Chapter XXVII: At the Police Court

The threat was sufficient and Jim capitulated.

"Though you are a quixotic fool, Maurice, and no mistake," he asserted vehemently.

"Tell me something I don't know," I suggested. "Something pleasant, for a change. How's Mary?"

"Not at all well; that's why we went down to Cornwall last week; we've taken a cottage there for the summer. The town is frightfully stuffy, and the poor little woman is quite done up. She's been worrying about Anne, too, as I said; and now she'd be worrying about you! She wanted to come up with me yesterday, when I got the wire,--it was forwarded from Chelsea,--but I wouldn't let her; and she'll be awfully upset when she sees the papers to-day. We don't get 'em till the afternoon down there."

"Well, let her have a wire beforehand," I counselled. "Tell her I'm all right, and send her my love. You'll turn up at the court to-morrow to see me through, I suppose? Tell Mary I'll probably come down to Morwen with you on Friday. That'll cheer her up no end."

"I hope you may! But suppose it goes against you, and you're committed for trial?" Jim demanded gloomily. His customary cheeriness seemed to have deserted him altogether at this juncture.

"I'm not going to suppose anything so unpleasant till I have to," I asserted. "Be off with you, and send that wire to Mary!"

I wanted to get rid of him. He wasn't exactly an inspiriting companion just now; besides, I thought it possible that Southbourne might come to see me again; and I had determined to tackle him about that portrait, and try to exact the same pledge from him that I had from Jim. He might, of course, have shown it to a dozen people, as he had to Jim; and on the other hand he might not.

He came right enough, and I opened on him at once. He looked at me in his lazy way, through half-closed lids,--I don't think I've ever seen that man open his eyes full,--and smiled.

"So you do know the lady, after all," he remarked.

"I'm not talking of the original of the portrait, but of Miss Pendennis," I retorted calmly. "I've seen Cayley, and he's quite ready to acknowledge that he was misled by the likeness; but so may other people be if you've been showing it around."

"Well, no; as it happens, I haven't done that. Only you and he have seen it, besides myself. I showed it him because I knew you and he were intimate, and I wanted to see if he would recognize her, as you did,--or thought you did,--when I showed it you, though you wouldn't own up to it. I'm really curious to know who the original is."

"So am I, to a certain extent; but anyhow, she's not Miss Pendennis!" I said decisively; though whether he believed me or not I can't say. "And I won't have her name even mentioned in connection with that portrait!"

"And therefore with,--but no matter," he said slowly. "I wish, for your own sake, and not merely to satisfy my curiosity, that you would be frank with me, or, if not with me, at least with Sir George. However, I'll do what you ask. I'll make no further attempts, at present, to discover the original of that portrait."

That was not precisely what I had asked him, but I let it pass. I knew by his way of saying it that he shared my conviction--and Jim's--that it was Anne's portrait right enough; but I had gained my point, and that was the main thing.

The hearing at the police court next day was more of an ordeal than I had anticipated, chiefly because of my physical condition. I had seemed astonishingly fit when I started,--in a cab, accompanied by a couple of policemen,--considering the extent of my injuries, and the sixty hours' journey I had just come through; and I was anxious to get the thing over. But when I got into the crowded court, where I saw numbers of familiar faces, including Mary's little white one,--she had come up from Cornwall after all, bless her!--I suddenly felt myself as weak as a cat. I was allowed a seat in the dock, and I leaned back in it with what was afterwards described by the reporters as "an apathetic air," though I was really trying my hardest to avoid making an ass of myself by fainting outright. That effort occupied all the energy I had, and I only heard scraps of the evidence, which seemed, to my dulled brain, to refer to some one else and not to me at all.

At last there came a confused noise, shouting and clapping, and above it a stentorian voice.

"Silence! Silence in the court!"

Some one grasped my right arm--just where the bandage was, though he didn't know that--and hurt me so badly that I started up involuntarily, to find Sir George and Southbourne just in front of the dock holding out their hands to me, and I heard a voice somewhere near.

"Come along, sir, this way; you can follow to the ante-room, gentlemen; can't have a demonstration in Court."

I felt myself guided along by the grip on my arm that was like a red-hot vice; there were people pressing about me, all talking at once, and shaking hands with me.

I heard Southbourne say, sharper and quicker than I'd ever heard him speak before:

"Here, look out! Stand back, some of you!"

The next I knew I was lying on a leather sofa with my head resting on something soft. My collar and tie lay on the floor beside me, and my face was wet, and something warm splashed down on it, just as I began to try and recollect what had happened. Then I found that I was resting on Mary's shoulder, and she was crying softly; it was one of her tears that was trickling down my nose at this instant. She wiped it off with her damp little handkerchief.

"You poor boy; you gave us a real fright this time," she exclaimed, smiling through her tears,--a wan little ghost of a smile. "But we'll soon have you all right again when we get you home."

"I'm all right now, dear; I'm sorry I've upset you so," I said, and Jim bustled forward with some brandy in a flask, and helped me sit up.

I saw then that Sir George and Southbourne were still in the room; the lawyer was sitting on a table close by, watching me through his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and Southbourne was standing with his back to us, staring out of the window.

"What's happened, anyhow?" I asked, and Sir George got off the table and came up to me.

"Charge dismissed; I congratulate you, Mr. Wynn," he said genially. "There wasn't a shred of real evidence against you; though they tried to make a lot out of that bit of withered geranium found in your waste-paper basket; just because the housekeeper remembered that Cassavetti had a red flower in his buttonhole when he came in; but I was able to smash that point at once, thanks to your cousin."

He bowed towards Mary, who, as soon as she saw me recovering, had slipped away, and was pretending to adjust her hat before a dingy mirror.

"Why, what did Mary do?"

"Passed me a note saying that you had the buttonhole when you left the Cecil. I called her as a witness and she gave her evidence splendidly."

"Lots of the men had them," Mary put in hurriedly. "I had one, too, and so did Anne--quite a bunch. And my! I should like to know what that housekeeper had been about not to empty the waste-paper basket before. I don't suppose he's touched your rooms since you left them, Maurice!"

"It might have been a very difficult point," Sir George continued judicially; "the only one, in fact. For Lord Southbourne's evidence disposed of the theory the police had formed that you had returned earlier in the evening, and that when you did go in and found the door open your conduct was a mere feint to avert suspicion. And then there was the entire lack of motive, and the derivative evidence that more than one person--and one of them a woman--had been engaged in ransacking the rooms. Yes, it was a preposterous charge!"

"But it served its purpose all right," drawled Southbourne, strolling forward. "They'd have taken their time if I'd set them on your track just because you had disappeared. Congratulations, Wynn. You've had more than enough handshaking, so I won't inflict any more on you. Wonder what scrape you'll find yourself in next?"

"He won't have the chance of getting into any more for some time to come. I shall take care of that!" Mary asserted, with pretty severity. "Put his collar on, Jim; and we'll get him into the brougham."

"My motor's outside, Mrs. Cayley. Do have that. It's quicker and roomier. Come on, Wynn; take my arm; that's all right. You stand by on his other side, Cayley. Sir George, will you take Mrs. Cayley and fetch the motor round to the side entrance? We'll follow."

I guess I'd misjudged him in the days when I'd thought him a cold-blooded cynic. He had certainly proved a good friend to me right through this episode, and now, impassive as ever, he helped me along and stowed me into the big motor.

Half the journalists in London seemed to be waiting outside, and raised a cheer as we appeared. Mary declared that it was quite a triumphant exit.