"Come, none of that," Jimmie said, brusquely. "Let us talk of something more interesting. I have a pot of money; and this stuff," pulling out the packet of bills, "don't even make a hole in it. It was a jolly little thing to do—"

"It wasn't a little thing for me, old chap. I shall never forget, and be assured that you will get your money back some day, with interest."

"Oh, hang the money!" exclaimed Jimmie. "If I'm ever hard up I'll ask for it. If you want to show your gratitude, my boy, see that you stick to your promise and run straight as a die hereafter."

"I swear I will, Jimmie. I would be worse than a blackguard if I didn't. Don't worry—I've had my lesson!"

"Then let it be a lasting one. There are plenty of fellows who never get clear of the Jews."

Jimmie vanished into the next room, and in a few moments reappeared, rubbing his face vigorously with a towel.

"Do you remember in the Jew's den," he said abruptly, "my calling your attention to the men talking in the back office?"

"Yes, but I didn't know what you meant."

"Didn't one of the voices sound familiar to you?"

"By Jove, you're right, come to think of it. It reminded me of—"

"Of Victor Nevill," said Jimmie. "Benjamin's companion talked exactly like him, it struck me."

"That's it. Queer, wasn't it? But, of course, it was only a coincidence. Nevill couldn't have been there."

"No; I hardly think so," Jimmie answered, slowly and seriously.

"I'm positive about it," exclaimed Bertie. "Surely you wouldn't insinuate that Nevill is a—"

"No, I can't believe him to be that—a tout for money-lenders. But it was wonderfully like his voice."

"Don't get such an idea into your head," protested Bertie. "Nevill was only in the place twice, and then he went to oblige me. He hates the Jews, and won't have anything to do with them himself. And he don't need to. He has a settled income of two or three thousand a year."

"Yet he refused to help you, and pleaded that he was hard up?"

"Yes," assented Bertie, "but he didn't put it exactly in that way. He explained how he was fixed, and I quite understand it. He must save all his spare cash just now. He is going to be married soon."

"That's news," said Jimmie. "I hadn't an inkling of it."

"Nor I," declared Bertie, "until a week ago. I was dining with Nevill, and he had taken half a bottle too much, you know. That's when he let it out."

"Who is the girl?"

"A Miss Foster, I believe. She lives somewhere near Kew Bridge, in a big, old-fashioned house on the river. I suppose her father has money. From what Nevill said—"

A sharp exclamation fell from Jimmie's lips, and his face expressed blank astonishment.

"By Jove! Nevill engaged to Madge Foster?" he cried.

"That's the girl, and he's going to marry her!"

Jimmie turned away to hide his feelings. This was a most astounding piece of news, but under the circumstances he was satisfied that it must be true. So Nevill knew Miss Foster! That in itself was a strange revelation! And suddenly a vague suspicion came into his mind—a chilling doubt—as he recalled Nevill's demeanor, and certain little actions of his, on the night when Jack Vernon's French wife confronted him under the trees of Richmond Terrace. Had a jealous rival planned that Diane should be there?—that she should come to life again to blast the happiness of the man who believed her dead? He tried to put away the suspicion, but it would not be stifled; it grew stronger.

"I say, old man, what's gone wrong?" asked Bertie. "You're acting queerly. I hope you've not been hit in that quarter."

Jimmie faced around and laughed.

"No fear, Bertie," he said. "I'm not a marrying man. I wouldn't know Miss Foster from your precious Flora, for I've never seen either of them." He suddenly remembered the photograph Jack had shown him, and his cheeks flushed. "It gave me a bit of a start to hear that Nevill was going to be married," he added, hastily. "I thought he was too fond of a bachelor's existence to tie himself to a wife."

"It's funny what a woman can do with a chap," Bertie sagely observed.

"You ought to know," Jimmie replied, pointedly, as he pulled on his coat. "Come along! It's past my lunch hour, and I'm hungry."

On their way to a noted restaurant in the vicinity Jimmy engaged in deep reflection.

"I'll do it," he vowed, mentally. "I'll keep an eye on Mr. Victor Nevill, and get to the bottom of this thing. I remember that I took a dislike to him in Paris from the first. I hate a traitor, and if Nevill has been playing the part of a false friend, I'll block his little game. He seemed rather too anxious to take Diane away that night. And he'll bear watching for another reason—I'm almost certain that it was his voice I heard in the Jew's back room. Benjamin and Company, like charity, may cover a multitude of sins. Nevill was going a rapid pace when he was abroad, and he couldn't well have kept it up all these years on his legacy."

* * * * *

It was eleven o'clock at night, and the theatres were pouring their audiences from pit and stalls, galleries and boxes, into the crowded, tumultuous, clamoring Strand, blazing and flashing like a vast, long furnace, echoing to the roar of raucous throats, and throbbing to the rumble of an endless invasion of cabs and private carriages. A fascinating scene, and one of the most interesting that London can show.

The uniformed commissionaire of the Ambiguity, reading the wishes of a lady and gentleman who pressed across the pavement to the curb, promptly claimed a hansom and opened the door. Stephen Foster helped his daughter into it and followed her. Madge looked fragile and tired, but her sweet beauty attracted the attention of the bystanders; she drew her fluffy opera-cloak about her white throat and shoulders as she nestled in a corner of the seat. Nevill, who had been separated from them by the crush, came forward just then.

"I'm sorry you won't have some supper," he said. "It is not late."

"It will be midnight before we get home," Stephen Foster replied. "We are indebted to you for a delightful evening."

"Yes, we enjoyed it so much," Madge added, politely.

"I hope you will let me repeat it soon," Nevill said.

The girl did not answer. She held out her hand, and it was cold to Nevill's touch. He bade them both good-night, and stepped aside to give the cabby his directions. He watched the vehicle roll away, and then scowled at the commissionaire, who waited expectantly for a tip.

"As beautiful as a dream," he thought, savagely, "but with a heart of ice—at least to me. Will I never be able to melt her?"

It is no easy matter to cross the Strand when the theaters are dismissing their audiences, and five minutes were required for Nevill to accomplish that operation; even then he had to avail himself of a stoppage of the traffic by a policeman. He bent his steps to the grill-room of the Grand, and enjoyed a chop and a small bottle of wine. Lighting a cigar, he sauntered slowly to Jermyn street, and as he reached his lodgings a man started up suddenly before him.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said humbly, "but ain't you Mr. Victor Nevill?"



CHAPTER XXIV.

A FATEFUL DECISION.

Nevill paused, latch-key in hand; a cautious impulse checked the admission of his identity. The individual who had accosted him, seen by the glow of a distant street-lamp, was thickset and rakish-looking, with a heavy mustache. He repeated his question uneasily.

"If I've made a mistake—" he went on.

"No, you are not mistaken," said Nevill. "But how did you learn my name, and what do you want with me?"

On a natural impulse, fancying he recognized a racing tipster who had been of service to him in the past, he reached for his pocket; the jingling of coin was heard.

"Stow that—I'm not a beggar!" the man said, sharply.

"I beg your pardon! I thought I recalled—"

"We never met before, Mr. Nevill."

"Then it's a queer time of night for a stranger to hunt me up. If you have business with me, come in the morning; or, better still, write to me."

"I've got to talk to you to-night, sir, and I ain't to be put off. For two blessed hours I've been hanging around this house, watching an' waiting—"

"A sad waste of time! You are an impudent fellow, whoever you are. I refuse to have anything to do with you."

"I think you'll change your mind, sir. If you don't you'll be sorry till your dying day."

"You scoundrel, do you dare to threaten me?" cried Nevill. "There is only one remedy for ruffians of your kind—" He looked up and down the street in search of a policeman.

"You can call an officer if you like," the man said, scornfully; "or, if you choose to order me away, I'll go. But in that case," he bent nearer and dropped his voice to a whisper, "I'll take my secret straight to Sir Lucius Chesney. And I'll warrant he won't refuse to hear it."

Nevill's countenance changed, and he seemed to wilt instantly.

"Your secret?" he muttered. "Are you telling the truth? What is it?"

"Do you suppose I'm going to give that away here in the street? It's a private matter, and can only be told under shelter, where there ain't no danger of eavesdroppers."

"I'll trust you," replied Nevill, after a brief hesitation. "Come, you shall go to my rooms. But I warn you in advance that if you are playing a game of blackmail I'll have no mercy on you."

"I won't ask none. Don't you fear."

Nevill opened the house door, and the two went softly up the dimly lit staircase. The gas-lamps were turned on, revealing the luxuries of the front apartment, and the visitor looked about him with bewildered admiration; he seemed to feel his unfitness for the place, and instinctively buttoned his coat over his shabby linen. But that was only for a moment. With an insolent smile he took possession of a basket-chair, helped himself to a cigar, and poured some brandy from a carafe into a glass. Meanwhile Nevill had drawn the window curtains, and when he turned around he had hard work to restrain his anger.

"What the devil—," he began, and broke off. "You are the cheekiest fellow I ever came across," he added.

"It ain't often," replied the man, puffing away contentedly, "that I get a chance to try a swell's tobacco and liquor. That's prime stuff, sir. I feel more like talking now."

"Then be quick about it. What is your business? And as you have the advantage of me at present, it would be better if you began by stating your name."

"My name," the man paused half a second, "is Timmins—Joe Timmins. It ain't likely that you—"

"No; I never heard it," Nevill interrupted. He sat down at the other side of the table, and endeavored to hide his anxiety and impatience. "I can't spare you much time," he added.

"Sure there ain't nobody within earshot?"

"Quite sure. Make your mind easy."

Mr. Joe Timmins—alias Noah Hawker—expressed his satisfaction by a nod. He produced a paper from his pocket, and slowly unfolded it.

"If you will kindly read that," he said.

Nevill took the document curiously. It consisted of half a dozen pages of writing, well-worded and grammatical, but done by a wretched, scrawling hand, and embellished with numerous blots and smudges. From the first he grasped its import, and as he read on to the end his face grew pale and his hands shook. With a curse he started to his feet and made a step toward the grate, where the embers of a coal fire lingered. Then, dropping down again, he laughed bitterly.

"Of course this is only a copy?" he exclaimed.

"That's all, sir," replied Mr. Timmins, with a grim smile. "It ain't likely I'd been fool enough to bring the original here. I did the copy myself, an' though I ain't much of a scholar, I do say as it reads for what it's meant to be, word for word."

"I want better proof than this, my man."

"Ain't you satisfied? Look at the date of the letter, an' where it was written, an' what it says. Could I invent such a thing?"

"No; you couldn't," Nevill admitted. "You have the original letter, you say?"

"I've had that and other papers for years, hid away in a safe place, which is where they lie now. It's only lately I looked into them deep, so to speak, and saw what they might be worth to me. I studied them, sir, and by putting things together I found there were three persons concerned—three chances for me to try."

"You are a cunning fellow," said Nevill. "Why did you bring the letter to me?"

"Because it pointed that way. I knew you were the biggest bird, and the one most likely to pay me for my secret. It was quite a different matter with the others—"

"You haven't seen them?"

"No fear!" Mr. Timmins answered, emphatically. "I spotted you as my man from the first, and I'm glad you've got the sense to look at it right. I hope we understand each other."

"I don't think there can be much doubt about that," replied Nevill, whose quick mind had grasped the situation in all its bearings; he realized that there was no alternative—save ruin—but to submit to the scoundrel's terms. But the bargain must be made as easy as possible.

"I must know more than you have told me," he went on. "How did the letter come into your possession? And why have you waited more than five years to make use of it?"

Mr. Timmins was not averse to answering the questions. He pulled his chair closer, and in low tones spoke for some minutes, revealing all that Nevill wished to know, and much besides that was of interest.

"You'll find me a square-dealing customer," he concluded, "and I expect the same of a gent like you."

Nevill shrank from him with ill-concealed disgust and repulsion; contact with the lower depths of crime affected his aristocratic sensibilities.

"You swear that you have all the papers?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And they are in a safe place?"

"If I was to drop over dead, sir, they wouldn't be found in a hundred years."

"We'll proceed to the next question," Nevill said, abruptly. "To speak with brutal frankness, Mr. Timmins, what is your price?"

"One thousand pounds in cash, when the papers are handed over," was the prompt reply, "and a signed agreement to pay me as much more when you come into—"

"Do you take me for a millionaire?" cried Nevill. "It's all right about the agreement, but a thousand pounds is utterly beyond my means. Say two hundred."

Mr. Timmins shook his head, and glanced significantly about the room.

"I can't take a shilling less," he firmly replied. "I know a good thing when I have it, sir."

Nevill temporized. He argued and entreated, but without avail. He had an inflexible customer to deal with, who would not be put off with anything but his pound of flesh. A decision that night was impossible, and arrangements were made for another meeting within a few days. Then Mr. Timmins filled his pocket with cigars and took his leave.

Nevill let him out into Jermyn street, locked the door, and returned to his sitting-room. His face was distorted with evil passions, and he spilled the brandy on the table as he poured some into a glass.

"Curse him!" he said, hoarsely. "He again! Is he destined to blast my life and ruin my prospects?"

* * * * *

The "do" at Joubert Mansions, Chelsea, by no means fell short of Jack's forecast; on the contrary, it exceeded it. His memory failed him as to what transpired after three in the morning; he woke at noon in a strange bed, with a sense of overmastering languor, and a head that felt too big for his body. Vance Dickens, with a palette on his thumb, was standing over him. He laughed till the roof threatened to come off.

"I wish you could see yourself," he howled. "It's not exactly the awakening of Venus. You wouldn't be undressed, so we had to tuck you away as you were—some chaps helped to bring you here."

"You beggar!" growled Jack. "You look as fresh as a new penny."

"Two whiskies is my limit, old boy—I don't go beyond it. And I had a page black-and-white to do to-day. Stir yourself, and we'll have breakfast. The kettle is boiling. Wait—I'll bring you a pick-me-up."

The pick-me-up, compounded on the principle that like cures like, did not belie its name. It got Jack to his feet and soothed his head. The two men were about of a size, and Dickens loaned his friend a shirt and collar and a tweed suit, promising to send his dress clothes home by a trusty messenger.

"No; I'll attend to that," demurred Jack, who did not care to tell where he lived.

He nibbled at his breakfast, drank four cups of strong tea, and then sauntered to the window. It was drizzling rain, and the streets between the river and the King's road were wrapped in a white mist.

"This sort of thing won't do," he reflected. "I must pull up short, or I'll be a complete wreck." He remembered the brief, sad note—with more love than bitterness in it—which he had received from Madge in reply to his letter of explanation. "I owe something to her," he thought. "She forgave me, and begged me to face the future bravely. And, by heavens, I'll do it! I hope she doesn't know the life I've been leading since I came back. Work is the thing, and I'll buckle down to it again."

Fired by his new resolve, Jack settled himself in a cozy corner and lighted a pipe. With a stimulating interest he watched Dickens, who had finished his black-and-white, and was doing a water color from a sketch made that summer at Walberswick, a quaint fishing village on the Suffolk coast. He blobbed on the paint, working spasmodically, and occasionally he refreshed himself at the piano with a verse of the latest popular song.

"By Jove, this is Friday!" he said suddenly; "and I'm due at the London Sketch Club to-night. Will you come there and have supper with me at nine?"

"Sorry, but I can't," Jack replied, remembering his promise to Sir Lucius Chesney. "I'm off now. I'll drop in to-morrow and get my dress-suit—don't trouble to send it."

Dickens vainly urged a change of mind. Jack was not to be coerced, and, putting on a borrowed cap and overcoat, he left the studio. He walked to Sloane square, and took a train to the Temple; but he was so absorbed in a paper that he was carried past his station. He got out at Blackfriars, and lingered doubtfully on the greasy pavement, staring at the sea of traffic surging in the thick, yellow fog. He had reached another turning-point in his life, but he did not know it.

"I'll go to the 'Cheese,'" he decided, "and have some supper."



CHAPTER XXV.

A FRUITLESS ERRAND.

The merest trifles often have far-reaching results, and Jack's careless decision, prompted by a hungry stomach, made him the puppet of fate. The crossing at Blackfriars station is the most dangerous in London, and he did not reach the other side without much delay and several narrow escapes. It was a shoulder-and-elbow fight to the mouth of the dingy little court in which is the noted hostelry he sought, and then compensation and a haven of rest—the dining-room of the "Cheshire Cheese!" Here there was no trace of the fog, and the rumble of wheels was hushed to a soothing murmur. An old-world air pervaded the place, with its low ceiling and sawdust-sprinkled floor, its well-worn benches and tables and paneling. The engravings on the walls added to the charm, and the head waiter might have stepped from a page of Dickens. Savory smells abounded, and the kettle rested on the hob over the big fireplace, to the right of which Doctor Johnson's favorite seat spoke eloquently of the great lexicographer, who in time past was wont to foregather here with his friends.

Jack was too hungry to be sentimental. He sat down in one of the high-backed compartments, and, glancing indifferently at a man sitting opposite to him, he recognized the editor of the Illustrated Universe.

"By Jove!" Hunston cried, in surprise, "you're the very chap I want to see. Where have you been hiding yourself, Vernon? I searched for you high and low."

"I've not been out of town," said Jack. "I intended to look you up, or to send my address, but one thing and another interfered—"

"Yes, I understand," Hunston interrupted. "London is fresh to a man who has just come back from India. I hope you've had your fling, and are ready to do some work."

"As soon as you like," Jack replied.

"I'm glad to hear it—I was afraid you had given me the slip altogether. I want some of your sketches enlarged to double-page drawings, and I am thinking of issuing a photographic album of the snap-shots you took on the frontier."

"That's not a bad idea. I'll come in to-morrow."

"I'll expect you, then. You haven't a studio at present?"

"No."

"Well, I can give you a room on the premises to work in. By the bye, there is a letter for you at the office. It came this morning."

"I'll get it to-morrow. I don't suppose it's important."

"It is in a woman's handwriting," said Hunston, with a smile.

"A woman?" exclaimed Jack. "Where does it come from—England or abroad?"

"London postmark," was the reply.

Jack changed color, and a lump seemed to rise in his throat.

"It must be from Madge," he thought. "But why would she write to me?"

"If you would like the letter to-night—" Hunston went on.

"If it's no trouble," Jack replied, eagerly.

"None whatever. I must go back to the office, anyway."

Jack was impatient to start, and he no longer felt hungry. He ordered a light supper, however, and ate it hurriedly. He finished at the same time as Hunston, and they left the "Cheese" and plunged into the outer fog and crowds. A short walk brought them to the Universe building, which was just closing its doors to the public. Hunston turned up the gas in his office.

"Here you are," he said, taking a letter from a pigeon-hole over the desk.

Jack looked at it sharply, and disappointment banished hope. He scowled savagely, and an half-audible oath slipped from his lips. He had recognized Diane's peculiar penmanship. She was in London, contrary to promise, and had dared to write to him.

"Sit down," said Hunston. "Have a cigar?"

"No; I'm off," Jack answered dully, as he thrust the letter into his pocket unopened.

Hunston regarded him anxiously.

"Ill see you to-morrow?" he asked. "You know it's rather important, and I'll want one of the double pages by next Wednesday."

"I'll turn up," Jack promised, in an absent tone.

With that he hastened away, and as he trod the Strand his brain was in a confused whirl, and he was oblivious of the frothing life about him. He groped across Waterloo Bridge in the fog, and looked wistfully toward the black river. He did not care to read the letter yet. It was enough for the present to know that his wife had broken her word and returned to London, doubtless with the intention of demanding more money. He vowed that she should not have a penny. Fierce anger and resentment rose in his heart as he remembered, with anguish as keen as it had ever been, the blow Diane had dealt him.

"I will show her no mercy," he resolved.

In the privacy of his room, when he had locked the door and lighted the gas, he took out the letter. His face was dark and scowling as he tore it open, and read the few lines that it contained:

"DEAR JACK:—You will fly into a passion when you find that I am in London, but you won't blame me when you learn the reasons that have brought me back. I knew that you had returned from India, and I want to see you. Not having your address, I am sending the letter to the Universe office, and I hope it will be delivered to you promptly. Will you come to 324 Beak street, at half-past eight to-morrow night? The street door will be open. Go to the top of the stairs, and knock at the first door on the left. Do not fear that I shall ask for money, or make other demands. I have much to tell you, of the greatest importance to your future happiness. If you do not come you will regret it all your life. I will expect you. DIANE."

With a bitter laugh Jack flung the letter on a table. It was not written in French, for Diane was herself of English birth, though of her history before she came to Paris her husband was ignorant; she had never spoken to him of her earlier years, nor had he questioned her about them.

"Does she think I am a fool, to be taken in so easily?" he said to himself. "It is a lie—a trick! Money is her game, of course. She wants to decoy me to her lodgings, and hopes to make me yield by threats of exposure. And yet she writes with a ring of sincerity—something like her old self in the first days of our marriage. Bah! it is only her cunning."

He read the letter again, and pondered it.

"It was written yesterday," he muttered. "The appointment is for to-night. What could she possibly have to tell me that concerns my future happiness? Nothing! And yet, if she should really be remorseful—By Jove! I will go! It can do no harm. But if I find that she has deceived me, and is playing the old game, by heavens! I'll—"

Passion choked his utterance, and he concluded the sentence with a mental threat. He suddenly remembered that he had promised to meet Sir Lucius Chesney at eight o'clock that night.

"I can't do it," he thought. "I'm not fit to talk to any man in this mood. And he would probably detain me more than half an hour. No, I'll write a short note to Sir Lucius, putting off the engagement, and leave it at Morley's."

Whether his decision was a wise one or not, was a question that Jack did not attempt to analyze. He proceeded to carry his plans into effect. It was then seven o'clock, and it took him twenty minutes to write the note to Sir Lucius and exchange his borrowed clothes for a dark suit of his own. He put Diane's letter into a side pocket, so that he might be sure of the address, and then left the house. He did not take a cab, preferring to walk.

He handed the note in at Morley's Hotel, and steered across Trafalgar square. At the top of the Haymarket, to his chagrin, he encountered Jimmie Drexell, who urged him to have a drink at Scott's; he could not well refuse, as it was nearly a fortnight since they had met.

A quarter of an hour slipped by. Jimmie asked a great many questions, but Jack was preoccupied and uneasy, and scarcely answered them. He finally tore himself away on the plea of an urgent engagement, and promised to call at the Albany the next day; he was reluctant to confide in his friend. A distant clock was striking eight-thirty as he turned up the Quadrant.

Regent street was noisy and crowded, but Beak street was gloomy and misty, depressing and lonely, in contrast. Jack found the right number, and as he hesitated before the house—the door of which was partly open—a man came abruptly out. He was tall and slim, dressed in dark clothes, and with a soft hat that concealed all of his features except an aquiline nose and a black beard and mustache. He stared hard at Jack for an instant, then strode rapidly off to the eastward and was lost in the fog.

"A foreigner, from his actions," thought Jack.

He pushed the door open, and mounted a steep and narrow staircase. Reaching the first landing, he saw a door on his left. At the bottom a faint streak of light was visible, but his low rapping brought no response. He rapped again—three times, and each louder—but with the same result.

"No use to keep this up," he concluded, vexatiously. "I am a few minutes late, and she has gone out, thinking that I would not come. There is no mistake about the room. I won't wait—I'll write to her to-morrow, and give her twenty-four hours to get out of London."

He went slowly down the dark stairs, and as he stepped into the street he brushed against a stout, elderly woman. With a muttered apology, he moved aside. The woman turned and looked after him sharply for an instant, then entered the house and closed the door.

Jack thought nothing of the incident. How to put in the evening was the question that concerned him. He was walking undecidedly down the Quadrant when he saw approaching an artist friend whom he did not care to meet. On the impulse of the moment he darted across the street, narrowly missing the wheels of a hansom, and in front of the Cafe Royal he ran into the arms of Victor Nevill.

"Hello, old chap; you are in a hurry!" cried Nevill. "What's up now? Seen my uncle?"

Jack was flushed and breathless.

"No; I couldn't manage it," he panted. "I left a note at Morley's for him. I had to make a call—party wasn't at home."

"Where are you bound for? Morley's?"

"No; it's too late. Shall we have some refreshment?"

"Sorry, but I can't," replied Nevill. "I'm going to a reception. Will you come to my rooms at eleven?"

"Yes, if I'm not too far away. But don't count on me. Good-night, in case I don't see you again."

"Good-night," echoed Nevill.

As he looked after Jack, the latter pulled out his handkerchief, and a white object fluttered from it to the pavement. He walked on, unconscious of its loss. Nevill hurried to the spot, and picked up a letter.

"A woman's!" he muttered, as he thrust it quickly into his pocket. "And the writing seems familiar. I'll examine this when I get a chance. Everything is fair in the game I am playing."

Jack wandered irresolutely to Piccadilly Circus, seeking distraction. In the American bar at the St. James' he met a man named Ingram, who suggested that they should go to see a mutual friend—an artist—who lived in Bedford Park. Jack agreed, and they drove in a cab. They found a lot of other men they knew at the studio, and whisky and tobacco made the hours fly. They left at two o'clock in the morning—a convivial party of five—and they had to walk to Hammersmith before they picked up a hansom. They dropped off one by one, and Jack was the only occupant when he reached Sloane street. It was long past four when the cab put him down at his lodgings on the Surrey side.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE.

Another day dawned, as wet and gloomy as the preceding ones. It was the middle of the morning when Jack got out of bed, and as he dressed he heard the penetrating voices of newsboys ringing through the Waterloo Bridge road. He could not distinguish what they were saying, though he judged that the papers must contain some intelligence of unusual importance. He rang for his breakfast, and his landlady, Mrs. Jones, appeared in person, bringing coffee, rolls and bacon on a tray. Her face was flushed with excitement.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon, 'ave you 'eard?" she exclaimed. "There was a 'orrible murder last night! I do pity the poor, dear creature—"

"I don't want to be shocked," Jack curtly interrupted. "Murders are common enough. But you might send me up a paper."

"And you won't 'ear—"

"Not now, my good woman."

Mrs. Jones put down the tray, tossed her head, and departed in a huff. The paper arrived five minutes later, and Jack glanced over it while he sipped his coffee. One of the inside pages suddenly confronted him with huge headlines: "The Beak Street Murder!" He read further down the column, and his face turned as pale as ashes; he swayed in his chair.

"My God!" he cried. "It is Diane!"

The report of the affair was enlarged from a briefer account that had appeared in a late edition on the previous night. It seemed that Mrs. Rickett, the landlady and proprietress of 324 Beak street, had discovered the crime at a quarter to ten in the evening. A red stain, coming through the ceiling of her sitting-room, attracted her attention. She went to the room overhead, which was occupied by a female lodger calling herself Diane Merode. The door was locked, and her demands for admittance brought no response. She promptly summoned the police, who broke in the door and found the unfortunate woman, Merode, lying dead in a pool of blood. She had been stabbed to the heart by a powerful blow dealt from behind.

"The murderer left no traces," the Globe continued. "He carried off the weapon, and, after locking the door, he took the key. According to medical opinion, the deed was committed about half-past eight o'clock. At that time there were several other lodgers in the top part of the house, but they heard no noise whatever. Fortunately, however, there is a clew. Mrs. Ricketts, who was out making purchases for breakfast, returned about a quarter to nine. As she entered the doorway a man slipped by her and hastened in the direction of Regent street. She had a good look at him, and declares that she would be able to recognize him again. The police are searching for the suspected person."

Jack's breakfast was untasted and forgotten. His trembling hand had upset the coffee, spilling it over the paper. He felt cold in every vein, and his thoughts were in a state of wild chaos. It was hard to grasp the truth—difficult to realize the import of those staring headlines of black type!

"Diane murdered! Diane dead!" he repeated, vacantly. "I can't believe it!"

After the first shock, when his brain began to throw off the numbing stupor, he comprehended the terrible fact. The crime gave him no satisfaction; it never occurred to him that he was a free man now. On the contrary, a dull remorse stirred within him. He remembered his wife as she had been five years before, when she had loved him with as much sincerity as her shallow nature would permit, and her charms and beauty had bound him captive by golden chains. There were tears in his eyes as he paced the floor unsteadily.

"Poor Diane!" he muttered. "She has paid a frightful penalty for the sins of her wayward life—more than she deserved. She must have been lying dead when I rapped on her door last night. Yes, and the fatal blow had been struck but a short time before! The assassin was the foreign-looking man who came down the stairs as I went up! There can be no doubt of it! But who was he? And what was his motive? A discarded lover, perhaps! What else could have prompted the deed?"

He suddenly paused, and reeled against the wall; he clenched his hands, and a look of sharp horror distorted his face.

"By heavens, this is awful!" he gasped. "I never thought of it before! The police are looking for me—I remember now that I met the landlady when I left the house. I brushed against her and apologized, and she stared straight at me! And the real murderer—the foreigner—appears to have been seen by nobody except myself. What shall I do? It is on me that suspicion has fallen!"

The realization of his danger unnerved and stupefied Jack for an instant. Dread phantoms of arrest and imprisonment, of trial and sentence, rose before his eyes. One moment he determined to flee the country; the next he resolved to surrender to the police and tell all that he knew, so that the real murderer might be sought for without loss of time. But the latter course was risky, fraught with terrible possibilities. The evidence would be strong against him. He remembered Diane's letter. He must destroy it! He hurriedly searched the pockets of the clothing he had worn on the previous night, but in vain.

"The letter is gone—I have lost it!" he concluded, with a sinking heart. "But where and how? And if it is found—"

There was a sharp rap at the door, and as quickly it opened, without invitation. Two stern-looking men, dressed in plain clothes, stepped into the room. Jack knew at once what the visit meant, and with a supreme effort he braced himself to meet the ordeal. It was hard work to stand erect and to keep his face from twitching.

"You are John Vernon?" demanded one of the men.

"Yes."

"I will be very brief, sir. I am a Scotland Yard officer, and I am here to arrest you on suspicion of having murdered your wife, known as Diane Merode, at Number 324 Beak street, last night."

"I expected this," Jack replied. "I have just seen the paper—I knew nothing of the crime before. I am entirely innocent, though I admit that the circumstances—"

"I warn you not to say anything that may incriminate yourself. You must come with me, sir!"

"I understand that, and I will go quietly. I am quite ready. And at the proper time I will speak."

There was no delay. One of the officers remained to search the apartments, and Jack accompanied the other downstairs. They got into a cab and drove off, while Mrs. Jones shook her fist at them from the doorway, loudly protesting that she was a disgraced and ruined woman forever.

The magistrate was sitting in the court at Great Marlborough street, and Jack was taken there to undergo a brief preliminary formality. Contrary to advice, he persisted in making a statement, after which he was removed to the Holloway prison of detention to await the result of the coroner's inquest.

About the time that the cell-door closed on the unfortunate artist, shutting him in to bitter reflections, Victor Nevill was in his rooms on Jermyn street. Several of the latest papers were spread out before him, and he brushed them savagely aside as he reached for a cigar-box. He looked paler than usual—even haggard.

"They have taken him by this time," he thought. "I was lucky to pick up the letter, and it was a stroke of inspiration to send it to the police. He is guilty, without doubt. I vowed to have a further revenge, my fine fellow, if I ever got the chance, and I have kept my word. But there are other troubles to meet. The clouds are gathering—I wonder if I shall weather the storm!"

* * * * *

Enterprising reporters, aided by official leaking somewhere, obtained possession of considerable facts, including the prisoner's arrest and statement, before two o'clock, and the afternoon journals promptly published them, not scrupling to add various imaginary embellishments. The simple truth was enough to cause a wide-spread and profound sensation, and it did so; for John Vernon's reputation as an artist, and his Academy successes, were known alike to society and to the masses. It was a rare morsel of scandal!

Madge Foster's first knowledge of the murder was gleaned from a morning paper, which, delayed for some reason, was not delivered until her father had gone up to town. Toward evening she bought a late edition from a newsboy who had penetrated to the isolated regions of Grove Park and Strand-on-the-Green, and she saw Jack's name in big letters. When she had read the whole account, the room seemed to swim around her, and she dropped, half fainting, into a chair.

"He is innocent—his story is true!" she cried, feebly. "I will never believe him guilty! Oh, if I could only go to him and comfort him in his great trouble!"

Stephen Foster came home at seven o'clock, but he dined alone. Madge was in her room, and would not come out or touch food. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she had wept until the fountain of her tears was dried up.

At four o'clock that same afternoon Mr. Tenby, the famous criminal solicitor, was sitting in his private office in Bedford street, Strand, when two prospective clients were announced simultaneously, and, by a mistake on the part of the office-boy, shown in together. The visitors were Jimmie Drexell and Sir Lucius Chesney, and, greatly to their mutual amazement and the surprise of the solicitor, it appeared that they had come on the same errand—to engage Mr. Tenby to look after the interests of Jack Vernon. They were soon on the best of terms.

"Mr. Vernon is an old friend of mine," Jimmie explained, "and I am going to see him through this thing. I will stake my life on his innocence!"

"I am glad to hear you say that," replied Sir Lucius. "I am convinced myself that he is guiltless—that his story is true in every particular. His face is a warranty of that. I am deeply interested in the young man, Mr. Drexell. I have taken a fancy to him—and I insist on aiding in his defense. Don't refuse, sir. Expense is no object to me!"

"Nor to me," said Jimmie. "But it shall be as you wish."

This understanding being reached, the matter was further gone into. The solicitor, by adroit questioning, drew from Jimmie various bits of information relating to the accused man's past life. His own opinion—he had read all the papers—Mr. Tenby held in reserve behind a sphinx-like countenance, nor did he vouchsafe it when it was finally settled that he should defend the case.

"The circumstantial evidence appears strong—very strong," he said drily. "The situation looks black for Mr. Vernon. But I trust that the police will find the foreign-looking individual whom the accused met coming out of the house, if it is certain that—" He broke off sharply.

"At all events, gentlemen," he added, "be assured that I shall do my best."

This promise from the great Mr. Tenby meant everything. He dismissed his visitors, and they walked as far as Morley's Hotel together, discussing the situation as hopefully as they could. It was evident to both, however, that the solicitor was not disposed to credit Jack's innocence or the truth of his statement.

"I'll spend every dollar I have to get him free," Jimmie vowed, as he went sadly on to the Albany. And much the same thing was in the mind of Sir Lucius, though he wondered why it should be. He was the creature of a whim that dominated him.

The next day was Sunday, and on Monday the coroner held his inquest. The accused was not present, but he was represented by Mr. Tenby, who posed mainly as a listener, however, and asked very few questions. Nothing fresh was solicited. Mrs. Rickett repeated her story, and the letter from the murdered woman, which the prisoner admitted having lost, was put in evidence. The proceedings being merely a prelude to a higher court, the jurors rendered an undecisive verdict. They found that the deceased had been murdered by a person or persons unknown, but that suspicion strongly pointed to her husband, John Vernon. They advised, moreover, that the police should try to find the stranger whom the accused alleged to have seen coming from the house.

On Tuesday the unfortunate woman was decently buried, at Jimmie Drexell's expense, and on the following day a more formal inquiry was held at Great Marlborough street. Jack was there, and he had a brief and affecting interview with Sir Lucius and Jimmie; he had previously seen his solicitor at Holloway. He repeated to the magistrate the story he had told before, and he was compelled to admit, by the Crown lawyers, that the murdered woman had been his wife, that they had lived apart for nearly six years, and that she had recently prevented him from marrying another woman. What prompted these damaging questions, or how the prosecution got hold of the lost letter, did not appear. Mrs. Rickett positively identified the prisoner, and medical evidence was taken. The police stated that they had been unable as yet to find the missing man, concerning whose existence they suggested some doubt, and that they had discovered nothing bearing on the case in the apartments occupied by either the accused or Diane Merode. Mr. Tenby, who was suffering from a headache, did little but watch the proceedings. The inquiry was adjourned, and John Vernon was remanded in custody for a week.

But much was destined to occur in the interval. The solicitor had a formidable rival in the person of Jimmie Drexell. The shrewd American, keeping eyes and ears open, had formed suspicions in regard to the principal witness for the Crown. And he lost no time in making the most of his clew, wild and improbable as it seemed.



CHAPTER XXVII.

AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE.

On the day of the inquiry at Great Marlborough street, about five o'clock in the afternoon, Jimmie Drexell walked slowly and thoughtfully up the Quadrant. The weather had turned cold, and his top hat and fur-lined coat gave him the appearance of an actor in luck. He was bound on a peculiar errand, and though he hoped to succeed, he was not blind to the fact that the odds were very much against him.

"I shall probably put my foot in it somehow," he reflected dolefully, "and make a mess of the thing. But if I fail, it won't convince me that I am wrong. I had my eye on that woman in court, and she was certainly keeping something back. She seemed confused—in dread of some question that was never asked. And once or twice I thought she was on the point of making some startling revelation. I must play a cunning game, for poor old Jack's sake. If Mrs. Rickett can't save him, and the police don't find the mysterious stranger, I'm afraid he will be in a devilish bad way."

Jimmie turned into Beak street, and pulled the bell of Number 324. He waited several minutes before the landlady came, and then she opened the door but a couple of inches, and peered distrustfully out. Jimmie craftily thrust a foot in, so that the door could not be closed.

"You do not know me, madam," he said, "but I come as a friend. I wish to have a short conversation with you."

Mrs. Rickett's distrust turned to alarm. In her agitation she retreated a little, and Jimmie carried the first outworks and entered the hall.

"I must talk to you privately," he added. "We may be overheard here."

In a tremulous voice the landlady invited him to follow her, and she led the way to a cozy apartment on the ground floor that was half kitchen and half sitting-room. A kettle was steaming merrily on the fire, and overhead an ominous red stain was visible on the ceiling.

Mrs. Rickett sank limply into a chair, and Jimmie, after closing the door and removing his hat, seated himself opposite. He assumed an air of grave importance.

"My good woman, perhaps you can guess why I am here," he began. "I was present to-day at Great Marlborough street police-court. I watched the proceedings closely, and my experience in such cases, and my infallible sense of discrimination, enabled me to make a discovery." He paused for breath, and to note the effect of his peroration; he wondered if the words were right. "I am satisfied," he went on, "that the evidence you gave—"

"Oh, Lor', it's come! it's come!" interrupted Mrs. Rickett. "I knew it would! I've been in fear and tremblin'! Why didn't I speak at the right time? Indeed, I tried to, but I sorter got choked up! Oh, sir, have pity on a lone widow!"

Her face grew white, and she gasped for breath; she threatened to go into a fit of hysterics.

"Come, come; there is nothing to be alarmed about," said Jimmie, who could scarcely hide his delight. "Take comfort, my good woman. You may have been foolish and thoughtless, but I am sure you have done nothing criminal. I am here as a friend, and you can trust me. I wish to learn the truth—that is all. From motives which I can understand, you kept back some important evidence in connection with this sad tragedy—"

"I did, sir—I don't deny it. I didn't tell what I should, though I nearly got the words out a 'eap of times. Please don't carry me off to prison, sir. I knowed you was a police officer in disguise the minute I clapped eyes on you—"

"I have nothing to do with the police," Jimmie assured her.

"Really? Then perhaps you're a detective—a private one?"

"Yes, it is something like that. I am making inquiries privately, in behalf of my unfortunate friend."

"Meaning Mr. Vernon."

"That's right. I am convinced of his innocence, and I want to prove it. You need have no fear. On the contrary, if you tell me freely all that you know, you shall be well rewarded."

Mrs. Rickett took comfort, and fervently declared that her visitor was a real gentleman. She offered him a cup of tea, which he tactfully accepted, and then fortified her inner self with one, preliminary to making her statement.

"I'm that flustered I 'ardly know what I'm doing," she began, wiping her lips with a corner of her apron. "As to why I didn't speak before, it's just this, sir. I liked that young man's face, 'im I met comin' out of my 'ouse that night, and I thought afterward the woman might 'ave done 'im a bitter wrong, which, of course, ain't excusin' 'im for the dreadful crime of murder, and I wouldn't 'ave you think it—"

"Then you know something that might be harmful to Mr. Vernon?" Jimmie interrupted. He began to suspect the situation.

"That's it, sir!"

"But, my good woman, Mr. Vernon is absolutely innocent. Take my word for it. The other man, who left the house just before my friend, is the guilty person."

"I didn't believe in that other man at first," Mrs. Rickett replied; "but it looks like the story might be true, after all. And if it is—"

"Well?"

"Then I can tell something about him; leastwise I think so."

"Go on!" Jimmie said, eagerly.

"I 'eard it from that French woman, Dinah Mer—I never can pernounce the name," continued Mrs. Rickett. "Pore creature, what a 'orrible end; though it's a mercy it was so sudden like. But, as I was saying, sir, she lodged in my 'ouse last spring, and she come back only three days before the murder. She never 'ad much to say for 'erself, an' I judged she was stiff and proud. You'll believe I was taken all aback, then, when she walked into this 'ere very room one evening—it was last Thursday, the day before the murder—an' takes off her cloak as cool as you please. 'Mrs. Rickett,' she says, 'I'm feelin' badly. Can you give me a cup of tea?' Of course I says yes. I was 'aving my own tea at the time, and I asked 'er to join me, sociable like. By an' by she got to tellin' me about 'erself. It appears she wasn't really French, but was born at Dunwold, a village in Sussex, an' lived there till she was grown up, after which she went abroad. Then she says to me, of a sudden: 'I met a man to-day—'"

"One moment!" Jimmie interrupted. He took a note-book and pencil from his pocket, and jotted down a few lines. "Please resume now," he added. "What did the deceased tell you?"

"She told me that she'd met a man on Regent street from her native English village, meaning Dunwold," Mrs. Rickett went on, "and that he give her a bad fright. 'Is he an enemy of yours?' I asked. 'Yes, a bitter one,' she says, 'an' I'm mortal afraid of him. An' the worst of it is I'm sure he saw me, though I give 'im the slip by going into Swan and Edgar's at one door and out at another. If he finds me, Mrs. Rickett, 'e'll kill me.' I told 'er not to worrit 'erself, an' I clean furgot the matter till the next night, when the pore dear creature was stabbed to the 'eart. I thought I should 'ave lost my 'ead, what with the crowds that gathered, an' the police in the 'ouse, an' the doctors a viewin' the departed corpse, an'—"

Jimmie checked her by a gesture.

"Are you sure you have told me everything?" he asked.

"Every blessed word, sir. It's the first and only time the woman spoke to me of 'erself."

Jimmie jotted down a few more notes, and his hand shook like a leaf, so greatly was he thrilled by the value of his discovery. Then he put Mrs. Rickett through a cross-examination, in what he flattered himself was a strictly legal style. Certainly Mr. Tenby could not have done it better, for the landlady had nothing more to tell.

"I 'ope you're satisfied," she said. "And you won't forget what you promised—that I shouldn't get into trouble?"

"I'll see to that," Jimmie replied. "It can be easily managed. I trust that what you have told me will lead to the acquittal of my friend. Here are ten pounds for you, and, if all goes well, I shall probably add to it at another time."

The landlady thrust the bank notes into her broad bosom. She was overpowered by the munificence of the gift, and poured out her gratitude copiously.

"I've just recollected something," she went on. "There's a secret closet in the room where the pore woman lodged, an' last spring I 'appened to show it to 'er. It sort of took 'er fancy, and—"

"Did the police find it or examine it?" cried Jimmie.

"No, sir. I forgot to speak of it."

"Let me see it, please! It may lead to something of importance."

Mrs. Rickett willingly conducted her visitor through the hall and up the staircase. A sense of the recent tragedy seemed to haunt the room, with its drawn curtains and tawdry furnishings, and the dark stain on the floor. The landlady shuddered, and glanced fearfully around. She made haste to open a narrow closet, and to slide open a disguised panel at the back of it, which disclosed a small recess. Jimmie, who was at her shoulder, uttered a cry of surprise. He saw a gleam of white, and reached for it quickly. He drew out an envelope, unaddressed and sealed, with contents of a bulky nature.

"Bless me! She did 'ide something!" gasped Mrs. Rickett. "What can it be?"

"Writing, perhaps," replied Jimmie. "Will you permit me to have this, Mrs. Rickett? I will examine it at my leisure, and tell you about it later."

"I've no objections, sir," the landlady replied, as another five-pound note was slipped into her hand. "Take it and welcome!"

Jimmie thanked her, and pocketed the envelope.

"I will see you again," he said, "and tell you whether I succeed or fail. And, meanwhile, I must ask you to keep my visit a strict secret—to inform no one of what you have told me. And don't breathe a whisper in regard to anything being found in the murdered woman's room. Keep your own counsel."

"I'll do that, sir, never fear. I'm a close-mouthed woman, and know how to hold my tongue, which there ain't many females can say the same. And I'm sure you'll do the right thing by me."

"I will, indeed," Jimmie promised. "You shan't have cause to regret your confidence. And if I can clear my friend through the assistance you have given me, I will be more liberal than I have been on this occasion."

"Thank you, sir, and I 'ope with all my 'eart you'll find the guilty man," Mrs. Rickett declared, vehemently. "I never did think Mr. Vernon murdered that pore creature. Ah, but it's a wicked world!"

She accompanied her visitor to the door, showered further effusive gratitude upon him, and gazed after him till he had turned the corner. Overjoyed by his unexpected success, hopeful of achieving great results, Jimmie strode down Regent street, amid the lights and the crowds. The crisp, cold air had dried the pavements, and the stars shone from a clear sky.

"What luck!" he thought, exultantly. "It was a happy inspiration to go there to-night! Gad, I ought to be in Scotland Yard! There is no doubt that the man who killed Diane was the same fellow she met the day before. He hailed from her native village, and of course he was a discarded lover. It is even possible that he was her husband, in the days before she went to Paris, became a dancer, and married Jack. I must utilize the information to the best advantage. The first thing is to run down to Dunwold, find out all I can, and then put the police on the track. For the present I will dispense with their services, though it seems a bit risky to take matters into my own hands. But I rather fancy the idea of playing detective, and I'll have a go at the business. I won't tell the solicitor what I have discovered, but I think it will be wise to confide in Sir Lucius Chesney. By the bye, he lives somewhere in Sussex. He may be able to help me at the start."

Jimmie remembered the mysterious envelope in his pocket, and it occurred to him that the contents might alter the whole situation, and make a trip to Dunwold unnecessary. He walked faster, impatient to reach the Albany and investigate his prize in safety.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A DISCOVERY.

Jimmie's first move, on entering his chambers, was to lock the door behind him and turn up the gas. Then he produced the envelope, and tore it open, wondering as he did so what penalty the law would exact for such an offense. The enclosure consisted of a dozen closely-written pages of note-paper, dated two days before the murder. It was in the nature of a statement, or confession, which some whim had prompted Diane to put down in writing. Her motive became clearer to Jimmie as he read on. She had meant no treachery to Jack in her letter. She had come to London, a repentant woman, to do him a real service—to open his eyes to various things—and for that purpose she had made the appointment at Beak street on the fatal night. In all likelihood the document hidden in the closet was due to a premonition of impending evil—a haunting dread of the danger that was creeping upon the unfortunate woman.

The statement was in the form of a letter, addressed to Jack Vernon on the first page, and signed "Diane Merode" on the last. It ended quite abruptly, and did not refer directly to the mysterious stranger or to Diane's early life, though it hinted at certain things of importance which she was resolved to tell. But what she disclosed was astounding in itself, and when Jimmie threw down the pages, after reading them attentively, his face showed how deeply he was agitated. It took much to rouse his placid nature to anger, but now his eyes blazed with rage and indignation.

"By heavens, this is awful!" he said, hoarsely. "It is far worse than I dreamed of! The consummate scoundrel! The treacherous blackguard! There is no need to keep further watch on Victor Nevill. His record is exposed. How true were my suspicions about that money-lending business! He dropped some letters in Diane's room last spring, which she declares proved him to be a partner in the firm of Benjamin and Company. I believe her—I don't doubt it. The cursed tout! For how many years has he made use of his social advantages to ruin young men—to decoy them into the clutches of the Jews? It makes my blood boil! And the worst of it all is the part he has played toward poor Jack—a false, black-hearted friend from beginning to end; from the early days in Paris up to the present time. If I had him here now—"

He finished the sentence by banging his clenched fist on the table with a force that made it quiver.

Little wonder that Jimmie was indignant and wrathful! For Diane, weary of being made a cat's-paw for an unscrupulous villain, remorseful for the misery she had brought on one who once loved her, had confessed in writing all of Victor Nevill's dark deeds. She had not known at first, she said, that his sole aim had been to injure his trusting friend, else she would have refused to help him. She had learned the truth since, and she did not spare her knowledge of Nevill's dark deeds and cunning tricks. She told how he had tempted her to desert her husband and flee from Paris with him; how he had met her five years later in London, and planned the infamous scheme which brought Jack and Diane together on Richmond Terrace; and she declared that it was Victor Nevill also who sent the anonymous letters to Madge Foster, the second of which had led to the painful denouement in the Ravenscourt Park studio. It was all there in black and white—a story bearing the unmistakable evidence of truth and sincerity.

"This is a private matter," thought Jimmie, when he had calmed down a little, "and I'm bound to regard it as such. The statement can't affect the case against Jack—it is useless to Mr. Tenby—and it would be unwise to make it public for the purposes of denouncing Nevill—at least at present. I will put it away carefully, and give it to Jack when his innocence is proved, which I trust will be very soon. As for Nevill, I'll reckon with the scoundrel at the proper time. I'll expose him in every club in London, and drive him from the country. He shall not marry Miss Foster—I'll nip that scheme in the bud and open her eyes—and I'll let Sir Lucius Chesney know what sort of a man his nephew is. He'll cut him off with a penny, I'll bet. But all these things must wait until I find Diane's murderer, and meanwhile I will lock up the confession and keep my own counsel."

Taking the letter, he reread the closing lines, studying the curiously-worded phrases.

"I am not writing this to send to you," Diane concluded, "but to hide in a secret place where it will be found if anything happens to me; life is always uncertain. I have much more to tell, but I am too weary to put it on paper. You will know all when me meet, and when you learn my secret, happiness will come into your life again."

"It's a pretty clear case," reflected Jimmie. "The secret refers, without doubt, to the man who murdered her. And the motive for it must be traced back to her early life at Dunwold. She left a discarded lover behind when she went to Paris. Ah, but why not a husband? Suppose she was never really Jack's wife! In that case it is easy to see what she meant by saying that she would make him happy again. By Jove, I'm anxious to ferret the thing out!"

Jimmie looked at his watch; it was just seven o'clock. He put the letter in his desk, safe under lock and key, and went straight to Morley's Hotel. He dined with Sir Lucius Chesney, and told him what he had learned from his visit to Mrs. Rickett. He made no mention of what he had found in the secret closet, nor did he refer to Victor Nevill.

Sir Lucius was amazed and delighted, hopeful of success. He thoroughly approved Jimmie's plan, and gave him a brief note of introduction to the Vicar of Dunwold.

"I wish I could go with you," he said; "but, unfortunately, I have two important engagements in town to-morrow."

The interview was a long one, and it was eleven o'clock when Jimmie left the hotel. He went straight home to bed, and an early hour the next morning found him gliding out of Victoria station in a South Coast train.

* * * * *

On the previous night, while Jimmie and Sir Lucius were dining at Morley's, Victor Nevill emerged from his rooms in Jermyn street, and walked briskly to Piccadilly Circus. He looked quite unlike the spruce young man of fashion who was wont to disport himself in the West End at this hour, for he wore tweeds, a soft hat, and a rather shabby overcoat. He took a cab in Coventry street, and gave the driver a northern address. As he rode through the Soho district he occasionally pressed one hand to his breast, and a bundle of bank notes, tucked snugly away there, gave forth a rustling sound. The thought of them aggravated him sorely.

"A thousand pounds to that black-mailing scoundrel!" he muttered. "It's a steep price, and yet it means much more than that to me. There was no other way out of it, and I can't blame the fellow for making a hard bargain and sticking to it. If all goes smoothly, and I get possession of the papers, it's ten to one I will be secure, with nothing more to fear. It was fortunate that Timmins picked me out. It would have meant ruin to my prospects had he sold his knowledge elsewhere. He is a clever rascal, and he knows that it will be to his interest to keep his mouth shut hereafter. What risk there may be from other quarters is so slight that I needn't worry about it."

It had not been an easy matter to find the thousand pounds, and in the interval he had twice seen Mr. Timmins, and vainly tried to beat down his price. The money was finally squeezed out of Stephen Foster, with extreme reluctance on his part, and by means which he resented bitterly but was powerless to combat. He had angrily upbraided his unscrupulous young confederate, who would not even tell him for what purpose he wanted the sum. Nevill was indifferent to Stephen Foster's wrath and reproaches. He had accomplished his object, and he was too hardened by this time to feel any twinges of conscience. He was now going to meet the man Timmins by appointment, and buy from him the valuable papers in his possession.

It was nine o'clock when the cab put him down in one of the noisy thoroughfares of Kentish Town. He paid the driver, and entered a public house on the corner. He ordered a light stimulant, and on the strength of it he re-examined the rather vague written directions Mr. Timmins had given him. He came out five minutes later, and turned eastward into a gloomy and squalid neighborhood. He lost his bearings twice, and then found himself at one end of Peckwater street. He took the first turn to the left, and began to count the houses and scan their numbers.

While Nevill was speeding along the Kentish Town road in a cab, Mr. Timmins, alias Noah Hawker, was at home in the dingy little room which he had selected for his residence in London. With a short pipe between his teeth, he reclined in a wooden chair, which was tipped back against the wall. On a table, within easy reach of him, were a packet of tobacco and a bottle of stout. A candle furnished light.

"I wonder if the bloke'll turn up," he reflected, as he puffed rank smoke from his mouth. "If he don't he knows what to expect—I ain't a man to go back on my word. But I needn't fear. He'll come all right, and he'll have the dust with him. Is it likely he'd throw away a fortune, such as I'm offerin' him? Not a bit of it! I'll be glad when the thing is done and over with. A thousand pounds ain't to be laughed at. I'll go abroad and spend it, where the sun shines in winter and—"

At this point Mr. Hawker's soliloquies were interrupted by footsteps just outside the room.

"That's my swell," he thought, "and he's a bit early. He must be in a hurry to get hold of the documents."

The door opened quickly and sharply, and two sinewy, plainly-dressed men stepped into the room. Hawker knew his visitors to be detectives.

His jaw dropped, his face turned livid with rage and fear, and he tried to thrust one hand behind him. But the move was anticipated, and he abandoned all thought of resistance when the muzzle of a revolver stared him in the eyes.

"None of that, Hawker," said the detective who held the weapon. "You'd best come quietly. Didn't expect to catch us napping, did you?"

"I ain't done nothin'," panted Hawker, who was breathing like a winded beast.

"I didn't say you had," was the reply, "but you've been missing for a few months. Last spring you stopped reporting yourself and went abroad. We want you for that—nothing else at present."

The two final words were spoken with an emphasis and significance that did not escape the prisoner, and brought a desperate look to his face. He seemed about to show fight, but the next instant a pair of irons were clapped on his wrists, and he was helpless.

A brief time was required to search the room, but nothing was found, for all that Hawker owned was on his person. The bedding was pulled apart, and the strip of ragged carpet was lifted up. Then the detectives went downstairs with their prisoner, followed by the indignant and scandalized Mrs. Miggs. She angrily upbraided Mr. Hawker, who received her reproaches in sullen silence. Her breath was spent when she slammed the door shut.

The affair had been managed quietly, without attracting public attention, and the street was as lonely and dark as usual. One of the detectives whistled for a cab, which he had in waiting around the corner, and just then a man walked quickly by the house, glancing keenly at the little group as he passed. He slouched carelessly on into the gloom, but not until he had been recognized by Noah Hawker.

The cab came up, and the prisoner was bundled into it. He was apparently very submissive and unconcerned as he sat with manacled hands between his captors, but when the vehicle rolled into a more populous neighborhood, the street lamps revealed the expression of burning, implacable hatred that distorted his face.

"It was that swell who betrayed me to the police," he thought bitterly. "I was a fool to trust him. I know his little game, but he'll be badly mistaken if he expects to find the papers. They'll be safe enough till I want them again. I'll get square in a way he don't dream of, curse him! Yes, I'll do it! I'd rather have revenge than money. A few days yet, and then—"

"What's that?" asked one of the detectives.

"Nothing," Mr. Hawker replied, in a tone of sarcasm. "I was thinkin' of a friend of mine, what'll be sorry I was took."



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE VICAR OF DUNWOLD.

At a safe distance Victor Nevill stopped and turned around. When the cab rolled away, he walked slowly back, looking keenly at the house as he passed it. His demeanor was calm, but it was only skin deep. He felt like swearing loudly at everybody and everything. His brain was in a whirl of rage and fear, sharp anxiety and keen disappointment. He had recognized Noah Hawker and seen the gleam of steel at his wrists, which explained the situation as clearly as words could have done.

"The poor chap has been tracked and arrested," he thought; "possibly for some past burglary. Our negotiations are ended for the present, confound the luck! But the papers! By Jove, suppose Hawker had them on his person! If so, they will be found when he is searched. They will be opened and examined, and the whole truth will come out. I can't be sure that Hawker won't give away my part in the affair. I shall be ruined—nothing short of it! What a luckless devil I am!"

The iron hand of Nemesis seemed reaching out to grasp Nevill, and he shuddered as he realized his danger. The rustle of the bank notes in his breast pocket afforded him a momentary relief as he remembered that they would give him a fresh start in case he had to flee from England. Then a sudden thought lightened the gloom still more, and he clutched eagerly at the ray of hope thus thrown out.

"Hawker was too shrewd a man to be caught unawares," he reasoned. "He kept the papers in a secure hiding-place, and he certainly would not have taken them from it until I came and he saw the color of the money. Nor is it likely that the police found them, though they must have searched the place. If they are still in the room, why should I not try to get possession of them? I could square up with Hawker afterward, when he recovers his liberty. By Jove, it's worth risking!"

Nevill walked as far as Peckwater street, debating the question. He did not hesitate long, for there was too much at stake. He quickly made up his mind, and retraced his steps to the dingy house from which the detectives had taken their prisoner. He had planned his course of procedure when the door opened to his knock, and Mrs. Miggs revealed her distrustful countenance. Nevill tendered her half a sovereign on the spot, and asked to see the room lately occupied by Mr. Noah Hawker.

"It's a private matter," he explained. "Yes, I know that Mr. Hawker has just been arrested and taken away. District detectives did that—they were onto him for some breach of the law. I was after him myself, with a Scotland Yard warrant, but I arrived too late, unfortunately."

"Then what do you want?" grumbled the woman.

"I want to search Hawker's room for some papers which I believe he hid there. If I find them you shall be rewarded."

Mrs. Miggs relaxed visibly. She had a wholesome respect for the police, and she did not doubt that Nevill was other than he purported to be—a Scotland Yard officer. She let him into the hall and closed the door.

"You can come up," she said ungraciously, "but I don't think there's anything there."

She lighted a candle and guided Nevill upstairs. He could scarcely restrain his excitement as he entered the little room. He glanced keenly about, noting the half-empty bottle of stout and the dirty glass.

"Did the police search here?" he inquired.

"Of course they did, but they didn't find nothin', 'cause there wasn't anything to find. 'Awker was as poor as Job!"

"They examined his person?—his clothes, I mean?"

"Yes, an' all they got was a knife, and a pistol, and some loose silver and coppers."

"They didn't discover any papers?"

"No; I'm sure o' that," asserted Mrs. Miggs. "I can't stand 'ere all night," she impatiently added.

Nevill took the hint, and set to work in good spirits. The landlady watched him scornfully while he hauled the carpet and bedding about, and examined all the joints of the few articles of furniture. He then proceeded—there was no fireplace in the room—to tap every part of the walls, and to try the flooring to see if any boards were loose. But the walls were solid and untampered with, and the nails in the floor had clearly not been disturbed for many years. He spent half an hour at his task, and the result was a barren failure. He realized that it would be useless to search further. He looked sharply at the landlady, and said, on a sudden impulse:

"You knew Mr. Hawker pretty well, I think. Perhaps he asked you to oblige him by taking care of the papers I am looking for; they could not possibly be of any advantage to you in the future, and if you have them I should be glad to buy them from you. I would give as much as—"

"I only wish I did 'ave them!" interrupted Mrs. Miggs. "I wouldn't 'esitate a minute to turn 'em into money. But I don't know nothin' of them, sir, an' you see yourself they ain't 'id in this room, an' Mr. 'Awker never put foot in any other part of the 'ouse."

The woman's expression of disappointment, her manner, satisfied Nevill that his suspicion was baseless. There was nothing more to be done, so he gave Mrs. Miggs an additional half-sovereign, cautioned her not to speak of his visit, and left the house. His last state of mind was worse than his first, and dread of exposure, tormenting visions of a dreary and perpetual exile from England, not to speak of more bitter things, haunted him as he strode moodily toward the lights of the Kentish Town road.

"The papers may be in that room, hidden so securely as to baffle any search," he said to himself, "and if that is the case there is still hope. But it is more likely that Hawker had them concealed under his clothing or in his boots. I will know in a day or two—if the police find them, they will make the matter public. All I can do is to wait. But the suspense is awful, and I wish it was over."

The next day was cold, sunny and bracing—more like the end of February than the end of November. At nine o'clock in the morning Victor Nevill crawled out of bed after a troubled night; with haggard face and dull eyes he looked down into Jermyn street, wondering, as he recalled the events of the previous night, what another day would bring forth.

At the same hour, or a little later, Jimmie Drexell was at Hastings. Having to wait some time for another train, he walked through the pretty town to the sea, and the sight of its glorious beauty—the embodiment of untrammeled freedom—made him think sadly of poor Jack in a prison cell.

"Never mind, I'll have him out soon!" he vowed.

He returned to the station, and was whirled on through the flat, green country to the charming Sussex village of Pevensey, with its ruined old castle and rambling street, and the blue line of the Channel flashing in the distance. His journey did not end here, and he was impatient to continue it. He procured a horse and trap at the Railway Arms, gleaned careful instructions from the landlord, and drove back a few miles along the hedge-lined roads, while the sea faded behind him.

It was eleven o'clock when he reached the retired little hamlet of Dunwold. He put up his vehicle at a quaint old inn, and refreshed himself with a simple lunch. Then he sought the vicarage, hard by the ancient church with its Norman tower, and, on inquiring for Mr. Chalfont, he was shown into a sunny library full of books and Chippendale furniture, with flowers on the deep window-seats and a litter of papers on the carved oak writing-desk.

The vicar entered shortly—an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect and snowy beard, but sturdy and lithe-limbed for his years, clearly one of those persons who seemed predestined for the placidity of clerical life. After a penetrating glance he greeted his visitor most graciously, and expressed pleasure at seeing him.

"I am sure that you are a stranger to the neighborhood," he continued. "Our fine old church draws many such hither. If you wish to go over it, I can show you many things of interest—"

"At another time," Jimmie interrupted, "I should be only too delighted. I regret to say that it is quite a different matter that brings me here—hardly a pleasant one. This will partly explain, Mr. Chalfont."

He presented the letter Sir Lucius had given him, and when it had been opened and read he poured out the whole story of Diane's life and end, of the charge against Jack Vernon, and the clew that the murdered woman had revealed to her landlady.

The vicar rose from his chair, showing traces of deep agitation and distress.

"A friend of Sir Lucius Chesney is a friend of mine," he said, hoarsely. "I shall be glad to help you—to do anything in my power to clear your friend. I believe that he is innocent. Your sad story has awakened old memories, Mr. Drexell. And it is a great shock to me, as you will understand when I tell you all. I seldom read the London papers, and it comes as a blow and a surprise to me that Diane Merode has been murdered."

"Then you know her by that name?" exclaimed Jimmie. "This is indeed fortunate, Mr. Chalfont. I feared that you would find it difficult to identify the woman—to recall her. And the man whom she proclaimed as her enemy—do you know him?"

"Judge for yourself," replied the vicar, as he sat down and settled back in his chair. "I will state the facts, distinctly and briefly. That will not be hard to do. To begin, I have been in this parish for thirty years, and I am familiar with its history. I remember when Diane Merode's father came home with his young bride. He was a doctor, with some small means of his own, and he lived in the second house beyond the church. His wife was a French girl, well educated and beautiful, and he met and married her while on a visit to France; his name was George Hammersley. They settled here in the village, but I do not think that they lived very happily together. Their one child, christened Diane, was born two years after the marriage. She inherited her mother's vivacious disposition and love of the world, and I always felt misgivings about her future. She spent five years at a school in Paris, and returned at the age of sixteen. Within less than two years her parents died within a week of each other, of a malignant fever that attacked our village. A friend of George Hammersley's took Diane to his home—it appeared that she had no relatives—and nine months later she married a man, nearly twenty years her senior, who had fallen passionately in love with her."

"By Jove, so she was really married before!" cried Jimmie. "But I beg your pardon, Mr. Chalfont, for interrupting you."

"This man, Gilbert Morris, was comparatively well-to-do," resumed the vicar. "He owned a couple of ships, and when at home he lived in Dunwold; but he was away the greater part of his time, sailing one or the other of his vessels to foreign ports. Six months after the marriage he started on such a voyage, leaving his youthful bride with an old housekeeper, and just three weeks later Diane disappeared. Every effort was made to trace her, but in vain, and it was believed that she had gone to London. Before the end of the winter our village squire returned from abroad, and declared that he had recognized Diane in Paris, and that she was a popular dancer under the name of Merode. About the same time it was reported in the papers that the vessel on which Gilbert Morris had set sail, the Nautilus, had been lost in a storm, with all hands on board. There was every reason to credit the report—"

"But it was not true," exclaimed Jimmie. "I can read as much in your eyes, Mr. Chalfont. What became of Gilbert Morris?"



CHAPTER XXX.

RUN TO EARTH.

The vicar hesitated for a moment, and then looked his companion straight in the face.

"That unhappy man, Gilbert Morris, was spared by the sea," he answered in a low voice. "The ship was lost, as reported, but he and two of the crew were picked up by a sailing vessel and carried to South America. Months elapsed before they were heard of, and Diane had been gone for a year when Gilbert Morris returned to Dunwold. The news was a terrible shock to him, for he had loved his wife with all the depth of a fierce and fiery nature. His affection seemed to turn to rage, and it was thought best to keep him in ignorance of the fact that Diane had been seen in Paris. Brain fever prostrated him, and when he recovered physically from that his mind was affected—in other words, he was a homicidal lunatic, with a fixed determination to find and kill his wife."

"By heavens!" exclaimed Jimmie. "The scent is getting warm! What was done with the man?"

"He was sent to a private madhouse in Surrey."

"And is he there still?"

"No, he is not," the vicar replied agitatedly. "He succeeded in making his escape more than a week ago. The matter was hushed up, because it was hoped that he would come back to Dunwold, and that he could be quietly captured here. But, in spite of the utmost vigilance, he was not found or traced; and this very morning I received a letter from Doctor Bent, the proprietor of the madhouse, stating that he had furnished the London police with a description of his missing patient."

"That settles it!" cried Jimmie, jumping up in excitement. "Gilbert Morris is the man!"

"Yes, I fear he is the murderer," assented the vicar. "But, pray sit down, Mr. Drexell, and we will talk further of the sad affair. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, and I shall be glad to have you—"

"Thanks, but I can't stop," Jimmie interrupted, as he put on his hat. "I'm off to town to help the police to find the guilty man."

"But surely, my dear sir, this is a very hasty conclusion—"

"Can you doubt for one moment, in your heart, that Gilbert Morris killed that unfortunate woman?"

"The circumstances all point that way," admitted Mr. Chalfont. "Yes, it is a pretty clear case. It is distressing to think that the crime might have been prevented, had the police been promptly informed of the madman's escape. But only Doctor Bent and myself were aware of the fact—excepting the attendants of the institution. As I told you, I knew nothing of the murder until you informed me, and it was unlikely that the doctor—though he must have read the papers—should have associated the deed with Morris; he took charge of the place quite recently, and could not have been well posted regarding the history of his patient."

"He ought to be arrested for criminal neglect," Jimmie said, indignantly. "He is in a measure responsible for the murder. Gilbert Morris might have been retaken almost at once had the police been informed at the time of the escape."

"Just so!" the vicar agreed.

"I'm off now," continued Jimmie. "I can't thank you enough, Mr. Chalfont, for the information you have given me. I shall never forget it, nor will my friend."

"It was Providence that guided you here," replied the vicar. "His ways are indeed marvelous. I wish you every success, Mr. Drexell. I trust that your friend will speedily be at liberty, and if I can be of any further service, count upon me."

"I'll do that, sir," Jimmie assured him.

The next minute he was striding away from the vicarage, and it was a very perspiring and foam-flecked horse that pulled up outside the Railway Arms at Pevensey half an hour later. Jimmie jumped out of the trap, paid the account, and dashed over to the station. His arrival was timely, for he learned that a through London train was due in ten minutes. During the interval he found some vent for his impatience in sending a wire to Sir Lucius Chesney, as follows:

"Success! Back in town at three o'clock."

Never had a railway journey seemed so long and tiresome to Jimmie as that comparatively short one, in a fast train, from Pevensey to London. He had a book and a newspaper, but he could not read; he smoked like a furnace, and glared from the window at the flying landscape. He reached Victoria station at five minutes past three, and just outside the gates he met Sir Lucius.

"I barely got here—I was afraid I'd miss you," the latter exclaimed breathlessly; his face was a more ruddy color than usual. "I have something to tell you," he went on; "something that happened—"

"It's a jolly good thing, sir, that I went down to Pevensey," Jimmie interrupted, as he drew his companion aside to a quieter spot. "You'll scarcely believe what I have found out. The vicar told me a most amazing story, and we spotted the murderer at once. He is Diane's real husband—Jack was never legally married to her—and his name is Gilbert Morris. He is an escaped lunatic—"

"Gad, sir, the man is arrested!" gasped Sir Lucius. "He is in custody!"

"Arrested?" cried Jimmie.

"Yes; the afternoon papers are full of it. The police, furnished with a description of the man and other information, apprehended him this morning early in a Lambeth lodging-house. There were blood-spots on his clothing, and in his pocket they found a bloodstained knife. He became violent the moment he was arrested, and raved about his wife Diane, who had deserted him, and how he had killed her to avenge his honor."

"That's the man!" said Jimmie. "He's as mad as a March hare. Thank God, they have got him!"

"We'll soon have Mr. Vernon out," Sir Lucius replied, cheerfully.

Jimmie told the rest of the story in the privacy of a cab, which drove the two rapidly from Victoria station to Bedford street, Strand. They found Mr. Tenby in his office, and had a long interview with him. The solicitor had read the papers, and when he was put in possession of the further important facts bearing on the case, he promised to secure Jack's release as soon as the necessary legal formalities could be complied with. Moreover, he promised to go to Holloway within the course of an hour or two, and communicate the good news to the prisoner. Jimmie was anxious to go with him, but he reluctantly abandoned the project when the solicitor assured him that it would be most difficult to arrange.

"Be patient, gentlemen, and leave the matter in my hands," said Mr. Tenby. "I think we shall have Mr. Vernon out of Holloway to-morrow, and without a stain on his character."

Sir Lucius and Jimmie walked to Morley's and separated. The former went into the hotel, half resolved to pack up his luggage and take an early train in the morning to Priory Court; he was tired of London and the recent excitement he had passed through, and longed for his country home. But, on second thought, he altered his mind, and concluded to wait until Jack Vernon was a free man again; he was strangely interested in the unfortunate young artist, and was as anxious as ever to have a talk with him on matters of a private nature.

Jimmie went to his chambers in the Albany, where he removed the dust of travel and changed his clothes. He did not at once go out to dinner, though he was exceedingly hungry. He was impulsive and impatient, and he had conceived a plan whereby he might punish Victor Nevill's perfidy without a public exposure, and at the same time, he fondly hoped, do Jack a good turn.

"It will hardly be safe to wait longer," he reflected, "for all I know to the contrary, the girl may be married to-morrow. She will be glad to have her eyes opened—I can't believe that she is in love with that blackguard. As for Sir Lucius, I would rather face a battery of guns than tell the dear old chap the shameful story to his face. But it must be told somehow."

Jimmie proceeded to carry out his plans. He took Diane's last letter from its hiding-place, and sitting down to his desk he made two copies of it, prefacing each with a brief explanation of how the statement had come into his hands. It was a laborious task, and it kept him busy for two hours. At nine o'clock he went out to dinner, and on the way to the Cafe Royal he dropped two bulky letters into a street-box. One was addressed to "Miss Madge Foster, Strand-on-the-Green, Chiswick, W." The other to "Sir Lucius Chesney, Morley's Hotel."

* * * * *

It was ten o'clock in the morning, and the phenomenal November weather showed no signs of breaking up. The sun shone brightly in Trafalgar Square, and the people and busses, the hoary old Nelson Column and its guardian lions, made a picture more Continental than English in its coloring.

But to Sir Lucius Chesney the world looked as black as midnight. He paced the floor of his room, purple of countenance and savage of eye, letting slip an occasional oath as he glanced at the sheets of Jimmie's letter scattered over the table. The blow had hit him hard; it had wounded him in his most tender spot—his family honor. His first paroxysm of rage had passed, but he could not think calmly. His brain was on fire with pent-up emotions—shame and indignation, bitter grief and despair, a sense of everlasting disgrace. One moment he doubted; the next the damning truth overwhelmed him and defied denial.

"I can't believe it!" he muttered hoarsely. "It is too terrible! How blindly I trusted that boy! I heard rumors about him, and turned a deaf ear to them. I knew he was inclined to be dissolute and extravagant, but I never dreamed of this! To drag the name of Chesney in the dirt! My nephew a liar and a traitor, a scoundrel of the blackest dye to a confiding friend, a seducer, a tout for money-lenders, a consort of blood-sucking Jews! By heavens, I will confront him and hear the truth from his own lips! How do I know that this letter is not a forgery? Perhaps young Drexell never saw it."

It was a slim ray of hope, but Sir Lucius took some comfort from it. He put on his hat, took his stick, and marched down stairs. As he passed through the office, a clerk handed him a letter that had just been brought in. He waited until he was outside to open it, and with the utmost amazement he read the contents:

"Pentonville Prison.

"My Dear Sir Lucius—I see by the papers that you are in town temporarily, so I address you at Morley's instead of Priory Court. A very curious thing has happened. A few days ago a prisoner who was arrested for a breach of the police-supervision rules, but who was really wanted for a much more serious affair, was put in my charge. This man, Noah Hawker by name, sent for me and made a secret communication. He stated that in his room in Kentish Town, where he was arrested, he had hidden some papers of the greatest importance to yourself. He told me how to find them, and yesterday I got them and brought them here. They are in a sealed parcel, and the prisoner begs that they shall not be opened except in your presence, as he wishes to tell you the whole story. So I thought it best to send for you, and if convenient I should like to see you about noon to-day. I am posting this early in the morning, and hope you will receive it in good time.

"Sincerely your old friend,

"Major Hugh Wyatt."

"I don't understand it," thought Sir Lucius. "It is certainly most perplexing. What can it mean? I haven't seen Wyatt for years, but I remember now that he was appointed Governor of Pentonville some time ago. But who the deuce is the man Hawker? I never heard the name. Papers of importance to me? What could they be, and how did the fellow get them? There must be some mistake. And yet—"

He read the letter a second time, and it turned his curiosity into a desire to probe the mystery. He concluded to put off the interview with his nephew, and see him later in the day. He hailed a cab, and told the driver to take him to Pentonville.



CHAPTER XXXI.

NOAH HAWKER'S DISCLOSURE.

True to his word, Mr. Tenby set the machinery of the law in motion as speedily as possible. About the time when Sir Lucius entered the dreary prison that lies Islington way, Gilbert Morris was brought to the court in Great Marlborough street. Jack was present—a warder had driven him from Holloway—and he promptly identified the prisoner as the man he had seen coming out of the Beak street house on the night of the murder. Other evidence was given by the police, and by Doctor Bent, the proprietor of the Surrey madhouse, and the lunatic was remanded for a week; he boasted of his crime while in the dock. Then a brief formality ensued. Mr. Tenby applied for the discharge of his client, and the magistrate granted it without delay.

A free man again! The words seemed to ring in Jack's ears as he left the court, but they meant little to him, so broken was he in spirit, so ashamed of his unmerited disgrace. Jimmie was waiting for him, and congratulated him fervently. The two shook hands with the solicitor, and thanked him for what he had done, and they went quickly off in a cab.

They drove to the Albany, and Jimmie ordered a lunch to be sent in from a Piccadilly restaurant. Jack ate listlessly, but a bottle of prime claret made him slightly more cheerful and brought some color to his bleached features. He listened to all that Jimmie had to tell him—sat with stern eyes and compressed lips while the black tale of Victor Nevill's treachery was recounted. He could not doubt when he had read the murdered woman's statement; it breathed truth in every word. He crushed the letter in his hand, as though he wished it had been the throat of his enemy.

"Nevill, of all men!" he said, hoarsely. "A creeping serpent, masked as a friend, who struck in the dark! And he was Diane's seducer! The night he stole her from me we were drinking together in a brasserie in the Latin Quarter! And, as if that was not deep enough injury, he brought her to England, years afterwards, to ruin my new-found happiness. There was never such perfidy! I was not even aware that he knew Madge, much less that he loved her. But she surely won't marry him now."

"No fear!" replied Jimmie. "His retribution has come. I hope you will pay him with interest, old chap."

"I should like to confront him," Jack answered, "but it is wiser not to; my passion would get the better of me. No, his punishment is sufficient—you have avenged me, Jimmie. Think of what it means! Public exposure, perhaps, exile from England, and the loss of his uncle's fortune. He will suffer more keenly than any low-born criminal who goes to the gallows. I will leave him to his conscience and his God."

"You are too merciful—too kind-hearted," said Jimmie. "But it is useless to argue with you. Come, we'll talk of something more cheerful and forget the past. What are you going to do with yourself? Go back to the art?"

"I have no plans," Jack replied, bitterly, "except that I shall get away from London as speedily as possible. I can't live down my disgrace here. I shall probably return to India. I have lost faith in human nature, Jimmie, and learned the mockery of friendship—no, by heavens, I shouldn't say that! I have found out what true friendship is. I can never forget what you did for me—how you worked to prove my innocence!"

"It was a pleasure, old fellow. I would have done a hundred times as much. But don't talk blooming nonsense about leaving London. Many an innocent man falls under suspicion—there is not a shadow of disgrace attached to it. Stay here and work! Go back to your studio! And marry the woman you love. Why shouldn't you, now that you are free in every sense? I'll bet anything you like that she cares for you as much as ever—"

"Stop; don't speak of her!" cried Jack. "I can't bear it!—the memory of Madge brings torments! It is too late, too late! She can never be mine!"

"That's where you're wrong, old chap," said Jimmie. "I know how you feel about it, but do listen to reason—"

He broke off at the sound of a couple of sharp raps, and jumping up he opened the door. Into the room strode Sir Lucius Chesney, with a bewildered, agitated look on his face that had been there when he drove away from Pentonville Prison an hour before, after a lengthy and most startling interview with Major Wyatt and Noah Hawker.

"I hope you will excuse my abrupt intrusion," he said quickly. "I went to Tenby's office, and he told me where you had gone. I have something very important to say—I will come to it presently. Mr. Vernon, I congratulate you! No one can rejoice more sincerely than myself that this black cloud has passed away from your life. You have paid dearly for your youthful folly—your boyish infatuation with a French dancer."

"You are very kind, sir," said Jack, as he accepted the proffered hand. "I hear that I owe very much to you."

"Thank God that I have found you—that I am not left desolate in my old age!" exclaimed Sir Lucius, to the wonder of his companions. "Prepare for a great surprise! Your name is not Vernon, but Clare?"

"John Clare is my real name, sir."

"And your father was Ralph Vernon Clare?"

"Yes!"

"I knew as much—it was needless to ask," replied Sir Lucius, in tremulous tones; something glistened in his eye. He rested an arm on Jack's shoulder and looked into his face. "My dear boy, your mother was my youngest sister," he added. "And you are my nephew!"

A rush of color dyed Jack's cheeks, and he stared in amazement; he could not grasp the meaning of what he had just heard.

"You my uncle, Sir Lucius?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Yes, your uncle!"

"By Jove, another mystery!" gasped Jimmie. "It knocks me breathless! I don't know what to make of it—it beats the novels that wind up with the discovery of the lost heir. At all events, Jack, you seem to be in luck. I'm awfully glad!"

"I—I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said Jack. "I never suspected anything of the sort, though I remember that my mother rarely spoke of her early life."

"That was her secret," replied Sir Lucius, "and she intended that it should be revealed to you after her death. Read these; they will tell you all!"

Sir Lucius produced three papers from his pocket. Jack took them, and he uttered an exclamation of astonishment as he saw that one was a certificate of his mother's marriage, and another one of his own birth. The third paper was a letter of a dozen closely written sheets, in the dead hand that was so familiar to him. As he read on, his face showed various emotions.

"My poor mother, how she suffered!" he said when he had finished the letter. "It is a strange story, Sir Lucius. So my mother was your sister, and Victor Nevill was the son of another sister, which makes him my cousin. My mother knew all these things, and yet she never told me!"

"She had the family pride," Sir Lucius answered, with a sigh. "As for Victor Nevill, I regret that the blood of the Chesneys runs in his veins. But he is no longer any kin of mine—I disown him and cast him out. The letter does not speak so harshly of me as I deserve. Your mother, Mary, was my youngest and favorite sister—I loved her the more because my wife had died childless soon after my marriage. I got a clever young artist, Ralph Clare, down to Priory Court to paint Mary's portrait, little foreseeing what would happen. She fell in love with him, and fled to become his wife. It was a blow to my family pride, and my anger was stronger than my grief. I vowed that I would never forgive her, and when she wrote to me—once a short time after her flight, and again ten years later—I returned her letters unopened. Her elder sister was as obdurate as myself, and refused to have anything to do with her. After the death of Elizabeth—that was Victor Nevill's mother—I began to feel that I had been too harsh with Mary. My remorse grew, giving me no rest, until recently I determined to find her. But I might never have succeeded had not mere chance helped me. I was struck by your resemblance to Mary when I first met you in Lamb and Drummond's shop—"