you don't want to rub it in, do you? You leave that to your mother. Come here, girlie, and gimme a kiss."
"Lawd sakes, now! Just listen to the man! As if I'd said anything!"
"No, mother," said the farmer, over Tessie's shoulder—he was holding her to him—"it wouldn't be you to say anything. Silence is the kind of thing you shine in. Now, Tessie, gimme your sweetheart's address, and I'll get there slick away."
"Father, I don't know it."
"You—don't—know—it?"
"No, father. He will come back here now the money is found."
"Not if I know him, he won't," interposed the farmer's wife. "People that are turned out of doors and called 'thief' and threatened with whips ain't likely to come groveling around."
"Mother!"
"Oh, yes, 'mother.' But 'mother' won't find that boy, will it? Lawd sakes! When I was a gal, sweethearts didn't behave like that. When your father was courting me, I should ha' liked to see him stalk away to N'York without telling me where he was going to put up. My—yes!"
"Hullo!" said the farmer, "here's a special delivery letter!"
"Perhaps it's from Gerald, father.
"More likely," snorted Mrs. Depew, "from the county lunatic asylum, to say they've a vacancy for a permanency if your father likes to call."
"Here, Tess, girlie, read this. See who it's from, and what it's about."
The girl took the letter and read.
"That makes the nineteen thousand pounds," said Tessie, as she finished reading the letter. "I wondered what eighteen meant."
"There's time to catch the train;" he walked to the window as he spoke, and called out, "You, Sam, just hitch the mare on to the buggy——"
"And what's the buggy for?" interrupted his wife.
"To drive to the station, of course."
"Well, the buggy won't hold four people, will it?"
"Four?"
"Yes. Sam'll have to go to bring it back. Do you expect me and Tessie to hang on to that axle?"
"What? Are you going?"
"Am I? I reckon. If you think, George Depew, that you are going to career around the streets of N'York, bulging money at every pocket, with nary a sensible soul to look after you, let me tell you, you make a mistake."
"But, mother dear," said Tessie; "you will never be ready. The train goes in twenty minutes, and you will never have time to change your dress."
"Won't I? Sakes alive! You've known me for nigh on nineteen years, and you don't know your mother yet."
She had thrown off her apron and was rolling down her sleeves as she spoke. Then she called out to the hired girl:
"You, Liz, my boots, the ones I wore last time I was in Oakville. Won't be ready, won't I?" she continued, as she bustled up-stairs to change her dress; "I guess I shall be ready before you are."
Her husband changed the order, and the horse was harnessed to a four wheeled trap. By the time the farmer had changed into fresh boots and coat, Mrs. Depew was heard descending the stairs.
"On time, I reckon, ain't I?" she inquired as she tied her bonnet strings. "Where's that gal? Now, you, Tessie, jump about; never mind your hair, clap your hat on, and come right down at once. We don't need to miss that train."
She was outside getting into her seat, and had taken the reins in hand before she had finished speaking.
Tessie ran down, jumped up, and presently they were driving rapidly in the direction of the station.
The train was caught, and during the journey the situation was discussed with much spirit.
The fact that the hero had appealed to Mrs. Depew, when her husband had turned him out, was not forgotten by that lady. Her "I told you so" song she sang for all it was worth, and kept her foot on the low pedal, too.
"I know a man, I do hope, when I see one," she said, "and at five o'clock this afternoon I hope to put my arms round the neck of one, and give him a good sounding kiss. I'm just real anxious to fill a great gaping hole in our midst. I'm wanting to extend a welcoming hand to a son-in-law that'll fill it, and supply the common sense we're so hard up for with our men folk."
Before five o'clock the three Depews—father, mother, and daughter—were in the New York lawyer's office, and punctually at the hour Gerald entered.
The lawyer, who had guessed something of what had happened, judiciously left them together for a few minutes.
Mrs. Depew carried out her threat; she walked straight over to Gerald, and gave him what she called a "smack."
"You, Gerald," she said, "I'm as real pleased to see you as I am to see the snow go away in winter. I believed in you, my lad, from the first, and if I've got an old fool for a husband, remember that he is only an old fool, and there's no scrap of real bad in him—that he's as good a husband, and as good a father as ever stepped in shoes."
"I want to say right here, Gerald," interposed the farmer, "that I'm as real sorry as any man can be for what I——"
"There's no need for you to say anything to me just now, farmer," interrupted Gerald stiffly; "you said enough last time we met to last me for many a day."
"I know, lad, I know, lad—don't I know it? You're not going to play heavy on a man old enough to be your father?"
"You were heavy enough on me—young enough to be your son! I have made up my mind"—he sat down with an air of determination as he spoke "to talk to you; to talk to you freely, when the whole of your nineteen thousand pounds is found.
"I've got hold on the balance that's missing, and it only wants the lawyer to put things in trim for it to be recovered. When it is—when the whole nineteen thousand pounds is in your possession—I shall want you to eat the word 'thief' you applied to me."
"Ain't I just eating it, Gerald?" said the old man humbly. "Is there a man here in N'York with as much humble pie in his mouth as I've got? I take back all I said——"
"Maybe, but I——"
And then Gerald paused.
Two soft, warm hands passed over the back of his chair, passed his face, came round his neck; warm lips touched his ear, and a voice he loved better than any other whispered:
"Gerald!—he is my father."
That did it. Gerald jumped up and took the farmer by the hand.
All his anger had evaporated under the touch of those soft, warm lips.
"Well, farmer, let bygones be bygones. We'll forget all that's been said that ought not to have been said. Here comes the lawyer. Let's get along with the declaration."
"I have it all ready," said the lawyer. "It is a joint declaration." He read it, and then said, "Come along with me to the justice's office; and it can be declared right off."
The justice before whom they presented themselves glanced at the document he was signing.
"Coincidence," he said, "or is it the same? Loide's—an English lawyer—death was reported at the police station this afternoon."
Death! Gerald started. Had he then killed the man he had struggled with? He said:
"You mean Richard Loide." And he mentioned the hotel.
"That's where the accident occurred. Lift accident—there is the certificate just brought in."
"Will you loan this to me?" inquired the lawyer, after perusing it; "I think it will save some trouble."
"Yes," answered the justice; "if you return it within two hours. It has to go to the coroner by then."
This was promised. Outside the office the lawyer hailed a hackman.
"Get in," he said to his companions; "we will drive straight to the money changer's."
They did. The hackman waited. They entered the office.
"You remember me, Mr. Wolff?" queried the lawyer.
It was evident the banker did—from his obsequious manner in receiving his visitor. Doubtless the lawyer knew something of him.
"You have a thousand pound English note in your possession belonging to my client here."
"I hope you not tink, Meestair Denison, dat I intends——"
"Oh, I know you only want to give it up to the right owner. He's here—this gentleman. Mr. Loide left it with you—Loide's dead. Here's the police certificate of his death."
"Det, eh?"
"He was acting in England as a lawyer for this client of mine, and paid over eighteen out of nineteen thousand pounds. The other thousand pound note was missing. This declaration sworn to before Justice Colonel George F. Vanderwood to-day proves the ownership."
"So."
It was evident that the mention of the justice had impressed the banker.
"You will give up the note, I suppose, without any trouble?"
"Sairtenly, Meestair Denison, if you say so. I suppose I haf some eendemnity, eh?"
"I have prepared one. Here it is. Mr. Depew, will you sign it?"
Mr. Depew did so, and in exchange got the missing thousand pound note.
"Now, back to my office," said the lawyer, "where the ladies are waiting."
They returned there. The farmer flourished his note, and then threw it into his wife's lap.
"All's well, old girl," he said; "got him. It's all settled."
"And now you have only to settle with me," said the lawyer, with a smile, "and the whole thing will be ended."
"Not much, it isn't," interposed Mrs. Depew. "There's a marriage settlement for you to draw up. My old man is settling nine thousand pounds on our daughter, Tessie, who is to be married to Mr. Gerald Danvers here."
"No need for a settlement, madam. Give her the money now before they are married, and it's hers as firmly as any deed could make it so."
"Is that so? Then, George, you'd better give it right away—here."
"Plenty of time, old girl, when we get back——"
"Get back! There's no putting back from here with a couple of single people around. Those two is going to be made one before we step out of N'York again."
"Mother!"
"That's me, Tess—you hear me say it.
"You really mean that, Mrs. Depew," inquired Gerald, with sparkling eyes.
"Young man," she answered, "you've evidently got to learn that when your mother-in-law that is to be says a thing, she means it."
"Mrs. Depew, you're the finest mother-in-law the world holds! You're a brick! a regular brick!"
"But, mother," said the blushing Tessie, "I haven't got anything ready——"
"Lawd sakes! Listen to that now! And here are we in N'York with a bank full of money, too! Can't you buy what you want?"
"Of course she can," interrupted Gerald eagerly. "Mrs. Depew, you're the most sensible woman I've ever met."
"None of your soft soap now!"
"It's a fact. It's a capital idea. Couldn't be better. Don't you think so, farmer?"
Of course the farmer thought so. He valued his domestic peace, and assured it by acquiescence in most of his wife's ideas.
He even went so far as to say that he had thought a similar idea out as they drove along.
Tessie made another—must it be confessed, very faint-hearted?—protest.
"Why should you be in such a hurry, mother?"
"Because I don't believe in long engagements—that's why. Because this boy was promised his reward—that's why. Because you know perfectly well that you are just as anxious to get married as he is to marry you—that's why. Because I'm getting an old woman, and the sooner you get married, the longer I shall have on earth to play with my grandchildren—that's why."
"Mother!"
Of course it was settled that way. When they left New York shortly after, Gerald and Tessie were man and wife.
Mrs. Depew usually contrived to get her own way. If, of that household it was true that the husband was the head, she was the neck—she was so capable of turning the head.