The Woman's Way Part 42

Mr. Jacobs took up the packet, turned it over, then placed it on the table and laid his hand on it.

"Shouldn't be surprised," he said, quietly. "And so you've got him in the lock-up? What's his name?"

"Well, he calls himself 'Sydney Green': an alias, I dare say."

Mr. Jacobs nodded once more. "Very likely, I should say; very likely.

Well, I congratulate you, Inspector. You've done a good morning's work.

Bit of a fluke, as you say; but you've been on the close watch, haven't you? And there's something more than luck in this. By the way, you didn't find the two keys--the key of the safe and the key of the jewel-box--on him?"

"No," said Mr. Brown, easily. "Of course, he's got rid of those; and, in another hour or two, he'd have got clear off with the jewel-box. I've got that locked up in my safe. So far as I can see--of course, you can't tell--it looks as if the contents had not been disturbed; in fact, as if we'd recovered all the missing property."

"Splendid!" murmured Mr. Jacobs.

"I suppose you'll go down and see him presently?" said Mr. Brown, almost showing his impatience and irritation at the detective's phlegmatic calm. Nothing seemed to move this man.

"Presently," said Mr. Jacobs, blandly. "There's a knock at the door.

Please open it, Miss Grant."

Celia did so. Mrs. Dexter stood there. She seemed very agitated.

"Will you please come upstairs, Miss Grant," she said; "and--and, yes, you two gentlemen. Something strange, terrible, has happened."

Without a word, Mr. Jacobs signed to Celia to lead the way, placing the packet in his pocket as she did so, and they followed her up to the Marquess's room. He was lying back with his eyes closed; the doctor's hand was on his pulse. Mr. Clendon was seated beside the bed, his hand on the Marquess's shoulder. Mr. Clendon looked troubled, but was quite calm.

"The Marquess has sent for you that you may hear something he has resolved to tell you," he said, in a low voice.

The Marquess opened his eyes and looked round; then they fixed themselves on Heyton, whom Mrs. Dexter had summoned, and who stood regarding the group sullenly.

"Yes," said the Marquess, feebly, but quite distinctly. "I want to tell you that this is my brother"--his hand reached for Mr. Clendon's--"my elder brother. He is Lord Sutcombe, not I. He disappeared and was supposed to have died. I knew some months ago that he was alive, but----"

"Yielding to my earnest entreaty, my command, my brother consented to conceal the fact," said Mr. Clendon, gravely.

"Yes, but it was wrong, Wilfred; and it was foolish," said the Marquess.

His eyes went to his son. "I am sorry, Percy. I believed that he was dead; but I should have told you the moment I discovered the truth. Yes, I see now that it was my duty to have done so."

Heyton had stood staring at the two old men dully; his sodden brain did not realize at first the importance of the avowal; then the blood rushed to his face and he stammered:

"What's all this? What's the meaning of this c.o.c.k-and-bull story? I--I don't understand. You don't suppose I'm going to cave in, accept this fairytale? I'm your son--I'm the next in succession----"

"Yes," said the Marquess, with a deep sigh, and a look at his son which Heyton understood and quailed from. "My brother is not married; you are his heir--after me."

"I did not say I was not married, Talbot," said Mr. Clendon, almost inaudibly. "I said that I had no son. But we will not dwell on that. If I could have had my desire, the truth, my ident.i.ty, would have been buried with me."

"No, no," panted the Marquess; "even if you had not come to-day, I should have told the truth, Wilfred. Would to G.o.d I had told it before!"

"Here, but look here!" Heyton broke out, with a kind of impatient insolence. "This is all very well. This old man comes here, makes a statement--gets you to make a statement--when, as everybody knows, you're not in your right mind--Oh, I'm not going to accept it!"

"There are proofs. You know, Wilfred," said the Marquess. "But I can talk no longer. Leave me with my brother."

They went, the doctor and nurse only remaining: the Marquess's little strength had been sorely tried, and the doctor was watching him closely.

With a defiant air, Heyton swaggered down the steps. As he reached the bottom, a hand fell on his shoulder; lightly enough, but Heyton started and winced.

"Will you give me a minute or two in the sitting-room, my lord?" said Mr. Jacobs, blandly.

"Eh, what is it?" said Heyton, with an oath. "What do you want? I don't want to be bothered just now; got plenty of my own affairs on my mind."

But he followed the detective. Mr. Jacobs closed the door and stood, on one side of the table, looking at Heyton on the other.

"Yes, this has been a most upsetting business for you, my lord," he said. "You have had, and are having, a most trying time; this is the kind of thing which will break down the strongest man; and I'm about to take the liberty of offering you a word of advice." As he spoke, he took up a Continental Bradshaw which was lying open on the table. "In cases of your kind, there's nothing like a change of scene and air. You want to go right away: I mean, a _long_ way.--I've been looking up one or two places where a man could hide himself--I beg your pardon!--I mean, seclude himself without fear of interruption or--interference."

Heyton stared at him; and as he stared, with a puzzled frown, his swollen face grew mottled, livid in places, red in others.

"I don't know what the devil you mean!" he blurted out. "Why should I go anywhere?"

"For the sake of your health, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, his innocent blue eyes fixed on Heyton. "You want a change--and at once; in fact, it is absolutely imperative." He leant forward across the table, patted the Bradshaw and dropped his voice as he went on incisively, "You can catch the night mail from Charing Cross. Book straight through by the Trans-Siberian, by way of Moscow and Pekin. When you reach Harbin, go right into the interior. There are mines there--anyhow, you can lose yourself. You understand, my lord?"

The sweat stood out in great drops on Heyton's face; he tried to meet the detective's eye with an insolent, indignant stare; but his eyes wavered and fell and he sank into a chair.

"I--I don't know what you mean?" he stammered thickly.

"But you will go?" inquired Mr. Jacobs. "In fact, I am sure you will."

Cur as he was, Heyton made a last stand; he threw up his head, swore a vile oath and struck the table.

"I'm hanged if I do!" he said.

"You'll be hanged, if you don't, my lord!" said Mr. Jacobs. Then, after a pause, he said, with a shrug of the shoulders, "I thought you'd have been sensible, that you'd have taken my tip without forcing me into particulars; but if you must have them--well, Lord Heyton, if you are here to-morrow morning, I shall arrest you for the robbery of the jewels and the attempted murder of Lord Sutcombe."

Heyton sprang to his feet; then sank back again with a hoa.r.s.e attempt at a laugh.

"You must be a fool!"

"Well, one of us is a fool, but it's not me, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, imperturbably. "I knew the truth ten minutes after I had examined the dressing-room. You see, the burglar who understands his business works in kid gloves; they leave no finger-prints. There were prints on the door of the safe, inside, on the poker--oh, well, everywhere; because, you see, when a man's engaged in this kind of work, he's naturally nervous, his hands are sweaty. And these finger-prints were those of a gentleman's hands. Do you want me to go on, Lord Heyton?"

Heyton could not speak; his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth; he felt as if his spine were giving way, as if all his strength of mind and body were ebbing from him.

"It's--it's ridiculous!" he stammered.

"No, my lord, it's quite simple, quite elementary. There were the finger-prints, on the safe, on the walls, on the poker. I could read them quite easily with a magnifying gla.s.s; and they never lie. 'Pon my word, Lord Heyton!" he broke off musingly, his mouth twisting into a smile, "I'm inclined to think they're the only things in this world one can rely on. Now, you'll see why I upset the ink over your hand." He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and laid them on the table; and beside them he placed a silver print of the finger-prints in the room.

Heyton stared at them as if they were live things that could sting him.

"Another thing, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs. "I was in the dressing-room just after the Marquess recovered consciousness, and heard him charge you with the robbery. The evidence is quite conclusive. But there is, of course, what we call collateral proof. I found these two keys under the bed in your dressing-room. Of course, you intended throwing them in the lake, when you went down with the jewel-case; but you dropped the keys and didn't find them; there is always a little hitch like that--_it's the hitch in the rope_. I know you took the jewel-case the morning you went down to bathe, because I traced your footprints into the middle of the wood, where you need not have gone, if you had been going merely for a bath. I knew I should find the jewel-case just where you stopped; but I didn't want to discover it. I was waiting for _you_ to go for it, which you would have done presently. Unfortunately for him, another man was in the wood that morning and saw you; and _he_ went for the jewel-case. The Inspector has arrested him, worse luck. I say 'worse luck,' because now we can't hush up the affair--and, you'll have to _go_."

Heyton wiped the sweat from his face, his head sank on his breast; he was in a condition of coma; so stupefied, indeed, that it was only by an effort he could follow the detective's next words,

"There is only one other person--well, say, two--who suspect you, Lord Heyton. But she will keep her lips shut. She is your wife--fortunately for you."

He went to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and pushed the gla.s.s towards the wretched man.