Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

"Do be reasonable, Mr. Arbuthnot," he purred on, "or otherwise I may be compelled to follow my instructions and sue, and--I regret to say it--sell you up, and prevent your inhabiting this delightful little flat any longer."

"I give you just one minute," I said, taking out my watch.

"Oh, very well, very well," he answered; "a gold watch--I must remember that."

I sat down and cursed that elderly spinster. The position was quite delightful. Those bills, as far as I remembered them, amounted to something over £300; and, if my uncle discovered their existence, my prospects of a partnership, and probably even my allowance, would be at an end. Never having been at a university himself, he held strong views on the subject of getting into debt. That evening the piano played again, and I went up to explain Miss Ormerod's difficulties as usual. With dramatic irony, they concerned the sale of goods.

Borrowing the money was out of the question, and I resolved desperately to allow the law to take its course, and to spend the few remaining days in Miss Ormerod's company as far as I could. Our legal discussions, and sometimes our discussions on other things, became more protracted, but the time went swiftly, and in the course of a fortnight or so there was a man in possession. Probably if that elderly spinster had been gifted with any capacity for sitting tight, I should now be in South Africa, but as I sat burning my letters preparatory to the sale, Miss Ormerod burst in.

"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, "I should like to have a few words with you. I'm very angry."

I followed her meekly.

"My aunt has been here this afternoon," she began, when we had reached her flat, "and I hear that you are in debt, and that your furniture is going to be sold."

"It is quite true," I said, wearily. "You see, I got into debt at Oxford----"

"Do you think I'm a fool?" she asked, indignantly. "What has my aunt got to do with it?"

"Your aunt?" I answered. "What should she have to do with it? I suppose someone informed her----"

"You suppose nothing of the kind," she answered, hotly. "I know why; she told me. It was because she disapproved of--of your tuition, and I'm sure she had something to do with this, or she wouldn't have been so pleased with herself. I know my aunt only too well. On your word of honour, isn't she concerned in this, Mr. Arbuthnot?"

"What in the world," I replied, attempting to parry the question, "should a respectable elderly lady like your aunt have to do with debt-collecting?"

"There are very few things," she answered, "with which my aunt has not to do if she gets within measurable distance of them. Now, will you please explain?"

"How can I," I said, "if there's nothing to explain?"

"I think you told me the other night," she answered, "that _suppressio veri_ sometimes amounts to _suggestio falsi_."

"Miss Ormerod," I said, "I've got a lot of letters to burn to-night, and I am rather busy----"

"Oh, very well," she observed, "then I must find out for myself."

She hurried down to my flat along the passage, and burst open the kitchen door. The sheriff's man had already drained the beer-cask, and was sitting smoking with his feet on the kitchen range.

"Now," Miss Ormerod remarked, "please tell me why you're here."

"If you open your mouth," I broke in, "I'll throttle you."

"You're a witness, young lady," the man said, "he's threatened to assault an officer of the law in the execution of his duty."

"Perhaps this might soothe your feelings," Miss Ormerod said, slipping something into his hand.

"I'll give you a sovereign to hold your tongue," I exclaimed, desperately.

"Very well, sir," he said, "hand it over."

"I'll give it you to-morrow," I replied. As a matter of fact my cash in hand amounted to some fifteen shillings.

"Oh, I daresay," he replied, with a grin. "Make it five shillings more, young lady."

He got the five shillings, and then began as though he were unfolding a portentous secret.

"I'm in for a matter of £300 recovered in the action of Prentice _versus_ Arbuthnot."

There was no false delicacy about Miss Prentice; she had gleefully sued as assignee in her own name.

"Miss Ellen Prentice?" Miss Ormerod asked, quickly.

"I fancy that's the name," he said, searching among some greasy papers.

"Oh, that will do," Miss Ormerod replied, with a flushed face. "Mr. Arbuthnot, I want to speak to you."

She swept upstairs again, and I accompanied her in silence.

"Now, perhaps," she remarked, "you'll be good enough to tell me the truth."

I told her a part of it, including the visit of my Hebraic friend, but I omitted his suggestions of the matrimonial objects of my visits. Miss Prentice's proceedings, I suggested, were all due to her regard for the conventionalities and her niece's welfare.

"Of course," she began, sitting down and taking a chequebook from a drawer, "you'll let me lend you this money."

"Thank you very much," I said, "but it's quite out of the question."

"How preposterous!" she exclaimed, in astonishment. "If a man were to offer you the money----"

"Very likely," I said; "you are not a man."

"But what difference in the world can that make?" she inquired, indignantly.

"In the world," I said, "it makes a considerable difference."

"But we've been friends, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, appealingly, "and this is my fault. Won't you take this wretched money to please me?"

"I'd do most things to please you," I answered, "but I can't do this."

"I--I don't understand," she said, in a half-broken voice, and looked at me dolorously for a moment or two.

"Will you be able to be a solicitor after this?" she asked.

"Oh, I haven't thought about things yet," I answered.

"Surely you might tell me," she said, tearfully; "I think I've ruined your life."

"Miss Ormerod," I remarked, getting up, "what's happened was my own fault, and you're not to blame in the least; but I think it would be better if I went down to my place and finished looking things over."

"Oh, but I can't let you go like this," she pleaded, tearfully; "it's so silly of you. I've got such a lot of money, and surely you'll do me a favour and let me lend you a little of it."

"It's out of the question," I said.

"And," she pursued, a little timorously, "how am I to get through my examination if you won't help me? You've helped me so much, Mr. Arbuthnot, you really have."

"Good-bye," I said, holding out my hand.

"It's cruel of you, very cruel," she went on, without noticing it; "and--and you don't seem to mind in the least."

"What's done is done. Good-bye," I said again.

"And I suppose you'll go somewhere--quite away from this?" she continued, "quite far away?"

"Probably," I said.

"But don't you mind--at all?" she asked.

"It's not particularly pleasant," I admitted.

"We've been good friends, haven't we?" she said, with a little quiver of her lips.

"The best of friends," I agreed.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand.

As I took it our eyes met, and she drew her hand back. It was hard, under the circumstances, not to look something more than the best of friends.

"I suppose," she said, "that you refused to take that money because--because it would have hurt your self-respect."

"I think so," I answered.

"Well," she went on, slowly, and half turning away, "girls have their self-respect too."

"What manner of man must you think I am?" I asked, understanding a little what she meant, but refusing to take advantage of what I thought the little girl's mistaken chivalry.

"And what manner of girl must you think me?" she replied, and burst out crying.

"Don't think I don't understand and don't appreciate," I said, lamely.

"Go away, go away," she sobbed.

"I can't go," I said, "till I have explained. I don't quite know how to, but our friendship began with bills of exchange, and don't you think a debtor would sometimes prefer not to have an acceptance for honour when he cannot pay his debts?"

"It depends," she said, softly, and with a lamentable disregard of the law, "whether it's supra protest."

"Don't tempt me too far," I urged.

"I am not tempting you," she said, getting up and turning on me angrily.

"If you only knew," I protested, bitterly, and her face changed.

"How am I to know," she asked, "if you refuse to tell me?"

"What right have I?" I burst out.

"A right," she murmured, "implies an obligation, and of course----"

Well, well, the rest of the conversation was commonplace except to ourselves. The man in possession exhausted most of my capital in getting extremely drunk that night, my uncle insisted for the first time in his life in regarding me as a clever fellow after all, and Miss Prentice has been confirmed in her opinion that I am a scheming scoundrel.

AMERICAN WIVES OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.

SOME CHARMING LINKS IN THE ANGLO-AMERICAN ALLIANCE.

Those who scout the notion of an Anglo-American Alliance should remember that in a considerable number of cases the question has been solved, and in a very satisfactory manner, by the contracting parties themselves. Every year Anglo-American marriages become more frequent, and there can be no doubt that, on more than one occasion, this fact has told significantly when affairs of moment were in question.

In this matter, at least, the United Kingdom has remained faithful to her "oldest colony," and latterly distinguished Englishmen have sought wives in America, rather than in Greater Britain.

_J. Thomson, Photo_]

At the present time three of the most prominent personalities in the House of Commons--Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, Sir William Harcourt, and Mr. George Curzon--are each married to an American, and the only difficulty that meets those who would attempt to draw up a list of these informal Anglo-American alliances is to choose from the large number of names that presents itself. To take the peerage only, there are at the present time three American duchesses, and Lady Francis Hope (Miss May Yohe) may one day be Duchess of Newcastle. The only transatlantic marchioness is Lady Anglesey, but there are three American countesses, four baronesses, and many other ladies whose husbands are in possession of courtesy titles.

Of the three American ladies who have worn and are wearing the strawberry leaves, perhaps the most interesting, from several points of view, is the lady who is still known to the world as Lilian, Duchess of Marlborough.

_Née_ Miss Price, the future duchess was married when very young to a wealthy American, Mr. Hammersley. His death occurred comparatively soon after the marriage, and he left his young wife his entire fortune. Some years later, she greatly astonished her friends by marrying the then Duke of Marlborough; but, contrary to general expectation, no part of her immense fortune was squandered, for Her Grace proved herself an excellent woman of business, and though considerable sums were spent on putting and keeping Blenheim in repair, it was arranged that an insurance covering the whole amount should, in each case, be effected on the duke's life. Consequently, at his death, his widow found herself an even wealthier woman than she was before she became his wife.

After the late Duke of Marlborough's death, the duchess lived very quietly; but, as she was still a comparatively young woman, her marriage to Lord William Beresford was considered to be, on her part, a very judicious step. Her stepson, the young Duke of Marlborough, gave her away, and she has remained on very good terms with her second husband's family.

Lord William Beresford was believed, until comparatively lately, to be a confirmed Anglo-Indian, for he managed, as Military Secretary, the households of several Viceroys, and he is known, both among Europeans and Indians all over the Queen's Eastern Empire, as a man possessing not only exceptional business capacity, but remarkable _savoir faire_. He has taken part in many campaigns, and was the prototype of "Soldier Bill" in one of Whyte Melville's best known novels.

Since his marriage, he and his wife have lived at the Deep Dene, Lord Francis Hope's beautiful place near Dorking, and it was there that their infant son was born last year. The duchess has adapted herself completely to the conditions of English country life. The Deep Dene was described by Aubrey as "an epitome of Paradise," and a "Garden of Eden." Accordingly, the lines of Lord William Beresford and his wife are laid in pleasant places. The latter devotes a good deal of her time to the collection and growth of orchids. Under her supervision a fine orchid-house has been erected, and she is fast becoming a formidable rival to the most noted growers in the kingdom.

_Alice Hughes, Photo_]

At the present moment the personality of Consuelo, Duchess of Manchester, as she will henceforth be known, is of peculiar interest. Although the engagement of the young duke was lately announced, his mother is still one of the youngest looking women in society, and she has scarcely changed since the day, twenty-two years ago, when she took London by storm as the bride of Viscount Mandeville, the then Duke of Manchester's eldest son and heir.

_Elliot and Fry, Photo_

(2) LADY TERENCE BLACKWOOD.

_J. Thomson, Photo_

(3) THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

_Russell & Sons, Photo_

(4) LADY ARTHUR BUTLER.

_Faulkner, Photo_]

Unlike most Americans who have married Englishmen, Miss Consuelo Yznaga had only once paid a flying visit to London before her marriage. Her mother, who had been a noted belle of New Orleans in the fifties, on her marriage to a distinguished Spaniard went to Cuba, where the future British duchess was born in the little village of Sant Espiritu.

As has been the case with almost every family connected with Cuba, the Yznagas sustained great losses, which led to their settling once more in America, and it was there that Miss Yznaga first met Lord Mandeville, then travelling in the States. When visiting at her father's house he fell ill, and was very kindly nursed and entertained till his recovery. The engagement excited exceptional interest owing to the fact that Lady Mandeville, as she became, was the first Anglo-American peeress.

In spite of the fact that after their marriage Lord and Lady Mandeville had no London house, the latter soon took a very prominent place in society; she became a great favourite both with the Prince and with the Princess of Wales, and she was constantly included in the lists of house parties invited to meet their Royal Highnesses.

Many years of Lady Mandeville's married life were spent in Ireland. She was devoted to her three children, twin daughters and one son, known during his childhood as Lord Kimbolton; and though she often paid flying visits to London, she did not revisit America for a long time.

On the death of the seventh Duke of Manchester, in 1890, Lady Mandeville became at once the reigning Duchess of Manchester, and she was for a time the only American duchess in the peerage; during the two years which elapsed before the duke's death, the duchess gave a series of splendid entertainments both in her London house in Great Cumberland Street, and at Kimbolton Castle, in Huntingdonshire, the splendid place which was, for so many years, the home of poor Catherine of Arragon after her divorce from Henry VIII.

Her mother-in-law, now the Duchess of Devonshire, always proved a firm and loyal friend to her son's beautiful American wife; and on the death of the eighth duke, which occurred in the August of 1892, it was his mother who persuaded the young duchess that she should continue to live in London, and not retire, as she thought of doing, to her son's Irish seat.

The greatest grief of the Duchess of Manchester's life was the death of Lady Mary Montagu, one of her beautiful twin daughters, whose charming portraits by Lady Granby and Mr. Edward Hughes have made their features familiar. Since her death, which occurred very suddenly in Rome, the duchess has lived very quietly until this spring, only emerging from her retirement in order to introduce her young daughter to society.

It is a curious fact that the young Duchess of Marlborough, _née_ Miss Vanderbilt, is the godchild and namesake of Consuelo, Duchess of Manchester, owing to the circumstance that the latter and Mrs. Vanderbilt were intimate friends. The Duke of Marlborough first met Miss Vanderbilt when she was visiting her godmother, but the engagement and marriage took place, as all the world knows, in New York.

The Duchess of Marlborough, like most of her fellow countrywomen, has shown remarkable powers of adaptability. She is very much liked, both round Blenheim and in the more critical London world where her rank gives her a very important place.

Everyone is aware that Lady Randolph Churchill is one of three beautiful sisters who all married Englishmen. The brilliant younger son of a Duke of Marlborough first met Miss Jennie Jerome in Paris. Like so many American women, she was and is a very excellent conversationalist; in fact, during Lord Randolph's lifetime, it used to be said that the only woman who was his match in repartee was his own wife. Although brought up in an intensely republican atmosphere, she developed, after her marriage, into an enthusiastic Tory, and a pillar of the Primrose League.

When her husband decided to enter Parliament, his wife set herself to promoting his interests in every way; and it was openly averred at the time, that he owed his appointment as Chancellor of the Exchequer to her efforts, for in those days Lady Randolph Churchill may be said to have had a _salon_ in the true sense of the word, and her beautiful house in Connaught Place was a rendezvous for her husband's friends and supporters. She showed American thoroughness in everything about the establishment, keeping the best _chef_ in town and being a perfect hostess from every point of view.

Since the premature death of Lord Randolph Churchill, his widow has continued to make her home in London. She is very devoted to her two sons, and is said to be as ambitious for them as she was for their father. It was at one time widely asserted that Lady Randolph was about to become the second wife of her millionaire fellow-countryman, Mr. William Waldorf Astor, but up to the present time the rumour has not been confirmed.

_A. Hughes, Photo_

(2) LADY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL.

_A. Hughes, Photo_

(3) THE COUNTESS OF CRAVEN.

_Lafayette, Photo_]

Lady Randolph's great interest in life is music. She is a very fine pianist, and sings almost as well as she talks. She has of late devoted a great deal of her spare time to private theatricals, her first appearance having taken place at Blenheim, during the now historical visit of the Prince and Princess of Wales to the Duke of Marlborough and his young American bride.

Lady Randolph has preserved an extraordinary look of youth, and, though the eldest of the three, she looks younger than either of her sisters, Mrs. Jack Leslie, and Mrs. Morton Frewen.

Among the American women who have been called upon to take an active interest in British political life, Mrs. Joseph Chamberlain certainly deserves the foremost place. She is devoted to her husband, and has made herself thoroughly conversant with all that affects or that may affect his political ambitions. But she is quite content--unlike, it must be admitted, most American women--to take a second place, and she is liked and respected by many people who still retain their prejudice against the Colonial Secretary.

Mrs. Chamberlain, _née_ Miss Mary Endicott, belongs to one of the oldest families in New England, one of her forebears having been the first English governor of Massachusetts. Mr. Chamberlain, then a widower for the second time, first met Miss Endicott in 1887, when he was one of the British delegates on the Fishery Commission; but their engagement did not take place till the following year, and Mr. Chamberlain returned to America to be married, the wedding being celebrated at Salem, Mass., the residence of the bride's father.

At the present moment it is interesting to recall that Mr. W. C. Endicott was Secretary for War in President Cleveland's first administration, and perhaps Mr. Chamberlain's openly expressed sympathies with America during the Hispano-American war are greatly owing to the fact that his wife's family have always been ardently patriotic.

Mrs. Chamberlain has now become quite an Englishwoman. Her husband's people have become her people, and she has even gathered Birmingham to her heart, for although Highbury has become a very "smart" house, its mistress is always ready to welcome there her husband's old supporters and early friends; Mrs. Chamberlain has also ever been on the happiest terms with her step-children, one of whom, Mr. Austen Chamberlain, is older than herself.

What orchids are popularly supposed to be to the Colonial Secretary, roses are to his charming American wife; and the rosery at Highbury is one of the most beautiful in the United Kingdom, and this although Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain spend a considerable portion of the year in Prince's Gardens, where they are always reminded, however, of their much-loved Warwickshire home, great baskets full of roses being sent them almost daily from Highbury.

Mrs. Chamberlain does not see very much of what may be called the American colony. On all important occasions she is to be seen in the Ladies' Gallery of the House of Commons, and during the famous Home Rule Bill debates she was as faithful in her attendance as was Mrs. Gladstone herself. She is one of the very few American women for whom the Queen has shown a distinct partiality, and she often accompanies her husband when he receives a "dine and sleep" invitation to Windsor.

Lady Harcourt belongs to an altogether older and more serious generation than that from which have been drawn those American women who now leaven English society. She was the daughter of the famous American historian, Motley, and much of her youth was spent in Europe, where her father, who was a diplomat as well as a student, was seeking materials for his great history, "The Rise of the Dutch Republic."

Miss Motley married Mr. Ives when quite a girl, and after becoming a widow continued to live in England; and thus it fell about that Mr. Vernon Harcourt, himself a widower with one little boy, had the good fortune to win as his second wife one of the most charming and kindly of women.

The Liberal ranks are, when compared with their rivals, poor in hostesses; but it is universally admitted that in Lady Harcourt they are exceptionally blessed, and her house parties at Malwood have done much to make Sir William popular with the party, the more so that Lady Harcourt does not confine her interest to politics. She is devoted to literature and art, and accordingly she is very eclectic in her choice of guests. Thus Sir William and Lady Harcourt were on intimate terms with Disraeli, and after the great Tory leader's death, a very valuable and unique miniature of Byron which had been in the possession of the author of "Lothair" was given to the Squire of Malwood by Lord Beaconsfield's executors.

Lady Harcourt also frequently entertained Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, and in her garden is a walnut tree planted by the Grand Old Man, while close by is an ash which is known as Mrs. Gladstone's tree.

It is an interesting fact that, through the Vernons, Lady Harcourt is the only American who can claim relationship with Royalty. The story goes that on one occasion, to his annoyance rather than to his amusement, a friend of the Liberal Leader once proposed at a Radical gathering the health of "Mr. Vernon Harcourt and the rest of the Royal Family!"

Mrs. George Curzon is the latest addition to the group of American women which is now playing so prominent a part in English political society. The future Lady Scarsdale is the daughter of a great Chicago millionaire, whose home, however, has now been for many years in Washington. It was said at the time of the marriage that Mr. Leiter had settled on his daughter £10,000 a year.

As Miss Leiter, Mrs. Curzon spent several winters in Europe, and she met her future husband first in London, although their engagement and marriage took place at the bride's own home in Washington. Even in America, that land of beautiful women, Miss Leiter was distinguished for her exceptional good looks, and she was also said to be, as a girl, one of the best conversationalists in Washington. Owing to her intimate friendship with Mrs. Cleveland, she was constantly at the White House, and while there became acquainted with all the diplomatic world; indeed, at one time every foreign attaché in Washington was said to aspire to the honour of becoming Miss Leiter's husband. She speaks French and German perfectly, and has always been interested in literary matters; indeed, her interest in Mr. George Curzon's literary work first caused them to become friends. Their engagement lasted some months, and aroused great interest throughout the States.

The marriage took place in Washington four years ago, and ever since Mrs. George Curzon has entirely identified herself with her husband's aims and interests. When he was standing for Southport she was the most energetic of canvassers, and her beautiful London house is becoming quite a rendezvous of the Conservative party.

Of all the American women who have married Englishmen none has a more interesting house than has the Countess of Essex; indeed, Cassiobury Park, which is near Watford, is not only one of the loveliest country houses in the United Kingdom, but is said to date its name and fame from the days of the early Britons. The house itself is of recent construction, having been built by Inigo Jones, while the gardens were laid out by Le Nôtre, who was persuaded to leave Versailles for a brief period in order that he might lend his aid to beautifying the property of the Lord Capel from whom the present Earl of Essex is descended.

Lady Essex, _née_ Miss Adele Grant, has fine taste. Her special hobby is the collecting of miniatures, and in her boudoir at Cassiobury are over a hundred exquisite portraits of the dead and gone beauties and beaux of a former day. Curiously enough, the title of Countess of Essex has been invariably borne by a beautiful woman, and one of the most charming pictures in the house is a portrait of the lovely Kitty Stephens, who became the wife of the fifth earl.

The Countess of Essex, although belonging to a well-known American family, has lived in London from her earliest girlhood, and she was at one time regarded as the prospective bride of the late Lord Cairns. Her marriage, five years ago, to the seventh Earl of Essex was a social sensation of 1893.

COUNTESS OF ESSEX AND BABY.]

Lord and Lady Essex are both keenly interested in sport and in animals. They have no town house, but entertain a great deal in their beautiful Hertfordshire place.

The young Countess of Craven is the daughter of an immensely wealthy American couple, Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Martin; even before their daughter's marriage, they generally spent half the year in Europe, and their entertainments and house parties became notable for almost "Ouidaesque" lavishness. Mrs. Bradley Martin possesses the most valuable collection of jewels belonging to any American woman. Her rubies alone are valued at £40,000, and a fan which she gave her daughter, and which is encrusted with pearls, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, is intrinsically worth £2,000.

Since the marriage of Miss Cornelia Bradley Martin to the fourth Earl of Craven, the young American countess has taken a prominent place among the country hostesses of the day. She has already entertained Royalty several times.

One of the most attractive American women who have made their home on this side of the Atlantic is Lady Terence Blackwood, the pretty young daughter-in-law of the Marquis of Dufferin. Before her marriage, Miss Flora Davis was for some time a member of the American colony in Paris, and her marriage took place while Lord Dufferin still occupied the British Embassy.

Miss Davis, though the daughter of a very wealthy man, was not, in the ordinary sense of the word, an heiress; and since her marriage she and her husband, who is Lord Dufferin's second son, have lived quite quietly either in a pretty flat in Paris, or more lately in Cadogan Square, where their house is one of the prettiest in London, each room representing a different period, the curious and valuable furniture having been a present from Lady Terence's father.

Lady Naylor-Leyland is the most beautiful American in society. As Miss Jennie Chamberlain her loveliness was the talk of two continents, and her beauty has an exquisite setting in her present London house, for her father-in-law was one of the foremost art collectors in Europe.

Mrs. Arthur Paget takes a very leading place among the American women who have made England their home, for to exceptional loveliness she joins great vivacity and charm of manner. This latter quality is probably owing to the fact that her mother, Mrs. Paran Stevens, was always surrounded in New York by a circle of intellectual and interesting people.

Mrs. Arthur Paget is celebrated for her wonderful collection of jewels, which includes a rope of the largest pearls in the world. She is also very fond of emeralds, and is often seen wearing a tiara of these beautiful stones. Like Lady Naylor-Leyland, she is a very successful London hostess, and she has revived the fashion of _poudré_ and fancy dress balls. Colonel Paget is a cousin of Lord Anglesey.

The same year that witnessed the marriage of the Earl of Essex to Miss Adele Grant witnessed another interesting Anglo-American alliance, that of Miss Mary Caroline Cuyler to Sir Philip Grey-Egerton. Lady Grey-Egerton, who is the proud mother of twin sons, born two years after her marriage, is very fond of society. She is an enthusiastic cyclist.

IGNOTA.

* * * * *

THE TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER.

A STORY OF THE METROPOLITAN RAILWAY.

BY CUTCLIFFE HYNE.

_Illustrated by J. Finnemore, R.B.A._

"I abominate detective stories," said the Q.C., laying down his cue along the corner of the billiard-table and going across to the shelf where the cigar-boxes stood. "You see, when a man makes a detective story to write down on paper, he begins at the butt-end and works backwards. He notes his points and manufactures his clues to suit 'em, so it's all bound to work out right. In real life it's very different,"--he chose a Partaga, looking at it through his glasses thoughtfully--"and I ought to know; I've been studying the criminal mind for half my working life."

"But," said O'Malley, "a defending counsel is a different class of animal from the common detective."

"Oh, is he?" said the Q.C.; "that's all you know about it." He dragged one of the big chairs up into the deep chimney corner and settled himself in it, after many luxurious shruggings; then he spoke on, between whiffs at the Partaga.

"Now I'll just state you a case, and you'll see for yourself how we sometimes have to ravel out things. The solicitor who put the brief in my hands was, as solicitors go, a smart chap. He had built up a big business out of nothing, but criminal work was slightly out of his line. He had only taken up this case to oblige an old client, and I must say he made an uncommonly poor show of it. I never had such a thin brief given me in my life.

"The prisoner was to be tried on the capital charge; and if murder really had been committed, it was one of a most cold-blooded nature. Hanging would follow conviction as surely as night comes on the heels of day; and a client who gets the noose given him always damages his counsel's reputation, whether that counsel deserves it or not.

"As my brief put it, the case fined down to this:

"Two men got into an empty third-class smoking compartment at Addison Road. One of them, Guide, was a drain contractor; the other, Walker, was a foreman in Guide's employ. The train took them past the Shepherd's Bush and Grove Road Hammersmith stations without anything being reported; but at Shaftesbury Road Walker was found on the floor, stone dead, with a wound in the skull, and on the seat of the carriage was a small miner's pickaxe with one of its points smeared with blood.

"It was proved that Guide had been seen to leave the Shaftesbury Road station. He was dishevelled and agitated at the time, and this made the ticket collector notice him specially amongst the crowd of out-going passengers. After it was found out who he was, inquiries were made at his home. His wife stated that she had not seen him since Monday--the morning of Walker's death. She also let out that Walker had been causing him some annoyance of late, but she did not know about what. Subsequently--on the Friday, four days later--Guide was arrested at the West India Dock. He was trying to obtain employ as coal trimmer on an Australian steamer, obviously to escape from the country. On being charged he surrendered quietly, remarking that he supposed it was all up with him.

"That was the gist of my case, and the solicitor suggested that I should enter a plea of insanity.

"Now, when I'd conned the evidence over--additional evidence to what I've told you, but all tending to the same end--I came to the conclusion that Guide was as sane as any of us are, and that, as a defence, insanity wouldn't have a leg to stand upon. 'The fellow,' I said, 'had much better enter a plea of guilty and let me pile up a long list of extenuating circumstances. A jury will always listen to those, and feeling grateful for being excused a long and wearisome trial, recommend to mercy out of sheer gratitude.' I wrote a note to this effect. On its receipt the solicitor came to see me--by the way, he was Barnes, a man of my own year at Cambridge.

"'My dear Grayson,' said he, 'I'm not altogether a fool. I know as well as you do that Guide would have the best chance if he pleaded guilty; but the difficult part of it is that he flatly refuses to do any such thing. He says he no more killed this fellow Walker than you or I did. I pointed out to him that the man couldn't very conveniently have slain himself, as the wound was well over at the top of his head, and had obviously been the result of a most terrific blow. At the P.M. it was shown that Walker's skull was of abnormal thickness, and the force required to drive through it even a heavy, sharp-pointed instrument like the pickaxe, must have been something tremendous.

"'I tell you, Grayson, I impressed upon the fellow that the case was as black as ink against him, and that he'd only irritate the jury by holding out; but I couldn't move him. He held doggedly to his tale--he had not killed Andrew Walker.'

"'He's not the first man who's stuck to an unlikely lie like that,' I remarked.

"'The curious part of it is,' said Barnes, 'I'm convinced that the man believes himself to be telling the absolute truth.'

"'Then what explanation has he to offer?'

"'None worth listening to. He owns that he and Walker had a fierce quarrel over money matters, which culminated in a personal struggle. He knows that he had one blow on the head which dazed him, and fancies that he must have had a second which reduced him to unconsciousness. When next he knew what was happening, he saw Walker lying on the floor, stone dead, though he was still warm and supple. On the floor was the pickaxe, with one of its points slimy with blood. How it came to be so he couldn't tell. He picked it up and laid it on a seat. Then in an instant the thought flashed across him how terribly black things looked against himself. He saw absolutely no chance of disproving them, and with the usual impulse of crude minds resolved at once to quit the country. With that idea he got out at the Shaftesbury Road Station, and being an ignorant man and without money, made his way down to the Ratcliff Highway--beg its pardon, St. George's High Street. Using that as a centre, he smelt about the docks at Limehouse and Millwall trying for a job in the stokehold; but as that neighbourhood is one of the best watched spots on earth, it is not a matter for surprise that he was very soon captured. That's about all I can tell you.'

"'I'm afraid it doesn't lighten matters up very much.'

"'I never said it would. The gist of this is down in your brief, Grayson. I only came round to chambers because of your letter.'

"'Still,' I persisted, 'you threw out a hint that Guide had offered some explanation.'

"'Oh, yes; but such a flimsy, improbable theory that no sane man could entertain it for a minute. In fact, he knew it to be absurd himself. After pressing him again and again to suggest how Walker could have been killed (with the view of extorting a confession), he said, in his slow, heavy way, "Why, I suppose, Mr. Barnes, someone else must ha' done it. Don't you think as a man could ha' got into the carriage whilst I was lying there stupid, and hit Walker with the pick and got out again afore I come to? Would that do, sir?"

"'I didn't think,' added Barnes, drily, 'that it was worth following that theory any deeper. What do you say?'

"I thought for a minute and then spoke up. 'Look here, Barnes; if in the face of this cock-and-bull story Guide persists in his innocence, there may be something in it after all; and if by any thousand-to-one chance we could bring him clear, it would be a red feather in the caps of both of us. Do you object to my seeing the man personally?'

"'It's a bit irregular,' said Barnes, doubtfully.

"'I know it is bang in the teeth of etiquette. But suppose we compromise, and you come with me?'

"'No, I won't do that. My time's busy just now; and besides, I don't want to run up the costs of this case higher than necessary. But if you choose to shove your other work aside and waste a couple of hours, just go and interview him by yourself, and we'll waive ceremony. I'll get the necessary prison order, and send it round to you to-morrow.'

"Next afternoon I went down to see Guide in the waiting-room at the Old Bailey. He was a middle-aged man, heavy-faced, and evidently knocked half stupid by the situation in which he found himself. He was perhaps as great a fool to his own interests as one might often meet with. There was no getting the simplest tale out of him except by regular question-and-answer cross-examination. What little he did tell seemed rather to confirm his guilt than otherwise; though, strange to say, I was beginning to believe him when he kept on assuring me between every other sentence that he did not commit the murder. Perhaps it was the stolid earnestness of the fellow in denying the crime which convinced me. One gets to read a good deal from facial expression when a man has watched what goes on in the criminal dock as long as I have done; and one can usually spot guilt under any mask.

"'But tell me,' I said, 'what did you quarrel about in the first instance?'

"'Money,' said Guide, moodily.

"'That's vague. Tell me more. Did he owe you money?'

"'No, sir, it was t'other way on.'

"'Wages in arrear?'

"'No, it was money he had advanced me for the working of my business. You see Walker had always been a hard man, and he'd saved. He said he wanted his money back, he knowing that I was pinched a bit just then and couldn't pay. Then he tried to thrust himself into partnership with me in the business, which was a thing I didn't want. I'd good contracts on hand which I expected would bring me in a matter of nine thousand pounds, and I didn't want to share it with any man, least of all him. I told him so, and that's how the trouble began. But it was him that hit me first.'

"'Still, you returned the blow?'

"Guide passed a hand wearily over his forehead. 'I may have struck him back, sir--I was dazed, and I don't rightly remember. But before God I'll swear that I never lifted that pick to Andrew Walker--it was his pick.'

"'But,' I persisted, "Walker couldn't very conveniently have murdered himself.'

"'No, sir, no--no, he couldn't. I thought of that myself since I been in here, and I said to Mr. Barnes that perhaps somebody come into the carriage when I was knocked silly, and killed him; but Mr. Barnes he said that was absurd. Besides, who could have done it?'

"'Don't you know anybody, then, who would have wished for Walker's death?'

"'There was them that didn't like him,' said Guide, drearily.

"That was all I could get out of him, and I went away from the prison feeling very dissatisfied. I was stronger than ever in the belief that Guide was in no degree guilty, and yet for the life of me I did not see how to prove his innocence. He had not been a man of any strong character to begin with, and the shock of what he had gone through had utterly dazed him. It was hopeless to expect any reasonable explanation from him; he had resigned himself to puzzlement. If he had gone melancholy mad before he came up to trial, I should not have been one whit surprised.

"I brooded over the matter for a couple of days, putting all the rest of my practice out of thought, but I didn't get any forwarder with it. I hate to give anything up as a bad job, and in this case I felt that there was on my shoulders a huge load of responsibility. Guide, I had thoroughly persuaded myself, had not murdered Andrew Walker; as sure as the case went into court, on its present grounding, the man would be hanged out of hand; and I persuaded myself that then I, and I alone, should be responsible for an innocent man's death.

"At the end of those two days only one course seemed open to me. It was foreign to the brief I held, but the only method left to bring in my client's innocence.

"I must find out who did really murder the man. I must try to implicate some third actor in the tragedy.

"To begin with, there was the railway carriage; but a little thought showed me that nothing was to be done there. The compartment would have been inspected by the police, and then swept and cleaned and garnished, and coupled on to its train once more, and used by unconscious passengers for weeks since the uproar occurred in it.

"All that I had got to go upon were the notes and relics held at Scotland Yard.

"The police authorities were very good. Of course, they were keen enough to bring off the prosecution with professional _éclat_; but they were not exactly anxious to hand over a poor wretch to the hangman if he was not thoroughly deserving of a dance on nothing. They placed at my disposal every scrap of their evidence, and said that they thought the reading of it all was plain beyond dispute. I thought so, too, at first. They sent an inspector to my chambers as their envoy.

"On one point, though, after a lot of thought, I did not quite agree with them. I held a grisly relic in my hand, gazing at it fixedly. It was a portion of Walker's skull--a disc of dry bone with a splintered aperture in the middle.

"'And so you think the pickaxe made that hole,' I said to the inspector.

"'I don't think there can be any doubt about it, Mr Grayson. Nothing else could have done it, and the point of the pick was smeared with blood.'

"'But would there be room to swing such a weapon in a third-class Metropolitan railway carriage?'

"'We thought of that, and at first it seemed a poser. The roof is low, and both Guide and Walker are tall men; but if Guide had gripped the shaft by the end, so, with his right hand pretty near against the head, so, he'd have had heaps of room to drive it with a sideways swing. I tried the thing for myself; it acted perfectly. Here's the pickaxe: you can see for yourself.'

"I did see, and I wasn't satisfied; but I didn't tell the inspector what I thought. It was clearer to me than ever that Guide had not committed the murder. What I asked the inspector was this: 'Had either of the men got any luggage in the carriage?'

"The inspector answered, with a laugh, 'Not quite, Mr. Grayson, or you would see it here.'

"Then I took on paper a rough outline of that fragment of bone, and an accurate sketch of exact size of the gash in it, and the inspector went away. One thing his visit had shown me. Andrew Walker was not slain by a blow from behind by the pickaxe.

"I met Barnes whilst I was nibbling lunch, and told him this. He heard me doubtfully. 'You may be right,' said he, 'but I'm bothered if I see what you have to go upon.'

"'You know what a pickaxe is like?' I said.

"'Certainly.'

"'A cross-section of one of the blades would be what?'

"'Square--or perhaps oblong.'

"'Quite so. Rectangular. What I want to get at is this: it wouldn't even be diamond shape, with the angles obtuse and acute alternately.'

"'Certainly not. The angles would be clean right-angles.'

"'Very good. Now look at this sketch of the hole in the skull, and tell me what you see.'

"Barnes put on his glasses, and gazed attentively for a minute or so, and then looked up. 'The pick point has crashed through without leaving any marks of its edges whatever.'

"'That is to say, there are none of your right-angles showing.'

"'None. But that does not go to prove anything.'

"'No. It's only about a tenth of my proof. It gives the vague initial idea. It made me look more carefully, and I saw this'--I pointed with my pencil to a corner of the sketch.

"Barnes whistled. 'A clean arc of a circle,' said he, 'cut in the bone as though a knife had done it. You saw that pickaxe. Was it much worn? Were the angles much rounded near the point?'

"'They were not. On the contrary, the pick, though an old one, had just been through the blacksmith's shop to be re-sharpened, and had not been used since. There was not a trace of wear upon it: of that I am certain.'

"Barnes whistled again in much perplexity. At length said he, 'It's an absolutely certain thing that Walker was not killed in the way they imagine. But I don't think this will get Guide off scot-free. There's too much other circumstantial evidence against him. Of course you'll do your best, but----'

"'It would be more than a toss up if I could avoid a conviction. Quite so. We must find out more. The question is, how was this wound made? Was there a third man in it?'

"'Guide may have jobbed him from behind with some other instrument, and afterwards thrown it out of window.'

"'Yes,' said I, 'but that is going on the assumption that Guide did the trick, which I don't for a moment think is the case. Besides, if he did throw anything out of window, it would most assuredly have been found. They keep the permanent way very thoroughly inspected upon the Metropolitan. No, Barnes. There is some other agent in this case, animate or inanimate, which so far we have overlooked completely; and an innocent man's life depends upon our ravelling it out.'

"Barnes lifted his shoulders helplessly, and took another sandwich. 'I don't see what we can do.'

"'Nor I, very clearly. But we must start from the commencement, and go over the ground inch by inch.'

"So wrapped up was I in the case by this time, that I could not fix my mind to anything else. Then and there I went out and set about my inquiries.

"With some trouble I found the compartment in which the tragedy had taken place, but learnt nothing new from it. The station and the railway people at Addison Road, Kensington, were similarly drawn blank. The ticket inspector at Shaftesbury Road, who distinctly remembered Guide's passage, at first seemed inclined to tell me nothing new, till I dragged it out of him by a regular emetic of questioning.

"Then he did remember that Guide had been carrying in his hand a carpenter's straw bass, as he passed through the wicket. He did not recollect whether he had mentioned this to the police: didn't see that it mattered.

"I thought differently, and with a new vague hope in my heart, posted back to the prison. I had heard no word of this hand-baggage from Guide. It remained to be seen what he had done with it.

"They remembered me from my previous visit, and let me in to the prisoner without much demur. Guide owned up to the basket at once. 'Yes,' he said, 'I had some few odd tools to carry from home, and as I couldn't find anything else handy to put them in I used the old carpenter's bass. I had an iron eye to splice on to the end of a windlass rope, a job that I like to do myself, to make sure it's done safe. I never thought about telling you of that bass before, sir. I didn't see as how it mattered.'

"'Where is the bass now?'

"'In the Left Luggage Office at Shaftesbury Road Station. Name of Hopkins. I've lost the ticket.'

"'Where did you put your basket on entering the carriage at Addison Road?'

"'On the seat, sir, in the corner by the window.'

"And with that I left him.

"'Now,' thought I, 'I believe I can find out whether you murdered Walker or not,' and drove back to Hammersmith.

"I inquired at the cloak-room. Yes, the carpenter's bass was there, beneath a dusty heap of other unclaimed luggage. There was demurrage to pay on it, which I offered promptly to hand over, but as I could produce no counterfoil bearing the name of Hopkins, the clerk, with a smile, said that he could not let me have it. However, when he heard what I wanted, he made no objection to my having an overhaul.

"The two lugs of the bass were threaded together with a hammer. I took this away, and opened the sides. Within was a ball of marline, another of spun-yarn, a grease-pot, and several large iron eyes. Also a large marline-spike. It was this last that fixed my attention. It was brand new, with a bone handle and a bright brass ferrule. Most of the iron also was bright, but three inches of the point were stained with a faint dark brown. From a casual inspection I should have put this down to the marline-spike having been last used to make a splice on tarred rope; but now my suspicions made me think of something else.

"I raised the stained point to my nose. There was no smell of tar whatever. On the bright part there was the indefinable odour of iron; at the tip, that thin coat of dark brown varnish had blotted this scent completely away.

"I think my fingers trembled when I turned to the bass again.

"Yes, there, opposite to where the point of the marline-spike had been lying--it was tilted up over the ball of spun-yarn--was a closed-up gash in the side of the bass. The spike had passed through there, and then been withdrawn. Round the gash was a dim discoloration which I knew to be dried human blood.

"In my mind's eye I saw the whole ghastly accident clearly enough now. The two men had been standing up, struggling. Guide had gone down under a blow, knocked senseless, and Walker had stumbled over him. Pitching forward, face downwards, on to the seat before he could recover, his head had dashed violently against the carpenter's bass. The sharp marline-spike inside, with its heel resting against the solid wall of the carriage, had entered the top of his skull like a bayonet. No human hand had been raised against him, and yet he had been killed.

"I kept my own particular ramblings in this case remarkably quiet, and in court led up to my facts through ordinary cross-examination.