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Roy Glashan's Library
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The Veiled Lady.
SEXTON BLAKE mounted the steps and entered the police-court. It was a gloomy day in the streets, and the lights in the court shone murkily through the haze that had crept in. A rank odour permeated the place, and sad faces, criminal faces, and pinched and hungry faces were everywhere except upon the bench and around the table where the lawyers were grouped.
It was a dismal scene, where tragedy plays its part every day, where sorrow, destitution, and crime are laid bare; a stage on which are unfolded the anguish and passions of the human underworld.
Moving unobtrusively through the crowd gathered near the door; Blake took a seat at the back of the court. A burly man was standing in the dock and a woman with a child in her arms near Blake was sobbing. The man was her husband.
Other women of her order in other parts of the court were pale and trembling; all had come here on this bleak day to hear the doom pronounced on those who were dear to them despite crimes the law could not condone; many more in like case would be here to-morrow. From year end to year end a police-court is a tragic scene.
The man in the dock was sentenced and led away to the cells. He was followed into the dock by another and another, the magistrate dealing with each case briefly, but with the shrewd experience of a lifetime that usually enabled him in a few quick questions to separate truth from falsehood. For half an hour these cases went on, and then for the first time one of an unusual nature presented itself. A solicitor stood up and addressed the magistrate. The former charges had not been defended by any lawyer.
"I appear for the prisoner in this case, your worship," a young, keen-faced solicitor explained.
At once there was a slight stir. The magistrate knew that a fight for the prisoner's liberty was going to be put up; the police knew that they would have to defend his arrest, and submit themselves to a clever cross-examination; all in the court were glad that some excitement was promised to give an interest to the sordid drama they had been obliged to listen to so far; the reporters, anticipating that this case might be of interest to the newspaper readers, opened their notebooks, and sharpened their pencils.
A young fellow, eighteen years of age, was now standing in the dock. He was very poorly clad, and his face was sullenly defiant.
"What is your client's name, Mr. Bricage?" the magistrate asked.
"Hugh Rollings."
"What is the charge against him?" the magistrate inquired of a police-sergeant.
"He is charged with others, not in custody, of threatening and assaulting people, your worship," the sergeant replied. "He belongs to a gang who—"
"You have no right to say that at this stage of the case!" the solicitor interrupted sharply. "Conduct the prosecution in a proper manner."
"Go into the witness-box and give your evidence," the magistrate directed.
The sergeant, his face a deeper purple after his first encounter with the solicitor, mounted into the witness-box, and was duly sworn.
Blake, having heard the prisoner's name, shot a swift look around the court. He was looking for Tinker. Tinker on his return home late the previous night had told him that he and some of his friends had been attacked by this young fellow and several others. Tinker and his party had put up a good fight, and had escaped with a few knocks. The police had arrested Rollings, and had made Tinker come to the police-station; his companions had slipped away when the fight was over. The police were calling Tinker as a witness, and it was on this account that Blake had come to the court.
He saw Tinker seated close behind the lawyers, and next him was a woman heavily veiled. The prisoner was scowling at Tinker, and the woman's head was bent.
The sergeant gave his evidence. He had seen a crowd in a street in Whitechapel; he knew that fighting was going on, so he blew his whistle and hurried to the spot. As he approached he saw a well-dressed young gentleman, who was now in court, defending himself against two men; another gentleman was on the ground; a third was fighting his way out. There was a crowd of about two hundred people, and all were hostile to the gentlemen. A lady, also in court, would be an important witness; she had been on the spot when the attack began, and had also been assaulted and robbed.
The solicitor asked the sergeant a few questions, but did not cross-examine him severely. Apparently he thought that the sergeant's evidence was not convincing as far as his client's guilt was concerned, Then Tinker was called.
He stepped into the box, bowed to the magistrate, who gravely eyed him over his spectacles, and was sworn. The sergeant proceeded to question him.
"You were in Balting Row, Whitechapel, last night at about ten o'clock?" the sergeant began. "And you were there with some friends?"
"Yes," Tinker replied.
"You were walking quietly along the pavement when some men rushed out of an alley and attacked you?"
"Yes."
"Was the prisoner one of those men?"
"Yes."
"Tell the Court what happened."
"It was this way, your worship," Tinker began, leaning on one elbow and affably addressing the magistrate. "We were walking along, chatting, just the same as you might be—"
"Stand up straight, and don't speak that way!" the magistrate snapped, "The way I talk has nothing to do with this case!"
"No; of course not!" Tinker assented.
"Don't bandy words with me, sir!" the magistrate thundered.
"I don't want to bandy words with anyone!" Tinker replied. He was beginning to feel angry.
"Don't be impudent!" the magistrate retorted. "Go on! Give your evidence properly—that is, if you know how!"
A short silence ensued, Tinker standing very straight and fingering his collar. He had not anticipated this experience, and it was not at all to his liking. The sergeant addressed him.
"You were chatting with your friends when you were attacked?" he suggested. "How did the attack begin?"
"I can't tell that," Tinker explained, "for the first thing I knew was that I got a whack on the back of the head that knocked me against a wall, and raised a lump the size of a walnut. I heard shouting, and I steadied myself, and turned round. Then I began to use my dukes."
"To use your dukes!" the magistrate said, in puzzled wonder.
"He thinks he is a duke, perhaps," the defending solicitor chuckled, just to annoy the lad the more, so that he might get flustered and possibly contradict himself.
And a titter ran round the court.
"I began to use my fists, and there ain't much of a duke about me!" Tinker replied. "And I could crack a better joke than that standing on my head! I started defending myself, anyhow, and two chaps came at me. I plugged one in the eye, and caught the other on the chin. We went at it then hammer and tongs, and I was kept busy until a cry went up that the police were coming, and the scoundrels bolted."
"And this young man, Hugh Rollings, now standing in the dock was one of those who attacked you?" the sergeant asked.
"He was."
"Those are all the questions I wish to ask this witness, your worship," the sergeant said.
The solicitor arose slowly. He did not speak for some moments, but he gazed at Tinker as if the lad was some curious sort of creature he had never seen before, and he rubbed his chin reflectively. Tinker knew this man meant mischief. He looked at him steadily.
"So you were in Whitechapel last night at ten o'clock, and you used your dukes?" the solicitor began, smiling in a very irritating way. "You rather enjoyed the experience—eh?"
"I didn't mind it!" Tinker replied offhand.
"Of course not! A great big fellow like you doesn't care a pin about tackling a couple of men—eh? You would have polished off half a dozen easily, wouldn't you?"
"That would depend upon their pluck. I would take on a couple like you, anyhow!" Tinker retorted.
A roar of laughter went round the court. Tinker began to feel happy again. The solicitor still had that cynical smile on his face.
"Of course—of course!" he said. "And now may I ask, do you live in Whitechapel?"
"No; I do not."
"Then why did you go there at ten o'clock last night?"
"Just to have a look round."
"Oh! Where do you live?"
"In Baker Street."
"And you went from the West End all the way to Whitechapel just to have a look round. I suggest that you went to Whitechapel in order to cause a disturbance, and that you are to blame for what happened."
"You can suggest what you like!" Tinker replied loftily. "That's not the case, though!"
"We'll see if it is or not, my pugilistic young friend," the solicitor replied coolly. "Who were with you?"
"Friends of mine!"
"Ha! You don't want to tell the court anything about them, but I'll drag the truth out of you!" the solicitor thundered, his whole manner changing as he shook a threatening forefinger at the lad. "Give the names of these friends!"
"One of them is Dick Plane."
"And who is this Mr. Dick Plane who finds such enjoyment in your charming and elegant company?" the solicitor sneered.
"He's a medical student."
"A medical student! And he can use his dukes, too, and plug people in the eye—eh?"
"He can if he's set upon," Tinker answered.
"Who were the other companions with you in this peaceful visit to Whitechapel?"
"Ted Bennan and Joe Cramb."
"And are they medical students, too?"
"Well, as it happens, they are," Tinker replied.
"As it happens, they are!" the solicitor scoffed. "And you and these three medical students just went to the East End to have a look round? Do you expect the Court to believe that?"
"I do!"
"Three medical students out for a frolic and a young hero like you who can make mincemeat of a couple of men!" the solicitor sneered. "You went all the way from the West End to Whitechapel just to give good example to others—eh? Your worship, I submit that this witness is perjuring himself!"
The magistrate was gazing reprovingly at Tinker,
"He is certainly telling a peculiar story, and I should like some corroboration of his evidence," the magistrate remarked. "The facts against him are suspicious. I am afraid he is of a very boastful and imaginative nature. When four young men go into the East End without any business there late at night—"
"And three of them medical students," the solicitor intervened.
"There's nothing against medical students!" Tinker said hotly.
"No; but there is a good deal against you!" the magistrate said sharply. "For one thing, you don't know how to behave in my court! Go down! I have had enough of your evidence!"
Tinker, flushed and indignant, descended from the witness-box. He had not had any desire to come into court at all; it was the police who had insisted on his evidence. In the fight on the previous night he had given the prisoner Rollings just as good as he had got, and he had been quite content to leave the matter at that. He looked wrathfully at the solicitor, who was now smiling in quite a friendly manner. The solicitor by clever questioning had put a false construction on Tinker's conduct, and thus had made the magistrate suspicious of his evidence. He had won, and he could now afford to be friendly.
Tinker sat down, thinking over all, and his anger slowly melted. After all, the solicitor had only done his duty, and he was uncommonly clever. It was his business to save his client in the dock if he could, and Tinker, generous and tolerant by nature, soon began to forgive him.
Meantime, the lady in the veil had entered the witness-box. She stood there, a black-robed and pathetic figure, and all could see that she was trembling.
"Please lift your veil," the clerk said. "You cannot be sworn until you do."
"Your worship, I would ask you not to insist on this," she urged, and the refinement of her voice startled the court.
"I am afraid I must insist, madam," the Magistrate replied. "I cannot make any exceptions here."
She raised her veil, and all gazed at her intently. She had a beautiful face, though age had somewhat lined it, and sorrow had made it intensely sad. Her wonderful large, dark eyes, her finely-chiselled features, the air of dignity so seldom seen in the precincts of a police-court—all had an awe-inspiring effect, even on the most callous who were there. She grasped the dock-rail with two slim, white hands, and swayed a little. Blake half arose as he saw her face. He drew a deep breath as he sank back heavily. Murmuring a few words, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then bent forward. A look of great sympathy was in his strong, intellectual eyes.
"You were in Balting Row at ten o'clock last night?" the sergeant began.
The lady was growing more agitated every moment.
"I must decline to answer any questions," she said.
A murmur ran through the court. The sergeant was completely taken aback. He looked to the magistrate for support.
"Why do you decline to give evidence, madam?" the magistrate asked.
"I cannot even answer that question," the lady said.
A tense silence followed. The magistrate laid down his pen, folded his hands on his desk, and gazed at her.
"I am afraid I cannot accept your refusal," he said quietly. "You have been summoned as a witness, and you are bound in law to tell what you saw. If witnesses were at liberty to give evidence or not just as they liked, then the law could not possibly be enforced, and the guilty could not be punished. I must insist on your answering the questions the sergeant puts to you. I will take care that no question is asked that you are not legally bound to answer."
The sergeant glanced at his notebook and spoke again.
"You were in Balting Row at ten o'clock last night," he repeated.
The lady now could barely stand. Her condition was pitiable.
"Your worship, I will go to gaol if you send me there, but I will not speak," she faltered.
The magistrate gazed at her. The court was in a state of suppressed fever.
"Sergeant, what is the meaning of this?" the magistrate asked.
The sergeant coughed.
"There is something behind all this," the magistrate went on.
The sergeant rubbed his nose.
"Does she live in Whitechapel?" the magistrate asked.
"Yes, your worship, and I think I see now why she won't give evidence. She is afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Yes. The prisoner is one of a gang, and—"
"I object!" the solicitor interrupted, jumping up. "That has not been put in evidence."
"Sit down, Mr. Bricage," the magistrate said sharply. "Go on, sergeant!"
The sergeant glanced triumphantly at the solicitor.
"There are a gang of roughs in Whitechapel, and the prisoner has been often seen by the police in their company, the sergeant explained. "It's my opinion, your worship, that the lady is afraid of them."
The magistrate lay back in the chair.
"The witness is very agitated, and she is hardly in a state to go through the ordeal of an examination or cross-examination." he said. "I will take that into account, and I will not insist on her evidence. I remand the prisoner for a week, and, meantime, sergeant, you will see that the lady receives every protection."
A buzz of approval ran through the court. From the lowest to the highest, all hearts had gone out to the refined and agitated lady in the witness-box. The prisoner was hurried from the dock, and another took his place. The lady descended the steps from the witness-box, and walked, a tall, graceful figure, out of the court, and the sordid day's work continued. Tinker stood up and looked around the court for Blake.
But Blake had gone as unobtrusively as he had come.
Blake Goes to Whitechapel—And Makes a Call.
TINKER elbowed his way through the crowd by the door and stepped into the street. He looked up and down in search of Blake. Failing to see him he walked away, entered a 'bus, and travelled to the West End. He mounted the stairs to the sitting-room in Baker Street, and to his surprise he saw Blake stretched before the fire in an armchair, his head bent forward, and his hands clasped together.
"I thought you were in court, sir," Tinker said.
"Yes, I was there," Blake replied dreamily, "I took a taxi home."
"I didn't do much with my evidence," Tinker said gloomily.
"More than you think, perhaps," Blake replied. "It was very useful."
A puzzled grin spread over Tinker's face. "The magistrate didn't think much of it, anyhow," he remarked. "That solicitor was too quick for me. The way he twisted everything I said—"
"You didn't help the police much," Blake interjected, rising and taking his pipe from the mantelpiece. "That is how your evidence was useful. That young Rollings has been remanded. I expect that when next he is brought up before the court he will have to be discharged."
"Why?" Tinker asked in amazement. "He was one of the chaps in the row. He did set on to me, and—"
"And there will be less evidence against him next time than there was to-day, that is, if I can be of any use," Blake interjected again, loading his pipe quickly. "That poor lady who would not give evidence won't be there."
"You know her, sir?" Tinker cried.
"Yes. I was more sorry when I saw her and recognised her than I have been for anyone for a long time past," Blake replied. "Turn to the index, Tinker, and look up the name Malbred. You might lay the papers on my desk."
Tinker soon had the papers in his hand, and Blake sitting down at his desk took them, and unfastened the strap, holding them together. He glanced at the first few.
"This is the case of Roland Malbred," he said. "Five years ago he disappeared. The lady you saw to-day in the witness-box is his wife."
"Great Scott!" Tinker gasped. "I remember a bit about Malbred. Wasn't he the plausible scoundrel, sir, who started a huge mutual aid society, and robbed the poor right and left? He swindled them out of a couple of millions, so the papers said at the time."
"That is the man, and a more heartless villain never lived," Blake replied. "The police came to me for assistance, but as usual they kept the investigation to themselves until they were completely baffled. Malbred outplayed them at all points. I found after twenty-four hours' work that they had come to me too late, and nothing has been heard of Malbred since."
"And that poor lady living in such misery in Whitechapel is his wife," Tinker said softly.
"Yes, and he treated her even more heartlessly than those he robbed so cruelly," Blake answered, his vibrant voice now ringing with scorn. "My blood tingles when I think of it all. As I saw her in court to-day, the horror of the tragedy came fully over me. And she is so brave—so very brave!"
He arose again abruptly as he spoke, and now he stood on the hearthrug, his dark eyes flashing.
"Who was she before she married, sir?"
"Ah, that's just it! That is where the bitter irony comes in," Blake replied in a tense voice. "You saw for yourself to-day how beautiful she must have been in her youth. Beautiful! There wasn't a lady in all London who could compare with her when she was the darling of Society, the most sought after by men of all ranks. She was the belle of the season, was Lady Nina Geering."
"Lady Nina Geering! That's who she is!" Tinker murmured.
"Yes. The daughter of the late Earl of Brookstuart."
"And she married this man, Malbred?"
"She did. He was the handsomest man in London, with a charm of manner few could resist. He was immensely wealthy then, and everyone thought his company was very sound. The marriage was a great social event; all London flocked to the church."
"And then the crash came?"
"Not for several years. Like all these villains who got control of a great deal of money, he was able by one dodge and another to put off the evil day. In fact, the more extravagantly he lived, and the more he turned the money entrusted to him to his own use, the bolder he became. He issued new circulars, and pretended to extend the volume of his business. He pretended to pay large interest, giving twenty thousand back for every fifty thousand he got. And all the time he was living a life of the greatest luxury on other people's money."
"And his wife?"
"Oh, her father was dead, and a distant relative had succeeded to the title and estates, Mrs. Malbred, whom you saw to-day, was left friendless. She crept into obscurity to hide a broken heart."
Tinker's young face was now very flushed.
"And was that the reason that she was afraid to give evidence?" he asked.
Blake looked oddly at the lad.
"I don't know," was his brief reply.
"But you are going to find out, sir?"
"Why do you think that?"
"Because you said just now that you intend that there will be less evidence against Rollings next time than there was to-day.
"You are right in your deduction," Blake answered. "Yes, I am going to make inquiries. But it is a delicate matter, Tinker; the poor lady shrinks from publicity, she has hidden herself in Whitechapel to avoid ill-natured gossip. What must her life have been there during all these years? I shudder when I think of it. Ah, Tinker, there are many, many sad cases in this wonderful city of extremes, where there is such wealth and such abject poverty and misery. There is not a poor street in any quarter of London where someone is not hiding who has known better days. If only the wealthy were not so thoughtless, but would look into life for themselves, half the wrongs in the world could be righted without all this wrangling and fighting."
He had knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and now he was drawing on his gloves.
"I shall be absent for the day, I expect," he said, in his usual brisk tone of voice. "We're close to the end of the month, my lad. You might check the tradesmen's accounts, and draw the cheques in payment, whilst I'm out, I'll sign them on my return."
He left the house, and sauntered down to his club in Piccadilly. There he lunched, and spent some hours reading the papers. The winter's afternoon was closing in as he took a bus to Whitechapel. Alighting near the railway-station, he walked swiftly down some turnings, until he came to a very narrow street.
The street was very poor, but it had some pretensions to respectability; only at a few doors were the women lounging, there was no corner public-house, most of the windows were clean, one in particular was very bright, and with neat curtains.
Darkness had fallen now, and a lamp at each end of the street threw a murky light for some yards on the muddy pavement. Blake stood and looked long and thoughtfully at this window. At last he moved forward and knocked gently at the door.
The door was opened by a girl about fourteen years of age. She was ill clad and evidently ill nourished, and there was a look of premature age in her small features and eyes, Blake's stalwart, well-dressed appearance startled her, she held the door as if sorry she had opened it, and as if anxious to close it in his face.
"I want to see a lady who lives here,"' Blake said, bending down and looking kindly and reassuringly into her face.
"Mother is out," the girl said.
"It is not your mother whom I wish to see to-day, but the lady who lodges here," Blake explained,
"Do you mean Mrs. Roland, sir?"
"Yes."
"I don't know as she will see anyone."
"Oh, she will see me!" Blake replied cheerily. "She will be glad to see me. I'll just knock at her door."
The young girl allowed him to pass, but eyed him nervously. He gently tapped at a door to the left of the hall. Then he opened it. Seated before a small fire was the lady who had refused to give evidence that morning in the police-court. She was leaning forward in a faded armchair, her white hands clasped together, she was gazing into the fire.
As Blake had said to Tinker he knew the delicacy of the task he had undertaken; he was about to come unbidden into the privacy of sorrow and humiliation, but he must needs do this if he was to bring balm.
"Mrs. Roland!" he said.
Hearing a man's voice the lady turned her head swiftly with a look of terror, that pained Blake deeply, in her beautiful eyes. He was standing with his hat and gloves in his hands.
"I am so sorry to intrude in this way," he urged. "Please forgive me. I won't detain you long."
She stood up agitatedly.
"Why have you called?" she asked.
He put one hand behind his back and closed the door gently.
"Because I am a friend!" he said.
"A friend?" she answered, "I do not know your name, nor do I remember your face."
"Do you think I look the sort of man who would wantonly intrude on a lady's privacy?" he asked. "Believe me, I am not one who uses the word friend lightly, nor would I come here to offer the kind of thing that goes so often by the name of friendship. I am one of the few men who can really help you in your perplexities. I am Sexton Blake, the detective."
As he mentioned his name she gave a great cry, and pushing the chair to one side she advanced to face him. All the timidity had fled, her right arm was outstretched, and under the effects of her excitement she seemed to have grown momentarily strong and young.
"Go!" she cried. "If you refuse, I will turn you out myself. You, a detective, to dare to speak to me! I know the cruel errand on which you have come. Go at once!"
"Madam, I am at a loss to understand your demeanour, or your words," Blake explained. "I have nothing to do with the police—nothing whatever,"
She clutched his arm.
"You give me your word as a man that that is true?" she urged.
"As a man I say so."
"Then you have not come to obtain evidence against my son," she murmured, a ring of intense relief in her voice. And, turning, she fell back half fainting into the chair.
A Bitter Tragedy—Blake's Resolve.
BLAKE quickly poured some water into a tumbler and handed it to the agitated lady. She sipped it eagerly, and gradually the weakness passed away. She struggled to sit up, but he urged her to lie back and rest. In a few minutes he felt he could continue the conversation without causing her undue excitement. All through these minutes he had seldom glanced at her, but she had never taken her gaze from off his face. And the look in her eyes had been searching and hungry.
"I was in the police court this morning," Blake remarked quietly, gazing into the fire, "and I saw that you refused to give evidence. I am not of an interfering nature, and I would not have come here except that I recognised you."
She started. Quickly he laid his hand on her arm, and his smile was frank and winning as he spoke.
"Your secret is sacred to me; let me assure you of that," he urged. "Whatever you tell me will never be made public. But is there much that remains for you to tell me?" he went on reflectively. "I think I know all already."
"Even about my son?"
"Perhaps not all in connection with him," he answered: "but I know the unhappy story of your life. I was not aware you had a son until—"
He stopped and looked into the fire.
"Until when?" she asked.
"Until I saw that young man in the dock to-day, and until you substantiated the opinion I had formed by your admission just now."
"Mr. Blake, can you save him?" she pleaded tremulously.
"From imprisonment?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Yes, I suppose so. There is a bigger difficulty than that before us, though. He must be saved from himself!"
"Ah, if you did know all, you would not judge him harshly," she cried, a sob in her voice. "I took him down here years ago, thinking I was doing the wisest thing, and little dreaming of the temptations that would bestrew his path as he grew up. It's my fault—all my fault!"
"You must not blame yourself for the inevitable," Blake answered. "You came here to hide yourself. And all the years you have been here you have been unable to choose his companions for him. Poverty is a cruel taskmaster. The poor not only suffer privation; they cannot keep their children out of harm's way. But I know much of the world. Do not think I am disposed to judge him harshly."
Her sobs ceased. She gazed at Blake in gratitude.
"You are the first who has shown me true sympathy throughout all my troubles," she said.
"I intend that my sympathy shall be of a practical kind," he replied. "Now, Mrs. Malbred, let us get to work and discuss everything in a sensible, matter-of-fact way. I am here to help you, and I must recall the past, which you would like to forget, if that was possible, which, of course, is not the case. We will talk about your son first. Evidently he has got into very bad company. What was he like when he was younger?"
"He was always affectionate, but impulsive and quick-tempered," she replied. "I could win him by kindness, but he would never submit to dictation. He played here in the streets with the other children, for there was no other playground for any of them; and many of the children, like their parents, are very nice, but some are very bad. He chose his companions from those who were most independent and daring, and he became very wilful. As time went on and he grew bigger, I lost all control over him. There comes the time, Mr. Blake, when a father's authority is necessary over a son, and he was without a father."
"And so things went from bad to worse," Blake remarked. "From what you have told me of his character he was evidently good at heart. There is hope, therefore, that even yet he may see the error of his ways."
"It is good of you to speak so kindly when I am almost heartbroken and in despair about him," she said. "But how do you think you can help him?"
"He has been remanded, and he will be brought up again before the magistrate in a week's time," Blake explained. "You must not appear in court. I heard the magistrate instruct the sergeant to-day to see that you were afforded proper protection. That is a trifle awkward, because, consequently, the police will come here occasionally. However, we will outwit them. The last thing they would think would be that you could afford to leave the neighbourhood."
"But, Mr. Blake, I don't understand."
"Oh, I will manage all that!" Blake said quietly. "I will take rooms for you in some other part of London, and one evening you will leave here when the police are not about. They will never find you. One has only to go a mile from one London district to another, and one is safer from pursuit than after a journey of ten thousand miles."
"And my son?"
"He will appear before the Magistrate, and you will not be there to give evidence. And for want of sufficient evidence the magistrate will have no alternative but to discharge the prisoner."
"And then?" she faltered.
"Ah, then we must hope for the best as to his future. We can help him, but he must save himself, as I have told you already. Now, there is a question I would like to ask you."
"I will answer any question you care to put to me," the poor lady replied eagerly. "You have given me hope, Mr. Blake, and my confidence in your strength and goodness has grown every moment. I will tell you everything. Do not shrink from questioning me through fear that you may cause me pain."
"Thanks! Why was it, then, that you were in Balting Row last night?" Blake asked. "The sergeant said that you were assaulted and robbed."
"I had gone there to seek my son. I had not seen him for three days, and before that he was keeping very late hours. I had made inquiries about him everywhere, and had been told he had been seen near there. I happened to come into Balting Row just as the fight was going on; and, seeing him, I hurried toward him to implore him to come home. I was pushed to one side and my purse was snatched from me, But he did not know anything about that."
"What does he do for a living, Mrs. Malbred?"
"Ah, Mr. Blake, that is the saddest thing of all," she replied. "When he found out that he had not always been poor, but that if he had his rights he would be wealthy and in a splendid position, he became sullen and hardened. He threw up the small employment he had, and went headlong into mischief. He has done nothing for the last two years."
"The sin of the father visited on the child," Blake said gravely. "It is hard on a mere lad with his life before him to discover that he has been robbed of all that men respect and honour. But he should show more strength of will. Many even in such position have carved out greatness for themselves. And how has he got on for money? I suppose that during these two years you have been struggling to support him?"
"I said I would tell you everything, and I will not flinch," she said, though her voice had sunk to a whisper. "He is seldom short of money, Mr. Blake."
Blake sat silent. The mother's face was now flushed. Both knew that that money could not have been honourably won.
"And how do you manage to live?" he asked presently.
"By dressmaking."
"There was nothing saved for you out of the wreck when your husband disappeared?"
"Nothing. I had eight hundred a year of my own, and he took that, too."
"Did you hand it over to him?"
"No. Somehow he got hold of it."
"It was yours by right? He had no claim to it?"
"None whatever."
Blake took out his notebook.
"You probably know the names of some of your son's acquaintances," he said. "It will be necessary for me to inquire into their lives and characters before I will be able to decide what is best to do about him. Who are those with whom he particularly is to be seen?"
"There is a young man named Dopin who is much with him. Dopin is in employment, though. He is not the worst, either. There is another whom I think is worse company for Hugh. His name is Strom."
"And why particularly do you object to Strom?"
"Because he ought not to be living in Whitechapel at all, Mr. Blake. He is well educated and has seen much better days. He is several years older than Hugh, also; and, again, he speaks of a life Hugh has never known, and has done much to make Hugh bitter. He has taken Hugh up to the West End and shown him all the luxury there, and boasted of all the enjoyment he has had himself. I feared his influence over my son from the first. I don't like his face, Mr. Blake, but Hugh is infatuated about him."
"I will take a particular note of all you have told me about this man Strom,?" Blake replied. "And now, Mrs. Malbred, I will bid you farewell for the present. I will see you again very shortly. And do not give way to despair any more. I do think that you have passed through the worst of your troubles and that things will gradually mend for you."
"Ah, Mr. Blake, if my son would only reform, I could bear all else!" she said, as Blake stood up to leave.
"Well, well! We mean to do our best for him," he replied, smiling cheerily as he held out his hand. "We'll let him know that he is not friendless, and that will help him on."
He left the poorly-furnished room and passed into the bustle of the big thoroughfares. In deep thought he returned to Baker Street, and took his dinner in silence. Tinker, who knew his ways so well, did not seek to make conversation, and during the evening Blake, instead of reading, as was his custom, sat smoking and gazing at the fire. It was close on ten o'clock before he sat down at his desk and went through the papers dealing with the case of Malbred. Close on midnight he stood up and sauntered up and down the room.
"Tinker!" he said.
"Yes, sir!" the lad answered readily.
"I have decided to embark on a rather hopeless venture."
"What is that, sir?"
"I am going to have a try to catch this scoundrel Malbred."
"After all these years!" Tinker cried. "He may be at the ends of the earth. For that matter he may be dead."
"All that is quite true; still, there is a particular reason why I mean to search for him. He robbed his wife of a large sum of money, the interest of which was eight hundred pounds a year. It was robbery, just as much as if he had taken it from me. The fact that she is his wife doesn't make the case less strong in her favour. Now, would it not be a splendid thing if I could recover that money for her?"
"Of course it would, sir! But didn't he come a big smash himself?"
"So it is supposed. My experience, however, from a close study of criminals of his type, has led me to believe that few of these scoundrels ever wait until the very last. They usually bolt before all is lost. They get away with a very comfortable nest egg. And their whole thought in life is money and how to get it. They don't swindle people and bring disgrace upon themselves just out of freakishness. Malbred, of course, may be dead. But if he is alive he is not in want. Men of his kind never suffer that way. They make others suffer instead."
"So you are going after him? I'm very glad, Tinker said earnestly. "When I think of all you told me to-day about that poor lady living in misery in the East End, after the splendid and luxurious life she had in her youth, and she so plucky in the court when she was half-fainting—"
"And there's more I could tell you now, after an interview I had with her to-day," Blake cut in quietly. "Yes, I'm going after Malbred, but it's almost a forlorn hope."
"If he's on the face of the earth you'll get him," Tinker said, with a ring of confidence that brought a smile to Blake's face. "From the way you've spoken, I don't think you were ever more determined about anything in your life."
"I never was," Blake agreed, as he turned out the light. "Now, my lad, we'll get to bed. Good-night!"
Tinker went to his room, but he did not go to sleep. He lay awake, for he could hear Blake walking up and down. And he knew that now there would be no real rest for the great detective until his self-allotted task had been brought to a conclusion, until either he had apprehended the villain who had disappeared years before or had proved conclusively that he was past all earthly punishment.
Blake Sets to Work—And Finds Trouble.
A WEEK went by, however, during which Tinker could not discern any great activity on Blake's part. The great detective spent some hours every morning at his desk; he passed his afternoons out-of-doors; he whiled away his evenings at his club, or reading one of the profound books of which he was so fond; by the fireside at home. Only occasionally during that week did he refer to the Malbred case, and then only to give Tinker some instructions regarding the further comforts of Mrs. Malbred. For, two evenings after his interview with her, he had taken her from Whitechapel to comfortable rooms in Kilburn.
The winter afternoon was closing in now, and the wind was drifting stray flakes of sleet hither and thither in the street below as Blake sat waiting for the return of Tinker. He heard the hall door opened and closed with a loud bang against the wind, and then the lad mounting the stairs. Tinker came into the room, his young face ruddy after buffeting with the weather, and his eyes twinkling. He laughed as Blake looked at him.
"You are right, sir. Rollings has been released," he said.
"Was there much of a fuss, Tinker?"
"There was a bit of a row," Tinker said, grinning. "The magistrate pitched into the sergeant, and that solicitor had a couple of raps at me. When Mrs. Malbred did not turn up he saw the way clear, I suppose, to save Rollings. He reminded the magistrate that at the last hearing the magistrate himself had said that he should want corroboration of my evidence. That was just like his cheek! The magistrate couldn't go back on that, however, and Mrs. Malbred wasn't there, so there was no one to prove the truth of what I had said."
"That is how I thought the case would work out," Blake remarked.
"I never saw a fellow more knocked out of time than the sergeant," Tinker went on. "He just stared at the Magistrate in a helpless, fishy sort of way while he took his lecture for letting Mrs. Malbred leave the neighbourhood on the quiet. Then the magistrate discharged Rollings, and warned him that the police would keep an eye on him, and if he was brought up again he would deal with him severely."
"And was anyone in court waiting for Rollings?"
"Yes. A rough-looking chap, They went off together."
"And you followed them?"
"I did, sir! I saw them enter a house, and I wrote down the address."
"Rollings is Mrs. Malbred's son!" Blake said. Tinker started.
"You must be told that as you are to help me in many ways in this case," Blake went on. "But that fact is to be kept absolutely secret. Mrs. Malbred took the name Roland when she went to live in Whitechapel. She told me all about it when last I saw her."
"Then you have seen her since she went to Kilburn?"
"Yes. Her husband's name is Roland Malbred. That is why she took the name of Roland. Her son has always been known as Hugh Roland, He gave the name of Rollings to the police when he was arrested; I suppose he has some shame left, and he didn't want to bring further disgrace on his mother."
"I understand, sir!"
"Very good! Now give me the address of the house into which he has gone with this other man. I am going into Whitechapel, and it will probably be late before I return, and I intend to disguise myself."
"Half a mo', guv!" cried Tinker.
"What is it?"
"Why did you go to all this trouble to save Rollings? Wouldn't it have been better to have him put away for a while? At least, so it seems to me. Living down in Whitechapel amongst all those scoundrels who are his pals he will only get into bigger trouble now that his mother is not there."
"You have asked a shrewd question, my lad," Blake replied, smiling approvingly. "I have decided, though, that he must take his choice, though from this on I mean to keep a watch over him unknown to himself."
"And why have you taken that course, sir?"
"Because through him I hope to find his father."
"Great Scott! Do you think he knows where his father is?"
"I feel certain that he doesn't; yet his father may know about him. I have not been as idle during the past week as perhaps you may have thought," Blake went on, a humorous light in his eyes. "Night and day this case has never been out of my mind; and I have spent many hours every afternoon in Whitechapel, and I have been making inquiries also in the West End. But I had to wait until Rollings was released before I could get to work. Now I can begin."
An hour later he slipped out of the house, and started for Whitechapel. He was dressed in tight-fitting, black clothes, a bowler hat, boots rather the worse for wear, and a clean shirt and collar, but with frayed edges. His tie, too, had as much worn, and he carried a shabby umbrella and an old pair of gloves. He looked like a man who had sunk from some respectable position in the City into dire poverty.
On the way to Whitechapel he sat in a corner of a 'bus looking very cold and miserable, for he was the only man without an overcoat. When he reached his destination he left the 'bus, and entered a large and brightly-lit public-house. Fumbling in his pockets, he found a penny here and a couple of halfpence there, and, ordering a drink, he went to a small table and sat down alone. Then taking a very old briar pipe out of his pocket, he began to load it from some tobacco, rapped up in a piece of newspaper, taking as much care as if every leaf of the fragrant weed was absolutely precious to him. He smoked slowly, and occasionally sipped his glass.
That public-house was not strange to him. As he had told Tinker, he had not been idle during the past week; in point of fact, he had been extremely busy every afternoon, making a thorough study of this locality. He had tracked a man in and out of this public-house, watching him narrowly, and finding out all about him that he could without creating suspicion against himself, and now he was waiting for him again. The bars filled up as the evening drew on, tradesmen went in and out, artisans and labourers came here as a meeting-place after the day's work to chat with one another. There were no people of a wealthy class, but many were well dressed, and most were respectable. Now and then, however, a small party, evidently of the criminal type, would enter and look around. Blake watched these narrowly, whilst, of course, they took no notice of him.
At last the man he was waiting for came into the bar where Blake was seated. He was the fellow Strom, of whom Mrs. Malbred had spoken to Blake, and he was accompanied by three others. They stood at the counter chatting together in a group, and the great detective had a good opportunity of observing them. He had identified Strom three days before, but the other men were complete strangers to him. They were also of a different class to Strom, who, despite the fact that his clothes were rather shabby, carried himself and spoke differently to the rest. Also he paid for the refreshment that was ordered, and stood in the middle of the group. He undoubtedly was a man to whom the others looked up. And Mrs. Malbred had told Blake that Strom had seen better days. His superior knowledge and education gave him a power over his companions.
As Blake watched them the door was opened once more, and a young man entered the bar. His. manner was nervous, and there was a look of great anxiety on his face. No sooner, however, did Strom perceive him, than he walked towards him with his arm outstretched and greeted him very cordially. Chatting cheerily, he led him to the counter and introduced him to his companions.
"Hugh Rollings! Mrs. Malbred's unhappy son!" Blake murmured, as he sipped his glass. Just as I had expected. Strom has been waiting for his release, and no doubt he sent him word to meet him here to-night. Now that the young fellow is utterly down in his luck, the scoundrel will show his hand.'
The others greeted Rollings in a very friendly fashion.
Strom patted him on the shoulder, and made some remark at which his companions laughed heartily. Rollings soon began to feel at home, and the conversation became lively. Blake could see that Rollings was telling them about his trial, and that the others were deeply interested.
Presently they all left the bar, and Blake followed them. When they were out in the street they separated; Strom and Rollings going in one direction, and the rest in another. Blake followed Strom and Rollings.
To Blake's surprise, they mounted a 'bus and travelled towards the West End. Blake, sitting inside, watched the steps, and they did not get down until the 'bus stopped at Oxford Circus. Then Strom hurried Rollings quickly away. it was getting very late now, the people were pouring out of the theatres, and the pavements and roadways were crowded. So fast did Strom walk down Regent Street and into Piccadilly that Rollings had difficulty in keeping up.
Diving down a narrow lane-way, Strom pushed open the door of a small cafe, and stepped inside, followed by Rollings. Blake hesitated, and looked up and down the lane-way for some seconds. Finally he decided to go in after them, and opening the door he walked up the room and took a seat at a table.
The cafe was rather crowded, and was doing a brisk business. A small recess was at the top of the room to the right of Blake as he sat with his back to the door, and in that recess Strom and Rollings were seated with two other men. So far, none of them had noticed the disguised detective. He slipped from the seat he had first taken to one nearer the recess, and as he sat down someone behind him coughed loudly. Ordering a cup of coffee, Blake loaded his pipe and began to smoke.
Snatches of the conversation between the four men in the recess came to him fitfully, Once Rollings uttered a protest, and Strom, laughing encouragingly, patted him on the back.
"He's just the man for the job, isn't he?" Blake heard Strom ask his companions.
Again their voices sank almost to a whisper, Blake, smoking and gazing at the ceiling, pretended to be in a deep reverie.
"It's a big house full of servants, and you will need to be careful," one of the strangers remarked, after a couple of minutes, and in a voice clear enough to carry to Blake.
Someone behind Blake coughed loudly again.
"We can catch the night mail from Southampton," Strom said presently. "It stops two miles from the Hall."
The closing hour was now at hand, and customers were paying their bills and hurrying homewards. Blake still sat on, listening eagerly, but, to all outward appearance, forgetful of his surroundings. The waiters were beginning to lower the lights, the proprietor had come into the cafe, and was urging the remaining guests to leave. A big man brushed past the table where Blake was seated, and bent down over Strom's chair. Whatever he whispered, the effect was startling. All in the recess turned their heads sharply, and scowled at Blake. Then they jumped up simultaneously.
Blake, too, pushed back his chair, and as he moved from the table someone behind him gave him a push that sent him staggering towards the recess. And at the same moment a hoarse cry went up:
"Out with the lights! Don't let him escape!"
A Fight for Life—Mother and Son—Blake's Doubts.
AT once there was an uproar, Blake was gripped, but swung himself free; a table and some chairs were upset; all the lights were extinguished. Advancing again towards the door, Blake's way was barred by one scoundrel, whilst others attacked him from behind. He hit out fiercely in the dark, but was pushed back into the recess.
The proprietor of the cafe and the waiters, scared at the attack, and fearful for their own safety, left the gallant detective to his fate, and retreated towards the kitchen, where they listened in terror to the din. Blake was fighting for his life, and alone.
But his courage and coolness stood to him. Twice he got through his enemies, but on each occasion he was driven back. The third time he eluded them more successfully, and was down the room and close to the door with a police-whistle in his fingers before they overtook him. He blew loudly on the whistle as he fought to keep the villains back. An answering shout came from the lane, and in the distance the shrill call of another whistle rang forth. Blake was knocked down, but got to his feet as strong men beat against the door. He stood waiting another charge, but none came. As the police dashed into the cafe he saw by the light of their lamps that his assailants had fled.
Some of the police rushed through the cafe into the kitchen.
A sergeant inquired the cause of the uproar from Blake, and whilst the latter was entering into an explanation the police returned from the kitchen, with the proprietors and the waiters under arrest. But the villains who had attacked Blake had got away.
"These men had nothing to do with the disturbance," Blake explained. "They certainly showed the white feather when I was attacked, but they are not liable in law for that. I do not bring any charge against them."
"In that case, as there is no evidence against them I will not take them to the police-station," the sergeant replied. "But after what has happened to-night I will keep a strict watch on the premises," he continued, eyeing the cafe proprietor sharply. "And if this sort of thing occurs again I will know what to do."
As soon as the commotion had somewhat died down, Blake slipped away. He wanted to get back to Baker Street, and think over the scraps of conversation he had heard. He was anxious, too, to avoid any close questioning from the police. Were they to arrest Strom at this juncture, the plans that the great detective had laid already would be upset.
And he believed now that he had got a clue which, in time, might be of the utmost value. Strom and his confederates were urging Rollings on to the perpetration of a crime. They were making him their tool, perhaps, by terrorising him, and perhaps of his own free will. In either case Blake had resolved to save the young fellow, if possible, from a career of further shame for the sake of his mother. The moment had come for action.
When he reached Baker Street, Tinker was dozing by the fire, awaiting his return, and Blake at once aroused him, His first words were enough to make the lad wide-eyed and alert.
"Tinker, you have to get to work early to-morrow morning," Blake said. "There is a man called Strom, a bad character of whom Mrs. Malbred has spoken to me. He was in the company of young Rollings to-night, and together they went to a cafe in the West End. I followed them into the cafe, and their gang attacked me. The police came in, but the scoundrels bolted out of the back door, and got away. I want you to follow up this man Strom, and keep an eye on him. Mischief is brewing, and he is the ringleader."
"And where have I a chance of finding him, sir?" Tinker asked.
"In Whitechapel! I will give you the address of a public-house there that he frequents continually. One of his confederates sitting at the back of the cafe recognised me in spite of my disguise, and warned Strom. He knows, therefore, that I am after him, and so it would be useless for me to shadow him myself. You will have to do that, and you will need to be very careful."
"I'll do my best, sir," Tinker replied cheerily, I suppose I had better leave here about seven o'clock?"
"Yes; I want you to watch his movements for some time. It is not to-night or possibly to-morrow night that he means mischief. See where he goes, what people he meets, and observe for yourself whether he is particularly busy making any kind of arrangements. You will be able to judge when the time has come to report to me. Then hurry here to tell me all you have found out."
"And how will I know Strom?" Tinker inquired.
"Oh, you won't have much difficulty in that! He is shabbily dressed, but he has seen better days. He stands out altogether from his confederates he meets in the public-house in Whitechapel. He is a tall, dark-featured man, slight but muscular. He has a hooked nose and a big chin, and when he is talking he has a habit of putting his right hand to his ribs. That is enough description for you to identify him. You are very quick at that sort of thing. And now, my lad, I wish you the best of luck. You will have left the house before I get up to-morrow morning."
They went to bed, and on the following morning Blake took his breakfast alone. Having attended to his correspondence, he went to Kilburn to see Mrs. Malbred. The visit was painful to him, but he had promised her that he would report anything he heard about her son. She had changed much in the short time since she had left Whitechapel. Her health was better, her face brighter; she was altogether happier. Hope had come to her through Blake.
She came into the room to greet him, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, but his grave manner warned her that he had bad news.
"You have seen my son?" she asked quickly, as they shook hands.
"Yes, Mrs. Malbred; and he is not reforming; in fact, I am afraid he is going from bad to worse," Blake replied. "That villain Strom, for his own purposes, is leading him altogether astray."
"What is Strom doing now?" she asked anxiously, "I did hope he would leave Hugh alone. And Hugh has promised me that he would give up his old life. It seems he is not keeping to his word."
She sighed heavily.
"Then you have written to your son?" Blake asked.
"I did, Mr. Blake. Night and day I am always thinking of him. I hope you are not angry with me."
"I can well understand your feelings, I am not angry at all," Blake replied gently. "But if he knows your address—"
"He has promised to call!"
There was a knock at the hall door, and Blake, walking to the window looked out. Young Rollings was standing on the steps. The great detective turned quickly, and spoke.
"Your son is here," he said, "and on the whole I am very glad. Open the door to him, but do not let him know that I am in the room."
A few moments later Rollings walked into the room, He started when he saw Blake, and his face went white. He turned as if to slink away, but Blake got between him and the door.
"You know who I am," Blake said sternly. "You and I have met before!"
Rollings did not answer.
"We met last night," Blake continued. "Your rascally companions set upon me, and I cannot be sure if you aided them because I was fighting for my life in the dark. You were with them anyhow! If I hand you over to the police you know what your fate will be."
"Have mercy!" Rollings gasped. He was trembling.
"Do you deserve any?" Blake went on coldly. "Look at your mother! You ought to be her protection, yet what kindness do you show her? Instead of being a comfort to her you are breaking her heart. And now you have come to her, I feel sure, just to borrow what little money she may have."
"Spare him for my sake, Mr. Blake!" Mrs. Malbred pleaded. "Hugh, will you promise to reform if Mr. Blake gives you this chance?"
Young Rollings moistened his lips, his tongue was parched with fear.
"I will reform," he muttered.
"And you will give up Strom and his rascally gang?" Blake demanded.
"Yes, I will!"
Blake looked steadily at the miserable young fellow, whose eyes fell before that frank, piercing gaze. His head sank, and he fidgeted his cap nervously.
"What hold has Strom on you;" Blake went on.
Rollings started.
"He has no hold on me!" he muttered.
"Then why do you keep in his company?"
"Because I am penniless and he is generous!"
"And you expect me to believe that a man like Strom can be generous without expecting something in return?" Blake scoffed.
"He has no hold on me, anyhow!" Rollings said doggedly again.
Blake walked to the window. Mrs. Malbred had been listening in fear and sorrow to the conversation. Now she put her hand on her son's arm.
"Promise me, Hugh, that you will lead an honest life from this on!" she urged. "For my sake take the straight path again."
He looked down into her worn face, and his lips twitched.
"I have given that promise," he said.
"You are not holding back again from us, Hugh?"
"No."
"Mr. Blake, will you forgive him?" she asked.
"If he doesn't do anything underhand from this on I will forgive him," Blake said. "He can go now if he likes."
Rollings slunk out of the room. Blake, still standing by the window, watched him going down the street, until he was out of sight. Then he turned to Mrs. Malbred.
"I had no intention of arresting him, but nothing but stern treatment can do him any good," he said. "Kindness would be wasted on him. He would only trade upon it. He must raise himself up, and prove himself a man. No one can do that for him."
"He seemed very sorry just before he left," Mrs. Malbred said earnestly. "This may be the turning point in his life."
But Blake, with his deep knowledge of human nature, was not prepared to agree with this view, much as he would have liked to be able to do so. He had seen the sullen look on young Rollings' face, and he knew what it indicated.
"Let us hope for the best!" he said. "In spite of all he has reason to be ashamed of, I believe he is fond of you, and that is in his favour. If he does break away from Strom he may redeem the past."
Tinker on the Trail—What He Saw—Caught!
TINKER tumbled out of bed in the best of spirits that morning, and, after a hearty breakfast, he crept down the stairs, and left the house. He was never afraid of hard work or long hours on duty, and the task allotted to him by Blake was quite to his taste. He was always glad when responsibility was placed upon him. He liked to feel that he could be of real help to Blake, and he took a keen enjoyment in working on his own account.
Now, as he walked down the street, his overcoat buttoned and his hands deep in his pockets, anyone who glanced at him would have thought that the lad was on his way to an office like so many thousands to be met with at that hour in London. All would have been astonished had they known the mission on which he was bound. They would have been even more amazed had they watched him during the day.
Stepping on to a motor-bus, he travelled down to Whitechapel, observing everything as the 'bus sped along. The pavements of the City were becoming crowded, the early and most cheaply paid of the great army that draws its living from there was marching along in a steady file, gathered together from all the outlying suburbs. For these one day was like another—an early start from home, and a return late, five days of the week, a half holiday on Saturday, and a full day's rest on Sunday. To Tinker every day was different. There was always excitement or the prospect of it, and he was wise enough to appreciate how fortunate he was, thanks to the great detective, who was his friend as well as his employer.
He sat on the 'bus, noting the change in everything, in the buildings, the people he passed, the luxury at one end and the gradual transition to poverty as the 'bus drew near Whitechapel. Arrived there, he got down, and proceeded at once to his own work. And from that on he thought of nothing but what he had been set to do.
The public-house was open, and a potman was polishing the windows as Tinker strolled by. A brewer's van was unloading barrels, and a couple of loafers had already gathered by the door. Tinker's first course was to find some spot from which he could watch the public-house without attracting attention to himself, and at that early hour with the street rather deserted this was not an easy thing to do. However, a cheap restaurant opposite the public-house was open, and though he was in no need of a meal he decided to go in there first, and so spend an hour. He ordered a cup of coffee and some bread-and-butter, and sat down at a window.
Gradually the street became more filled, costers began to line the kerb with their barrows, goods from the shops were carried out, and placed in front, people began to buy their provisions for the day. When Tinker felt he could no longer stay in the restaurant, there was an air of bustle in the street, and he was able to saunter up and down without anyone taking any notice of him. Sometimes he got into conversation with other lads. In every way he could think of he sought to avoid suspicion, and all through those hours no one entered or left the public-house unseen by him.
It was close on eleven o'clock when his patience was at last rewarded. A man corresponding to Blake's description of Strom drove down the street in a taxi, and alighted at the public-house. Tinker at once crossed over, and pushing the door a few inches ajar, he peeped in. The man was talking to someone in the bar, and his manner was surly. Occasionally he fingered his face, and, looking more closely, Tinker saw the man had a black eye. He chuckled heartily. In the row in the cafe on the previous night Blake must have given him that!
"All right, Mr. Strom!" he heard his companion say. "I'll tell him your message when he comes here this evening!"
Tinker softly closed the door, and crossed the street again. He had heard all he wanted.
Presently Strom came out on to the pavement, and stood for some moments looking up and down. He sauntered away, and Tinker followed him. Strom went on for quite half a mile, taking several turnings in a way that suggested the maze of streets was well-known to him. He entered an iron-monger's shop, but instead of going to the counter he walked straight to a room at the back. The proprietor followed him, and when the latter came into the shop again he opened a drawer and took out a handful of keys, each of which he examined carefully. Tinker's interest grew deep as he observed this. What did Strom want with a key, and why could he not buy one without all this secrecy?
When Strom left that shop he went to a post-office, and spoke on the telephone. Then he took a walk in a different direction, and presently he entered an old clothes' shop. He came out with a small bundle under his arm, and went down an adjacent street. He knocked at a door which was opened almost on the instant by a squarely-built, evil-looking fellow, with an ugly squint. Strom stepped swiftly across the threshold, and the door was closed.
After this Tinker had many weary hours of watching and waiting. Strom did not come out again. Once the lad saw the man with the squint going to a restaurant, and returning with a meal on a tray covered by a napkin. Later on in the afternoon the same man came again out of the house, and he bought some tobacco and an evening paper. The day closed in, and twilight gave way to complete darkness, but Strom did not emerge. Whatever was he doing in that house?
The lamps were lit in the street, and in the houses around, but that house remained in darkness. Strom was not sitting there without a light. Then he must be in a room at the back. No sooner had Tinker come to this conclusion than he set about thinking how best he could find out what Strom was up to. He hurried along the street, and went down a lane-way. He did not know that a man crossed from the shadow of a wall, and stood gazing after him as he slipped down the lane.
The lad got to the back of the house. The only room in which there was a light was at the top, close to the roof. To get to the house Tinker would have had to climb over a wall and cross a yard, and it was just possible that a door might be easily opened, or that he could raise a window without being heard. But the attempt would be very hazardous, and there were two men for certain in the house. He stood undecided what to do, when, suddenly, he saw a ladder raised against the back of another house some forty yards away. That house was being done up, and the workmen had left the ladder there after their day's work.
Tinker came to a swift decision; all seemed easy now. He went farther down the lane, got over the wall, crossed a yard, and reached the ladder without anyone coming out to question him. Up it he went quickly, and on to the roof. Then, crouching low, he crept along the slates. He got to a skylight, and looked down. Strom was in the room and alone.
Tinker lay flat on the slates, gazing through the skylight, his mind full of excitement, and his eyes shining. The room was fitted up something like a mechanic's shop, and a small crucible was on the fire. On the table were many sorts of tools—tools not sold to customers in the ordinary way of business. Some were straight and some were oddly crooked, most of them were very small and blunt. But Tinker knew them, though they would have been a puzzle to many. They were an expert burglar's outfit, and a very extensive one, too.
Strom was bending over the table when first Tinker saw him, and he was trying to fit a key into a lock. Presently he began to file the key; after some time he succeeded in turning the lock with if. He put the key into his pocket, flung the lock into a drawer, and began to make a selection from the tools on the table. He laid four together, and put the rest in a cupboard. Then, opening the parcel he had bought at the old clothes' shop, he held up a rough suit of clothes to the light for closer inspection.
There was a pair of corduroy trousers, and apparently they looked too new, for he began to stain them with an acid, Then he rubbed ashes on to them. He did the same with a coat and vest, and in them he carefully stored away in various pockets, the tools still remaining on the table. After this he took an old cap and a thick pair of boots from a press. Finally, he took out two masks.
He began to change into these clothes, and Tinker knew he was at last about to leave the house. Tinker would need to be back in the street before Strom came out, or he would lose him altogether, and now he was all eagerness to follow him. He crept away, and began to retrace his steps towards the ladder. Suddenly he stopped, and his heart began to thump loudly. For a man was on the roof and was coming towards him. That man must have come up the ladder, too.
Tinker lay flat close to a chimney-stack, his face just raised sufficiently to observe the man's movements. And his heart sank lower as he watched. For the fellow was not coming towards him swiftly, but very deliberately. He looked around every chimney-stack as he advanced. The was searching either for something or someone. As he came close to Tinker the lad tried to creep round the chimney-stack. There was a stifled imprecation, and the man's hand came down like a vice on his neck.
"Ah, you copper's nark!" a hoarse voice growled savagely. "I've got you, have I? You didn't know I saw you going down the lane; and that I watched your tricks!"
The ruffian was pressing Tinker's face hard against the slates, and the lad was struggling desperately to free himself.
He kicked and wriggled at imminent risk of rolling off the roof, but he could not get away. Suddenly the ruffian lifted him easily to his feet, and propped him with his back against the stack. Holding him by the throat, he shook a huge fist within an inch of the lad's nose.
"Cry out, or attempt to move, and you'll get that, and you won't want any more!" he hissed. "You've come here sneaking in order to get others as good as you into trouble. Well, it's you that's caught now, and no mistake."
He released his hold on Tinker's throat and grabbed the lad's shoulder.
"Come along quietly! he snarled. "Else I'll pitch you off the roof!"
"Where are you taking me?" Tinker gasped, for he could hardly draw his breath.
"To those you were spying on, and they'll know how to deal with you!" the bully answered, as his grip grew harder. "Now, get a move on you."
So saying, he partly led and partly dragged the lad towards the skylight through which he had watched Strom.
Baulked—The "Smart" Patrol—Frustrated.
RAISING the skylight, the bully lifted Tinker up, and then dropped him. The lad fell with a crash on to the table; one leg of which broke, and he rolled to the floor. He was on his feet next moment as his captor, swinging from his hands on the skylight edge, prepared to drop down gently. Tinker made for the decor, opened it, found there was a key in the lock outside, and banged and locked the door as the villain dashed to stop him.
Down the stairs Tinker rushed headlong. Heavy footsteps came thumping up the stairs; and he knew that the man with the squint had heard the row, and was hurrying up to find out the cause. Meantime, the man locked in the room was crashing against the door, and the wood was splintering. The lad's quick wit did not desert him.
"Police, police!" he shouted. "They've got into Strom's room, and they're coming downstairs! Scoot while you've got the chance!"
The villain with the squint was startled by the shout. The cry that the police were in the house was enough at any time to fill his evil heart with alarm, and the banging and the tending of wood upstairs gave conviction to Tinker's warning.
He turned and went down the stairs, almost falling in his desperate eagerness to escape, He pounded along the hall, flung the door open, and ran down the steps. Tinker was close on his heels.
The lad was very wrathful at the rough usage he had received; his back was aching. and his throat was sore from the savage clutch of the bully's fingers. The man with the squint once in the street, was anxious to see who had given him the warning; as he half turned, his legs spread out awkwardly, Tinker tripped him up, and sent him sprawling in the mad.
"That's just to pay out your rascally pal!" he shouted, as he sped away. "I've fooled you both at the finish!?"
He did not look back, but sprinted along the street as hard as he could go. As the man with the squint picked himself up, his clothes plastered with mud, his hands and knees scraped by the fall, and his ugly face comical in its astonishment and fury, the lad was turning the corner. Tinker ran on until he got to a main thoroughfare. Then he jumped on to a 'bus bound west.
He got off the 'bus at Oxford Circus, and hurried on foot to Baker Street. Glancing up at the windows as he drew near to the house, he saw a light in Blake's sitting-room, and he ran up the stairs, entered the room, and began to speak almost breathlessly.
"Strom has gone out with a disguise on and a mask in his pocket," he began.
Blake, who was at his desk, pushed back his chair and stood up. His face was very keen.
"Where has he gone?" he asked.
"I don't know, sir! It wasn't my fault that I couldn't follow him. I was on a roof watching him through a skylight, and I was nabbed on the slates. I managed to get away, and I've hurried back!"
"You're certain about the disguise and the mask?"
"Yes, I've been shadowing him since eleven o'clock this morning. I know where he bought the disguise, and the room he was in is full of burglar's tools. He's taken four of the tools with him!"
"Burglar's tools!" Blake cried, his excitement growing more intense every moment. "Then I know what he's up to. You've done well, Tinker—very well. Now, we'll get off at once and try to pick up the trail."
Tinker's face grew long.
"At once!" he faltered.
Blake shot a swift glance at him.
"Ah, I forgot!" he said. "We can wait ten minutes. You must be very hungry. Make the most of the time." Tinker went to the sideboard and began to carve a joint of beef. He ate ravenously whilst Blake continued speaking.
"The burglary is evidently to be attempted to-night, he said, "somewhere on the line between Southampton and Waterloo."
"How do you know there's to be a burglary?" Tinker asked in a thick voice as he devoured the food.
"I overheard scraps of conversation in the cafe," Blake replied. "Of course, we could go to Waterloo and watch there for Strom, but he may get on the train at Vauxhall or Clapham Junction. It's a pity you had only an opportunity of seeing him. Now, if you had heard anything—"
"I did hear something," Tinker interjected. "I listened to Strom whilst he was in the public-house. He was talking to a man there, and I heard the man say that he would give someone a message."
Blake, who was striding up and down the room, stopped and gazed at the lad.
"Then it is as I feared," he said. "Young Rollings does not mean to reform. He promised his mother and myself to-day that he would do so, but his face was sullen, and there was a shifty look in his eyes. Strom has some terrible hold on him. We must find out Rollings and follow him. That is the way we will get to Strom. I'll call a taxi at once."
"And I'll cut another hunk of meat and bread and be down in the hall in a jiffy!" Tinker said, "Oh, dear, I didn't know how downright hungry I was until I started on the grub! I feel I could go on for ever."
A few minutes later they were in a taxi speeding towards Whitechapel. They alighted when close to the public-house, and Blake bade Tinker enter it and look for Rollings; he was afraid he would be recognised himself had he done so. Tinker came out in a few seconds, his face bright and his eyes shining.
"He's in there right enough, talking to a couple of men," he said.
Blake gave a big sigh of relief.
"Then we have only to follow him and we'll come up with Strom and stop the burglary," he said. "It will be an exciting time for us both, my lad."
Tinker chuckled softly.
"I've had a fair time enough already," Tinker replied with a grin. "One never knows what fun the day is going to bring. Just half a mo', sir! There's a bun-shop yonder! A few cakes would fix me up nicely now!"
He darted into a shop and came out shortly with a bag in his hand. As he munched one of the cakes Blake moved along the pavement.
"There's Rollings just leaving the public-house, and he's alone," he said. "Now, Tinker, we must follow him cautiously. You go on first and keep him in sight, and I will keep you in sight. In that way, he won't have a chance to recognise me, and still I will be in touch with him."
Rollings walked swiftly away, but he did not look very cheerful. His head was bent and his shoulders were stooped. He took a 'bus to Cannon Street, and from there he went by train to Waterloo. There at the main line he entered another train bound for Southampton. As the train ran into Vauxhall, Tinker popped his head out of the window of the compartment close to the guard's van where he and Blake were seated. He quickly drew it in again.
"Strom is on the platform," he whispered.
"You're certain?" Blake asked.
"I can't be mistaken, sir," Tinker replied; "but no one would ever recognise him in the disguise he has on."
The train rolled away on its long journey. At every station at which it stopped during the next hour Blake made certain that Strom and Rollings did not get out. When they did alight, it was on to a platform where there were very few passengers. They both were clearly visible as they hurried along and left the station. The way lay down a winding country road, the night was dark, and a fresh breeze was blowing.
Blake and Tinker, following them cautiously, first saw them on ahead as a motor leaving the station having picked up a gentleman from London, flashed its bright light along the road. Strom and Rollings stood to one side to let it pass.
They came to a cross-road, to one side of which lay a village. Strom did not go through the village; Blake saw him crossing the road by the light of a lamp-post. After that there was darkness all the way. On and on Blake and Tinker Went, not knowing the moment when they might see them again. At last Blake spoke:
"How far do you think we are from the station?" he asked.
"A couple of miles, I reckon," Tinker replied.
"Then that's the house yonder on top of the hill that Strom means to rob," Blake remarked. "I heard Strom say in the cafe that the Hall was about two miles from the railway-station."
"Once they leave the road they can't go up through the field this side of the house without our seeing them," Tinker said. "There are only a few clumps of trees about. They will have to come out into the open often."
"Yes, but Strom may go on farther and find a wood on the far side," Blake explained. "Probably Strom has been down here already and has mapped out the safest route. He's not a man to leave anything to chance, I think, from what you've told me."
They went on, walking very cautiously. If Strom suspected that he was being followed, he had only to crouch down in a ditch, and he would see them' pass; for that matter it was quite possible that before leaving the highway he would stop to find out if anyone was coming along, and thus they might run into him. The road now ran between rows of high trees on either side that flung many of their branches towards one another, and it was impossible to see more than a couple of yards ahead. But more light glimmered in the distance, and presently they stepped into it. Blake looked at once in the direction of a house on the hill.
He could not see it because of a thick wood. He pressed on and came to a gate. The gate opened on to an old, disused avenue running through the wood, and he saw a couple of figures seventy yards distant, and just coming to a bend in the avenue.
"There they are, Tinker!" he said, and his voice was vibrating with the excitement he could not altogether master. "We'll let them turn the corner, and then we'll go after them."
As he spoke the clatter of horse hoofs broke the stillness. Two people were close at hand on horseback, and coming at a fast trot.
"A police patrol!" Blake said, with annoyance. "They've been riding on the grass at the side of the road till a few moments ago, and so we did not hear them. What a nuisance this is, to be sure!"
"Let's climb the gate and bolt up the avenue," Tinker suggested eagerly.
"No, no! They might see us, and we couldn't give them an explanation that would satisfy them. I don't want to give young Rollings away, so I can't tell them about the burglary. We had better stand our ground. We have a right to the open road."
They waited. Blake loaded and lit his pipe. Two mounted police reined up when they saw them.
"What are you doing here?" one of them demanded.
"Fine night, constable," Blake replied cheerily, "we're just out enjoying the air before turning in."
The constable rode his horse close to Blake and looked down at him.
"Enjoying the air two miles from any place on a night like this, eh?" he said gruffly. "All right! You'll have to give a better explanation than that!"
And jumping from the saddle, he faced Blake squarely.
In the Nick of Time.
BLAKE was both annoyed and upset. Strom was getting near to the house by this time. He might break in and escape before the great detective could baulk him if the police delayed him long. And were he to give his name they would at once guess that he was on that spot on business, and suspect that some crime was about to be committed. But how to get rid of them? That was the difficulty. He had noticed when first he had seen the house that there were lights in some of the rooms; all the household had not retired at that time, and Strom would not venture in until the house was in darkness. Blake quickly came to the conclusion that he must trust somewhat to luck, and hope that the household did not go to bed early.
"I think I am entitled to take a stroll anywhere I like, but if you are suspicious about us we will go to the police-station," he said, with dignity. "I refuse to answer any question you put to me; you don't seem able to speak civilly. Now, come along!"
"Very good!" the constable replied tartly. "We'll go to the police-station."
Leading his horse by the bridle, he moved off next to Blake, and the other constable rode behind, keeping watch on Tinker. They walked slowly along the road in silence for a few minutes, and came to the spot where Blake had first seen the house. All the windows were in darkness now. The situation was becoming more critical every moment. Strom might have broken in. Presently Blake spoke.
"By the way, what charge do you mean to bring against me?" he asked.
"I am entitled to an explanation," the constable replied curtly, "If you give one at the police-station you will be let go."
"And if I don't? What will happen then?"
"You will be detained pending inquiries as a suspicious character."
Blake laughed.
"My good man, do I look like a rogue or vagabond?" he asked banteringly. "Don't you think it just possible that you are making a big mistake? And does a constable who makes mistakes get promotion? It is a strange thing if a man of my appearance and education cannot take a stroll at night without being subjected to official insolence."
"I haven't been insolent!" the constable snapped.
"Yes, you have; and when I get to the police-station I will telephone to London to my friend Inspector Widgeon," Blake retorted, "I'll tell him a constable has arrested myself and my young friend as rogues and vagabonds."
The constable started.
"Do you know Inspector Widgeon?" he asked, with awe.
"You'll find out in a few minutes whether I do or whether I don't," Blake rejoined coolly. "What's more, when I go to town to-morrow I'll have a private and confidential conversation with him."
He did not speak again. He walked on with a complete air of indifference, and he noticed that the constable was gradually slackening his pace. They had gone another half-mile before the latter spoke.
"Is there anyone else you know?" he asked.
"Mr. Feston, the Member of Parliament for this division, is a friend of mine," Blake said, yawning as if tired. "By the way, that's a good idea! I'll look him up, too, and get him to ask a question in Parliament—is this a free country or is it not, and is a respectable man to be allowed to take a walk at night, or is he to be treated as a rogue by the first policeman who meets him and likes to be impertinent?"
The constable shivered.
"You're very hard on me, sir," he said. "I'm only doing my duty."
"You should do your duty in the proper way," Blake replied loftily. "I spoke to you quite pleasantly, and I bade you good-night. The next thing was that you were off your horse and talking insolently. After that I decline to give you any information. Now, do your best or worst, and take the consequences."
The constable stopped.
"All right, sir; no offence meant," he said. "And I hope you won't speak to Inspector Widgeon."
"Oh if you've sorry I'll forgive you," Blake replied, turning on his heel. "But take my tip, and be more careful in future. It's not everyone who would not pay you out."
The constable climbed into the saddle, and he and his comrade rode quickly away. Blake waited until they had gone a couple of hundred yards, then he seized Tinker by the arm, and his voice and manner had changed altogether.
"A narrow shave!" he said. "Even as it is, that unfortunate meeting with those fellows may prevent our being in time. We must hurry now as fast as we can go."
He broke into a swift run. They ran along the road to the gate, climbed it, and raced up the avenue. They turned the corner around which Strom and Rollings had disappeared, and saw the house eighty yards away. As they still ran towards it a light flashed up in the hall. A couple of seconds later another light flashed in a window on the ground floor. Then came a hoarse shout of alarm, a pistol shot, and another yell.
Blake was close to the house now. Though much out of breath, he quickened his stride. He came to a French window, and saw two men struggling desperately together. One was Strom; the other was a big, bewhiskered, elderly man, who, though not the villain's match at his age, must have been very strong in his youth. Scattered about the room were jewels, papers, and silver jugs, spoons, and plate.
Strom was yelling to Rollings as he and the big-man staggered in their struggle up and down the room, and Rollings, with a cudgel in his hand, was seeking a chance to get in a terrific blow at the tall man.
Blake jumped into the room. He rushed at Rollings and wrenched the cudgel from his grasp. But Strom had seen him. Flinging the elderly man against the wall, the villain sprang towards the avenue. He banged against the window, the glass breaking and falling in a clatter that added more noise to the din, that was growing louder every moment. He collided with Tinker, sent the lad to the ground, and raced away. And at the same moment the menservants rushed in from the hall.
Blake was making for the window in pursuit of Strom, but two menservants seized him. He struggled to get free.
"Let me go!" he shouted. "The villain will get away if you don't!"
"No fear! We've got one of them in you, anyhow," another manservant cried. "And hallo! There's another!"
Rollings had darted towards the window. But this man jumped forward and wrenched him back, Blake, after a brief struggle, stood still. He knew it was hopeless to try to overtake Strom once the latter had got a few seconds' start. In the darkness he could easily hide. And to the astonishment of everyone except Blake, Tinker walked in through the window, brushing the mud off his clothes.
"Well, that's been a fair old tussle, anyhow, ain't it, sir?" he said, addressing Blake. "I got a nasty spill for one, and the old gentleman looks quite knocked out of time. Crikey! Look at the jewels and the plate! They didn't half mean to make a big haul! Why are these two chaps clinging onto you, sir? Bless my life, they can't think that you are the burglar?"
He grinned as he spoke. The elderly gentleman had sunk on to a chair. He was pale and badly shaken. The maid-servants, their faces' scared, were peeping in through the doorway; the butler was looking in puzzled surprise at Blake and then questioningly at his master. The latter spoke at last.
"Take your hands off that gentleman, Megg," he said; "he has nothing to do with that villain who got away or the one yonder, I don't know who this lad may be, but, anyhow, that gentleman saved my life."
The butler and footman stepped apart.
"Send for the police," the master of the house continued. "Ring them up on the telephone. They can get here in half an hour. Meantime, keep that scoundrel who tried to brain me in safe security. He'll do two years for this. You'll be able to give evidence against him," he continued, turning to Blake. "You saw him with that cudgel in his hand trying to get in a blow at me. Yes, he'll get two years—nothing less."
He had stood up now, and he was glaring at Rollings, who, trembling in every limb, was gazing imploringly at Blake. And a heavy cloud was on the great detective's face. Was this, then, to be the end of his attempt to save the young fellow from a life of crime? Was this the message he would have to bring to his mother, whom he had promised to befriend? He had been a few minutes too late. That unfortunate meeting with the police patrol had spoiled his plans. He felt terribly disheartened.
"My name is Ledbidge, sir," the elderly gentleman said, addressing Blake again. "May I ask you yours?"
"I am Sexton Blake."
"What? The celebrated detective?" the elderly gentleman replied. "H'm! Now I can see how you happened to come in the nick of time. You followed these scoundrels; you had been keeping your eye on them; you knew they were up to some mischief. Do you know anything about them?"
His tone was very fierce, his eyes were hard and cold, and his big side whiskers and bushy beard gave him quite a ferocious appearance. He looked and spoke like a man who would show no mercy to a wrongdoer, and Blake gazed at him thoughtfully for some seconds before replying.
"You have been kind enough to say just now that I saved your life," he began.
"Yes; and I'm much obliged to you."
"And in return you would do me a favour, I suppose?"
"Certainly! Anything in reason."
"I would like a few words with you in private."
Ledbidge tugged at his beard, and gazed keenly across the table at Blake.
"Eh? Why do you want that?" he asked.
"I cannot explain with all these people in the room, but I will do so as soon as they retire."
Ledbidge walked up and down the room for some seconds before he replied.
"All right!" he said. "You can all clear out till the police come." He waved his hand imperiously towards the servants. "Take that scoundrel away and hold on to him. Stay in the hall until I call for you. Now, Mr. Blake, close the door, if you don't mind, and be quick in what you have to say. The police will be here shortly."
Foiled!
BLAKE closed the door. Ledbidge had a troubled look. He seemed to regard Blake's request for a private interview as an unnecessary worry, which, under the circumstances, however, he could not refuse. He began to gather the jewels lying on the table into a heap.
"It is because the police are coming here that I want to speak to you," Blake began very gravely. "You have been very badly treated to-night, and you have every reason to be angry; but still, you may see your way to deal mercifully with the young fellow who is your prisoner when I tell you all I know about him."
Ledbidge tugged at his beard, and stared dumbfounded at the great detective.
"It's about him you want to talk?" he said.
"Yes, it is."
"Then you can spare yourself the trouble. You've fairly taken my breath away," Ledbidge replied hotly. "If ever a man deserved no mercy, he doesn't. The villain! Why, he would have done for me if he could."
"I would like to tell you what I know about him, anyhow," Blake went on, "and perhaps you will change your mind when you have heard what I have to say. Anyhow, I won't keep you long. The unfortunate youth never got a chance in his life, and he came here through fear of the scoundrel who has got away."
"Oh, I know all about that sort of yarn!" Ledbidge scoffed. "Well; what about it, even if he didn't get a swagger bringing up? Is every man who is poor to be allowed to go about robbing people and using violence? There are hundreds of thousands of men who have no better chance in life than he's had, who live honest, respectable lives. I hate cant, Mr. Blake. I can't abide it."
"My experience of life has been big, too, and I have more knowledge of the criminal classes than most men," Blake replied quietly. "And I say deliberately that the case of this young fellow is quite exceptional. He ought not to have any temptation whatever. If his father had been an honest man, the young fellow would be now, and from his childhood in the best society the world has to give."
Ledbidge stared at Blake.
"What's the tale, then?" he asked.
"His father made a lot of money dishonestly," Blake explained. "At last the time came when he was found out. Before that he had married a charming lady of high social position. This boy is their son. When the crash came the father bolted. I ascertained that he went abroad. As well as ruining hundreds of people, he left his wife and child in abject poverty. The poor lady, to hide her shame and to live as cheaply as she could, went to Whitechapel, and from that day on this young man has been exposed to every temptation. He had no father to look after him; he went his own way, choosing his companions for himself, and he got into criminal company. He has drifted from bad to worse, yet he has been more sinned against than sinning, and, even as it is, he is not altogether bad. I hope, for the sake of his mother, to reform him yet; but if he is found guilty of this crime he will sink lower and lower, and the shock will he enough to kill the poor lady. Now that I have told you this, I plead again for mercy towards him."
Ledbidge sat down heavily.
"It's a terrible story," he said.
"Yes. If you had a son yourself, and all this had happened to him, would you not find excuses for him?"
Ledbidge put his elbow on the table, and rested his head on his hand. His face was very grave.
"What happened to the father?" he asked.
"No one knows," Blake replied.
"You say you know yourself that he went abroad. Did he die in foreign parts?"
"He may be dead or alive. No one can tell."
"Where is the wife now?"
"I took her from Whitechapel, and found her rooms in a better quarter of London."
"She has never heard anything about her husband?"
"Not a word since the day he deserted her."
There was a long and tense silence, Ledbidge kept fingering the jewellery, and Blake, watching him narrowly, saw that a big struggle was going on in his mind.
"You will let him go?" he said.
"I would like to see him now," Ledbidge replied.
Blake opened the door, and told the servants to release Rollings; that their master wanted him in the dining-room, and that Blake himself would be responsible for his safe custody. The young fellow came into the room white-faced, but still sullen. Ledbidge raised his head, and looked at him for a long time.
"Mr. Blake has been telling me about you," he said.
"If he has told everything, then you know that I have to thank a scoundrel of a father for the fix I am in now!" young Rollings said, his eyes flashing. "It is all very well to punish a poor man for his crimes, but the bigger villain who has money can get away, If I had had a chance I would have run straight. But the thought of that rascally father, who left me in the lurch to suffer for his villainy, fair drove me wild when I heard about it."
"If you get the chance now, would you go abroad and start life afresh?"
"If I had money I would search the world until I found my father," Rollings answered, his voice trembling with fury. "And when at last we stood face to face there would be a big reckoning between us."
"You would not forgive him?"
"Never!"
During this conversation Blake had been picking up the trinkets and papers lying on the floor. Ledbidge saw him, and, jumping to his feet, he snatched the papers from him testily. Blake did not protest. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at the ceiling. As Ledbidge put the papers into the safe that had been rifled, the butler opened the door.
"The police are here, sir!" he said.
Blake started. He looked again at Ledbidge.
"Will you let him go?" he asked.
"Yes."
A sergeant and two constables filed into the room. They all saluted Ledbidge, gazed questionably at Blake, and then the sergeant advanced towards Rollings.
"Is this one of the men as broke in, sir?" he asked.
"I don't wish to prosecute him," Ledbidge replied.
The police were taken aback. One of the constables had been moving about the room, looking down at everything strewn on the floor; the other was examining the broken window. Now both stopped in their investigations and listened, open-mouthed. The Sergeant, who had taken his notebook out of his regulation overcoat, proceeded to open it.
"Sorry, sir, if them be your wishes, but it is a bit late now," he replied. "There's been a burglary committed; one of them as did it is here, and the other has escaped. You sent for us, and the affair is now in our hands. This man must come with us."
"I won't charge him," Ledbidge said.
"We'll bring the charge against him, and you'll be summoned to tell what you know about this affair," the sergeant replied. "It will be a matter as between you and the Magistrate regarding your evidence. This man is a dangerous character, and that's certain. The butler has told me you said that but for this gentleman, he would have taken your life. Burglary with violence! And now, sir, what is your name?" he continued, addressing Blake.
"Sexton Blake."
"Mr. Sexton Blake! Your name is well-known, sir. I'm proud to meet you. And how did it happen that you dropped in here in the nick of time?"
There was a twinkle in the Sergeant's eye as he asked this question.
Blake had to smile.
"Perhaps you can solve the riddle yourself, sergeant," he suggested.
"Perhaps I can, sir," the Sergeant agreed, and he and the constables grinned, "It wasn't altogether an accident or a coincidence, I dare say. I needn't ask you for your address; it's well known. You'll have to come to the court, too, of course."
"You won't do as Mr. Ledbidge asks, and let the young man go?"
"I've no wish to be reduced to the ranks," the sergeant replied, as he drew forth a pencil and licked the point deliberately. "I couldn't let him go, no matter what my feelings may be. If I had come up here in a promiscuous kind of way, just for a stroll round, so to speak, and there had been no noise, and there wasn't likelihood of any talk, I might be able to think different. But there's been too much publicity. If I let him go, the inspector would want to know when it was I took over his job; and the Magistrate would ask me, none too friendly, if I knew more about the law than he did. We'll now proceed to make our own investigations, if you don't mind, Mr. Ledbidge, and then we'll take the prisoner away."
The servants were called into the room, and the inquiry began. There was no chance of freeing young Rollings. Once the arrival of the police had been announced, Blake had abandoned almost all hope on that head. Still, just a possibility had remained that the sergeant might have been talked round.
It had been Blake's original intention, if he had succeeded in obtaining Ledbidge's consent, to have let Rollings bolt into the darkness, and thus escape before the arrival of the police. He had not been able to do this; the police had come too soon. Luck had been against him again, as it had been once before that night. An hour later he left the house with Tinker, and they walked towards the railway-station in silence.
The air was very cold, but despite that fact Blake walked slowly. He did not seem to mind the wind, he did not look ahead; he just sauntered on, silent and preoccupied. Tinker trudged beside him, feeling very sorry for his disappointment, and wishing there was something he could think of to say to cheer him up. The road was less dark, and the lad, seeking the cause, turned his face presently towards the east.
"The dawn is breaking!" he remarked absently.
"Ha! The dawn is breaking, is it?" Blake said so loudly, whilst quite unexpectedly he got into a long, swinging stride that Tinker stared up at him in amazement. "The dawn is breaking! I think it is. There is no cloud without a silver lining, but often what brings solace to one man brings punishment to another. Don't you agree with me, my lad?"
"I suppose all that is true, but I don't know why you're talking this way, sir," Tinker replied. I thought you felt altogether knocked out of time."
"Something very strange happened in that house to-night," Blake answered "something that has got my brain working hard. I'm altogether in the dark, but the dawn is breaking. I've got a puzzle to solve, and if only I can think of a way to do it everything may come right yet."
"And this idea came to you in the house?" Tinker asked.
"It did. And, somehow or other, I must follow it up. But see! The railway signal is down, and a train is expected. Let us break into a run. It will warm us, and the sooner we get back to London the better. Come along!"
Blake's Clever Sketch—The Disappearance of Mrs. Malbred.
THEY travelled back to town, had their breakfasts, and then Blake left the house to call on Mrs. Malbred. He had to tell her the sad news, and he dreaded the task. The poor lady was quite overcome when she heard the incidents of the previous night, and Blake tried to cheer her up as best he could. Presently he asked her a question that surprised her.
"Mrs. Malbred, did your husband ever speak to you of a man named Vincent?" he inquired.
"Vincent! He was one of my husband's most intimate friends," she replied. "They did a great deal of business together. Why did you ask that question, Mr. Blake?"
Blake's eyes were shining.
"Just one thing more," he said. "Do you happen to have a portrait of your husband?"
She went to a small desk, took out a faded photograph, and handed it to Blake. It represented a young man, tall and athletic-looking, standing by the side of a chair. After gazing at the photograph for some seconds, Blake asked if he might take it away. Mrs. Malbred assented, and Blake bade her adieu. He returned to Baker Street, and told Tinker to hurry to a stationer's and buy a drawing-board. When the lad returned the great detective was seated at the table, holding the photograph in his hand, and gazing at it keenly.
"I've got the drawing-board," Tinker said. "Is there any other way I can help you?"
"Pull a chair to the table and sit down and watch me," Blake replied. "I'm going to make an experiment."
"What, with a drawing-board?" Tinker asked, in amazement.
"Yes," Blake replied, as he sharpened a pencil. "In a few minutes I will know whether or not there is anything In an idea that came into my head some hours ago. And you will be the judge. Now, just watch. What I am going to do will either prove a complete failure, or it will he extremely interesting."
He began to sketch a large head of the photograph on to the drawing-board. He worked slowly and surely, Tinker admiring his cleverness and dexterity in silence. After half an hour he held the drawing-board some distance away, and examined the head critically.
"Is that face like the photograph?" he asked.
"It's exactly like it," Tinker answered appreciatively.
"All right! Now we'll get on."
Blake set the drawing-board on the table again, and picked up his pencil. Swiftly and with certain touch he proceeded to put a beard, whiskers, and moustache on the clean-shaven face. Tinker as Blake went on grasped the sides of his chair, and his eyes began to bulge in his head in suppressed excitement. When Blake held the drawing-board at arm's length again, the lad was speechless with sheer amazement.
"Does that face remind you now of anyone?" Blake asked.
"Ledbidge!" the lad gasped. "The man whose house Strom and Rollings burgled last night. It's the dead image of him. There can't be any mistake about that.
A smile of triumph was on Blake's features as, pushing back his chair, he arose and walked to the mantelpiece to light his pipe.
"Yes, it's Ledbidge," he agreed. "I have proved that I am right. Now, perhaps you are beginning to understand what I meant when I said that something very strange happened in that house last night, and that there was a puzzle I had to solve."
"You found out something about Ledbidge, but I can yet guess what made you do so," Tinker replied.
"Did you see him take some papers from me rather roughly?"
"I did."
"They were legal documents, tied together and endorsed. I was reading the endorsement on the top one, and my eye was attracted by the name. The name was Vincent."
"And who is Vincent?"
"Reading over the notes I had made some years ago, when investigating the case of Roland Malbred, I found the name of Vincent often repeated," Blake explained. "A man called Vincent and Roland Malbred did a great deal of business together."
"And—and—"
"Yes, it is as you think, I have found out that Ledbidge is the scoundrel Roland Malbred. What a discovery!"
Tinker stood silent. Blake began to pace the room.
"Ledbidge, the man we saw living a respected life in every luxury in this country, is Malbred, the villain. who swindled so many people, who deserted his wife and child, and fled from justice," Blake went on, in a tense voice. "Rollings, who broke into his house last night, is his son. Thus after all these years they met. What a meeting! The father, the cause of the son's downfall, in affluence; the unhappy young fellow, caught as a thief and sent to gaol! And I told the rascally father all about his son, and I pleaded with him for mercy."
"Did he guess that Rollings is his son?" Tinker murmured.
"I believe he did. Do you not remember how he sat at the table, his head on his hand; how he said the story I told him was a terrible one; how he asked what happened to the young fellow's father, and if he was dead or still abroad?
"I believe he wanted to find out how much I knew."
Blake paused.
"And he asked to see Rollings," he went on, after a few moments. "And he asked him if he would go abroad if he got the chance. And he asked him if he would forgive. How Rollings' eyes flashed with malice as he said he never would! Little did he guess then that it was the father he hated so deeply to whom he was talking. But Ledbidge knew; and I don't envy him his feelings."
"He was paid out a bit last night when he heard Rollings speak of him the way he did," Tinker remarked. "And it could not have been pleasant for him to hear what you thought of him, either, as you told the tale. I bet he hasn't slept much since. He would have let Rollings go if the police had not come in."
"He would; and now he has to appear against him in court," Blake agreed. "His evil deeds are beginning to come against him just when he thought they had been forgotten, and that he could hide his identity and live a pleasant life on the spoils he had wrung from others."
"Now you can nab him, sir?" Tinker suggested.
"Oh, there is much I must do before I can come down on him," Blake said quickly. "I have to draw the net closely around him. The fact that he is so like Roland Malbred is not sufficient evidence in itself to make certain of his conviction, though I have no doubt myself he is the man. I must prove, for one thing, that Roland Malbred is still alive; I must also get proof as to his movements since he left this country, and I must also be able to show that he returned here. There is a great deal of work before me yet; but the task now ought not to be very difficult, though it may take time. And, of course, I must go very carefully. It would never do if the scoundrel thought that my suspicions were aroused."
That afternoon Blake set to work with fresh vigour. He spent till nightfall searching for Vincent, but without success. It was only late on the following day that he met a man who had known him in the past, and he had not seen him for two years. Vincent then was in very reduced circumstances. Blake went to the haunts he had frequented when in poverty, and ascertained that he had been seen in them from time to time until eighteen months previously.
Encouraged by this success, he set to work again on the following day, and it was late that night when he returned home. Tinker, who was sitting up for him, noticed as he entered the room how tired he looked.
"Well, sir, how have you got on?" he asked.
Blake shrugged his shoulders.
"Vincent died three months ago, and is buried in a pauper's grave," he said. "He never had any luck after his dealings with Ledbidge. Step by step he sank lower and lower, and perished an outcast. I had a long talk with a man who knew him in the last year of his life, and Vincent spoke very freely about Ledbidge. What I was told may help me a bit, but I am disappointed. I must set to work on some fresh line, that is all. Is there any news? Did anyone, call in my absence?"
"A police-sergeant was here to say you are to attend court against Rollings to-morrow morning," Tinker replied.
"Anything else?"
"A lady rang up three times on the telephone and wanted to see you particularly,"
"Who is she?"
"I don't know, sir, I told her I was your assistant; but still she would not give me her name. She said she would ring up again."
"What time was the last she spoke to you?"
"About an hour ago, and— Ah, there goes the bell again!"
Tinker jumped up, but Blake stepped to the telephone.
"Is that Mr. Blake?" a voice came along the wire. "Yes. Who are you?"
"I'm so glad to be able to speak to you at last, Mr. Blake. I'm in a state of terrible anxiety. I'm the landlady."
"Whose landlady?"
"Oh, you know! Mrs. Roland's, at Kilburn. It was you who took the rooms for her here. That is why I want your advice. The poor, dear lady! I've become so fond of her, and—"
"What is the matter? Please tell me at once. Is Mrs. Roland ill?"
"Oh, I wish I knew what has happened to her. She went out yesterday morning, and she never came back."
Blake started.
"Why did you not tell me about this before?" he asked sharply.
"I was waiting, Mr. Blake, and thinking she would write or wire to me. She told me when leaving yesterday morning that she was going into the country, and that she would not be home till late. When night came and she did not return, I thought it must have been friends she was going to see, and that she was stopping with them. And when I did not get a letter from her this morning, I kept on expecting a telegram. But this afternoon I began to get nervous, and so—"
"She did not tell you what part of the country she was going to?"
"No, sir."
"I'll take a taxi and call round on you at once," Blake said. "This is a very serious matter, far more serious than you think."
He laid the receiver on the rest. Tinker, of course, had only heard Blake's voice, but he had been able to gather that something very serious was amiss. One glance at the great detective as the latter turned from the telephone confirmed his suspicions.
"Mrs. Malbred has disappeared," Blake said. "She has been absent from Kilburn all yesterday and to-day. Telephone to the hospitals. It is just possible that she may have met with an accident, or be suffering from loss of memory in her fragile state, and after the great shocks she has suffered lately, anything might happen to her. I'm going at once to Kilburn to see if I can find there any clue as to this strange occurrence. But I am afraid I will be disappointed."
"Then what do you think can have happened to her?" Tinker asked quickly.
Blake was slipping on his overcoat again.
"I'm afraid she is in danger," he said, as he hurried from the room; "and in great danger, too?"
Rollings in Court—Mr. Ledbidge Fails to Attend.
IN the early hours of the morning Blake returned to Baker Street. His visit to Kilburn. had been without success. Nothing there had given him an indication as to Mrs. Malbred's intentions or movements, and for the time: nothing further could be done, for he had to attend the police-court in the country in the morning.
After a few hours' rest, he and Tinker drove to Waterloo whilst the streets were still almost empty, and they took the train there. The morning was foggy and depressing, and Blake, tired out with worry and hard work, both looked and felt despondent. As the twain sped through the outlying suburbs the fog lessened, and in the country it gave place to sunshine. When they arrived at their destination the sky was quite bright, the air was keen but exhilarating, the birds were singing in the hedges. They tramped along the muddy road in better spirits, and entered the village. They had not any difficulty in finding the police-court. A knot of people were gathered around one building in the small street, which otherwise was deserted.
A policeman was in the doorway, and he stood to one side to allow Blake and Tinker to enter. The scene was very different from a metropolitan court. The clerk whilst opening his books was chatting with a sergeant; a few respectable-looking men were seated here and there; that was all. A vehicle rumbled up to the door, and the sergeant became suddenly interested.
"Those are the prisoners," he said.
"How many are there?" the clerk asked
"Three. One for creating a disturbance on Saturday night, one for stealing fowls, and the young scamp as broke into Mr. Ledbidge's house."
"He'll be sent on for trial before the Assizes," the clerk remarked.
"Ay, it's a clear case, and a bad one. And Mr. Ledbidge is not the man to forgive him. He'll get a couple of years certain, and he deserves them."
The prisoners had entered the building by a side door, were with their escort in an adjacent room. A young man at this juncture hurried into the court, and, sitting down at the table, pulled out a notebook.
"Will there be anything of interest for the 'Weekly Exclaimer,' sergeant?" he asked.
"There's a good case, one of burglary," the sergeant replied.
"You'll get a column out of it," the clerk remarked. "You did well to come."
"I was afraid I would be late," the young man explained, as he mopped his forehead. "I biked for all I was worth."
The Sergeant and clerk exchanged smiles.
"You needn't have hurried," the clerk said. "Mr. Dooby is the magistrate to-day, and he's never in time."
Silence fell, broken only occasionally by the heavy clatter of feet, as one by one men entered the court and dropped heavily into their seats. Ruddy-faced, clear-eyed men they all were, dressed in rough, warm attire, used to the open life in all weathers. Minutes passed before at last the toot of a distant motor was heard.
"That's the magistrate," the sergeant said.
"Yes; and punctual for him," the clerk replied. "He's only twenty minutes late."
A slight stir began. Two constables entered the court, and as the motor stopped at the door, another constable there called to the people in the street to make way. A pleasant-faced gentleman, about fifty years of age, entered the court, and walked to the bench at the top. The sergeant and the constables saluted him, and the clerk stood up deferentially.
"Well, Petram, much business to-day?" the magistrate asked cheerily, as he took off his overcoat and handed it and his hat to the sergeant.
"No, sir," the clerk replied. "Just three cases. One of them will have to go on to the Assizes, and the others are very ordinary. You won't be kept long."
"Capital! Well, we had better begin, as I must leave soon. Sergeant, declare the Court open."
He sat down, and folding his hands, he looked around. Most in the room were well-known to him. When his glance fell on Blake and Tinker, he displayed surprise. These two were strangers, evidently from London. He bent over the top of his desk, and a short whispered conversation ensued between him and the clerk whilst the first prisoner was led into the small dock.
"He was puzzled about us, sir," Tinker whispered. "But he knows who you are now. The clerk has told him. See how he's looking at you?"
The magistrate was gazing at Blake with deep interest, The clerk had to speak again before he stopped and assumed a magisterial air.
"The prisoner is in the dock, sir," he said.
The prisoner was the man charged with creating a disturbance, and his case was soon disposed of. He practically admitted the offence, and was punished by a slight fine or an alternative of a few days' imprisonment. As he was paying the fine to the clerk, the second prisoner was led into court. This case took a considerable time. The prisoner, charged with stealing a fowl, put up a resolute defence, and cross-examined the police doggedly. He entered at times into long statements which had to be cut short. He fought with all the dexterity of an old hand. Finally, he was found guilty, and the magistrate, after a brief lecture, dealt with him sternly. He was sent to gaol, to the last protesting his innocence.
"Hugh Rollings!" the clerk cried.
Now there was a slight stir. Rollings was led into court. He wore the sullen, defiant look which was habitual to him. The magistrate eyed him narrowly.
"Burglary—oh?" he said presently, to the clerk. "Well, get on with the case."
The sergeant and the two constables who had arrested Rollings came up from the back of the court. The sergeant entered the witness-box and gave evidence of the arrest. He told how Ledbidge had telephoned for him, and how he had found Rollings detained by the servants, and the jewellery and other articles scattered around the room. Asked if he wished to cross-examine the sergeant Rollings shook his head.
"Any other witnesses, sergeant?" the magistrate inquired.
"Mr. Ledbidge, your worship."
"Then let Mr. Ledbidge enter the witness-box."
Blake turned and looked to the back of the court. Ledbidge was not there. After a few moments, the magistrate spoke again.
"Where's Mr. Ledbidge?" he inquired.
"I summoned him to attend," the sergeant said.
"This is very awkward," the magistrate replied, "and quite unlike Mr. Ledbidge, who is most careful in these matters, and a magistrate himself. Does anyone know why he is not here?"
"I saw him this morning, your worship," a burly farmer said.
"Oh, then he is at home! Did he tell you if he had any pressing appointment?"
"No, your worship. I wasn't speaking to him. He just nodded as he passed me by."
"Did he know when the Court would sit, sergeant?"
"The hour was stated on the summons, your worship."
The clerk stood up, and he and the magistrate whispered again together.
"Mr. Sexton Blake is here, I understand," the magistrate said, "and his evidence may be sufficient, together with the sergeant's, to send the prisoner for trial. Will Mr. Blake step into the box?"
Blake arose.
"I appear for the prisoner, your worship," he said.
Tinker had not expected this. He shot a swift glance at the great detective, and saw a slight smile he well understood playing around the corners of his lips. All in court were surprised, too. Firstly and principally, that the man whose fame was an honoured household word should be amongst them; and secondly, that he should act as an advocate in a small, sordid case like this. The clerk was completely taken aback. Again he whispered to the magistrate.
"You have been formally summoned here as a witness, Mr. Blake, I understand?" the magistrate said.
"I cannot help that, your worship," Blake answered. "I cannot appear in a case in two capacities, and I am the prisoner's advocate."
"Then what's to be done?" the magistrate protested, gazing around the court.
"You can adjourn the case for some hours for the attendance of Mr. Ledbidge, your worship," the sergeant suggested meekly.
"I can't do that! I'm not going to do that!" the magistrate said testily. "Such a suggestion is quite unreasonable. I have my own business to attend to. I came here to-day at great personal inconvenience, and if the witnesses do not attend as they should, I am not to be held to blame. I can't dilly-dally round, waiting for the convenience of Mr. Ledbidge or anyone else! Can I not send the prisoner on for trial on the evidence already obtained?"
"There's not enough against him in the information yet, your worship. That would never do!" the clerk made haste to explain. "The Judge of Assize would be most scathing, and at your expense. He would tell the grand jury to throw out the bill, and the prisoner would be let off free, without a trial at all."
"And it would be all in the papers!" the magistrate said, looking down at the reporter of the "Weekly Exclaimer," who was scribbling in his notebook as fast as he could.
"Then what am I to do?"
"The case can be adjourned," the clerk explained.
"Then the case stands adjourned," the magistrate said quickly. "That settles it for the present. Is there another one?"
"No, your worship."
"As that is so, I declare the Court closed!"
He jumped up and grasped his overcoat and hat. Rollings was led away, and all in the court moved towards the door. Blake sauntered out and stood on the small path, a frown on his forehead and a haze over his deep-set eyes. The magistrate came bustling through the doorway, and his chauffeur, on his appearing there, began to start the engine of the motor. The magistrate was now a cheery British country gentleman, and chatting to all his acquaintances. He stopped when he reached Blake's side.
"Mr. Blake, I'm very glad to meet you!" he said. "If you haven't to get back to town at once, I shall be delighted if you and your young friend will come home to lunch with me. After that you can have an afternoon's shooting, if you like. Some friends are coming over to my place."
"It's very kind of you to give me the invitation, and under other circumstances I should be delighted to accept it," Blake replied. "But I am beginning to think that my work down here is only just beginning instead of being concluded. Some other time, perhaps, I may be able to avail myself of your hospitality."
"But I thought you came down from town to defend that prisoner? And his case is disposed of for the present," the magistrate urged, in surprise.
Blake smiled.
"It is owing to what I heard in court just now that I have decided to spend the day here on business," he answered. "We will meet again, though. When next Rollings is before you, I will be in court, too!"
They parted, the magistrate entering his motor, and Blake and Tinker walking up the street. At the cross-road, Blake took a sharp turn.
"Where are we going to, sir?" Tinker asked.
"To Ledbidge's house," Blake explained. "There is something I don't understand—something that I must find out!"
"And what is that?"
"The reason why Ledbidge did not come to court."
"I suppose he does not want to prosecute his son," Tinker said.
"That is not the reason," Blake answered, speaking with strong conviction. "If it had been, he would have gone away for the day and sent word that business compelled him to go. No! It is something deeper than that. He does not go away, and he does not come to court. Why? When I find out the explanation I will have discovered something of deep interest. Now let us step out. Thank goodness there is daylight! It's not like the experience we had the other night when we traversed this road in the dark!"
The Flight from Justice.
THEY tramped along the road, chatting as they went, and had gone half a mile, when they heard in the distance the thud of a motor approaching at a terrific speed. He was travelling at least forty miles an hour, and swung round the corner recklessly. To save themselves, Blake and Tinker had to spring on to the grass fringing the road as the motor dashed past. It came and went in a flash, the chauffeur's face set hard, and one man sitting behind him. That man was enveloped in a heavy coat to his ears, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. He was lying back in the car in a crouching position, Blake looked after the motor.
"The scoundrel ought to be locked up! He nearly ran over us!" Tinker said indignantly.
"I wonder who he may be?" Blake remarked. "He's not travelling for pleasure—at least, I don't think so. I've got the number of the car, and I'll jot it in my notebook whilst I remember it. A very powerful car, too, and— Humph! Come along!"
They stepped out together again, Blake once more in a thoughtful mood, and they entered the gateway leading to Ledbidge's mansion. The park was well cared for—indeed, everything they saw as they walked up the drive indicated an-extreme desire for style and comfort on the part of the owner. The door was opened to them by the butler, who at once recognised them both, and greeted them with a cordial smile.
"Is Mr. Ledbidge at home, Megg?" Blake asked.
"He's not back from court yet, sir; but I expect him at any moment," the butler replied. "Won't you step inside and wait for him? I'm sure he would be glad to see you!"
Blake and Tinker glanced at one another significantly as the butler led the way to the library. Ledbidge had told the man he was going to court, and he had not gone there. What could be the meaning of this? It was clear that the butler was not in Ledbidge's confidence, therefore he could be trusted up to a certain point. The great thing, of course, was to find out all that was possible without arousing suspicion by too obvious questions, and Blake at once took a pleasant, chatty tone.
"Mr. Ledbidge is none the worse for his adventure the other night, I hope?" he began. "It was an unpleasant and exciting experience."
"Oh, he doesn't seem upset in a way, sir; he gets about just the same as usual," the butler replied. "Still, he's not exactly as he has been. He's more quiet, and takes no interest in the improvements he has been making in the place.
"And how are you, Megg?" Blake went on. "You got a bit of a shock, also!"
"I don't mind saying I did, Mr. Blake," the butler replied, as he pulled up the blinds in the library. "I was awakened out of my sleep by the shouting, and I thought the house was on fire. When I got down here and saw you all and what had been going on, I was fair bewildered, I can tell you!"
"I suppose the news ran round the countryside like wildfire?" Blake suggested. "Crowds of the neighbours came to call on Mr. Ledbidge, no doubt? He has been kept busy seeing people, I expect?"
"He hasn't seen anyone but a lady, who called a couple of days ago," the butler explained. "And a gentleman was here just now looking for him. He has one of the finest motors I ever saw."
"I think we met that gentleman just now. He was in a white motor."
"That's him, sir! He wanted particular to see Mr. Ledbidge, and yet he wouldn't wait."
"Well, we'll stay for fifteen minutes, and if Mr. Ledbige doesn't return by then we'll have to be getting back to town. No thanks, Megg, we won't have any refreshments. Neither of us are hungry at present."
The butler left the room, and at once Blake spoke in a whisper.
"You heard about the lady who called a couple of days ago? It was two days ago that Mrs. Malbred left the lodgings in Kilburn," he said, speaking eagerly. "Can it be that she came down here to plead for her son, and if so, did she recognise her husband? Tinker, this is getting very exciting!"
"It must have been a terrible scene if she recognised him!" Tinker said gravely.
"Yes. And the worst of it all that I dare not ask Megg anything about her visit," Blake replied. I told you I had a foreboding that she was in great danger. All these mysterious happenings coming together are very baffling. Let us try to sort them out."
He began to pace the room, speaking whilst he did so.
"According to the butler, Ledbidge has not been quite the same since the night of the attempted burglary," he began. "That could, of course, be accounted for by the shock of seeing his son under such circumstances. But whilst on that account he might object to be bothered by visits from his neighbours, and decline seeing them when they called, yet it would be no reason why he should cease to take an interest in the improvements he was making here."
"Then what reason would you give for that, sir?" Tinker asked.
"If he intended to leave, why then, of course, he would have no further interest in the place," Blake replied.
"But why should he want to leave unless he knew you are suspicious about him?" Tinker remarked.
"You forget the visit from the lady," Blake said. "If in truth Mrs. Malbred has been here, and has recognised him, then he knows it won't be long before I am told who he is. Then who, again, is this man who called here to-day and nearly ran over us in his motor as he was hurrying away? And why did Ledbidge tell the butler he was going to the court, and why did he keep away from it? Ledbidge is coming back here, I don't mind betting on that!"
"And where is Mrs. Malbred all this tine?" Tinker asked.
"If she was the lady who came here, Ledbidge could tell us that," Blake answered. "But bad as the man is, I am slow to believe that he would injure his wife."
"Great Scott! Do you think that possible?" Tinker asked, in horror.
Blake did not reply, He had stopped, and was gazing at the floor. Suddenly stooping down he picked up a large bead. He walked to the window and examined the bead carefully.
"Cheap. Very cheap!" he murmured. And belonging to a lady's dress. It is black, too! And Mrs. Malbred always dresses in black. Tinker, I think we had better leave here at once. We will tell Megg we are going back to town."
He rang the bell, spoke to the butler, and left the house. They went down the drive and out on to the road, but instead of returning towards the railway-station Blake took a turn to the left. He walked briskly, and after an hour they came to a Village. Entering a post-office Blake telegraphed to the landlady at Kilburn, and then suggested that they should go on farther. About three o'clock they reached another village; both were very hungry by now, and they entered a small inn, and had a very hearty luncheon. They spent some hours in the inn, and then returned the way they had come.
At the post-office from which he had despatched the telegram, Blake found one in answer awaiting him. In it the landlady said that Mrs. Malbred had not returned, and that nothing had been heard about her. He was not disappointed, for he had not expected good news. They tramped on again, and it was dark when they drew near to Ledbidge's lodge gate. They were only thirty yards from it when they heard a motor racing down the drive. It turned at a perilous angle into the road, and dashed away, getting up more speed every moment. The motor was painted white, and the top was piled with luggage.
"Ledbidge!" Blake cried. "You see the luggage on the motor, Tinker? He's clearing out. And the motor is the one that called at the house this morning. We must get on his track at once. He knows his game is up. And he means to escape and hide his tracks."
"We can't follow him," Tinker said regretfully. "Why, sir, by the time we get a car he might be a hundred miles away."
"Of course! He has the start of us, and we can only hope to follow him step-by-step," Blake agreed. "But we must begin at once, and the first thing is to glean what tidings we can here. Come along!"
He turned in through the gateway, and went swiftly up the drive. Except for a light in the hall, the mansion was in darkness. Once again the butler opened the door, and again his first words proved to Blake that the man knew nothing of Ledbidge's evil intentions.
"Why, sir, you've just missed Mr. Ledbidge again!" he said. "It's not more than five minutes since he left."
Blake stepped into the hall. His face was set.
"Close the door, Megg!" he said. "I want to talk to you."
The butler in surprise obeyed the command.
"Where has Mr. Ledbidge gone to?" Blake asked.
"I can't say. He only told me he was going away for a fortnight's holiday," Megg replied.
"Who is the man with whom he has gone?"
"I don't know, sir, I didn't hear his name?"
"When did Mr. Ledbidge return this afternoon?"
"About three o'clock."
"That would have been about five hours after he first left the house," Blake remarked. "Tell me exactly what happened when he came in."
"I heard the library bell ring, and I went there. I hadn't heard him coming into the house, and I didn't know he was back until I saw him in the library. The safe was open, and he was taking all the papers out of it. He must have been in the room for some time, for the table was crowded with papers, and such like, too. He told me he was going away for a holiday, and to help him to pack. I asked him if I had better tell the coachman at once, and he said that would not be necessary."
"What happened then?"
"I got a couple of portmanteaus and small boxes out of the box-room, and set to work to put his clothes away. He came up himself with the first lot of papers in his arms, and told me to get a stout box for them. He packed all the papers, and some books and odds and ends in the box himself, and I dealt with the other things."
"Did he speak to you much?"
"No, sir."
"Did he seem quite himself?"
"He was a bit fussy, that was all."
"When did the motor come for him?"
"Whilst we were packing. He told me to keep on at the packing, and that he would go downstairs. He let the gentleman in, and took him to the library. Later on, he called to me to know if all was ready, and one of the other men helped me to take the traps downstairs."
"Did you see the gentleman who had come in the motor?"
"No. He was sitting again in the motor when I came down to the hall."
"Then you had no chance at any time of seeing him?"
"No."
"And then they drove away together?"
"Yes."
Blake stood in deep thought for some moments. Then he laid a hand on the butler's shoulder.
"Megg," he said, "you're an honest fellow, and I am here in the discharge of a serious duty. You will never see Mr. Ledbidge again. He is fleeing from me, he is fleeing from justice. It is my duty to search this house, to follow him up, to have him arrested for crimes he committed years ago. I look to you to help me."
The butler was startled out of his wits.
"Do you mean that Mr. Ledbidge is a rogue?" he faltered.
"I say only what I can prove," Blake replied. "His name is not Ledbidge, he is one of the most notorious swindlers of modern times!"
From Clue to Clue.
BLAKE now was all alertness and eagerness. He had put his cards on the table, he had taken the plunge. Fully convinced as he was that Ledbidge was the villain, he had spoken his mind openly to Megg, for without winning his confidence he could not search the house. That was the only chance now left to him, and he knew in his heart that Ledbidge would escape if he did not find some clue in the house that the villain had over-looked in his hurried departure.
Megg was completely staggered by Blake's statement. At first he could not realise that it could be true; he stood open-mouthed. But as he continued to gaze at the grave, strong face of the great detective, stern and cold at this moment, the conviction came to him that Blake spoke from a deep knowledge.
"Mr. Ledbidge a rogue!" he repeated. "A swindler! And he has fled from justice! I can't take it in yet, sir, I feel dazed."
"How long have you been with him, Megg?" Blake asked.
"Twelve months."
"And how long has he been here?"
"About that length of time, sir."
"I see. Now, come along, and we will begin the search."
Blake went on to the library. The safe was locked, and the key was gone; for the moment there was no way of opening it, but Blake was not put out on this account. He did not expect to find anything of use in the safe now; Ledbidge was not likely to make a slip like that. So Blake opened cupboards and presses, but could not find anything that might aid him. He searched the dining-room and drawing-room next, and then went through the rest of the house. Ledbidge had cleared out everything of an incriminating nature. As Blake stood gazing out of a back window a thought occurred to him.
"Was it Mr. Ledbidge's custom to see everyone in his library?" he asked of the butler. "The farm bailiff, the coachman, and his other employees, for instance?"
"Oh, no; he saw them in the office!" Megg explained.
"And where is the office?"
"Out in the yard, sir."
"Then we'll go there at once."
It was a small room, which had once been a harness-room, but had been changed by Ledbidge into an office when he had taken the mansion, as Megg now explained. It was comfortably furnished, and quite suitable for its purpose. The door was locked, but Blake soon forced it open and stepped inside. Files were on the walls, and a large desk stood in the centre. The papers Blake examined referred only to the accounts and receipts in connection with the estate; they had been furnished by local tradesmen, and dealt only with the year that was just past. The desk, too, was locked, but Blake wrenched the lid open. Here amongst a pile of small account-books he found a bundle of cheques, and at the first glance he knew he had the clue he sought.
"These cheques only refer to the estate accounts settled by Ledbidge in the last year," he said to Tinker. "The cheques having gone through the bank were returned to Ledbidge in due course. But now I have the name of the bank, and there I hope to learn something. Now, Megg, just one thing more. What was the appearance of the lady who called on Mr. Ledbidge the other day?"
"She was tall and slight, sir. She was dressed all in black, and she was wearing a heavy veil."
"Then you cannot describe her further?"
"No."
"How long did she stay here, and did she go away alone?"
"She was here for over an hour, and Mr. Ledbidge left the house with her."
"And how long was it after that that he returned?"
"They left the house together about four o'clock, and he was back in time for dinner. I can't say exactly when he came in."
Blake put the cheques back in the desk and left the office. Bidding Megg good-bye, and cautioning him not to breathe a word of what he had heard to anyone, he walked slowly down the drive. When out on the road he looked at his watch.
"Tinker, I have come to the conclusion that Mrs. Malbred is somewhere in this neighbourhood," he said. "It may be that she has been kidnapped, and that she is a prisoner, or, possibly, on Ledbidge's suggestion, she may be stopping here of her own will. If he promised to save her son and to treat herself and him properly, and if he expressed regret for the past, it is just possible that he may have talked her round, and she may have fallen in with any proposals he made. But whether she is his prisoner or not, everything, to my mind, goes to prove that she is not far away from us at the present moment. So I want you to stay on here, while I run up to London."
"Very good, sir. I suppose I had better not stop in the village?"
"We were seen in the court there to-day, and your stay therefore, might give rise to gossip," Blake said. "Yes, you had better find rooms elsewhere. Keep an eye on this house. If Mrs. Malbred is free, she is likely to call to see Ledbidge again when she doesn't hear from him shortly. Now, I've just time to hurry for the train. When you get rooms, telegraph your address to Baker Street."
Blake caught the train, and as soon as it arrived in London, he drove at once to the bank where Ledbidge had his account. The manager lived over the bank premises, and though the hour was now very late, Blake's card obtained him an interview. The manager came down to the hall, an odd smile on his face.
"Mr. Sexton Blake! I know you well, of course," he began, "I am very glad to make your acquaintance, but as you can understand I don't much like a visit from a detective, even from such a celebrated one as yourself. I always feel that detectives may be the bearers of bad news; we have hundreds of clients, and I think of them at once on these occasions."
"I am afraid that my visit is in connection with one of your clients," Blake replied. "Is there any room where we can have a confidential chat together?"
"Certainly! Come into my office! My family are upstairs, or I should have been delighted to take you there. Here we can have quiet and secrecy."
He unlocked a door, entered his office, and switched on the light. Pushing a chair towards Blake he sat down himself.
"And now what is the trouble?" he asked.
"You have a client named Ledbidge."
"Yes."
"And he opened a bank account with you about twelve months ago?"
"That is so. But I must be frank with you at the start, Mr. Blake. I am in a confidential position, and I cannot answer questions about my clients."
"Quite so. But circumstances sometimes alter cases," Blake replied dryly. "Besides, I do not seek at present to know anything about Ledbidge's financial affairs. I may tell you that I have a grave suspicion that he is no other than the notorious Roland Malbred, who swindled the public five years ago, and left the country."
"Good gracious!" the horrified bank manager gasped.
"I speak with a good deal of certainty," Blake went on. In any case, this is a matter that ought to be cleared up. If Ledbidge is in truth Roland Malbred, then he ought to be arrested. If he is an innocent man, then his innocence should be completely established. You will agree with me in that, I am sure. Now, it is not customary for a stranger to open a bank account without references. I want to know the references that Ledbidge gave you."
"He came here with a man who was already one of our customers," the bank manager replied. "I took his friend's introduction as sufficient."
"And the name of that friend."
"A Mr. Skybet."
"Has Mr. Skybet an account here with you still?"
The manager looked surprised.
"As it happens, he closed it since then," he said.
"When did he close it?"
The manager opened some books and looked over them.
"Ten months ago," he said.
"That was shortly after Ledbidge opened his account," Blake remarked thoughtfully. "For how long was Mr. Skybet your client?"
"For five months only."
"So he opened an account here three months before he introduced Ledbidge, and closed it two months after that," Blake continued. "Had Ledbidge a beard when first you met him?"
"I have never seen him without one."
"In any conversation you ever had with him, did he ever tell you anything about himself?"
"He was never of a very communicative nature with me, Mr. Blake, and for that matter he has come here very seldom."
"Did he look like a man who had just arrived home from a tropical country when you first met him?" Blake continued.
"Well, his face then was much more tanned than it is now. Yes, I should say he had been abroad," the manager replied reflectively.
"But he never told you so or gave you any indirect reason for drawing such an inference? He never spoke, for instance, of the difference in customs between this country and any other?"
"No. He never spoke like that."
Blake stood up, shook hands at parting, and thanked the manager for the interview. He drove at once to Scotland Yard, and asked to see an inspector. His arrival always created a flutter there. The inspector's eyes were twinkling as he entered the room where Blake stood awaiting him.
"Well, Blake, what game are you up to now?" he asked "Something big—eh? I don't suppose you intend to take us into your confidence."
Blake laughed heartily.
"You don't always take me into your confidence, Chalcan," he replied. "Still, we can often help one another. I have only a very small favour in any case to ask to-night. Here is the number of a motor. Can you tell me who owns the motor?"
"Is that all. you want to know?" Chalcan inquired.
"Yes."
"Just wait here, then, and I'll be back shortly."
He wrote the number of the motor on a slip of paper and left the room. In a few minutes he returned.
"There is the name of the owner of the motor," he said.
Blake read the name without showing a trace of the surprise and delight that had sprung into his heart.
"Ralph Skybet!" he said. "And I see you have given me his address, too. Has he ever been in trouble for furious driving or anything of that sort, Chalcan?"
"Oh, no! He has a clean record,"
"Then I won't keep you any longer. Thanks, very much!"
"But I say, Blake, won't you tell us what all this is about?" Chalcan protested good-humouredly.
"You'll hear before long," Blake replied cheerily. "It hasn't very much to do with Skybet, anyhow."
"Oh, well, if you won't tell—"
"Not just at present, old man," Blake interjected. "I'm only ferreting around. If my theory is right you will be one of the first to rejoice."
He drove to Baker Street, tired out with the day's work, but happy in all he had discovered. It had truly been a long and eventful day. He had succeeded in having Rollings remanded, Ledbidge had fled, and he had traced the owner of the white motor-car. Much still remained to be done, but at last he seamed on the threshold of success. One thought alone saddened him. Where was Mrs. Malbred at that moment, and what were her feelings? Was she living in the hope that Ledbidge would save her son, or was she a prey to despair? Was she safe or in desperate danger? He did not know.
"To-morrow I will hear from Tinker, and he may have news about her," he murmured as he mounted the stairs.
"My best chance is to follow Skybet. Through him I will get to Ledbidge, and through Ledbidge to her. Poor lady! I wish I could help her straight away."
Blake Goes after Skybet.
EARLY next morning Blake had a telegram from Tinker, but the lad had not any news of Mrs. Malbred. Blake, in reply, wired to him to keep Ledbidge's mansion under close inspection, and then he set out to make inquiries regarding Skybet. He was not at the house stated to Blake by Inspector Chalcan. Nothing had been heard of him there for several months, but Blake ascertained that he had an office in the City. He drove to the City forthwith, and entered a large building which had been given to him as Skybet's address.
Reading the names on the board in the hall, he ascertained that Skybet's office was at the top of the building, so he mounted several flights of stairs. When he got to the top landing, he found that the door was locked. Skybet's name was painted on it. He went on to another office to make inquiries about him. A middle-aged man was seated at a desk in this office. His name, as printed on the door, was Rafter.
"Do you happen to know when Mr. Skybet is likely to be in his office?" Blake inquired, "I am particularly anxious to see him."
An amused smile came over the man's face.
"Oh, you are, are you?" he said, laying down his pen and turning in his chair. "Now, I wonder how often in the last fortnight people have come here and told me the same tale?" He rubbed his nose and winked. "I'm beginning to think that Skybet must owe money to half the men in the City," he went on. "So you're another of his creditors—eh? Well, you can spare your shoe leather coming here. You'll never get anything out of him."
Blake fell in with the man's humour, and laughed, too.
"That's cheerful," he said. "So that's his sort, is it? Still, he keeps a fine motor-car and seems to be able to get about the country as he likes. He must have some money, surely."
"Not a copper he can call his own, I should think," the other replied. "I never was so taken in myself by any chap, and it's the same tale all round the building. He has borrowed from everyone."
"He must have a very wheedling way about him," Blake suggested.
"Wheedling! That's just the word, as sure as my name is Rafter," the other replied, chuckling heartily. "There are many who live by their wits in the City, as every business man knows, but none of them are a patch on Skybet. Oh dear, oh dear! The way he has sucked us all in with his yarns and his captivating manner and his funny stories! 'Pon my honour, I don't believe I grudge him the tenner he has got out of me! I've had value for it."
"But a man can't get a motor-car by that game," Blake urged. "If he hasn't paid for it, either he would be prosecuted for obtaining it under false pretences or at least he would have to give it back."
"Oh, the motor is his right enough!"
"Then how did he get it?"
"A friend gave it to him. A fellow he met out in Brazil,"
"Do you know the name of that friend, Mr. Rafter?"
Rafter chuckled again.
"Rather! His name is a standing joke with a lot of us, Skybet is never done talking about him, Ledbidge is his name. He's a big swell, living in the country, and to hear Skybet talk you would think he was a sort of duke."
"I know Ledbidge, too," Blake said, without a change of a muscle of his face. "I have not heard him talk of Skybet, though."
"I don't suppose he bothers about him," Rafter suggested. "He's the man with the money. It's Skybet who looks up to him!"
"And how is it that he and Skybet are such friends?" Blake asked.
"They knew one another out in Pernambuco, and Skybet is fond of telling the story of how he saved Ledbidge's life," Rafter explained, leaning back in his chair, a broad smile on his face. "If half that Skybet ever says he did is true, he's a wonderful fellow. But some men are born liars, and I should think that Skybet must be the biggest of all. Still, in some way or other he must have done Ledbidge a good turn, or the latter would not stand to him as he does. There's no doubt when all else fails Skybet, he can fall back on Ledbidge, and Ledbidge comes up trumps every time. Heigho! I wish had someone like that at my back. It would be useful, and no mistake."
"Yes, we would all like a friend at times," Blake agreed. "This fellow Skybet must be a very amusing sort at his own expense. Is he a Brazilian, then?"
"So he says. And he's been everything, according to his own account, and that usually means a dead failure.'
"And why did he open an office here?"
"Just a blind, I think, to get in with people and have a good time at their expense. He never did any business of any kind that I knew of, anyhow. But Ledbidge uses the office occasionally when he comes up from the country. Ledbidge may own it, for all I know. Well, there's no use in your calling on Skybet here again," he continued, as he took up his pen. "He hasn't been seen here for a couple of months, he owes close on a year's rent, and everyone is on the watch to dun him. I'm sorry for you if he has let you in; but if so, you are only one of several dozen, if you can find any consolation in that. Good-morning! Don't mention it! I'm always glad to give information when I can."
"Just one thing before I leave," Blake said, "I'm not disposed to let this fellow Skybet get away from me, if I can possibly come up with him. I don't mind going to some trouble to find him. Can you tell me any of his haunts?"
"Humph! He was known in half the bars in the City; but he wouldn't dare to go into one of them now, for fear of meeting old acquaintances. He used to be a good deal in the West End, too, by his own account. Let's see! Here! This address might find him." Rafter scribbled a few words on an envelope as he spoke. "I've never been to the place myself," he added. "And it wouldn't pay me to hunt round for him; time is money, and I would lose more than he owes me on a very off chance. If you do find him, though, you might let me know. If I could get back that tenner, of course I should not be sorry."
Blake readily gave the promise asked, and left the building. He hurried to the nearest Post-office and sent off a long cablegram to Brazil. Then he went to the offices of the big shipping firms trading between Great Britain and there. Many hours were thus taken up, but as he hailed a taxi and was driven to the West End, his face was alight and his step was buoyant. He had found out much.
The haunt in which Skybet was in the habit of spending some of his time lay in the quarter between Gower Street and Oxford Street, and Blake had some difficulty in discovering it. It lay in a narrow thoroughfare with streets branching off on all sides, and could be approached from many directions, and a man could easily slip in or out of the house without being observed. It stood at a corner and had a portico of muffled glass, and from the outside looked dingy and dirty. Blake went up the steps, passed through the portico, and entered the hall. It was now about four o'clock, and though the evenings were lengthening considerably, gas had been lit in the hall, the house was so gloomy.
A door at the end of the hall was ajar, and, hearing the clinking of glasses, Blake went down the hall, and, pushing the door open, he entered a small bay. A thin, pale-faced, shifty-eyed young man was behind the bar, arranging the glasses he had just washed on the dresser. Except for him the bar was empty. He shot a swift glance at Blake as he addressed him.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked.
Blake knew that he was in a betting den under the guise of a cheap hotel. He saw also that already he was an object of suspicion, that this barman was distrustful of any strangers. Almost as soon as he had entered the bar his practised eye had taken in every detail, and he had noted some significant arrangements in connection with the room—a door with a curtain, at the back, for one, and a very large open window. The dust in the sashes conveyed to him that that window was never closed.
"Mr. Ledbidge would like to know if Mr. Skybet is here," he said. "And—yes, you might give me a glass of port."
He dropped a coin on the counter as he spoke. The barman filled a glass and handed it to Blake.
"Mr. Skybet hasn't been here for some time," he said.
A current of air began to play between the door through which Blake had come and the one with the curtain. Someone was listening!
"If Mr. Skybet comes in, you might tell him from Mr. Ledbidge that things have gone amiss in the country, and he would like him to run down there." Blake said, in a casual tone. "It's about a lady. He'll understand."
"All right! I'll tell him that."
"It's most important that Mr. Skybet should go down to-night," Blake continued, as he drank the port and laid the glass on the counter. "By the train at ten o'clock, tell him, if he can't motor down. Thanks! Much obliged!"
He sauntered out of the bar and along the hall. Once in the street, however, he turned a corner sharply, dived down another one, and jumped into a passing 'bus. He got out at Piccadilly, and walked by a circuitous route to Baker Street. When there he sent the landlady with a telegram to Tinker.
His plans were now laid. They might prove successful, or they might meet with failure: anyhow, he had done his best. He felt pretty: certain that Skybet would not call at the hotel; he was with Ledbidge, wherever that scoundrel was in hiding. He had no time to enjoy himself. Ledbidge might be in London, or, for that matter, in Liverpool or Glasgow, waiting for a ship to take him abroad. But a man or ten secreted behind the door with a curtain had listened to his conversation with the barman. They would get in touch with Skybet and Ledbidge, wherever they might be.
They would tell them that things were amiss about the lady. Mrs. Malbred was still somewhere in the neighbourhood of Ledbidge's mansion, Blake felt certain. Either they would go to that neighbourhood to prevent Blake finding her, or they would send someone for that purpose. Thus did Blake hope to find her, and possibly also come up with Ledbidge.
Two hours after despatching the telegram to Tinker, he drove in a cab with Pedro to Waterloo, and, placing the noble hound in charge of the guard, he sent him off by train. After that he drove to Kilburn, and, returning to his lodgings, he took his dinner, smoked a couple of pipes, and then he went to his bed-room and assumed a disguise. He was at Waterloo at half-past nine, lolling on a bench, with a clay pipe in the corner of his mouth and his eyes half-closed. People passing, looked at him in pity. A broad-shouldered navvy, tired out after a long day's work. That's what everyone thought! But Blake was very much alert, and just as the train was about to start, he lumbered towards it and dropped heavily into a third-class carriage. Then he closed his eyes again.
Found!
THE train rolled out of the terminus, and getting up speed as it rocked through Vauxhall, it did not stop until ten miles from London. The carriage in which Blake was seated had been crowded, but now some people alighted. At the next station more got out. When the train had covered twenty miles on its journey the carriage was empty except for the great detective.
There was no longer need for Blake to feign sleepiness, and now he sat up alert and anxious. During the half-hour he had sat on the bench at Waterloo watching the passengers passing along the platform to the train he had not seen any men of a sinister class. Of course, all the same, those he wanted might be on the train, but he half feared that he would be disappointed.
When at last the train stopped at his destination, and he cautiously looked out of the window before alighting, he realised that his fears had come true. Only a very respectable man and woman, some young girls, and a lad about eighteen years of age got out.
However, he did not abandon hope—that was not his way. He gave up his ticket, left the station, and got out for Ledbidge's mansion. He came to the cross-roads, leaving the village on his left, and crossing the road, he went on, He had gone but a couple of hundred yards when he heard a quick patter behind, and as he turned a big animal sprang up at him, and a deep baying broke the stillness.
"Down, Pedro! Down, old boy!" Blake said, chuckling heartily. Where's Tinker? He's not far away, I'm sure! Fetch him out!"
Pedro ran back along the road for forty yards, and as he was about to spring over a ditch Tinker jumped from it on to the road. He came running swiftly towards Blake.
"Pedro scented you out as soon as he got on to the road," Tinker said. "I got your wire all right, and I met the early train and took him from the guard. But what is the game, sir, and what have you found out since yesterday? You haven't come down here for nothing—I know that without any telling."
"I've found out a good deal, but I have just met with a big disappointment," Blake said ruefully, "I was in hopes that some scoundrels would come down here by the train just in, and I meant to follow them. They haven't done so. Did you happen to see any strangers recently?"
"No. I've nothing whatever to report, sir. It's been tame work since you left. I've mostly watched Ledbidge's house, and no one called there. I've chatted with people when I could do so without making them suspicious, but I didn't get a hint of any sort."
"Then Pedro is our last chance," Blake said.
"I was going to ask you why you sent him down."
"He must find Mis Malbred for us," Blake said. "I had hopes that I could get to Ledbidge through Skybet, but Skybet hasn't been in any of his London haunts for some time past. If we don't catch Ledbidge soon he will slip out of the country. So the only thing for us to do now is to go to his house and try to put Pedro on the trail from there. It's some time since Mrs. Malbred was at the house, and Pedro may not be able to pick up the trail—I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. But he never has failed me yet."
"And how will you put him on the trail?" Tinker asked, as they tramped along side by side. "He has never met the lady."
"I thought of that, and so I went to Kilburn and got a skirt of hers, which I have in this parcel," Blake replied. "And now we'll try our luck. Let us get to the house as soon as we can."
They took a short cut through the fields, went up the drive, and knocked at the door. After some delay it was opened by Megg, the butler, who at once tried to close it when he saw, as he thought, a burly navvy about to demand admission at that late hour. But Blake, putting his foot over the threshold, laughed and spoke.
"Don't you know me, Megg?" he said. "There's no reason to be alarmed. Detectives often use disguises. I'm Sexton Blake."
Blake's voice more than his words at first reassured the startled butler.
"Mr. Blake! he repeated. "Bless my life! I never would have dreamed it was you, sir! Oh, ay, and I see your young friend there now. Of course, of course! Is that big hound quite safe, though? Perhaps it as well to leave him outside."
"Oh, Pedro is as quiet as a lamb to anyone who is a friend of mine," Blake explained. "You needn't trouble about him, Megg; and for that matter we are not going to keep you long out of bed. We just want a few minutes in the library. By the way, wasn't it there that Ledbidge saw the veiled lady dressed in black the other day."
"Yes, sir."
"Very good! Come along. Tinker, and put Pedro on the leash."
No sooner did Pedro feel the leash than he began to strain at it, dragging Tinker along the hall. The noble hound knew that he was on duty. In the library Blake opened the parcel, Spread out Mrs. Malbred's skirt on the floor, and allowed Pedro to sniff at it. Megg looked on at this performance in mute amazement. After a couple of minutes, Blake began to lead Pedro round the room. The hound's tail was wagging in expectant excitement. He sniffed the carpet, he went into every corner; when he got on a line between the door and one of the windows he stopped. A chair was close to the window, and Blake had to drag him towards it, but no sooner had he sniffed it than he turned and rushed for the door so violently that he wrenched Blake after him.
Out along the hall he went, Blake striving to get the end of the leash around his hand for fear it might slip altogether out of his grasp, Tinker rushed past both and flung the hall door open. Down the steps Pedro went, and skirting the side of the house, he made for the garden. Tinker had the gate here open in time, too, and Pedro sped along the path.
"He's hot on the scent, sir!" Tinker cried, with glee. "Whoever would have thought it?"
"We're in luck!" Blake answered, as he held on firmly to the excited hound running without pause. The windows in the library have not been opened since Mrs. Malbred was there, nor has the room been dusted. But, hallo! Where is he going now? Ah, I see! There's another gate there, Tinker, and a path across the fields."
Pedro kept pulling hard out of the garden and across the fields. They went over a rising hill, down a valley, and then to a lane-way. Once in the lane, Pedro seemed at fault. He cast round for a minute, Blake and Tinker both watching him anxiously, but seemingly he picked up the trail again, though he went slower along it. The lane led down to the road along which Blake and Tinker had come to the house, and it was continued on the opposite side. Once he got on the road Pedro was at fault, but Blake led him across it, and he picked up the trail on the lane again.
For half a mile the lane ran until it ended at another road, not much used for traffic by its appearance, and Pedro, with his nose still to the ground, turned to the right. The countryside here was very lonely. They only passed two farmhouses in the first mile they went, both close together, as if for company. To one side of the road lay rising ground, and fields in pasture or tillage; a narrow, long wood fringed the other side. Pedro kept on a path in the grass on the side of the open country, and Blake and Tinker followed him in silence. Their hearts were too anxious for speech.
What Blake had been dreading came at last—Pedro stopped. He cast around, but could not get on the trail again. Blake looked around, whilst Tinker watched his face anxiously. Pedro was still diligently sniffing, but his tail had stopped wagging. Blake, after some thought, moved on, Pedro trotting by his side.
On and on they went for another mile. Tinker knew if was a time when silence was best; Blake was acting with a purpose, but he did not look happy. They came at last to a narrow, branching road, and Blake turned up it. They went, along this road for half a mile, and Blake stopped at the first farmhouse they came to. He softly opened the gate and led Pedro to the hall-door. The house was in darkness—the hard-working occupiers had long since gone to bed.
Pedro sniffed the doorstep lazily, and Blake led him down the path again. Without comment of any sort Blake continued along the road, and at the next farmhouse he repeated the experiment without success. Still he persevered. After ten minutes further walking he saw a farmhouse standing back some distance from the road, a lane leading up to it.
They went up the lane, Pedro still trotting by Blake's side, but no sooner did the noble hound get halfway up the path than he sprang forward again. Blake wrenched him back, and dragged him down to the gate.
"She's there!" he whispered in triumph to Tinker. "We've found her at last!"
"Whatever made you think of coming this way, sir?" Tinker asked in sheer delight and admiration.
"Ledbidge and Mrs. Malbred kept on the grass to the left hand of the second road from the house," Blake replied. "He knew, of course, where he was conducting her to, and instinctively he kept to the side of the road off which he would have to turn. That was my theory. I turned, too, off that side on to the next road. The rest followed, as you have Seen. Now, my lad, we must go in there, and we are certain to meet with opposition. Take Pedro off the leash."
Blake's voice had changed. It rang a trifle metallic, and his face was set. It was the fighting face Tinker knew so well. They walked up the path again. The house was in darkness except for one light in an upper window. Blake pressed gently against the door, and found it was firmly secured. He walked round to one of the windows.
"I don't intend to start off by creeping into the house," he said. "I mean to give these scoundrels a good hiding. I'll get in before they can stop me, anyhow, so I don't care if they know I'm here. Here goes!"
Raising his stick, he smashed a window-pane. Next moment he had pulled back the catch. He pushed up the window roughly, as a warning cry rang out overhead in a hoarse voice. It was answered by another and another. He heard a thud, as of a man jumping out of bed, as he vaulted over the window-sill. He was across the room and out in the hall in a trice, and a burly fellow swung round the corner on the landing alone. Down the stairs the man came, two others close on his heels. Blake landed a terrific blow on the first scoundrel's jaw, flinging him backwards on the stairs, and he jumped back himself.
The two others followed him, shouting imprecations, but assistance was at hand of which they did not know. As he got into grips with one of these two ruffians and swung him off his legs, Pedro, who had bounded through the window, sprang at the other's throat. Down he went, too, as Blake flung his assailant across the hall. The coward tried to open the hall-door and escape, but Blake was too quick for him, gripping him by his coat-collar, he brought him to his knees.
"Sharp work!" he said coolly to Tinker. "Light a lamp, my lad. Pedro will look after this lot, and the fellow on the stairs is knocked out of time."
Tinker struck a match and hurried back to the sitting-room. A lamp was on the sideboard, and having lit it, he carried it to the hall.
"Ha, you're from London!" Blake said to the ruffian who was struggling in his powerful grasp. "You're not a native here—I can tell that from your clothes. I guess you overheard my conversation about Skybet in the gambling hotel to-day, and you came down here by an earlier train than I did. Tinker, open the door. I'm going to lock this man in the stables for the present. Pedro will look after the other two."
Blake dragged the man across a yard and locked him up. Returning to the hall, he called Pedro off the one he was guarding, and locked him up also. As he came back to the hall the second time Tinker was bending over the man lying on the stairs.
"He looks like a farmer," he said. "He's coming round."
"All right! You and Pedro can keep an eye on him," Blake replied, "Give me the lamp."
He went up the stairs and knocked at a door. It was opened to him. He took off his hat and bowed.
"Mrs. Malbred, your troubles are over, and you are quite safe," he said smilingly. "I am Sexton Blake!"
Caught at Last.
MRS. MALBRED'S face was ashen grey; she was so weak that she could hardly stand. She had almost fainted on first seeing him in his rough disguise, thinking that he was another of the ruffians sent to keep her prisoner. When she heard his voice, and realised that her misery was at an end, a look of great joy came into her careworn face. He held her for a few moments, for she rocked unsteadily.
"You have saved me!" she said. "Oh, how basely I have been deceived!"
"I think I know how it all came about," Blake said, speaking hurriedly. "You went to Ledbidge to plead for your son, and you found Ledbidge to be your husband. He recognised you, too. He promised to help you if you would do as he wished."
"Yes, yes!" she agreed quickly.
"He persuaded you to come here, and you consented," Blake continued. "If you were astonished at meeting him, he was startled out of his wits by meeting you. He saw he was in a terrible dilemma. As in the past, he thought only of himself. He knew he could not escape me if he let you go free. He conducted you here and made you a prisoner. But that is all over now. I will see that you are well protected. Go back to your room and rest. There is a great deal that I must do at once."
He hurried downstairs again. The injured man on the stairs had revived. He was sitting up, glum and shaken. Pedro, wagging his tail slowly and meaningly, was looking at him, without blinking, out of his bloodshot eyes. Tinker, with his hands in his pockets, was leaning against the wall, softly whistling. Blake pushed past them all, and went to the stables. Unlocking the door, he bade one of the two ruffians there come out. The man sulkily obeyed.
"Now, I'm going to deal with you," Blake began sternly. "Six months, with hard labour! That's the very least you'll get if I hand you over to the police, and you richly deserve every day of it. But on one condition I will let you go free. Tell me where Ledbidge is! Convince me that you are speaking the truth on this head, and I won't bother any more about you."
"He's gone away altogether!" the fellow replied surlily.
"That's no news to me," Blake answered. "Where has he gone?"
"I don't know. He didn't tell me. I've had little or nothing to do with him. It's with Skybet I've had all the dealings."
"Then how do you know that Ledbidge has gone, and that he won't return?"
"Skybet told me that when I last saw him."
"And when did you last see Skybet?"
"Two days ago. He drove up to my house in his motor, and spoke to me for a few minutes. Then he drove away again."
"What did he want to see you about?"
"He told me if I got a telegram from Hasford here at the farm I was to come here at once. He also told me that the lady was to be let go free in three weeks' time."
"It wasn't on account of a telegram from Hasford that you came down here?" Blake insisted.
"No, it wasn't. I was behind the door with the curtain to-day when you came in and spoke to the barman. I thought something was up, so I came down here with the other chap you've locked up in the stable also."
"So I thought. You didn't take on this job for nothing."
"No, I didn't. I was to get twenty pounds if it worked out all right."
"If it worked out all right! Then you were to get it in three weeks' time when Mrs. Malbred was released, and Ledbidge was far away," Blake remarked. "You are not the man to undertake anything risky unless you are certain of the money! And you could not be certain of the money for this unless you knew you could follow up the debtor. You would do well to be more frank with me. You can tell me more if you choose."
"You're too cute, mister! the fellow growled, "Of course, if I split on Skybet I won't get anything."
"And if you don't deal squarely with me you'll get imprisonment," Blake said sharply. "Choose for yourself, and don't be long about it."
"All right! The game is up. I've told you the truth so far, anyhow, and you may as well know the rest. I looked to get the money from Skybet because I knew he wasn't going abroad, Ledbidge wants him to stay on here to sell his house, and rake in the money he has here."
"Then it's to Skybet's interest that nothing should go wrong about the lady," Blake continued, with relentless logic. "If he was going away he wouldn't mind, but as he has to stand his ground it was essential to his own safety that everything should be kept quiet. So, naturally, he would like to hear from time to time that she hadn't been found, and was still quite safe in this prison. He couldn't hear that and a lot of other things he would want to know, unless there was someone to tell him. And no one except a man who knew his address at present could tell him. I think you must see by now what I am driving at. Give me Skybet's address, or I'll march you straight off to the station."
"*He's in Liverpool."
"What proof have you of that? I won't take your word."
The ruffian fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a pink envelope.
"There's a wire from him that I got this morning," he said.
Blake read the telegram, and put it in his pocket.
"Very good! Now go back to the stable," he directed. "You'll stay here a prisoner for forty-eight hours. I'm going to put that scoundrel of a farmer into the stable, too. You'll get food and water. I'm leaving my young friend here, and if you try to break out—well, he has a revolver, and you'll have to reckon with the hound, too."
He locked the man in again, and returned to the house. Half an hour later, having also incarcerated the farmer, and having yoked a horse to a trap, and given his parting instructions to Tinker, he drove to a village with Mrs. Malbred. Leaving her in charge of the landlady of a very respectable inn, he went on to the station, and caught an early train. He had to get to Liverpool as quickly as possible. It was a race against time. At any hour a ship might sail for foreign parts with Ledbidge on board. Perhaps even now he might be on the high seas.
The journey to Liverpool, with all its tedious delays for connecting trains, was one of the most anxious experiences of Blake's stirring life. He was on the verge of success, yet, through no fault of his own, he might be baulked by an hour's delay, perhaps only by the delay of a few minutes in undertaking to find the notorious swindler—Roland Malbred—after the lapse of so many years, he had set his brain and hand to a well-nigh impossible task, as all the world would think, anyhow, and yet he had found him. He had brought some peace to the ill-treated wife. He had proof in his possession that her son, if sinning, had also been deeply sinned against. He had laboured without thought of himself, without rest or respite, until he was nearly worn out. And Roland Malbred, alias Ledbidge, might yet escape, and with his ill-gotten gains he might yet spend the rest of his life in ease; while once again his wife starved, and his son sunk lower and lower in the depths of crime.
He got to Liverpool on the following afternoon, but instead of looking first for Skybet, he hurried to the shipping offices, and made eager inquiries. Some steamers had left in the past twenty-four hours, but none of them on long voyages. Of course, Ledbidge might have gone to France, intending, as many escaping criminals have done in the past, to ship from one of the French ports for a distant land. Blake made close inquiries at the offices of these vessels. No one corresponding in appearance to Ledbidge or Skybet had booked a ticket recently. Somewhat relieved in mind, Blake then started to find out Skybet.
The task was extremely difficult, for strangers are more the subjects of curiosity in Liverpool than in the teeming Metropolis. But Blake's disguise helped him, Skybet would not be likely to recognise him in it. He went to all the restaurants and hotel bars. About eight o'clock he got tidings that gave him hope. A man corresponding to Skybet had spent two hours that afternoon in a small hotel. He had been accompanied by a clean-shaven companion, and they had sat together close to a window and behind a screen. Their conversation had been carried on in a low tone of voice. They left hurriedly, and had asked the way to New Quay.
Blake went down to the docks. He entered several public-houses in the vicinity of New Quay, and at last he got on to Skybet's tracks again. A well-dressed, big-spoken man had been bragging to a group of sailors in one of the public-houses about all he knew of foreign ports and sea life. He had stayed longer than he had intended, Blake was told, and had only left about a quarter of an hour before.
It was not just to spend his time in a public-house that Skybet had come to the docks, Blake felt certain. He had come on business, and he had wasted his time in the public-house. He was still somewhere about the docks, transacting the business which he had neglected through his vanity and love of display. So Blake hung about, waiting.
After a time he saw a well-dressed man pushing his way through that ill-clad noisy crowd. In that lowly district this man looked out of place. He had a bag in his hand, and was hurrying very fast. Blake did not know Skybet's appearance well, He had only once seen him, and then in a motor. That was on the day he went with Tinker to Ledbidge's house, and was nearly run over by the motor. But he was looking with good reason for Skybet in this locality now, and this was the first man he had seen there of his type. He determined to follow him.
The man turned up Water Street, went along Dale Street, and into Market Street. He entered a shop there, and Blake watched him through the window. When he came out he walked along until he caught a tram, on to which Blake also jumped, and they were taken to a suburb in the north. Alighting there, the man went down some streets, and entered a respectable though small house. Blake watched the house from the opposite side of the road.
In about an hour's time the man came out. He was accompanied by a tall foreigner, dressed in a rough tweed suit. This man had black hair, black eyebrows, a well-trimmed mustache, and an imperial. They walked down the street together. Blake frowned.
"A man of about thirty-five years of age!" he murmured, as he went after them. 'Now, what is Skybet up to, and why -has this fellow come into the business? Have I been wasting my time, and is that man not Skybet, after all? Are these men just two peaceful, respectable citizens, going out for the evening? If so, I have made a big blunder."
He followed them as they walked together to the heart of the city. Where the traffic was congested they stopped. The Britisher suddenly hurried across, regardless of the trams and motors. The Frenchman hesitated. The Britisher came back, and taking his arm he led him over to the opposite pavement.
Blake sprang forward. Heedless of danger to himself, he rushed across the street, and gripping the Frenchman by the shoulder he swung him round.
"You're not a young man, but an old one!" he cried, with a ring of triumph in his voice. "A young man doesn't fear the traffic. And you're not a Frenchman. For proof I show you this!"
As he spoke he plucked the moustache and imperial from off the fellow's upper lip and chin, and the clean-shaven face of Ronald Malbred, alias Ledbidge, now ghastly white, stood revealed in all its terror.
A Plea for Mercy.
"I DECLARE the court open!"
It was once again the court in the village, near to Ledbidge's house, in which Rollings had appeared before the magistrate—Mr. Dooby. But the scene on this occasion was very different to the last. The county police, making all possible investigations concerning Rollings, had got in touch with London, and had heard that he had once appeared before the magistrate at Whitechapel, charged with assault and robbery. At once their interest in the case had increased tenfold, and they had requested Scotland Yard to send down all necessary witnesses and every possible information.
As a consequence, men of the Metropolitan Police Force had come down to the village at an early hour, and their presence had shaken the villagers out of their customary sleepiness. Something very big, they reasoned, was about to happen—something of a very exciting nature. So, as the hour drew near when the Court would sit, all who were able flocked into it, and those who could not crowded around the door. And it was quite astonishing to see how many there were in the village when they left their homes and mustered together. Men, women, and children, some hundreds in all, made the street look black for a long distance on either side. The news, too, had run round the neighbourhood for some miles, the butcher in his cart and the baker in his van spreading it as they drove on their rounds. As a consequence, Mr. Dooby was not the only magistrate. Three more joined him, giving a tone of unusual dignity and authority on the Bench. Altogether it was one of the most impressive sittings that the village had ever known. And the reporter from the "Weekly Exclaimer," delighted to believe that he would get several columns of sensational news for his paper, got to the court in good time, and secured a comfortable seat.
Rollings had been led into court, and he stood in the dock with the old sullen, defiant look on his face. All stared at him, but he seemed indifferent to that. Yet he was not quite the same as he had been in the days of his freedom. Imprisonment, with time to think over his unhappy and reckless life, had left its mark upon him. He had grown thinner. His face was heavily lined. It was evident to all that he had suffered much.
Blake was sitting just before the magistrates. Tinker was at the back of the court. Pedro out on the doorstep lolled his length but pricked up his ears when he heard Blake's voice inside.
"I appear for the prisoner, your worship," Blake said.
"You are a barrister, Mr. Blake?" one of the magistrates inquired.
Dooby smiled.
"Mr. Blake is a K.C., but he doesn't practise much," he said. "We are honoured in having Mr. Blake before us, and his advocacy I am sure will be most useful to the prisoner."
The sergeant who had given evidence on the last occasion went into the witness-box, and repeated it. Then he called, in a loud voice:
"Mr. Ledbidge!"
For some seconds there was silence. Then footsteps came slowly up the court. Ledbidge entered the witness-box. Men rubbed their eyes, and stared at him. Many failed to recognise him. They had only known him with a big beard and whiskers, now he was clean-shaven. But if that had been all the change in his appearance, if would not have accounted for the murmur that ran round the court. For he looked a broken man! His shoulders were stooped, his face was wrinkled, his figure had shrunk, mute misery was depicted in his eyes. He held on to the rail with both hands, and after one glance at the magistrates, who had been his personal friends, he bowed his head in shame. The magistrates gazed at him wonderingly. So stood he and Rollings both facing one another, both brought to this plight by the sins of the elder man.
The sergeant began to question him.
"You identify the prisoner as the man who broke into your house, and tried to commit a robbery?" he asked.
Ledbidge looked at Rollings.
"I decline to prosecute him!" he said huskily.
The sergeant flushed angrily.
"Mr. Ledbidge, you must answer the question," one of magistrates insisted.
"I decline to prosecute him," Ledbidge said again.
Blake arose.
"I have no doubt whatever but that the witness will answer any question that it is my duty to put to him," he said. "Your worships, I had better state now that the witness has not come here of his own accord. I have forced him to come. I venture to say that never has a more dramatic case than this been laid bare. As you know, I am a detective, and I have a most startling revelation to make."
"Your statements have come as a great surprise," the chairman said. "We have decided to allow you to examine the witness."
Blake turned towards Ledbidge.
"What is your name?" he asked.
The wretched man moistened his lips.
"Roland Malbred," he said.
"What relation is the prisoner to you?"
"He is my son!"
A cry of astonishment rang through the court. The cry was followed by a tense silence. Men stared at one another.
"Are you Roland Malbred, the man who swindled the public, and who escaped from this country five years ago?" Blake insisted.
"Yes, I am!"
As he admitted his guilt he bowed his head again.
Blake looked at the magistrates.
"Your worships, I think it is best, now that this man has admitted his guilt, that I should explain to you all I have found out," he said. "This man Roland Malbred, alias Ledbidge, defrauded the public out of an immense sum of money. His name is well known to the police. Five years ago when the crash came and he left the country, hundreds of families were ruined. His crime created a tremendous sensation at the time. I am sure that the police who have come down from London to-day have not forgotten it."
"What Mr. Blake has said is quite true," an inspector remarked.
"Ah. Chalcan, I didn't know you were here," Blake remarked. "I am glad that you are able to confirm my statement. But in the eyes of many people," Blake went on, "Roland Malbred, alias Ledbidge, so well known to many of you, committed even a more dastardly crime than swindling. He deserted his wife, a gentle, refined lady, leaving her absolutely penniless. He deserted the prisoner in the dock, his unfortunate son, leaving him exposed to every temptation. I said just now that I forced Roland Malbred to come here. That is true. But also I reasoned with him, urging him to make a full confession, and what reparation he could, and I believe that he is anxious to do so. He must, of course, pay the penalty for his crimes. He knows that, and he is ready to do so.
Blake paused. One could have heard a pin fall.
"Your worships," Blake continued, his resonant voice ringing clear and musical through the court, "if I had only to deal with Roland Malbred, my task would now be over. I have the proofs, apart from his admissions, for all I have said. When he left London he went to Pernambuco, and I have a cablegram from the authorities there fully identifying him. I have also obtained the date when he returned to Britain. At the time I first saw him he was wearing a beard and whiskers, and therefore difficult to identify. Now that he is clean-shaven many will recognise him. His wife is in court, and can do so if necessary."
There was only one woman in the court—the veiled lady! All now gazed at her, but she seemed unconscious of the fact. She was looking at her son, her eyes full of hope and love, and he was looking at her. And the sullen, defiant look had gone out of his face. His heart was touched at last.
"There is no necessity to call the lady," one of the magistrates said, and from his utterance it was apparent that he, too, was deeply moved.
"In that case, I will deal solely with the prisoner," Blake went on. "When Roland Malbred slipped away to Brazil, his wife was left as I have said without means. She had no one to whom she could turn. Her husband had taken all her money, and her father was dead. In her sorrow and disgrace, seeking to hide herself from the world, and anxious to live by such work as she could get, and as cheaply as she could, she went to Whitechapel. There yonder unhappy lad, now in the dock, had to struggle as best he might. Poor, surrounded by bad companions, and without a father to guide him! And that was not the worst to sour his nature and inflame his bitterness. As time went on he learnt that if his father had been an honourable man, his own position in life would have been very different. He had been born into all the luxury and refinement the world can give, and he realised that he was a social outcast."
Blake paused again. All in court were profoundly touched.
"Can you wonder, your worships," continued Blake, "if thus circumstanced, the good in his nature was stifled, and all that was bad came uppermost? Is it fair to suppose that a lad who never got a chance in life must assuredly be evil at heart? Is it just to blight his future by imprisonment, and make his name a byword amongst men? Would it not be more human and more wise to give him hope and encouragement, to secure for him a real start in life, by which his mettle may be tried; to take him by the hand and treat him as a man and a brother? Your worships, the decision rests with you. If you let him go free, I undertake the rest."
Blake sat down. A tense pause! Then a cheer swept through the court. Men not only applauded with their hands and sticks; they stood up, cheering again and again. In vain the magistrates, smiling and gesticulating, appealed for silence; in vain the sergeant and the clerk bawled at the top of their voices. Blake's speech, his noble appeal, and his generous undertaking had warmed all hearts. All in the court knew him from that day on for the true man he was.
The chairman nodded to Blake. The great detective stood up again, and, taking Rollings by the arm, he led him out of the dock. He walked down the court till he came to Mrs. Malbred. With tears streaming from her eyes, the poor lady whose life had been so hard, and who now had been made so happy, embraced her son. The honest villagers were crowding round Blake with hands outstretched. He could not get away, he had to stand his ground. And as the story was carried to the crowd outside, mighty shouts arose again and again. And as Blake some minutes later emerged from the Court with Mrs. Malbred on his arm, the police, hurrying to his assistance, had difficulty in making a path for him.
He had brought a powerful motor to the court. He helped Mrs. Malbred into it, and bade Rollings take a seat. He entered it himself followed by Tinker, and Pedro bounded into it. The chauffeur pulled the lever.
"Three cheers for Sexton Blake!" a voice called, and the cry was taken up with a ring that carried to the far end of the village. Blake lifted his hat in acknowledgment as the motor glided away. Then he turned to Mrs. Malbred.
"I have recovered the money your husband took from you," he said. "From this on you will have no financial troubles. And next week your son starts for Canada, to begin a new life. Your sorrows are over. The future lies bright before you!"
EPILOGUE.
THE long winter was at an end. The snow had melted, the ground had softened, and over the landscape, over giant trees and rivers frozen hard a few weeks before, down which now the waters were rushing in a whirling torrent, a hot sun was blazing out of a cloudless sky. Swift as always had been the transition in that glorious Canadian country. The trees had shot out their leaves, the birds were singing in every branch, the corn was sprouting, the whiff of spring was in the air.
Out from the shadow of a wood stepped a vigorous young man humming a song in the gladness of his heart. An axe was on his shoulder, a sheep-dog gambolled by his side. He paused for a moment, and his practised eye sought pasture and herd and tillage. All was well. With his own strong arm he had brought the virgin forest to his use, now for scores flourished where some short years before the foot of man had never trod.
He pushed on across the grass to his homestead. two hundred yards away, He passed in under the verandah; and his eyes sparkled as he saw an envelope on the table.
A letter from home! Come all the way across the sea and halfway across a mighty continent, penned by a hand he loved, to tell him he was ever in his mother's thoughts! Eagerly he opened the letter, and he read it again and again. For that day the whole world was changed to him; once a month he had such a day as this.
With the letter in his hand he went out to the verandah. He looked up at the glorious sky, and around his trim selection. And the words in the letter kept ringing in his mind and heart. "You fought against your worse self, and won and made me happy!"
Ay, the fight had been a tough one, tougher than anyone without the same experience could ever realise. A fight against hardship, privation, ill-fortune, and sickness at times. But worst of all a fight stubborn and heart-breaking at times against the bad in himself. And he had won. His frame was muscular, the blood tingled in his veins, his work came easy to him, he knew his business, his judgment was clear and sound, and the way before him in life from this on was certain and honourable. Ay, he had won!
He stood, these thoughts crowding on him with deep-felt gratitude, till the dog barked loudly and arrested his attention. Seeking the cause, he saw that a tramp had dropped over the distant paling, and was sneaking towards the house in the furtive manner of his tribe. He did not know what welcome awaited him; he might be driven off with harsh words, or food might be thrown to him with disdain. And he was weak to exhaustion and utterly miserable. If here food was refused him for the third time that day after forty hours of fasting, he would creep into the forest and lie down to die.
The young man, holding in his hand the letter that had brought him such happiness, watched his timid approach. These tramps were a nuisance; they would not work, all kindness was wasted on them. They lived on those who put their shoulders to the wheel.
Yet to-day, with its happiness, he could not feel severe to anyone. All had their trials and temptations; he had had his, and he would never have carved out a future were it not for a helping hand—the hand of Sexton Blake. No doubt this poor tramp had had his temptations, too. Perhaps he had been without friends. He turned into the homestead to get him some food.
When he came out again, the tramp was standing facing the verandah. He was an old man, gaunt and feeble. His hair was long and of a dirty white, a wisp of beard straggled over his chin, and his eyes were sunken, his clothes were in rags, and his old boots were broken in many places. He looked at the young man, and as he gazed. his knees knocked together, and his heart nearly stopped its feeble beat.
"It's you! Then all is over!" he said. And he turned to totter away.
The young man jumped off the verandah and grasped his arm.
"What do you mean!" he asked cheerily. "I'm not such a bad sort as all that. I saw you coming, and I've a meal ready for you."
"Let me go—let me go!" the old man cried, beating the air feebly. "If you knew all—but you don't!"
Very deliberately the young man held him by both shoulders, and peered into his aged face. His own went pale; then swiftly it flushed crimson. He dropped his hands.
"You, you!" he said, with a ting of scorn.
The old man was too weak to stand; he tottered to the verandah and leant against it. The wind blew the letter to his feet, and mechanically he stooped to pick it up.
"Leave that alone!" the young man cried sternly. "It is to me from the wife you have wronged. From the wife you left in misery. From my mother whom once you robbed."
"Hugh! Have mercy!"
"What mercy did you ever show? I, your son, Hugh Malbred, who in the old land was known as Rollings the outcast, ask you that. Answer me, if you can, Roland Malbred."
"I can answer nothing. All that you care to say is true. For five years in the agony of a British prison I suffered more torture from memory than ought else. You will never see me again!"
He tottered forward. Hugh Malbred again looked up at the sky, and at that moment his mother's voice seemed to be ringing in his ears. It was not her voice as he had known it in the days of her sorrow, but as it was in the far away when he sat upon her knee and she sang him to sleep.
Another, too, had fondled him, and he had nestled in that other's arms. Yes, he too remembered that! This aged and tottering tramp had loved him once, and bought him toys, and romped with him in the big school-room of the great house when both their lives, were fair.
Old Roland Malbred went unsteadily past him. Down the track he went to his death, while Hugh stood looking at the sky. The old man had gone a full hundred yards, when he heard a crisp step behind him, and a hand touched his shoulder gently.
"Come back!" Hugh said; and there was a note of command in his voice. "I want to speak to you—otherwise!"
He led him to the homestead and helped him up the verandah. He put him on a chair before the table, carved a plate of beef, cut bread, and buttered it himself.
"Take that, and you will feel better," he said. "Then we can talk."
Old Roland Malbred took up his knife and fork. At first he had no zest for food, that suddenly had gone. But the first taste of it whetted his appetite again, before long he was eating ravenously. And Hugh, rising from the far side of the table, went to a cupboard, took out pen, ink, and paper, and sat down at the table again. He wrote swiftly.
"Have some more food?" he asked, after a time, raising his head as he spoke.
"No, thank you; I have had plenty. Now I will leave you, and I will never trouble you again."
Hugh folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope.
"This is to mother," he said gently. "I've told her you came here. I've also told her that from this on I am going to look after you until she comes out to join us next year! She will be glad to know that; she will heartily approve."
The old man flung his arms on the table and buried his face.
"Hugh, Hugh!" he sobbed.
Hugh quickly rose, walked round the table, and raised the aged head.
"Father, the past is done with," he said. "Let us forget it. From this day we are friends!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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