Mr. Iverson’s Christmas party for his poorest, and some of his “blackest,” sheep was in full swing when Grace arrived there that evening.
Outside the Parish Hall a taxicab was standing, unattended, and she wondered for whom it might be waiting. She entered and stood for a time, unobserved, among the throng inside the door, for the place was crowded.
On the tiny stage was Maddelena Cacciola, a bewitching figure in a gay contadina costume, singing a merry, rollicking song to her own guitar accompaniment.
A roar of applause followed, the rough audience stamping, shrilling, whistling their delight, till the girl reappeared, beaming at them, and waved her hands to enjoin silence.
“Just a little dance now, my friends, and that must be the very last, please,” she announced; and forthwith Cacciola’s master touch brought forth real music, even from the old tinpotty piano. And Maddelena danced.
Grace watched her, fascinated. How charming, how versatile, how utterly unaffected she was; and what a consummate artiste! No wonder Austin had been attracted by her. Who could resist her? She was glad she had persuaded Winnie and him not to come on here with her to-night, but to get into “glad rags” and go to dine and dance at the Savoy. Her peacemaking effort had been entirely successful, and all was well with those two whom she loved. Winnie, the sapphire and diamond ring gleaming on her hand, had been radiant all through that tiring afternoon, had sung delightfully, had been her most lovable self; but it was just as well that she should not enter into rivalry with this irresistible Italian girl!
The end of the dance evoked another tumult of appreciation, but Maddelena had vanished, not to return, and the vicar’s jolly voice boomed out.
“We’d like to listen all night to the signorina, but we mustn’t be greedy and work her too hard. Now I vote we have some more tea and cakes—they’re all ready in the next room—and then we’ll clear for a dance.”
In the movement that followed he caught sight of Grace, and made his way towards her.
“My dear child, how long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes, just in time to help, padre.”
“Nothing of the sort; you look tired out. Come along; we’ll find a chair in a comparatively quiet corner.”
“I’m not tired, really; I’m happier at work.”
“I know that,” he said in his fatherly way. “But you mustn’t overdo it, you know. Where’s Miss Winston?”
“I persuaded her not to come. She’s been singing all the afternoon at one place and another; we’ve had quite a big day of it, padre.”
“Just so. And it’s all right here, as it happens. We’ve got the Cacciolas, as you see, and they’re a host in themselves—dear folk! Isn’t Miss Maddelena wonderful? Why didn’t you bring your little Miss Culpepper along?”
“She’s keeping house with Dear Brutus, and expected an old sweetheart to tea.”
“You don’t say so! Well, well. Now sit you down, child, and I’ll bring you some coffee.”
“I’ve got some here; and please, Mr. Iverson, do introduce me to Mrs. Carling.”
It was Maddelena herself who joined them, a dark wrap thrown over her picturesque dress, a big steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
He complied, and Maddelena smiled down at her, and tendered the coffee.
“It is for you; I saw how tired you were looking, and brought it on purpose. Now you must drink it,” she said in her charming, authoritative way. “And, oh, I am so glad to meet you at last, Mrs. Carling! I think of you so often.” She drew up another chair for herself, and the vicar slipped away to resume his duties as host. “You are so brave, so good—you set aside your so great sorrow and anxiety and think always of others; and padre has told me. It is wonderful,” Maddelena continued. “And, oh, I do so wish I could help you! I have so wanted to come and see you, but I did not like to, as we had never met.”
“Well, now we have met I hope you will come and see me some day soon, Miss Cacciola,” said Grace. “I have heard of you too, from my old friend Austin Starr.”
“Ah, yes—that nice Mr. Starr! He is seeking still for fresh evidence that might help your husband. Has he any success yet?” Grace shook her head sadly. “Alas! it is a terrible mystery. We sought to help him, my uncle and I, yes, and even Boris, as perhaps he told you, but we could discover nothing—nothing at all!”
“Yes, he did tell me, and indeed I am very grateful, Miss Cacciola. It is strange—terrible—that we can get no fresh light at all. But I am quite sure that the truth will be revealed. But for that faith I—I don’t think I could bear the suspense.”
“Do you know, at the first, Mrs. Carling, I thought—as Boris also and doubtless very many others did—that your husband must have been guilty, until I saw him in the police court that day, and then I knew—though how I knew I cannot tell you—that he was innocent; and I would do anything in the world that I could to help to prove it. But what can we do?”
Grace pressed her hand, keenly touched by the girl’s earnest, impulsive sympathy, but could find no words to reply. What, indeed could be said?
“I have wondered often of late,” Maddelena resumed, her dark brows contracted in thought, “whether our old Giulia would be able to tell you anything.”
“Your Giulia? Why, who is she?” asked Grace.
“My uncle’s housekeeper—in fact our only servant. She has been with him for many years and is devoted to us all. She is Italian, of course, a peasant, and quite uneducated, but she has—what do you call it?—clairvoyance, the ‘second sight,’ sometimes, and can see, oh, the most extraordinary things—for some people!”
“Really!” Grace exclaimed, almost in a whisper, her heart beginning to flutter, her eyes searching the girl’s vivid, thoughtful face.
“Yes. She can see nothing for herself—it is often so—only for others, and she tells me things that do come true. Many times of late, as I begged her to, she has tried to see what happened that day, but she has failed so far. She says she knew, when Paula Rawson left, that there was tragedy round her; she saw her depart as in a red cloud, and was half minded to follow her at the time. If only she had done so! But she disliked and feared her always. And she has never been able to see anything clearly about it—for me. She says it is because Paula really does not come into my life at all, except indirectly. It might be different with Boris, though she has never tried to ‘see’ for him. He does not know of her powers, and I do not want him to let her try with him—it might upset, unbalance him again, restore the terrible influence Paula had over him. You understand that, don’t you? Or you would if you knew him, and how terribly he has suffered! But I do believe she might be able to see something for you.”
“I wonder,” Grace murmured perplexedly. “I don’t know anything about such things, Miss Cacciola; of course I have heard of clairvoyants.”
“Yes, fortune tellers and charlatans most of them; but our Giulia is not like that. It is a real gift with her. Oh, if you would come to see her! Why not come now? She is all alone, and it will be quite quiet. Or are you too tired?”
“Tired? Oh, no, indeed,” Grace declared eagerly. “But I should be taking you away from here.”
“I’m quite ready to go. They’ll have to do without me for the rest of the evening,” said Maddelena rising. “We’ve a cab waiting outside, Mrs. Carling, so I will just find the chauffeur and tell my uncle we are going. Will you stay here till I return?”
She flitted away and disappeared among the noisy, merry crowd that was beginning to drift back from the refreshment-room, to return in a minute or two accompanied by the taxi-driver.
“Here we are. I have told the padre that I am going to start you off home, as I will after you have seen Giulia. Come along.”
They drove along the Mall, almost deserted on this Christmas night, a peaceful and beautiful scene with the river at full tide under the moonlight. The last time Grace had driven along here was on her way from church on that wedding day that seemed a lifetime ago. Now she felt as if she were bound on some strange, vague adventure in the world of dreams!
The cab turned up a narrow street on the left, and paused at the high road, held up by a couple of passing trams—paused just outside that fatal post office. The house was dark, the shop windows plastered with big posters announcing that the premises had been sold by private treaty.
“The horrible place is to be pulled down,” said Maddelena. “That is well. Mrs. Cave has got another shop about a quarter of a mile away, nearer the station. She moved there, post office and all, a few days ago. She is very glad. No wonder.”
As they crossed the road and drove down the quiet square, Grace, staring out of the window, could almost imagine that she saw the ghost-like figure of Paula Rawson gliding along in the shadow—gliding to her doom—and shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold!” exclaimed Maddelena solicitously.
“No. I was only—remembering,” she answered, and Maddelena pressed her arm with an impulsive gesture of sympathy.
“You can wait,” she told the chauffeur. “Go down and tell Mr. Withers you are to sit by his fire till I call you. Take my arm, Mrs. Carling. We will go slowly up these many stairs. They are trying to a stranger.”
Grace, indeed, was breathless when they reached the top, and Maddelena led her straight into the big drawing-room, where the cosy gas fire was aglow as usual—the Cacciolas loved warmth—switched on the lights, and pushed her guest into the easiest chair.
“Now you must have a glass of my uncle’s famous wine and a biscuit. Yes, yes, I insist, it is here—everybody has to do as I say; Mr. Starr calls me ‘she who must be obeyed.’ Has he told you that? He is very funny sometimes, that Mr. Starr, but he is right there. So, drink it up while I go and prepare Giulia.”
She found the old woman sitting in her old armchair in the spotless kitchen—placidly enjoying her Christmas evening playing “patience,” in company with a flask of Chianti and a dish of salted almonds—bestowed a hearty kiss upon her, and explained why she had returned so early.
“But who is it?” protested Giulia. “I do not know that I shall be able to see for her.”
“Thou wilt try, dear good Giulia,” coaxed Maddelena. “It will be kind indeed, for she is in deep distress over the fate of one whom she loves most dearly. Yes, she is a stranger. I will not even tell thee her name; it is not necessary: at least thou hast often said so. Let the light come if it will.”
“Well, well, thou wilt have thy way as usual, carissima,” said Giulia resignedly, pushing aside her cards. “But she must come to me here.”
“I will bring her on the instant,” said Maddelena, and returned to Grace.
“She is ready. Do you mind coming into the kitchen? She is always at her best in her own domain. Do you understand Italian? No? Then I must be with you to translate, for when she ‘sees’ she always speaks in her own tongue. I will write it down—that will be best. Ah, you have drunk the wine—that is good. You look just a little bit less like a ghost now, dear lady. This way.”
Giulia rose as they entered the kitchen, dropped a quaint little curtsey, and fixed her dark eyes earnestly on the visitor.
“Yes, I zink it vill be that I vill see. Zere is light all around you—ze great protecting light! Vill you sit here at my feet; take off your gloves and hold my hands—so! Vait now; do not speak!”
She pulled out a hassock, on which Grace obediently seated herself. Giulia took her hands, holding them lightly and moving her own wrinkled brown ones over them with a curious massage-like movement for a minute or more, while she continued to gaze searchingly at her. Maddelena, pencil and notebook in hand, leaned on the back of Giulia’s chair.
In the silence the slow tick of the clock sounded unnaturally loud; in Grace’s ears her own heartbeats sounded even louder.
Then Giulia ceased moving her hands and grasped those of her visitor closely and firmly, in a grip that occasionally, during the minutes that followed, became almost painful. Grace saw the light fade from the old woman’s eyes, leaving them fixed and glassy, like those of a corpse, till the lids drooped over them and she seemed to sleep, breathing deeply and heavily. Soon she began to speak, in Italian, slowly and with difficulty at first, then more fluently.
Grace, watching and listening with strained attention, could only understand a word here and there, but Maddelena later gave her the written translation.
“There is light all around you—a beautiful light; it is the great protection; but beyond there is gloom and within it I see a man; he is your beloved. I think he is young and handsome, but I cannot see him clearly. I could not see him at all but for the light around you that penetrates even to him. You stretch hands to each other, striving to meet—you in the light, he in the darkness—and sometimes the hands touch, just for a moment.
“Ah, the darkness passes a little. I see a large building; many people are there: it is a Court of Justice. The beloved is apart from you, from all, in a place by himself; there is but one beside him—I think he is an officer of police. The light streams from you to him, it gives him strength and courage.
“Alas! the darkness gathers; it shrouds you both now—black, black! The very Shadow of Doom—the Shadow of Death!”
Maddelena, still writing rapidly, almost mechanically, drew her breath with a little gasp of dismay, and Grace glanced at her with agonized eyes.
“What is she saying?” she whispered.
“S-sh—wait, it is not the end,” Maddelena whispered back hurriedly. It seemed a long time, though probably it was not more than a minute, before Giulia spoke again.
“The light comes once more, but it is a different light, and the air is full of the odour of flowers. Now I can see. It is a large, a beautiful room—larger than the maestro’s music-room. The hangings are green and the chairs of gold. There are many flowers. A clock strikes—it is the ninth hour. Hush, there are footsteps and voices, low voices; men come in softly; I do not know them; they look like great lords. Now two more enter—one is young and one older; I have seen them before, but I know not where. You are not there, nor your beloved. Someone is speaking; I cannot see him, there is a mist rising—a red mist; it hides all....
“But the end is not yet. Once more the light comes. It is another room now—a smaller one. A woman kneels beside a bed. She is very still, and I cannot see her face, but I think—nay, I am sure—it is thou thyself, signora; and the light is all radiant above thee—the light of the ‘great protection.’ There is a little table close by with a telephone. Listen, it is the bell ringing. The woman rises—yes, she is thou. It is news, good news. The tears come, but, ah, they are tears of joy.
“Here is thy beloved—at last I see him clearly. He is at thy side, he is free. The shadow has passed away. See, thou art in his arms, and the light—the glorious light is upon both!”
Silence once more. Slowly her grasp relaxed—for days afterwards Grace’s hands showed blue marks from the grip of those strong brown fingers—she drew a long sigh, shivered, and then slowly opened her eyes and gazed dreamily at the girl.
“Vat is it? Vat have I see?” she muttered in her broken English.
“Thou hast seen much that was very strange and very comforting; thou hast done well, dear Giulia,” said Maddelena, leaning forward and bestowing a hug and kiss on her from behind. “Rest now, thou art exhausted. So, thou shalt sleep for a while.”
Giulia leant back and closed her eyes again, and Maddelena turned to Grace, who had risen with difficulty.
“Come, Mrs. Carling, she will be all right in a few minutes. You are faint and trembling. No wonder! It was a marvellous séance.”
“What did she see? What did she say?” faltered Grace, glad of the support of Maddelena’s strong young arm as the girl led her along the passage.
“I will tell you directly. I have it all down, or nearly all, I think, but in Italian—there was no time to translate. I will do that and send it to you to-morrow.”
“It sounded so tragic, so terrible,” said Grace piteously. “I couldn’t understand, of course; but surely she said something about death—the shadow of death—when you seemed so upset!”
“Yes. I was afraid for a moment, but the shadow passed in the end. I am sure, quite sure, she has seen rightly, and that Mr. Carling will be saved, though how I don’t know and she doesn’t, but listen.”
Rapidly she turned over her scrawled notes, and read the last part only, from the description of the room with the flowers and the green hangings. She thought it kindest to suppress the earlier episodes, and as a matter of fact did not divulge them fully to Grace until weeks later.
“Do you recognize the rooms?”
“Not the large one,” said Grace perplexedly. “I cannot place it at all. But the other must be our—my—bedroom: the telephone is there, as she says. And you say she saw Roger there!”
“Yes, that’s the very last thing; you are to think of that, dear Mrs. Carling, whatever may happen. No matter how dark things may be, the light will come—the ‘great protection’ will be over you both all the time. So you will never lose courage, even for a moment, will you? Oh, I am so glad you came!”
“You dear child!” cried Grace, and kissed her.
“And now I am going to see you home—you are tired to death. Well, only to the station then, if you will have it so. And I may come and see you soon? We will be friends, real friends, won’t we?”
When she arrived home, still musing over this strange, almost incredible, episode, Grace found Miss Culpepper—also playing “patience”—with a cheerful fire, a dainty little supper, and a loving welcome.
“What a long day you’ve had, my dear. You must be worn out,” she said, fluttering round and helping her remove her wrap.
“Yes, it has been long, but very interesting. And how have you got on? Did Mr. Thomson come to tea?”
“Y-e-s—oh, yes, though he didn’t stay very long. Sir Robert is not so well, and he was anxious to return. He brought me this—a beautiful little bit of bigotry, isn’t it?”
“This” was an antique brooch, set with pearls, a really exquisite piece of workmanship.
“It’s lovely, and suits you perfectly in that lace fichu.”
“Yes. James always had excellent taste, and I really was very pleased, and very surprised. But do you know, dear Mrs. Carling, I see a great difference in him—naturally perhaps after all these years; but—oh, I don’t know what it is, something I cannot fathom! And Dear Brutus did behave so badly, spat and swore—swore at Mr. Thomson, till I actually had to take him out to the kitchen and shut him up there. It was quite upsetting!”
The trial of Roger Carling for the murder of Lady Rawson was drawing to an end. No case heard in the Central Criminal Court had ever created greater public interest, by reason of the sensational and unique circumstances of the crime, and the social status of the victim and of several of the persons involved.
Also, many of the callous and curious spectators, most of them fashionably dressed women, who waited for hours in the bitter cold of those grey winter mornings to gain admission to the court, fully expected a series of scandalous revelations; for rumours had been rife of some passionate intrigue between the murdered woman and Roger Carling, or Boris Melikoff, or both men; and circumstantial lies, invented by salacious minds, were broadcasted by malicious tongues from Mayfair and Belgravia to the far suburbs.
Those prurient anticipations were never satisfied. No fresh evidence was forthcoming; but as the case developed so the tension increased, the interest became cumulatively more poignant, more painful, concentrated on the prisoner, pale and worn but perfectly self-possessed, and his girl-wife, whose eyes never left his face, and who seemed utterly oblivious of every one and everything else in the world except during the brief interval when, in the witness-box, she gave evidence on the important episode of the sudden change of their honeymoon plans.
The opening indictment by counsel for the Crown seemed flawless. Inexorably, with consummate skill, and in absolutely passionless tones, he reconstructed and related the story of the crime, from the discovery of the theft of the secret papers to the arrest of the prisoner on the fourth day of his honeymoon. Calmly, relentlessly he wove the threads of circumstantial evidence and presented it as a complete web.
In imagination, those who listened saw Roger Carling enter on his hasty quest—“Bear in mind the importance that he attached, and rightly attached, to those missing papers—an importance so tremendous that his own wedding, the bride who was awaiting him at the very altar, became secondary considerations!”—followed him as in the increasing gloom he dogged the footsteps of his victim, watched him pass swiftly through the shop, unperceived by the other persons there, a circumstance that sounded almost incredible until its possibility was demonstrated by the model and plans of the place, which were duly passed to the jury for examination. Then the fatal stab in that obscure corner, a deed premeditated, if only for a brief minute before hand, as the weapon (counsel held up that little tortoiseshell knife) must have been ready in his hand. It was the work of a moment; it was done not in the heat of passion, but coolly, deliberately; and as coolly and deliberately, having achieved his immediate purpose and regained possession of the papers, he thereupon not only effected his own escape for the time being, but, with a resource amazing in its ingenuity, instantly got rid of his incriminating booty, the recovered papers, in the one way that might, and as a matter of fact did, effect their safe return to Sir Robert Rawson, by posting them in the letter-box close at hand!
“Is it probable—nay, is it possible or even conceivable—that any other person than the prisoner, the one man in England who at that moment knew the contents and the inestimable importance of those documents, would have acted in such a manner?
“The reaction came, naturally and inevitably. The prisoner’s demeanour, the agitation he exhibited when eventually he arrived at the church where his bride awaited him, were precisely what might be expected in a man who had come straight from the perpetration of an appalling crime, as they were far in excess of the physical and mental distress that any ordinary individual would suffer through the accidental inconvenience and delay experienced in consequence of the fog.
“Finally, there was a sudden change of plans and of destination effected after the prisoner and his bride had actually started on their honeymoon. Why did he not take his bride to the hotel where rooms had already been booked for them? Because he had begun to realize what the consequence of his crime would be—feared that he would be arrested that very night, sought to gain time, a few hours, a few days.”
Cummings-Browne sprang up.
“I protest! There is a complete explanation of the change of plans which will be given in evidence.”
“My learned friend says the change of plans will be completely explained in the course of evidence. It will be for you, gentlemen of the jury, to decide on its significance when you have heard the explanation, as it will be your duty to weigh the whole of the evidence.”
Hour after hour through that day and the next the succession of witnesses gave their evidence, and were subjected to searching cross-examination and re-examination by the respective counsel. Those in court, and they were many, who were familiar with the methods of the famous counsel for the defence discerned from the first that Cummings-Browne was on his mettle, fighting for his client’s life against most desperate odds; for the great mass of evidence provided corroboration on nearly every point of the theory formulated by the prosecution; and in refutation of that theory there was practically nothing except Roger’s own simple, straightforward statement of his movements, and Grace’s pathetic testimony regarding their change of plan, for which she insisted that she alone was responsible.
One point which Cummings-Browne elicited was, that while it was practically certain that the murderer wore gloves—a fact indicated by the smears on the bag—Sadler, the taxi-driver, swore positively that Roger Carling was not wearing gloves when he left the taxi.
“I noticed how cold his hands looked when he paid me, and wondered that a well-dressed young gentleman didn’t have his gloves on on such a raw day.”
Neither old Giulia nor any of the witnesses who were questioned concerning the time he arrived at the church, and his appearance when he did arrive, could give any definite information on this matter, while he himself admitted that he had gloves in his pocket, and very probably put them on while he was on his way to the church, though he had no recollection of doing so; but asserted that they were the same gloves—a pair of grey antelope—that he had worn on his journey back to Town when he was under arrest, and that were now among the “exhibits” in court. Those gloves were soiled, but with ordinary wear, and a microscopic examination proved that there were no incriminating stains on them, and that they had never undergone any process of cleaning.
That circumstance—so small in itself, but of such tremendous importance when a man’s life depended on it—was duly emphasized by Cummings-Browne in the course of his three hours’ speech for the defence—a speech afterwards acknowledged to be the most brilliant, the most impassioned, the most moving that even he had ever delivered; one that held his auditors enthralled.
There was dead silence for a few seconds after he sat down, then a wave of emotion swept over the crowded court, and a spontaneous murmur of applause, instantly and sternly suppressed by the ushers.
Austin Starr, sitting close to Grace, drew a deep breath of relief and flashed a smile at Roger. He believed, as many others did at that moment, that Cummings-Browne had triumphed once more—that Roger was saved.
Then, grim and relentless as Fate, counsel for the Crown rose to reply. Bit by bit, calmly, remorselessly he demolished that eloquent defence, exposed the slight foundation on which it was based compared with the mass of evidence that supported the case for the prosecution; dwelt on the atrocious nature of the crime—“a crime far worse than ordinary homicide, for which there was often the excuse that it was committed in the heat of passion; but this was assassination—the cool, deliberate assassination of a helpless, defenceless woman!”
After that cold, calm, implacable denunciation came the judge’s summing-up—grave, reasoned, meticulously impartial. Then the jury retired.
One hour, two hours dragged by, each seeming long as a lifetime. Would they never return? At last at the little movement that heralded the final scene, counsel and solicitors, Grace Carling and her friends came in and resumed their places, the judge took his seat once more, the prisoner reappeared in the dock. Roger stood with shoulders squared, head erect, lips firmly set, pale indeed, but apparently as self-possessed as was the judge himself.
The jury filed in.
“Guilty!”
With that one low-voiced word the Shadow of Doom seemed to descend; and above the subdued sound of sobbing the judge’s deep, solemn voice was heard asking the prisoner if he had anything to say before sentence was passed on him.
Roger looked at him full and fearlessly, and answered in tones that rang through the court:
“Only this, my lord, that I am absolutely innocent—innocent in thought as well as in deed—of this appalling crime!”
As he spoke Grace rose in her place, slowly, silently, till she stood at her full height, her hands clasped on her breast. There was a strange, ecstatic expression on her fair face, subtle and inscrutable as the smile of Mona Lisa, and her eyes were fixed on Roger’s, as, from the moment he ceased speaking, his were fixed on hers.
So those two lovers looked at each other while the dread sentence was pronounced that would part them for ever in this world. They did not even seem to hear the words of doom.
Many women, and some men, were sobbing hysterically, none were unmoved; but still Grace stood like a statue, scarcely seeming to breathe, gazing no longer at Roger—for he, with the two warders in attendance, had disappeared—but at the place where he had been.
Austin Starr slipped his arm round her on the one side, Winnie Winston, tearful and trembling, on the other.
“We must get her away,” sobbed Winnie. “Come, darling!”
She yielded to their touch, walking quite steadily, but as unconscious of her surroundings as a somnambulist.
Only when they reached the anteroom and a little crowd of friends and counsel clustered round her, she turned her head and looked at Austin, that faint unearthly smile still on her lips, and said, quite distinctly:
“It is not the end. There is still the light—the great protection!”
With that she swayed forward, and Austin held and lowered her gently to the floor.
“Oh, she’s dead!” cried Winnie, kneeling distractedly beside her. “Grace—Grace, darling!”
“She’s only fainted, thank God! It’s better for her,” said Austin huskily.
In the room that had once been Paula Rawson’s boudoir Sir Robert Rawson lay on his wheeled couch, drawn up near a blazing fire. Of late he had extended his daily visits to this room of poignant memories, spending many hours there, with Thomson or Perkins in attendance on him—usually Perkins, for since the evening of Boris Melikoff’s visit, when Sir Robert had detected and rebuked that “error of judgment” in his trusted old servant, he had not resumed the confidential relations that had existed between them for so many years. He never again referred, in words, to the incident, but an impalpable barrier had risen between master and man that in all probability would never be surmounted.
Over the mantelpiece hung the famous half-length portrait of Paula which, entitled “The Jade Necklace,” had been the picture of its year at the Academy, a masterpiece that showed her in all her imperious beauty, dressed in a robe of filmy black over which fell a superb chain of jade beads, the one startling note of vivid colour in the whole picture.
For hours Sir Robert would lie and gaze at the portrait that seemed to gaze back at him with proud, tragic, inscrutable dark eyes. He was gazing at it now, and might or might not have been listening as Perkins conscientiously read aloud column after column from “The Times.” Perkins read remarkably well—Sir Robert occasionally complimented him—but he often wondered whether his master really did listen!
He paused when the butler entered with a visiting card, on which a brief message was written in pencil below the name: “Entreating five minutes’ interview on a most urgent and private matter.”
“Mr. Austin Starr,” Sir Robert muttered, frowning meditatively over the card.
“There’s a lady too, Sir Robert,” said Jenkins. “I asked her name, but the gentleman said she would only give it to you.”
For a full minute Sir Robert pondered, holding the card in his thin fingers, before he answered slowly: “Very well. Bring them up, Jenkins.... You can wait in the next room, Perkins.”
In the interval he looked up again at the portrait, with a strange expression in his haggard eyes, as if he were mutely questioning it; but his stern old face was impassive as a mask as he turned it towards his visitors.
“I remember you, Mr. Starr; but who is this lady?”
Grace, for it was she, came forward and raised her veil.
“I am Roger Carling’s wife, Sir Robert.”
He looked at her intently. He had seen her once or twice, when she had been a guest at his wife’s receptions, and he never forgot a face he had once seen, but he could scarcely recognize in this pale, worn woman with appealing, pathetic, grey eyes, the radiant young girl of such a few months ago.
“I thought it might be you,” he said slowly. “I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Carling—and sorry that you have come here to-day. I fear you will only add to your own distress—and to mine. Why have you come?”
“To plead with you for my husband’s life,” she cried. “As our very last hope, Sir Robert! You know—you must know—that the appeal has failed, the petition to the Home Secretary has failed, and to-morrow—to-morrow——”
She faltered and Sir Robert said grimly:
“To-morrow Robert Carling will pay the just penalty for his crime.”
Austin clenched his hands in indignation, but dared not speak, dared do nothing to interrupt this terrible old man, who, if he could be prevailed upon to intervene, might yet save Roger Carling from the scaffold. If Grace could not move him, assuredly no one else could!
“No, no, Sir Robert—he is innocent; you, of all people, should have known that from the first.”
“I? I would give everything I possess in this world to be able to believe that, but I cannot. He has been tried and found guilty. There is no shadow of doubt that he is guilty, and that knowledge is the bitterest thing in the world to me, for I loved him, I trusted him as a son, and he murdered my dear wife!”
She fell on her knees beside his couch, stretching out piteous hands to him.
“Sir Robert, I implore you to hear me! Roger never raised his hand against Lady Rawson. God knows who did, but it was not he! The truth will be discovered some day, I don’t know how or when, but it will; and if it comes too late—and there are such a few hours, such a few short hours in which he may still be saved—his death will be at your door, on your conscience! For you can save him now if you will! Your influence is so great, if you will but say one word on his behalf the Home Secretary—the King himself—will listen to you, will respond to you as to no other man in the world. They will grant a reprieve, and then, whenever the truth does come out, his innocence will be established—he will be set free. Sir Robert, I implore you.”
Again he looked at the portrait, and her agonized eyes followed the direction of his.
For a few seconds there was a tense silence. The deathly fragrance of the masses of flowers in the room seemed to increase till it was overpowering, suffocating. Then Grace spoke softly, brokenly, not to the stern old man, but to the woman in the picture.
“Oh, if only you could speak; if you could but tell us the whole truth! Do you know—I wonder, I think you may do—how I wept and prayed for you when I learned of your terrible fate, that overshadowed those sacred hours of our happiness; how my beloved grieved for you and your stricken husband, whom he so loved and honoured? If you do know, then, as a woman, you will know what we suffer, in our great love and all our sorrow, with the shadow of doom upon us—you will strive to touch your husband’s heart, to soften it towards us!”
“Enough!” Sir Robert’s voice broke in harshly. “It is useless for you to invoke the dead, useless to ask me to intercede for your husband. I have no power to save him, and if I had I would not exert it; the law must take its course!”
Austin stepped forward impetuously.
“Sir Robert,” he began indignantly, but Grace checked him with a gesture.
In some uncanny way she seemed suddenly to regain her composure, and rose to her feet, standing erect just as she had done in court when the judge pronounced Roger’s doom. Slowly her glance travelled from the portrait round the beautiful room, as if she was noting each detail, and the two men watched her in silence.
“The room with green hangings and many flowers,” she said softly; “the room where the truth will be made known—at the ninth hour.”
“Come away, Grace,” said Austin huskily, moving to her side and taking her arm. He feared her mind had given way at last under the long strain.
She looked at him with that faint, inscrutable Mona Lisa smile on her white face.
“It is all right, Austin, good friend. I am not mad. Yes, we will go—to Roger. It was good of you to see me, Sir Robert. I will forget what you have said; you will know better soon—at the ninth hour. Good-bye. Come, Austin.”
She moved towards the door, scarcely seeming to need Austin’s support, and when it closed behind them Sir Robert covered his eyes with his hand and sank back on his pillows.
As they went down the wide staircase Thomson silently appeared on the landing, and, after a moment’s hesitation, followed them. Jenkins met them in the hall, ceremoniously ushered them out, and opened the door of the waiting taxi. Austin helped Grace into the cab and was about to follow her when Thomson crossed the pavement.
“Half a minute, Mr. Jenkins. Can I have a word with you, Mr. Starr?”
Jenkins retreated, imagining that Thomson had come with a message from his master, and Austin turned.
“Well, what is it?”
“This way, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Thomson, drawing him a little aside. “Am I right in thinking that you and Mrs. Carling have been to ask my master to use his influence on behalf of Mr. Carling?”
“You are, and he has refused,” said Austin curtly.
“I feared as much, sir. And there’s no hope that Mr. Lorimer, the Home Secretary, or the King himself, even now——”
“None that I can see.”
“I am very distressed, sir—very distressed indeed, but there’s still time—while there’s life there’s hope! Could you manage to come round here again to-night, sir—say at nine o’clock?”
“Here! What for?” asked Austin bluntly.
“I can’t explain, sir. I don’t quite know yet, but if you would come—ask for Sir Robert—I think there might be someone here—there might be a chance. Better not say anything to the poor lady, but perhaps you would give her my best respects, and try to cheer her up generally. Tell her not to despair.”
“I’ll come. And you’re a good chap, Thomson,” Austin said earnestly, though his own hopes were dead. He would have shaken hands with the little man, but Thomson evaded the proffered grasp and slipped back into the house.
Grace asked no question, but sat upright in her corner, with that strange, unnatural composure still possessing her.
They were on their way to the prison for their last interview with Roger, whose execution was fixed for eight o’clock on the following morning, and Austin, who had fought valiantly in the American Army in that last year of the Great War, had there seen death in many dreadful forms—the death of comrades whom he loved—dreaded this interview as he had never dreaded anything in his life before. Possibly for the first time in his life he felt an arrant coward, and when the moment came he was speechless. He just wrung Roger’s hands, bent and kissed them, and hastily retreated, quite unconscious of the fact that the tears were rolling down his face.
It was quite otherwise with Grace. She spoke gently, with a gracious smile to the watchful warders, whose guard over the prisoner must now be ceaseless till the end, and then clung to Roger, raising her lips to his, her great, grey eyes shining, not with tears.
“It’s not good-bye, darling,” she said softly. “It’s only till to-morrow—such a little time—perhaps even sooner—to-night, at the ninth hour—and we shall be at home together—at last. The light is coming—the great protection is over us!”
He thought, as Austin did, that for the time being at least she had become insane. It was better so, for her sake; but, oh, it was hard! He had to summon all his fortitude. The iron will that had sustained him through all these terrible weeks must sustain him to the last.
“Good-bye, my own dear love. God guard you and bring you to me in His own good time,” were his last words.
She flashed a radiant smile at him.
“Till to-morrow!” she said, and with that she left him, passing like a wraith, quite oblivious of the deep interest and sympathy of the officials, and of the prison chaplain who accompanied her and Austin to the outer gates, but with tactful delicacy refrained from speaking to her. He too thought, “it was better so.”
Winnie and little Miss Culpepper, pale-faced and red-eyed, were waiting anxiously for her return. She smiled on them too, as they took off her outdoor wraps and lovingly tended her.
“Yes, I will have some tea—just a cup. And I’m so tired I’m going to lie down for an hour or two. You see it won’t do for me to be a wreck when Roger comes home. That’s nice. Thank you, darlings. You are good to me. If I don’t wake before nine will you wake me then?”
Like a child she submitted to be wrapped in a rest-gown and tucked up under the eiderdown on her bed. When Winnie stole in to look at her presently she was fast asleep.
“What does she mean about Roger coming home, and that we are to wake her at nine o’clock?” Winnie asked Austin when she rejoined the others.
“I don’t know. She’s been like that, poor girl, ever since we were with Sir Robert. He was brutal to her—brutal! I wish we had not gone, but you know how she insisted on doing so. She just stood and looked around the room, and I guess something snapped in her poor brain. She said something then about ‘the ninth hour,’ and it’s a queer coincidence, but directly after, old man Thomson, Sir Robert’s valet, followed us and asked me to go back there at nine o’clock—though why, he wouldn’t say, and I can’t surmise. But I’m going!”
“Did you tell her about that?”
“No. He asked me not to. And it didn’t seem any use to talk to her, poor girl; she was just insensible, as you saw her now, like an animated corpse.”
“How is Roger?”
“Well, I can’t quite say,” Austin acknowledged. “I think he was quite calm, but—well, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t! The padre—Mr. Iverson—has permission to stay the night with him. He’ll be there now, I guess.”
They spoke in hushed tones, as people do in the presence of death, and then lapsed into silence, sitting hand-in-hand, as unhappy a pair of lovers as could be found in London that night.
The evening dragged on. Time after time Winnie peeped into the bedroom, finding Grace still asleep, until just before nine, when Austin had departed to keep his appointment, she returned and whispered to Miss Culpepper that Grace had risen and was kneeling beside the bed.
“She is very still, but she’s breathing regularly and quietly. Look. I’ve left the door open. What ought we to do?”
“Don’t disturb her for a few minutes anyhow,” Miss Culpepper counselled; and again they waited, outside the door, whence they could just see the kneeling figure, watching and listening intently.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed and struck nine. At the sound Grace raised her head, then bowed it again.
Slowly the minutes passed, each, to those distressed watchers, seeming like an hour. A quarter past nine—half-past nine!
“I think we ought to rouse her now,” Winnie whispered anxiously. “She will be quite numb and cramped—if she hasn’t fainted!”
As she spoke the telephone bell sounded—a startling summons in that hushed place.
Silently, and with his accustomed efficiency, Thomson moved about the boudoir rearranging some of the furniture. In the centre he placed the largest of the beautiful ormolu tables, set round it several of the gilt Louis-Seize chairs, leaving a clear space at the side that faced Lady Rawson’s portrait; and finally put pens, ink, and paper before each chair. That done he made up the fire, looked round the room as if to assure himself that all was in order, and departed, going first to his own room. There he unlocked a drawer, took out an old cigar-box, glanced at the contents, and, with the box under his arm, went through to his master’s bedroom.
Sir Robert was in bed and sound asleep. He had become restless and feverish after the departure of Grace Carling and Austin Starr, and Thomson had taken upon himself to ring up the doctor, who came round at once, ordered the patient to bed, and administered an opiate, which took effect immediately.
Thomson stood for a minute or so looking at his master’s face, stern even in sleep, then slightly opened the outer door so that he could hear anyone ascending the staircase, and seated himself near, where he could still watch the invalid.
Presently he heard the sounds for which he listened—a knock and ring at the front door, soft footsteps outside, and glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to nine. He did not move, but still waited and listened.
Jenkins, the butler, acting on the very explicit instructions he had received, took the visitor up to the boudoir. He was none other than the Home Secretary, Gerald Lorimer—a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man, with alert, clean-cut face.
He glanced round the room with an air of surprise, sniffed disapproval of the heavy perfume-laden atmosphere, and asked quickly:
“Where is Sir Robert?”
“In bed, sir; he has unfortunately been taken worse. Will you take a seat, sir; the other gentlemen will be here directly.”
“Other? Why, who is coming?”
“Lord Warrington, for one, sir; and, if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear his lordship arriving.”
Lord Warrington it was who entered next, and the two greeted each other with mutual amazement.
“What’s up now, Warrington? I hear Sir Robert’s ill.”
“So I hear; but he rang me up, or, rather, that invaluable factotum of his did so, and said Sir Robert begged me to come here at nine to-night on a most urgent matter, so I came of course.”
“Same here—precisely the same message. Looks as if it were to be a sort of board meeting. Is it about Carling? Poor chap! Personally, I wish it had been possible to save him, but that’s impossible, in the face of the evidence, and that verdict.”
“I suppose so,” Lord Warrington assented gravely. “It’s an awful tragedy—a brilliant youngster like that! And you know, Lorimer, if ever homicide was justifiable, that was—from our point of view. He ought to have been rewarded rather than punished! For if she”—he frowned up at the portrait—“had passed on those papers—whew!—Rawson himself never actually saw them, doesn’t know their contents to this day. If he did he’d think as I do, even though his own wife was the victim—as she was the thief, confound her! I say, this room’s pretty weird, what? Damn those flowers, they smell like death!”
“Here’s Cummings-Browne. So it is about Carling,” said Lorimer, and stalked towards the new-comer, his old friend since the days when they were both briefless barristers sharing chambers in the Temple. “Look here, old man, if you arranged this conference, or whatever it is, in the hope of getting a reprieve for Carling, you must know as well as I do that it’s absolutely useless.”
“I know nothing about any conference, and never expected to meet you here, Lorimer, or you, Lord Warrington. I had an urgent message from Rawson.”
“As we did; but why on earth he sent for us we can’t imagine, unless there is something fresh about Carling.”
“I hope there may be. If he’s hanged to-morrow you’ll be responsible for a frightful miscarriage of justice, Lorimer!” said Cummings-Browne.
“Oh, come now! You put up a magnificent fight for him at the trial and since, but you don’t—you can’t—personally believe he is innocent?”
“You are wrong for once. I am absolutely convinced in my own mind that he is innocent—was convinced almost from the first. It’s the most difficult, the most baffling case I’ve ever had!”
Lorimer looked at him perplexedly, but made no further comment, for Jenkins announced, “Mr. Austin Starr and Mr. Snell,” and the two entered. They had arrived together, and exchanged murmured questions as they came up.
Cummings-Browne greeted Austin, Lorimer nodded to Snell with the question:
“Anything fresh, Mr. Snell?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”
“But what are we all supposed to be here for?” Lord Warrington demanded.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. If you and the other gentlemen will kindly be seated I will explain,” said a quiet voice.
Lord Warrington turned sharply, so did the others, and stared at Thomson, who had entered silently, through the inner doors that led to the Chinese Room. He was carrying the cigar-box carefully in both hands, and looked pale, but otherwise self-possessed as usual.
“What is the meaning of all this? Why has Sir Robert sent for us?” asked Warrington imperatively.
“If you and the gentlemen will be seated, my lord, I will explain at once,” Thomson repeated, advancing to the table and depositing the box on it. There was something so curiously compelling in his formal, respectful manner that they actually complied—Lord Warrington taking the head of the table, the Home Secretary facing him, Cummings-Browne opposite Thomson. Snell slipped round and took the chair beside Thomson, on his right hand, and, sitting sideways, watched him closely. Austin was on his left.
Thomson stood erect, looking down at the cigar-box, on which his right hand rested lightly. They all looked at him expectantly, a scrutiny which he seemed to disregard entirely.
“It was I who took the liberty in my master’s name of asking you, my lord, and the other gentlemen to come here to-night,” he said slowly, as if weighing every word before he spoke. “And when you have heard my explanation you will know that the matter was urgent—a matter of life and death; and also the importance that what I have to say should be written down. The materials are before you.
“It was I who killed my lady!”
If a bomb had exploded in their midst it could scarcely have created a greater mental sensation than those seven quietly uttered words. There was a low-voiced chorus of exclamation from his astounded listeners, which he heard unmoved, never raising his eyes from the cigar-box: then Cummings-Browne’s stern voice,
“Go on. Tell us everything.”
Thomson looked up then, met Cummings-Browne’s eyes full and steadily, and thenceforth addressed himself to him direct.
“I will, sir—from the beginning. On that morning when the papers were missing from Sir Robert’s safe I was awake very early—I often am. At that time I slept in the basement: it is only since that date and Sir Robert’s illness that I have occupied a room on this floor. I thought I heard a sound in the library just above. Later I had reason to believe it was the sliding of the panel that concealed the safe——”
“What time was this?”
“Just after five, sir. I had heard the clock strike. I went out and along to the foot of the stairs in the dark and then saw there was a light in the hall. Thinking there might be burglars, I felt in a stand that is there in the lower hall, took a thick stick, and went softly up the stairs. Just as I got to the top I saw my lady, in a green dressing-robe, pass up the stairs, and a moment later the light went out—there is a control switch on the first floor. I went back to bed, thinking my lady had been down for a book.
“It was not till the middle of the morning, nearly noon, that Sir Robert sent for me to the library and told me some papers were missing. Mr. Carling was there and they were both very upset—very upset indeed.”
“Did you tell Sir Robert what you had seen?”
“No, sir. I realize now that I ought to have done so, but at the moment I didn’t like to. Sir Robert told me not to say anything to anyone, and I did not. I went down and thought it over. I felt sure in my mind that my lady had the papers, whatever they were. I knew she was out—she had gone out about ten o’clock—so was her maid, Mam’selle Périer, who had been given the day out. I wondered if my lady had gone to Rivercourt Mansions.”
“How do you know she was in the habit of going there?”
“I had known it a long time, sir. I discovered the address almost by chance, from a letter.”
“Blotting paper?” asked Cummings-Browne dryly.
“Well, yes, sir. My lady was careless once or twice that way, though it was only the address I could make out. I believe she was always very careful to post those private letters herself.”
“And you had tracked her to the place?”
“Yes, sir, a good many times—usually at night. I nearly always knew when she was going; it would be on Mam’selle Périer’s evening out, or when my lady sent her to a theatre, as she often did.”
“Well, go on.”
“I found out quite a lot one way and another about Mr. Melikoff and the Russians who used to go there, and the old Italian gentleman. It wasn’t my business, of course, and I don’t quite know why I did it, for I had no real grudge against my lady, except that I knew how my master doted on her, so to speak, and I felt she was not doing the right thing by him.
“And now I made up my mind all in a moment to go there and see if I could find out anything. I didn’t ask Sir Robert. I thought I would risk him missing me, as I’d often done before, and it wasn’t necessary for me to tell Mr. Jenkins or anyone else. I took the train, and just got to the corner of the square when, sure enough, I saw my lady herself cross the road to go into that post office. I knew it quite well, having been in and out several times when I’d happened to be in the neighbourhood.
“I followed her sharp, and peeped in. My lady was standing at the counter, and there was no one else in the shop but the person behind it, who had her back turned getting a telephone call. I went straight through—neither of them saw or heard me—passed the telephone-booth and turned to the right by the foot of some stairs and the side door. There was another door farther on half open, leading into a scullery.”
Cummings-Browne nodded. He knew—so did Snell—how accurate the description was to the last detail.
“I don’t quite know what I meant to do. I think it was to snatch her bag as she went into the booth and make a run for it. But—I had this in my pocket.”
He opened the cigar-box, took out an article that looked like the haft of a small dagger, of some dull metal elaborately chased, and held it up to view. There was a click, and out of the haft sprang a slender, vicious-looking little blade, some four inches long. Snell involuntarily put out his hand as if to seize Thomson’s arm, but the latter, having exhibited the weapon, pressed the spring again, causing the blade to disappear, and laid the thing on the table.
“I bought it off a sailor years ago in Constantinople, when I was there with my master, and he used to go about so reckless by himself in places that weren’t safe for an English gentleman that often I followed him, with this as a sort of protection, but I never had to use it—never did use it but the once!
“I don’t know what came over me all in a moment. When my lady had gone into the telephone-booth I found I’d got the dagger in my hand. I opened the door, struck at her, and snatched the bag that was resting on the little sloping shelf under the instrument. She only made a little gurgling sound and dropped forward. I shut the door on her and went through to the scullery and pushed to the door. The whole thing couldn’t have taken half a minute, and I was just in time, for I heard someone come along to the stairs and call ‘Jessie!’ There was a wet rag on the scullery table—the place didn’t seem to be used much for anything but rubbish: there was a heap of waste paper and boxes in the corner. While I waited I wiped my glove on the rag and took it off; here they both are. I’ve never cleaned them.”
He took a neatly folded pair of tan gloves out of the cigar-box and laid them on the table.
“I opened the bag, found the big envelope addressed to Sir Robert just as Mr. Carling had said, and knew the papers must be inside, but didn’t try to look at them. I also found this key and this little box, and put them in my pocket.”
He took out a Yale latchkey and a small ornate powder box of gold set with jewels, and placed these beside the other articles.
“I saw through the window a taxicab standing before the side door. There was no one at all in sight, so I listened for a minute—by the sound there were several people in the shop—then went out at the side door, put the bag through the cab window, walked away, slipping the envelope into the post box at the corner. Then I walked to the station, got a train at once—I had taken a return ticket—and was back here soon after two. I had only been away just over an hour, and so far as I know I had never been missed.
“I found my dinner on a tray in my room—I have always had my meals in my own room—and I sat down and ate it.”
“Ate his dinner! Good heavens!” muttered Lord Warrington. The others were silent, Austin Starr, an expert stenographer, was taking down the confession verbatim; the Home Secretary and Cummings-Browne making occasional notes; Snell maintained his ceaseless vigilance.
“I had just finished when Sir Robert’s bell rang for me. I went up to the library and found him and Mr. Snell there. Sir Robert again questioned me about the papers, and while he was speaking the news came by telephone that my lady had been murdered, and my master fell down in a fit.
“That’s about all it’s necessary to tell, I think, though if I might be permitted to say a few words more—about this key, and something else——”
“Go on; say all you have to say,” Cummings-Browne responded.
“Thank you, sir. I knew this key wasn’t one of ours—of this house—and I thought it just possible it might be the key to Mr. Melikoff’s flat. I knew, too, that my lady had written him a lot of letters first and last, and that if they should ever be found they might raise a scandal that would add to Sir Robert’s trouble, and I made up my mind to try and get hold of these. It was some time before I got the opportunity—it was a risky thing to do, of course. But the day that Mr. Carling was committed for trial I managed it. I knew the whole household was in the police court—I saw them there when I was in the witness-box in the morning—and in the late afternoon I went to the flat, and sure enough the key fitted. I had a look round just to take my bearings, found Mr. Melikoff’s room—there was a photo of my lady on his writing-table—and found the letters in a drawer of it. I was just about to go when they all came back; I’d run it a bit too close! I slipped into a room opposite Mr. Melikoff’s—a bare room, that looked like a schoolroom with very little in it except a piano and music-stands—and bolted the door. I thought, and so it turned out, that it wouldn’t be used at night. Hours and hours I waited there in the dark and cold before it seemed safe to try and get out.
“At last I ventured, and when I got into the hall, where the light was on, I saw the drawing-room door was ajar; there was a curtain inside, so I couldn’t see in.”
“But the door had been closed!” ejaculated Austin Starr.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Starr, I assure you it was open then, just an inch or two, and I heard voices inside—your voice, sir, and a lady’s, and you were talking about Lady Rawson. Dangerous as it was I couldn’t help listening for a minute; then I turned off the hall light and slipped off, closing the front door quietly with the key, and got away all right. Here are the letters.
“One word more, my lord and gentlemen. It was a terrible shock to me when Mr. Carling was accused, and I never believed they’d find him guilty, and right up to to-day I hoped he would be reprieved, so that it mightn’t be necessary for me to own up just yet. If my master had died I would have owned up at once; but I did hope I should be able to tend him as long as he needed me—and he needs me more now than he ever did before.”
For the first time his voice faltered, and he leaned with both hands on the table, as if for support. Snell half rose, but sat down again as Thomson recovered himself and resumed:
“It would be very kind if you could keep the truth from Sir Robert, for a bit anyhow—if you could tell him I’d been taken ill. And Mr. Carling will be safe—he’ll soon be released now, won’t he, sir?” He looked at the Home Secretary, and from him to Lord Warrington. “And you’ll excuse the liberty I took in sending for you all. I wouldn’t leave nothing to chance, so to speak. And now, Mr. Snell, I’m quite ready for you, and I’ll go quiet, of course, though I suppose you’ll want to put on the handcuffs, if you’ve got them with you?”
They all rose, and Thomson, respectful to the last, stepped back and stood, with Snell close beside him, as if the buzz of low-toned, agitated conversation among the others did not concern him in the least.
Austin Starr unceremoniously clutched Lorimer’s arm.
“Say, Mr. Home Secretary, this does it! Roger Carling’s saved? You’ll put the order for his release through right now?”
“It will have to be ‘the King’s pardon,’ of course, and it will be put through at the earliest possible moment. Thank God that—that extraordinary old villain confessed to-night!”
“When will Roger be home?”
“That I cannot say at the moment—possibly to-morrow.”
“I may ’phone right now to his poor young wife?”
“Assuredly; and I will telephone to her myself later.”
Austin glanced round the room. A telephone was there, but concealed under a tall Sèvres china doll gorgeously arrayed in Louis-Seize court costume, and he couldn’t see it. Downstairs he dashed, and seized the instrument in the hall.
“Victoria ten-four-double-three, quick please! That you, Grace? Austin speaking. Oh, my dear girl, it’s all right! Roger’s saved—cleared! He’ll be home as soon as ever the Home Secretary can fix it. Old Thomson’s confessed everything right now. It was he who murdered Lady Rawson!”