It is said that "Counsel comes in the silence of the night," so next morning Mr. Naball, having been thinking deeply about his curious discovery, decided upon his plan of action. It was evidently no good to go straight to Caprice and show her the diamond crescent, as, judging from her general conduct with regard to the robbery, she would deny that the jewel belonged to her.
The detective therefore determined to ascertain from some independent person whether the jewel was really the property of Caprice, and after some consideration came to the conclusion that Fenton would be the most likely individual to supply the necessary information.
He's her lover, argued Naball to himself as he walked along the street, "so he ought to know what jewellery she's got. I dare say he gave her a lot himself; but, hang it," he went on disconsolately, "I don't know why I'm bothering about this affair; nothing will come of it; for some reason best known to herself, Caprice won't let me follow up the case. I can't make it out; either she stole the jewels herself, or Villiers did, and she won't prosecute him. Ah! women are rum things," concluded the detective with a regretful sigh.
He had by this time arrived at The Never-say-die Insurance Office, and on entering the door found himself in a large, lofty apartment, with a long shiny counter at one end, and a long shiny clerk behind it. This individual, who looked as if he were rubbed all over with fresh butter, so glistening was his skin, received him with a stereotyped smile, and asked, in a soft oily voice, what he was pleased to want?
Take my card up to Mr. Fenton, said Naball, producing his pasteboard from an elegant card-case, "and tell him I want to see him for a few minutes."
The oleaginous clerk disappeared, and several other clerks looked up from their writing at the detective with idle curiosity. Naball glanced sharply at their faces, and smiled blandly to himself as he recognised several whom he had seen in very equivocal places. Little did the clerks know that this apparently indolent young man knew a good deal about their private lives, and was anticipating coming into contact with several of them in a professional manner.
Presently the oily clerk returned with a request to Mr. Naball to walk into the manager's office, which that gentleman did in a leisurely manner; and the shiny clerk, closing the door softly, returned to his position behind the shiny counter.
Mr. Fenton sat at a handsome writing-table, which was piled up with disorderly papers, and looked sharply at the detective as he took a seat.
Well, Naball, he said, in his strident voice, "what is the matter? Can't give you more than five minutes--time's money here. Yes, sir."
Five minutes will do, replied the detective, tapping his varnished boots with his cane. "It's about that robbery."
Oh, indeed! Mr. Fenton laid down his pen, and, leaning back in his chair, prepared to listen.
Yes! I've been looking after Villiers.
Quite right, said the American. "That's the man I suspect--fixed up anything, eh?"
Not yet, but I was down Little Bourke Street last night in an opium den, to which Villiers goes, and I found this.
Fenton took the diamond crescent, which Naball held out to him, and looked at it closely.
Humph!--set in silver--rather toney, he said; "well, is this part of the swag?"
That's what I want to find out, said Naball quickly. "You know the peculiar way in which Caprice has treated this robbery."
I know she's a fool, retorted Fenton politely. "She ought to go right along in this matter; but for some silly reason, she won't."
No; and that's why I've come to you. I'm going down to see her when I leave here, and it's likely she'll deny that this belongs to her. Now, I want your evidence to put against her denial. Is this the property of Caprice?
Fenton examined the jewel again and nodded.
Yes, sir, he replied, with a nasal drawl, "guess I gave her this."
I thought you'd recognise it, said Naball, replacing the jewel in his pocket; "so now I'll go and see her, in order to find out how Villiers got hold of it."
Stole it, I reckon?
I'm not so sure of that, replied the detective coolly. "I don't believe Caprice cares two straws about Villiers being the husband of Madame Midas. If he stole the diamonds, she'd lag him as sure as fate; no, as I told you before, she's got a finger in this pie herself, and Villiers is helping her."
But the diamonds were stolen on that night, objected the American.
I know that--don't you remember you told me that Caprice had an interview in the supper room with Villiers? Well, I believe she went upstairs, took the diamonds, and gave them to Villiers to dispose of.
For what reason?
That's what I'd like to find out, retorted Naball. "She evidently wanted a sum of money for something; now, are you aware that she wanted money?"
Why, she's always wanting money.
No doubt--but this must have been a specially large sum?
Fenton glanced keenly at Naball's impassive face, drummed impatiently with his fingers on the table, then evidently made up his mind.
Tell you what, he said rapidly, "she did want a large sum of money--fact is, a friend of hers got into a fix, and his wife went howling to her, so she said she would replace the money, and I've no doubt sold her diamonds to do so."
I thought it was something like that, said Naball coolly; "but why the deuce couldn't she sell her diamonds openly without all this row?"
Guess you'd better ask her, said Fenton, rising to his feet; "she won't let me meddle with the affair, so I can't do anything--if she's fool enough to lose or sell five thousand pounds' worth of diamonds, I can't help it: and now, sir, the five minutes--" glancing at his watch.
Are up long ago, replied Naball, rising to his feet. "Well, I'm curious about this case, and I'm going to get at it somehow, so at present I'm off down to see Caprice about this," and he tapped his breast-pocket, where the jewel was placed.
You won't get anything out of her, said Fenton yawning, "if all you surmise is true."
I don't care what she says, observed Naball, going to the door. "I can discover all I want from the expression of her face when she knows what I've got, and where I got it."
With this Naball disappeared, and Fenton, returning to his desk, flung himself back in his chair.
Why the devil won't she prosecute? he muttered savagely to himself. "Guess she knows more about this robbery than she says, but even then--confound it, I'm mixed."
Having come to this unsatisfactory conclusion, Mr. Fenton went on with his work, and dismissed all thoughts of the diamond robbery from his mind.
Meanwhile, Naball was on his way down to Toorak, meditating over the revelation made to him by Fenton about Caprice's sudden fit of generosity.
I didn't think she was so tender-hearted, murmured Naball, full of perplexity; "she must have had some strong reason for selling her diamonds. I wonder who the man is?--and the wife called. Humph! this is quite a new game for Caprice."
When he left the station, and walked to the house, instead of ringing the front-door bell, he strolled round the corner to the verandah, on which the drawing-room windows looked out. He did this because--wondering if Villiers was concerned in the robbery--he wanted to see the window by which he entered the dining-room on the night of the robbery. Soft-footed and stealthy in his motions, the detective made no noise, and was just pausing on the edge of the verandah, wondering whether he would go forward or return to the front door, when he heard Kitty's voice in the drawing-room raised in a tone of surprise.
Mrs. Malton!
Hullo! said Naball to himself, "that's the name of Fenton's assistant manager. Now, I wonder what his wife is calling here about? I'll wait and hear."
So the detective, filled with curiosity, took up his position close to one of the windows, so that he could hear every word that was said, but, of course, was unable to see anything going on inside. He commenced to listen, out of mere curiosity, but soon the conversation took a turn which interested him greatly, and, to his mind, threw a great deal of light on the diamond robbery.
Why have you called to see me again? asked Kitty, in a cold tone.
Because I want to thank you for saving my husband, replied Mrs. Malton. "They told me you were busy, but I have waited in the next room for half-an-hour to see you. My husband is safe."
I congratulate you--and him, answered Caprice, in an ironical tone. "It is to be hoped Mr. Evan Malton won't embezzle any more money."
Naball, outside, could hardly refrain from giving a low whistle. So this was the man mentioned by Fenton--his own familiar friend--and Kitty Marchurst had helped him. In Heaven's name, why?
It is due to your kindness that he is safe, said Mrs. Malton, in a faltering tone; "you replaced the money."
Not at all, said Caprice; "I never replaced a sixpence."
But you did, you did! said Mrs. Malton vehemently, falling on her knees before Kitty; "every penny of the money has been paid back, and only you could have done it."
I did not pay a penny, I tell you, said Caprice; "still, I have had something to do with it."
I knew it! I knew it! cried the poor wife, kissing the hand of the actress. "May God bless you for doing this good action."
I wouldn't have done it had it not been for the sake of your child, said Kitty coldly.
Wonderful, thought the listener; "Kitty Marchurst has a heart."
Good-bye, good-bye! said Mrs. Malton, rising to her feet. "I may never see you again."
I've no doubt of that, replied Caprice, with a cynical laugh; "you've got all you wanted, so now you leave me."
No, no! cried the other woman vehemently. "I am not ungrateful. I will visit you if you will let me. I am sorry for you. I pity you."
Keep your pity and your visits for some one else--I want neither.
But your heart?
My heart is stone; it was hardened long, long ago. Leave me--I have done all I can for you--now go.
Mrs. Malton made a step forward, and, catching Kitty in her arms, kissed her.
God bless you! she cried, in a low voice, and as she kissed her she felt a hot tear fall on her hand. It was Caprice who wept, but, with a stifled sigh, she pushed Mrs. Malton away.
You are a good woman, she said hoarsely. "Go! go! and if you ever think of me, let it be as one who, however bad her life, did at least one good action."
She sank back into a chair, covering her face with her hands, while Mrs. Malton, with a look of pity on her face, and a low "God bless you," left the room.
Meanwhile, the detective outside was smitten with a kind of remorse at having overheard this pathetic scene.
I've found out what Caprice wanted the money for, he muttered; "but I'm sorry for her--very sorry. I never knew before she was a woman--I thought she was a fiend."
Kitty, drying her eyes, arose from her seat and dragged herself slowly across the room to the window near which the detective was standing. He heard her coming and tried to escape, and in another moment Kitty had opened the window, and they were face to face.
Mr. Naball, she cried, with a sudden, angry light in her eyes, "you have heard--"
Every word, said Naball, looking straight at her wrathful face.
Kitty looked at him in silence with flashing eyes, and then laughed bitterly.
And how long is it since you added the spy business to your usual work? she asked, with a sneer on her colourless face.
Since a few moments ago, replied Naball coolly. "I came to see you on business, and, hearing you in conversation with a lady, did not like to interrupt till you were disengaged."
I'm very much obliged to you for your courtesy, said Caprice scornfully; "but now you have satisfied your curiosity. M. le Mouchard, I'll trouble you to take yourself off."
Certainly, after I've had a few moments' conversation with you.
I decline to listen, said Kitty haughtily.
I think you had better, observed Naball significantly, "as it's about the robbery of your jewels."
I forbade you to go on any further with that matter.
You did; but I disobeyed your injunction.
So I understand, replied Kitty indignantly; "and may I ask if you have discovered anything?"
Yes--this! and he showed the diamond crescent to Caprice. She started violently, and her pale face flushed a deep red.
Where did you get it? she asked.
From Randolph Villiers.
Villiers! she echoed in surprise. "How did it come into his possession?"
That is what I want to discover.
Then you may save yourself the trouble, for you will never know.
I understand that, said Naball quietly; "nothing can be done unless you permit me to go on."
I forbid you to go on, she retorted angrily.
Naball bowed.
Very well, he said quietly, "then there is nothing for me but to leave."
No, I don't think there is, assented Kitty coldly, turning to re-enter the house.
But, before I go, went on the detective, playing his great card, "I will leave your jewel with you."
That, said Kitty, glancing over her shoulder at the crescent--"that is not mine."
Mr. Fenton says it is.
Mr. Fenton! echoed Caprice jeeringly; "and how does Mr. Fenton know?"
I should think he was the best person to know, retorted Naball, nettled at her mockery.
A good many people think the same way, said Kitty disdainfully, "but in this case Mr. Fenton is wrong--I never saw those diamonds before."
Then how did it come into Mr. Villiers' possession?
I don't know, not being in Mr. Villiers' confidence.
Oh! said Naball significantly, "you are quite certain you are not?"
I don't understand you, replied Kitty coldly; "explain yourself."
Certainly, if you wish it, said the detective smoothly. "I will tell it in the form of a little story--have I your permission to be seated?"
She nodded carelessly, whereupon Naball sat down on one of the lounging chairs, and, crossing his legs, settled himself composedly, while Kitty, standing near him with loosely-clasped hands, looked idly at the green lawn, with its brilliant border of many-coloured flowers.
There was once a woman called Folly, who lived--let us say--in Cloudland-- began Naball airily.
Rubbish! said Kitty angrily.
Nothing of the sort, retorted Naball coolly, "it is truth in disguise. I have been to school--I have read Spenser's 'Faery Queen'--if you please, we will consider this story, though not in verse, as one of the lost cantos of the poem."
Kitty shrugged her shoulders with contempt. "I think you're mad," she said coldly. "Perhaps I am," retorted Naball sharply, "but there's method in my madness, as you will soon find out--so, to go on with the lost canto of the 'Faery Queen.' This woman, Folly, was reputed to have a hard heart--no doubt she had, but there was one soft spot in it--love for her child. Many men loved this charming Folly, and paid dearly for the privilege. One man, misnamed Strength, loved her madly, and gave her many jewels. Strength had a friend, called Weakness, and though they were so dissimilar in character, they worked together. Weakness also loved Folly, though he had a wife, and, to gain Folly's love, he stole a lot of money. His wife discovered this, and going to Folly, implored her to help Weakness, but in vain, till at last she gained her point by appealing to the one soft spot in Folly's heart--love for her child. She was successful, and Folly promised to save the husband by replacing the money, which she could do through the agency of Strength, who was her lover.
Folly, however, did not know where to get the money, so, in despair, determined to part with her jewels. She dared not do so openly, lest the inhabitants of Cloudland should find out what Weakness had done, so she enlisted the services of a man called Vice. Here, said Naball gaily, "we will leave the narrative style, and finish the story dramatically."
Kitty, who had grown pale, made no sign, so Naball resumed.
Scene, a supper-room, with a window open--time, night--supper ended--guests away--enter Vice through open window--helps himself to champagne. Folly, informed of presence of Vice, enters the room and orders him out--he refuses to leave till he gets money--she refuses to give it to him. Suddenly an idea strikes her, and she tells Vice she will give him money if he sells her jewels for her secretly--Vice consents. Folly goes up to her room, gets jewels, gives them to Vice, who goes away and breaks down shrubs under window, which is opened by Folly to show every one that a burglar has stolen the jewels. Rumours of the theft get about--Bloodhound goes on the track--traces Vice to his den--finds one jewel--comes to show it to Folly--overhears wife of Weakness thanking Folly for replacing money stolen by her husband--exit wife of Weakness--enter Bloodhound to Folly, who denies having ever seen jewel before. Bloodhound tells a story to Folly, which Folly--
Denies, yes, denies! broke in Kitty angrily; "your story is wrong."
Pardon me, said Naball, rising, "allegorical."
I can understand what you mean, said Kitty, after a pause; "but it's all wrong. I never paid this money for Malton."
Pardon me,--Weakness, said Naball politely.
Bah! why keep up this transparent deception? Your story is excellent, and I understand all about Folly, Vice, and Strength, but you are wrong--that jewel is not mine. I never paid the money, and I don't know anything about Malton's business, so you can leave me at once, and never show your face again.
But the jewel? said the detective, holding it out.
Kitty snatched it out of his hand, and flung it across the lawn. It flashed brilliantly in the sunlight, and fell just on the verge of the flower-bed.
You can follow it,--Bloodhound, she said disdainfully, and, entering the house, closed the window after her.
Naball stood for a moment smiling in a gratified manner to himself, then, sauntering slowly across the lawn, picked up the jewel and replaced it in his pocket.
I knew I was right, he murmured quietly, as he strolled to the gate; "she stole the diamonds to pay Malton's debt, and Villiers got this for payment as an accomplice. I wish I could get on with the case, but she won't let me--what a pity; dear, dear, what a pity!"
He had by this time reached the gate, and was passing through it, when a hansom drove up, from out which Fenton jumped.
Well? he asked, when he saw Naball.
Well, said Naball, dusting his varnished boots with a silk handkerchief.
What does she say? asked Fenton inquiringly
What a woman generally does say--everything but the truth. Going to see her?
Yes, said Fenton, paying his cab fare; "can T do anything?"
Two things, observed Naball quietly: "in the first place, let me have your cab; and in the second, give this to Caprice with my compliments," and he handed the crescent of diamonds to Fenton.
Why didn't you give it to her yourself? asked Fenton, taking it.
Because she said it wasn't hers, replied Naball, getting into the cab. "I can't do anything more in the matter; it's a beautiful case spoiled."
Why spoiled? asked Fenton, pausing at the gate.
Because there's a woman in it, replied Naball; "good-bye!" and the cab drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving Fenton at the gate looking in a puzzled manner at the diamond crescent.
Why the deuce did she deny this being hers? he asked himself as he opened the gate. "I know it well--I ought to, considering I paid for it--there's some game in this."
He rang the bell, which was answered by Bliggings, who, in reply to his question as to whether Kitty was at home, burst out into a volley of language.
Oh, gracious an' good 'eavens, missus 'ave bin talkin' to a lady this mornin', and is that upset as never was--chalk is black to her complexing, and penny hices 'ot to the chill of her feets.
Humph! said Fenton, entering the house and leisurely taking off his hat, "just tell your mistress I want to see her."
Oh, gracious an' good 'eavens! cried Bliggings, "she's a-lyin' down in company with a linseed poultase an' a cup of tea, both bein' good for removin' 'eadaches."
Great Scot! said Fenton impatiently, pushing the voluble Bliggings aside, "I'll go and see her straight off myself."
He went upstairs and knocked at the sitting-room door. Hearing a faint voice telling him to come in, he entered the room, which he found in semi-darkness, with the pungent aroma of eau de cologne pervading the atmosphere.
What do you want? asked Kitty fretfully, thinking it was the servant.
To see you, replied Fenton gruffly.
Oh, it's you! cried Caprice, sitting up on the sofa, looking pale and wan in her white dress. "I'm glad of that--I've just seen that Naball, and he's been accusing me of stealing my own jewels."
Well, did you? asked Fenton complacently.
Of course I didn't, she retorted angrily; "why should I? Naball thinks I did it to replace the money Malton stole."
How did he find out that? asked Fenton, who knew quite well he had told him about it himself.
He overheard Mrs. Malton thanking me, retorted Kitty impatiently; "the money has been replaced, so I suppose, you did it."
Yes, I did, said Fenton boldly, "for your sake."
You're a good fellow, Fenton, said Kitty, in a softened tone. "I'm glad you did what I asked you--now, go away, for I must get a sleep, or I'll never be able to act to-night."
But what about this jewel? asked Fenton, taking the crescent out of his pocket. "Naball said you denied it being yours."
So I did, replied Caprice pettishly.
But why? I gave it to you.
Well, you can give it to me again, she said coolly. "Put it on the table, and go away."
Fenton thought a moment, then, going over to the table, placed the jewel thereon, and turned once more to Caprice.
Look here, Kitty, he said slowly, "did you do anything with those diamonds?"
Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't, replied Caprice enigmatically; "at all events, I'm not going to have any more fuss made over them."
Well, good-bye at present, said Fenton carelessly. "I say, you might give me a kiss, after fixing up Malton's affair."
So I will--at the theatre to-night. Do leave me, my head is so bad.
Not so bad as you are, you little devil, murmured Fenton, closing the sitting-room door softly after him. "Well, I guess there'll be no more trouble about those diamonds, at all events."
It was called "The Skylarks' Club," because, like those tuneful birds, the members were up very early in the morning. Not that the aforesaid members were early risers by any means--but because they never went to bed till three or four o'clock. To put it plainly, they stayed up nearly all night, and it seemed to be a point of honour with them that, as long as a quorum were on the premises, the club should be kept open.
Most of the members were dissipated and led fast lives, drank a good deal, gambled away large sums, betted freely, and, to all appearances, were going to the dogs as fast as they possibly could. The code of morality was not very strict, and the "Skylarks" generally viewed each other's good or bad luck in a cynical manner. Occasionally a member disappeared from his accustomed place, and it was generally understood he had "gone under," or, in other words, was vegetating on some up-country station, doubtless cursing the "Skylarks" freely as the cause of his ruin.
Other clubs in Melbourne were fast--not a doubt about that--but every one declared that the "Skylarks" overstepped all bounds of decency. Whatever devilment was to be done, they would do it, and, as they had no characters to lose, they generally amused themselves by trying to destroy other people's good name, and generally succeeded.
It was a Bohemian club, and among its members were stock-brokers, musicians, journalists, and actors, so that, whatever the moral tone of the place, the conversation was generally brilliant, albeit rather malicious. One way and another, there was a good deal of money floating about, for if the members worked hard at business during the day, they also worked hard at pleasure during the night, so, systematically, burned the candle at both ends. "Fay ce que vouldras" was their motto, and they certainly carried it out to the very last letter.
Keith Stewart was a member of this delectable fraternity, having been introduced by Ezra Lazarus, and, thanks to his mysterious five hundred pounds, was able to cut a very decent figure among the members. He was still in the pawnbroker's office, although he very much wanted to leave it, but, having passed his word to old Lazarus to stay six months, he was determined to do so.
It was now about three months since the diamond robbery, and, after being a nine days' wonder, it had passed out of the minds of every one. Nothing more was heard of the theft, and, after a great number of surmises, more or less wrong, the matter was allowed to drop, as a new divorce case of a novel character now engrossed the public mind.
Prince Carnival had been withdrawn after a very successful run, and Kitty Marchurst was now appearing in "Eblis," which, as she expected, had turned out a failure. Under these circumstances, "Prince Carnival" was revived, pending the production of "Faust Upset," a new burlesque by Messrs. Stewart and Lazarus.
Both these young men had worked hard at the piece, and Mortimer, having approved of the first act, had determined to put the play on the stage: first, because he saw it was by no means a bad piece, and secondly, he had nothing else handy to bring forward. If he could have obtained a new and successful opera-bouffe from London, "Faust Upset" would have been ignominiously shelved, but, luckily for Keith and his friends, all the late opera-bouffes had been failures, so Mortimer made a virtue of necessity, and gave them a chance.
It was about eleven o'clock at night, and the smoking-room of the "Skylarks" was full. Some of the members had been there for some hours, others had dropped in after the theatres were closed, and here and there could be seen a reporter scribbling his notes for publication next day.
A luxurious apartment it was, with lounging chairs covered with crimson plush, plenty of mirrors, and a number of marble-topped tables, which were now covered with various beverages. Every one was talking loudly, and the waiters were flitting about actively employed in ministering to the creature comforts of the patrons of the club. What with the dusky atmosphere caused by the smoking, the babel of voices, the jingle of glasses, and the constant moving about of the restless crowd, it looked like some fantastic nightmare.
Keith was seated in a corner smoking a cigarette and waiting for Ezra, who had promised to meet him there, and in the meantime was idly watching the crowd of his friends, and listening to their gossip. Malton was also lounging about the room, chatting to his friends on current topics.
Anything going on in the House? asked Pelk, a theatrical critic, of Slingsby, who had just entered.
That gentleman shrugged his shoulders.
A slanging match, as usual, he replied, taking a seat and ringing the bell. "Some members have got an idea that abuse is wit. I don't think much of the Victorian Parliament."
It's better than the New South Wales one, at all events, said Keith, smiling.
That's not saying much, retorted Slingsby, lighting a cigar. "The Sydney men are more like fractious children than anything else, though to be sure that's only proper, seeing our Parliaments are nurseries for sucking politicians."
That's severe.
But true--the truth is always disagreeable.
Perhaps that's the reason so few people speak it.
Exactly--truth is a sour old maid whom nobody wants.
Not you, at all events, Slingsby
No--it's a matter of choice--Video meliora proboque deteriora sequor.
Don't be classical--it's out of place here.
Not a bit, retorted Slingsby smoothly, looking round at the circle of grinning faces, "it's out of the dictionary, you know, foreign words and affixes."
Every one roared at this candid confession.
No wonder The Penny Whistle flourishes when there's such men as you on the staff, said Toltby, with a sneer.
You've no cause to complain, replied Slingsby; "they've been kind enough to you."
Yes; they recognise good acting.
Slingsby looked at him queerly.
Dear boy, I prefer the stage of the House to that of the theatre--the actors are much more amusing.
At this moment Felix Rolleston, now looking much older since the Hansom Cab murder case, but as lively as ever, entered the room and danced up to the coterie.
Well, gentlemen, he said gaily, "what is the news?"
Good news, bad news, and such news as you've never heard of, quoted Keith lazily.
Thank you, my local Gratiano, replied Felix, quickly recognising the quotation as from the "Merchant of Venice." "By the way, there's a letter for you outside."
Oh, thanks, said Stewart rising, "I'll go and get it," and he sauntered out lazily.
Humph! ejaculated Felix, looking after him, "our friend is the author of 'Faust Upset,' I understand?"
Yes, replied Toltby; "deuced good piece."
That means you've got an excellent part, struck in Slingsby mercilessly.
Quite right, retorted Toltby complacently; "all the parts are good--especially Caprice's."
Oh, that goes without saying, said Pelk, with a grin; "our friend is rather sweet there."
So is she, said Felix significantly; "case of reciprocity, dear boy!"
She's given Fenton the go-by.
Yes, and Meddlechip is elevated to the vacancy. Wonder how long it will be before she breaks him?
Oh, even with her talents for squandering, Caprice can't burst up the richest man in Victoria, said Slingsby vulgarly; "when she does give him up, I suppose Stewart will succeed him."
Not enough cash.
Pooh! what is cash compared to love?
Eh! a good deal in this case, as Fenton found out.
Speak of the devil, said Felix quickly; "here comes the gentleman in question."
Fenton, looking harassed and worn, entered the room, and glanced round. Seeing Rolleston, he came over to him and began to talk.
Guess you look happy, boys, he said, in his nasal voice.
It's more than you do, replied Rolleston, scanning him keenly.
No; I've overworked myself, said Fenton coolly, "I need pulling up a bit."
Go and see a doctor--try tonics.
Ah, bah! glass of champagne will fix me straight. Here, waiter, bring in a bottle of Heidsieck. Any of you boys join?
All the boys assenting to the hospitable proposition, Fenton ordered two bottles, and lighted a huge cigar. When the waiter came back with the wine, Keith also entered, with a soft look on his face which puzzled Rolleston. He had put on his overcoat.
Ah! said that astute gentleman, "you look pleased--your letter was pleasant?"
Yes, very, replied Keith laconically.
Then it was from a woman, said Fenton.
Humph! that's generally anything but pleasant, grunted Slingsby.
No doubt, to such a Don Juan as you, said Pelk, amid a general laugh.
The waiter was opening the wine so slowly that Fenton lost patience, and snatched one bottle up from the table.
Guess we had better fix those two up at once, he said. "Any one got a knife?"
Keith put his hand in his pocket, and produced therefrom Meg's present.
Great C?sar, what a pig-sticker, said Fenton, holding it up.
What made you buy such a thing, Stewart? asked Felix, laughing.
I didn't buy it, replied Keith; "it's a present from a lady."
A very young lady, I should say, said Slingsby drily; "not much idea of taste."
Matter of opinion, said Keith serenely; "I like the knife for the sake of the donor--her name's on the handle."
Fenton by this time had opened the bottle, and laid the knife down on the table, from whence Felix picked it up and examined it.
'From Meg,' he read, in an amused tone; "gad, Stewart, I thought it was the mother, not the daughter."
Fenton shot a fiery glance at Keith, who laughed in rather an embarrassed manner.
It was just the child's whim, he said, laughing. "I saved her from the tram-car, so she gave me this as a souvenir;" and, taking up the knife, he shut it with a sharp click, and slipped it into his overcoat pocket.
When they had all finished the wine, Fenton said he had to see Mortimer about some business.
Half-past ten, he said, looking at his watch; "they'll just be about through."
I've got to see Mortimer to-night, observed Keith, "and I'm waiting here for Lazarus."
About the new play, I reckon, said Fenton; "well, you'd better walk up with me."
Keith shook his head.
No, thanks; I must wait for Lazarus.
Then come and have a game of billiards in the meantime, said Felix, rising; "take off your coat, you'll find it hot."
All right, assented Keith readily "Here, Alfred," and, slipping off his coat, handed it to a waiter, who was just passing, "hang this up for me."
The waiter took the coat, threw it over his arm, and vanished; while Keith and Felix strolled leisurely away in the direction of the billiard-room.
How the deuce does Stewart run it? asked Fenton, looking after them; "he can't get much salary at old Lazarus' place."
Case of God tempering the wind to the shorn lamb, said Slingsby ironically.
Hang it, I don't think he ought to be a member of the Club, a confounded pawnbroker's clerk.
It is rather a topsy-turvy business, ain't it; but you see, in the colonies Jack's as good as his master.
And in some cases a deal better, said Pelk, referring to the relative positions of Malton and Fenton.
Particularly when Jack's got a pretty wife, finished Toltby significantly.
Fenton knew this was a hint at his penchant for Mrs. Malton, but he did not very well see how he could take it to himself, particularly when he saw every one smiling, so he smiled back saturninely at the circle.
You're devilish witty, boys, he said coldly; "guess the wine has sharpened your brains."
As he strolled away in his usual cool manner, Slingsby looked after him.
Our friend's hard hit over Mrs. Malton, he said at length.
Every one knows that, grinned Toltby, "except the husband."
Yes, the husband is generally the last to find out these things, remarked Pelk drily; and the conversation ended.
Meanwhile Rolleston and Keith were playing their game of billiards, a pastime in which the former was an adept, and soon defeated Keith, who threw down his cue in half anger.
You always win, he said pettishly; "it's no use playing with you."
Oh, yes, it is, said Felix cheerfully. "I know I'm a good player, so if you play with me it will improve you very much--that remark sounds conceited, but it's true--come and have another game."
Not to-night, replied Keith; "I've got to keep my appointment with Mortimer--it's no use waiting for Lazarus."
Oh, yes, it is, cried a new voice, and Lazarus made his appearance at the door of the billiard-room. "I'm sorry for having kept you waiting, but it was unavoidable. I'll tell you all about it as we walk up."
All right, replied Keith, and turned to go, followed by Ezra, who nodded to Rolleston.
Good-night, cried that gentleman, making a cannon. "Good luck be with you."
Amen, responded Keith laughing, and disappeared with Ezra.
The two young men walked slowly up the street in the direction of the Bon-Bon Theatre, passing into Swanston Street just as the Town Hall clock struck eleven. It was a beautiful moonlight night, but no breeze was blowing, and the heat which the earth had drawn to her bosom during the day was now exhaled from the warm ground in a faint humid vapour. Crowds of people were in the streets sauntering idly along, evidently unwilling to go to bed. The great buildings stood up white and spectral-like on the one side of the street, while on the other they loomed out black against the clear sky. The garish flare of the innumerable street lamps seemed out of place under the serene splendour of the heavens, and the frequent cries of the street boys, and noisy rattling of passing cabs, jarred on the ear. At least Keith thought so, for, after walking in silence for some time, he turned with a gesture of irritation to his companion.
Isn't this noise disagreeable? he said impatiently; "under such a perfect sky the city ought to lie dead like a fantastic dream of the Arabian Nights, but the gas lamps and incessant restlessness of Melbourne vulgarises the whole thing."
Poetical, certainly, replied Ezra, rousing himself from his abstraction; "but I should not care to inhabit an enchanted city. To me there is something grand in this restless crowd of people, all instinct with life and ambition--the gas lamps jar on your dream, but they are evidences of civilisation, and the hoarse murmur of the mob is like the mutterings of a distant storm, or white waves breaking on a lonely coast. No, my friend, leave the enchanted cities to dreamland, and live the busy life of the nineteenth century."
Your ideas and wishes are singularly at variance, said Keith smiling. "The city suggests poetical thoughts to you, but you reject them and lower yourself to the narrow things of everyday."
I am a man, and must live as one, replied the Jew, with a sigh; "it's hard enough to do so--Heaven knows!--without creating Paradises at whose doors we must ever stand like lost Peris."
What's the matter with you to-night? asked Keith abruptly.
Nothing particular; only I've had a quarrel with my father.
Is that all? My dear Lazarus, your father lives in an atmosphere of quarrelling--it's bread and meat to him--so you needn't fret over a few words. What was the quarrel about?
Money.
Humph!--generally a fruitful cause of dissension. Tell me all about it.
You know how I love Rachel? said Lazarus quietly. "Well, I am anxious to marry her and have a home of my own. It's weary work living in tents like a Bedouin. I get a good salary, it's true; but I asked my father to give me a sufficient sum of ready money to buy a piece of land and a house. I might have saved myself the trouble--he refused, and we had angry words, so parted in anger."
I wouldn't bother about it, if I were you, said Keith consolingly. "Words break no bones--besides, this burlesque may bring us a lot of money, and then you can marry Rachel when you please."
I don't expect much money out of it, replied the Jew, with a frown. "It's our first piece, and Mortimer will drive a hard bargain with us--but you seem very hopeful to-night."
I have cause to. Eugénie has written me a letter, in which she says she is coming to Melbourne.
That's good news, indeed. Is she going to stay?
I think so, said Keith gaily. "I told you she was a governess, so she has replied to an advertisement in the Argus. and hopes to get the situation."
I trust she will, observed Ezra, smiling at Keith's delight. "She will do you a lot of good by her presence, and guard you from the spells of Armida."
Alias Caprice. Thanks for the warning, but I've not been ensnared by the fair enchantress yet, and never mean to; but here we are at the theatre. I hope we get good terms from Mortimer.
So do I, for Rachel's sake.
We are both preux chevaliers. anxious to gain for our lady-loves not fame, but money. Oh, base desire!
It may be base, but it's very necessary, replied the prudent Jew, and they both entered the stage-door of the theatre.
Mortimer's sanctum was a very well-furnished room, displaying considerable taste on the part of the occupant, for the manager of the "Bon-Bon" was sybaritic in his ideas. The floor was covered with a heavy velvet carpet, and the walls adorned with excellent pictures, while the furniture was all chosen for comfort as well as for ornament. Mortimer was seated at his desk with a confused mass of papers before him, and leaning back in a chair near him was Caprice, who looked rather pale and worn.
There was a lamp on the table with a heavy shade, which concentrated all the light into a circle, and Kitty's pale face, with its aureole of fair hair seen in the powerful radiance, appeared strange and unreal. Dark circles under her heavy eyes, faint lines round the small mouth, and the weary look now habitual to her, all combined to give her face a wan and spiritual look which made even Mortimer shiver as he looked at her.
Hang it, Kitty, he said roughly, "don't look so dismal. You ought to see a doctor."
What for? she asked listlessly. "I'm quite well."
Humph! I don't think so. You've been going down the hill steadily the last few months. Look how thin you are--a bag of bones.
So was Rachel, replied Caprice, with a faint smile.
Well, she didn't live very long. Besides, you ain't Rachel, growled Mortimer, "and I don't want you to get ill just now."
No, you could hardly supply my place, said Caprice, with a sneer. "Don't you bother yourself, Mortimer, I'm not going to die yet. When I do I sha'n't be sorry; life hasn't been so pleasant to me that I should wish to live."
I don't know what you want, grumbled the manager; "you've got all Melbourne at your feet."
I can't say much for Melbourne's morality, then, retorted Caprice bitterly; "circumstances have made me what I am, but I'm getting tired of the cakes and ale business. If I could only secure the future of my child, I'd turn religious."
Mary Magdalen!
Yes, a case of history repeating itself, isn't it? she replied, with a harsh laugh.
Strange! said Mortimer, scrutinising her narrowly; "the worse a woman is in her youth, the more devout she becomes in her old age."
On the authority of M. de la Rochefoucauld, I suppose, answered Caprice; "old age gives good advice when it no longer can give bad example."
Who told you that?
A man you never knew--Vandeloup.
I don't know that my not being acquainted with him was much to be regretted.
No, I don't think it was, replied Caprice coolly; "he had twice your brains--to know him was a liberal education."
In cheap cynicism, gad, you've been an apt pupil.
Kitty laughed, and, rising from her seat, began to walk to and fro.
I wish those boys would come, she said restlessly; "I want to go home."
Then go, said Mortimer; "you needn't stay."
Oh, yes, I need, she replied; "I want to see that they get good terms for their play."
I'll give them a fair price, said Mortimer; "but I'm not going to be so liberal as you expect."
I've no doubt of that.
I believe you're sweet on that Stewart.
Perhaps I am!
Meddlechip won't like that,
Pish! I don't care two straws for Meddlechip.
No; but you do for his money.
Of course; that goes without saying.
You're a hardened little devil, Caprice.
God knows I've had enough to make me hard, she replied bitterly, throwing herself down in her chair, with a frown.
There was a knock at the door at this moment, and, in reply to Mortimer's invitation to "come in," Ezra and Keith appeared.
Well, you two are late, said Mortimer, glancing at his watch; "a quarter-past eleven."
I'm very sorry, said Ezra quietly; "but it was my fault. I was telling Stewart about some business."
Well, we won't take long to settle this affair, remarked Mortimer, looking over his papers. "Be seated, gentlemen."
Keith took off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a chair, on which Kitty's fur-lined mantle was already resting.
Caprice, who had flushed up on the advance of Stewart, leaned back in her chair, while Keith sat down near her, and Ezra took a position opposite, close to Mortimer.
Now then, gentlemen, said Mortimer, playing with a paper-cutter, "about this burlesque--what is your opinion?"
That's rather a curious question to ask an author, replied Keith gaily. "We naturally think it excellent."
I hope the public will think the same, observed Mortimer drily; "but I don't mean that. I want to know your terms."
Of course, said Ezra, smoothly; "but just tell us what you are prepared to give."
I'm buyer, gentlemen, you are sellers, replied the manager shrewdly; "I can't take up your position."
Kitty leaned back in her chair and bent over close to Keith's ear.
Ask five pounds a night, she whispered.
Stewart glanced at Ezra, and seeing he was in doubt as to what to say, spoke out loudly.
Speaking for myself and partner, I think we'll take five pounds a night.
Yes, I'll agree to that, observed Ezra eagerly
I've no doubt you will, rejoined Mortimer, raising his eyebrows; "that's thirty pounds a week, fifteen pounds apiece--a very nice sum, gentlemen--if you get it."
Then what do you propose to give? asked Keith.
One pound for every performance.
Stewart laughed.
Do you take us for born fools? he asked angrily.
No, I do not, replied Mortimer, catching his chin between finger and thumb, and looking critically at the two young men; "I take you for very clever boys who are just making a start, and I'm willing to help you--at my own price--which is one pound a night."
The game's not worth the candle, said Ezra, in a disappointed tone.
Oh, yes, it is, retorted Mortimer; "it gives you a chance. Now, look here, I've no desire to take advantage of my position, which, as you see, is a very strong one."
In what way? asked Caprice, elevating her eyebrows.
Mortimer explained in his slow voice as follows,--"I can write home to London and get successful plays with big reputations already made."
Yes, and pay big prices for them.
That may be, replied the manager imperturbably; "but if I give a good price I get a good article that is sure to recoup me for my outlay. I don't say that 'Faust Upset' isn't good, but at the same time it's an experiment. Australians don't like their own raw material."
They never get the chance of seeing it, said Keith bitterly; "you of course look at it from a business point of view, as is only proper, but seeing that you draw all your money from Colonial pockets, why not give Colonial brains a chance?"
Because Colonial brains don't pay, Colonial pockets do, said Mortimer coolly; "besides, I am giving you a chance, and that at considerable risk to myself. I will put on this burlesque in good style because Caprice is dead set on it; but business is business, and I can't afford to lose money on an untried production."
Suppose it turns out a great success, said Ezra, "we, the authors, only make six pounds a week, while you take all the profits."
Certainly, retorted Mortimer; "I've taken the risk."
Then if we make a great success of this burlesque, said Keith, "you will give us better terms for the next thing we write?"
Well, yes, said the manager, in a hesitating manner; "but, of course, though your position is improved, mine is still the same."
I understand; as long as you have the run of the London market, you can treat Colonial playwrights as you choose?
You've stated the case exactly.
It's an unfair advantage.
No doubt, but business is business. I hold the trump card.
It's a bad lookout for the literary and musical future of Australia when such men as you hold the cards, said Ezra gloomily; "but it's no use arguing the case. I've heard all this sort of thing before. The Australians are too busy making money to trouble about such a contemptible thing as literary work."
I'll tell you what, Mortimer, broke in Caprice, "give them two pounds a night for the piece."
Not I.
Yes you will, or I don't show at the Bon-Bon.
You forget your engagement, my dear, said Mortimer complacently.
No, I don't, retorted Kitty, snapping her fingers; "that for my engagement. I don't care if I broke it to-morrow. You've got your remedy, no doubt; try it, and see what you'll make of it."
Mortimer looked uneasily at her. He knew he had the law on his side, but Caprice was so reckless that she cared for nothing, and would do what she pleased in spite of both him and the law. Besides, he could not afford to lose her, so he met her half way.
Tell you what, he said genially, "I've no wish to be hard on you, boys--I'll give you one pound a night for a week, and if the burlesque is a success, two pounds--there, that's fair."
I suppose it's the best terms we can get, said Keith recklessly; "anything for the chance of having a play put on the stage. What do you say, Lazarus?"
I accept, replied the Jew briefly.
In that case, said Kitty, rising, "I needn't stay any longer. Mr. Lazarus, will you take me to my carriage?"
Allow me, said Keith advancing.
Kitty recoiled, and an angry light flashed in her eyes.
No, thank you, she said coldly, snatching up her cloak, "Mr. Lazarus will see me down," and without another word she swept out of the room, followed by Ezra, who was much astonished at the rebuff Keith had received.
What's that for? asked Mortimer looking up. "I thought you were the white boy there."
I'm sure I don't know, said Keith, in a puzzled tone. "She has been rather cold to me for the last three months, but she never snubbed me till now."
Oh, she's never the same two minutes together, said Mortimer, turning once more to his desk. "Have a drink?"
Keith nodded, whereupon Mortimer, who was the most hospitable of men, brought forth whisky and seltzer. As he was filling the glasses, Ezra re-entered with Keith's coat.
Caprice carried this downstairs with her by mistake, he said, giving it to Keith, "and called me back to return it."
Gad! she went off in such a whirlwind of passion I don't wonder she took it. I'm glad she left the chair, said Mortimer coolly. "Will you join us?"
No, thanks, replied Ezra, putting on his hat. "I've got to go back to the office. Good-night. See you to-morrow, Keith; you can settle with Mortimer about the agreement," and thereupon he vanished.
Keith and Mortimer sat down, and the latter drafted out an agreement about the play which he promised to send to his lawyer, and then, if the young men approved of it, the whole affair could be settled right off.
This took a considerable time, and it was about half-past twelve when Keith, having said good-night to Mortimer, left the theatre. He walked down Collins Street, smoking his cigarette, and thinking about his good luck and Eugénie. How delighted she would be at his success. He would make lots of money, and then he could marry her. After wandering about for some considerable time, he turned homeward. Walking up Bourke Street, he entered Russell Street, and went on towards East Melbourne. Passing along in front of Lazarus' shop, he saw a man leaning against the door.
What are you doing there? asked Keith sharply, going up to him.
The man struck out feebly with his fists, and giving an indistinct growl, lurched heavily against Keith, who promptly knocked him down, and had a tussle with him. The moon was shining brightly, and, as the light fell on his face, Keith recognised him instantly--it was Randolph Villiers.
You'd better go home, Villiers, he said quickly, raising him to his feet, "you'll be getting into trouble."
Go to devil, said Mr. Villiers, in a husky voice, lurching into the centre of the street. "I'm out on business. I know what I know, and if you knew what I knew, you'd know a lot--eh! wouldn't you?" and he leered at Stewart.
Pah, you're drunk, said Stewart in disgust, turning on his heel; "you'd better get home, or you'll get into some mischief."
No, I won't, growled Villiers, "but I know some 'un as will."
Who?
Oh, I know--I know, retorted Villiers, and went lurching down the street, setting the words to a popular tune,--
"I know a thing or two, Yes I do--just a few.
"Keith looked at the drunken man rolling heavily down the street--a black, misshapen figure in the moonlight--and then, turning away with a laugh, walked thence to East Melbourne thinking of Eugénie.
The next morning a rumour crept through the city that a murder had been committed in a house in Russell Street, and many people proceeded to the spot indicated to find out if it were true. They discovered that for once rumour had not lied, and Lazarus, the pawnbroker, one of the best known characters in the city, had been found dead in his bed with his throat cut. The house being guarded by the police, who were very reticent, no distinct information could be gained, and it was not until The Penny Whistle came out at four o'clock that the true facts of the crime were ascertained. A general rush was made by the public for copies of the paper, and by nightfall nothing was talked of throughout Melbourne but the Russell Street crime. The version given by The Penny Whistle. which was written by a highly imaginative reporter, was as follows, and headed by attractive titles:--
TERRIBLE CRIME IN RUSSELL STREET
Lazarus has passed in his Checks.
An Unknown Assassin
is
In Our Midst.
It is often said that truth is stranger than fiction, and we have now an excellent illustration of this proverb. A crime has been committed before which the marvellous romances of Gaboriau sink into insignificance, and the guilty wretch who has stained his soul with murder is still at large. The bare facts of the case are as follows:--
Early this morning it was noticed by a policeman that the shop of Lazarus, a well-known pawnbroker, was not opened, and knowing the methodical habits of the old man, the policeman was much surprised. However, thinking that Lazarus might have overslept himself, he passed on, and had gone but a few yards when a boy called Isaiah Jacobs rushed into the street from an alley which led to the back of the house. The lad was much terrified, and it was with considerable difficulty that the policeman elicited from him the following story:--
He had come to his work as usual at eight o'clock, and went round to the back door in order to get into the house. This door was generally open, and Lazarus waiting for him, but on this morning it was closed, and although the boy knocked several times, no response was made. He then noticed that the window which is on the left-hand side of the door going in, was wide open, and becoming impatient, he climbed up to it, and looked in to see if the old man was asleep. To his consternation he saw Lazarus lying on the floor in a pool of blood, and, seized with a sudden terror, he dropped from the window and rushed into the street.
On hearing this, the policeman sent him for Sergeant Mansard, who soon arrived on the scene, with several other members of the force. They went round to the back and found the door closed and the window open as the boy had described. Having tried the door and found it locked, the police burst it open, and entered the house to view a scene which baffles description.
The murdered man was lying nearly nude in the middle of the room in a pool of blood. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and, judging from the bruises and cuts on his hands and arms, there must have been a terrible struggle before the murderer accomplished his act. The bed-clothes, all stained with blood, were lying half on the bed and half on the floor, so that it is surmised that the deceased must have been attacked while asleep, and woke suddenly to fight for his life.
A large iron safe which stood near the head of the bed was wide open, the keys being in the lock, and all the drawers pulled out. A lot of papers which had evidently been in the safe were lying on the floor, but in spite of a rigid examination, no money could be found, so it is presumed that the murder was effected for the sake of robbery. On one sheet of the bed were several stains of blood, as if the assassin had wiped his hands thereon, but the weapon with which the crime was committed cannot be found. A door looking into the shop was closed and bolted, so the murderer must have made his entry through the window, and, departing the same way, forgot to close it.
The body of the deceased has been removed to the Morgue, and an inquest will be held to-day. The case has been placed in the hands of Detective Naball, who is now on the spot taking such notes as he deems necessary for the elucidation of this terrible mystery.
Hereunder will be found a plan of the room in which the murder was committed, and also the alley leading to the street. We wish our readers to take particular note of this, as we wish to give our theory as to the way in which the murderer went about his diabolical work.
Pawn Shop
A. Door leading into shop--found bolted.
B. Bed with clothes in disorder.
C. Safe found open, with all valuables abstracted.
D. Window found open by which assassin probably entered.
E. Door leading to alley--found locked.
F. Alley leading to street, by which entrance was gained to back of house.
G. Place where body of murdered man was discovered.
In the first place, there is no doubt that the motive of the crime was robbery, as is proved by the open safe rifled of its contents. The murderer evidently knew that Lazarus slept in the back room and had the keys of the safe--as we have since ascertained--under his pillow. He must also have known the position of the safe and bed, for had he groped about for them, he would have awakened the old man, who would have instantly have given the alarm.
The window D is about five feet from the ground, and was fastened with an ordinary catch, as it never seemed to have entered the old man's head that an attempt would be made to rob him.
Our theory is that the murderer is a man who knew the deceased, and had been frequently in the back room, so as to assure himself of the position of things. Last night he must have entered the alley--at what hour we are not prepared to say, as the time of the murder can only be determined by medical evidence--and opened the window by slipping the blade of his knife between the upper and lower parts, and pushing back the latch.
He then climbed softly into the room, and going straight to the bed, found the deceased asleep. Very likely he did not intend to kill him had he slept on, but in trying to abstract the keys from under the pillow, Lazarus must have sprung up and tried to give the alarm. Instantly the murderer's clutch was on his throat; but the old man, struggling off the bed, fought with terrible strength for his life. The struggle took them into the centre of the room, and there Lazarus, becoming exhausted, must have fallen, and the murderer, with diabolical coolness, must have cut his throat, so as to effectually silence him.
Then, taking the keys from under the pillow, he must have opened the safe, taken what he wished, and made his escape through the window, and from thence into the street. Probably no one was about, and he could slink away unperceived, for, had he met any one, his clothes, spotted with the blood of his victim, would have attracted attention.
We conclude he must have had a dark lantern in order to see the contents of the safe, but, as none has been found, he must have taken it with him, together with the knife with which the crime was committed.
This is all we can learn at the present time, but whether any sounds of a struggle were heard, can only be discovered from the witnesses at the inquest to-morrow.
Of one thing we are certain, the murderer cannot escape, as his blood-stained clothes must necessarily have been noticed by even the most casual observer.
We will issue a special edition of The Penny Whistle to-morrow, with a full account of the inquest and the witnesses examined thereat.
There was naturally a great deal of excitement over the murder, as, apart from the magnitude of the crime, Lazarus was a well-known character in Melbourne. He knew more secrets than any priest, and many a person of apparently spotless character felt a sensation of relief when they heard that the old Jew was dead. Lazarus was not the sort of man to keep a diary, so to many people it was fortunate that he had died unexpectedly, and carried a number of disagreeable secrets with him to the grave.
The report of the inquest was followed with great interest, for though it was generally thought that robbing was the motive for the crime, yet some hinted that, considering the character of the old man, there might be more cogent reasons for the committal of the murder. One of these sceptics was Naball, in whose hands the case had been placed for elucidation.
I don't believe it was robbery, he said to a brother detective. "Old Lazarus knew a good many dangerous secrets, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find that the murderer was some poor devil whom he had in his power."
But the open safe? said the detective.
Pish! that can easily be accounted for; there may have been papers implicating the murderer, or the robbery might have been a blind, or--oh, there's dozens of reasons--however, we'll find it all out at the inquest.
In opening the proceedings, the Coroner mentioned all the circumstances in connection with the murder which had come to the knowledge of the police, and said that as yet no clue had been found likely to lead to the detection of the assassin, but without doubt the evidence of the witnesses about to be examined would afford some starting point.
The first witness called was the policeman who had found the body, and he deposed to the circumstances which led to the discovery. He was succeeded by Dr. Chisholm, who had examined the body of the deceased, and, having been sworn in the usual manner, deposed as follows:--
I am a duly qualified medical practitioner. I have examined the body of the deceased. It is that of an old man--I should say about seventy years of age--very badly nourished; I found hardly any food in the stomach. There were many bruises and excoriations on the body, which, I have no doubt, are due to the struggle between the murderer and his victim. I examined the neck, back, and limbs, but could find no fractures. The throat was cut evidently by some very sharp instrument, as the windpipe was completely severed. I examined the body about nine o'clock in the morning,--it was then warm, and, according to my belief, the deceased must have been dead eight or nine hours.
Coroner.--"Are you certain of that?"
Dr. Chisholm.--"Not absolutely. It is a very difficult thing to tell exactly, by the temperature of the body, what length of time has elapsed since death. After a sudden and violent death, the body often parts with its heat slowly, as I think it has done in this case. Besides, the night was very hot, which would be an additional reason for the body cooling slowly."
Coroner.--"Was the body rigid when you examined it?"
Dr. Chisholm.--"Yes; rigor mortis had set in. It generally occurs within six hours of death, but it might occur earlier if there had been violent muscular exertion, as there was in this case. I think that the deceased was awakened from his sleep, and struggled with his murderer till he became exhausted; then the murderer cut his throat with a remarkably sharp knife."
Coroner.--"And, according to your theory, death took place about midnight?"
Dr. Chisholm.--"Yes--I think so; but, as I said, before, it is very difficult to tell."
The next witness called was Isaiah Jacobs, who gave his evidence in an aggressively shrill voice, but the Coroner was unable to elicit more from him than had already been published in The Penny Whistle. After the echo of the young Israelite's shrill voice had died away, Keith Stewart was sworn, and deposed as follows:--
I was clerk to the deceased, and had occupied the position for some months. On the day previous to the murder, I had received a hundred pounds, in twenty bank notes of five pounds each, which I gave to the deceased, and saw him place them in his safe. He always slept on the premises, and kept his keys under his pillow. He told me that he always had a loaded revolver on the table beside his bed. On the night, or rather morning, of the murder I was passing along Russell Street on my way home. I saw a man standing near the shop. I knew him as Randolph Villiers. I asked him what he was doing, but could get no very decided answer--he was quite intoxicated, and went off down the street.
Coroner.--"About what time was this?"
Stewart.--"Two o'clock."
Coroner.--"You are certain?"
Stewart.--"Quite--I heard it striking from the Town Hall tower."
Coroner.--"Was Villiers' intoxication real or feigned?"
Stewart.--"Real, as far as I could see."
Coroner.--"It was a moonlight night, I believe?"
Stewart.--"Yes; the moon was very bright."
Coroner.--"Did you notice anything peculiar about Villiers? Was he confused? Were his clothes in disorder? Any marks of blood?"
Stewart.--"No; I saw nothing extraordinary about him. He is generally more or less drunk, so I did not notice him particularly."
Coroner.--"I believe, Mr. Stewart, you belong to the Skylarks' Club?"
Stewart.--"I do."
Coroner.--"And yet you are a clerk in a pawnbroker's office--aren't the two things rather incongruous?"
Stewart.--"No doubt; but I am in a position to be a member of the Skylarks' Club, and as to being a clerk to Lazarus, it's merely a matter of honour. When he engaged me he stipulated that I should stay for six months, and though I unexpectedly came in for some money, I felt myself bound in honour to keep my agreement."
Coroner.--"Thank you, that will do, Mr. Stewart. Call Mrs. Tibsey."
That lady, large, red-faced, and energetic, was sworn and gave her evidence in a voluble manner. She had evidently been drinking, as there was a strong odour of gin in the air, and kept curtseying to the Coroner every time she answered.
My name's Tibsey, my lord--Maria Tibsey. I've bin married twice, my first being called Bliggings, and died of gunpowder--blowed up in a quarry explosion. My second, also dead, sir, 'ad no lungs, and a corf which tored him to bits. Only one child, sir, 'Tilda Bliggings, out in service, my lord.
Coroner.--"Yes, yes, Mrs. Tibsey, we don't want to learn all these domestic affairs. Come to the point."
Mrs. Tibsey.--"About Sating, sir?--I called 'im Sating, sir, 'cause he were a robber of the widder and orfin--me, sir, and my darter. I was a-talking to my darter on that night, your worships, she 'aving visited me. I lives near old Sating, as it was 'andy to drop in to pop anything, and about twelve I 'eard a scream--a 'orrid 'owl, as made my back h'open and shut, so I ses, ''Tilda,' ses I,' old Sating is 'avin' a time of it, e's boozin',' and that's all, sir."
Coroner.--"You never went to see what it was?"
Mrs. Tibsey.--"Me, my lord? no, your worship, it weren't my bisiniss. I didn't think it were murder."
Coroner.--"You are quite sure it was twelve o'clock?"
Mrs. Tibsey.--"I swears h'it." Miss Matilda Bliggings was then called, and deposed she also heard the scream, and that her mother had said it must be old Lazarus. It was twelve o'clock.
Ezra Lazarus was then called, but could give no material evidence. He said he had quarrelled with his father on the day preceding the murder, and had not seen him since.
The next witness called caused a sensation, as it was none other than Mr. Randolph Villiers, who stated:--
My name is Villiers. I do nothing. I know old Lazarus. I was passing through Russell Street, and leaned up against the shop door--I was drunk--on my way to Little Bourke Street. I remember meeting Mr. Stewart--think it was two, but ain't sure.
Coroner.--"Where were you before you met Mr. Stewart?"
Villiers.--"About the town somewhere."
Coroner.--"Alone?"
Villiers.--"Sometimes I was, sometimes I wasn't."
This ended all the evidence procurable, and the Coroner summed up.
The crime had evidently been committed for the purpose of robbery, as the hundred pounds which Mr. Stewart swore had been placed in the safe by the deceased were gone; the knife with which the deed had been committed had not yet been found; in fact, all the evidence was of the barest character. According to Dr. Chisholm's evidence, the deceased had been murdered about midnight, and as Mrs. Tibsey and her daughter heard a scream also at that time, all the evidence seemed to point to that hour as having been the time of death. Mr. Stewart met Villiers at two o'clock, and Villiers stated that he had only been in Russell Street a few minutes before he met Mr. Stewart. The jury would be kind enough to bring in a verdict in accordance with the facts before them.
The jury had a long argument; some wanted to bring in a charge of murder against Villiers, as he certainly had not accounted for his presence in Russell Street; but the evidence altogether was so vague that they at length came to the conclusion it would be best to leave the matter to the police, and brought in a verdict that the deceased had met his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.
Great dissatisfaction was expressed by the public at this verdict, as, in the opinion of most people, Villiers was the guilty man. A regular battle was fought in the newspapers over the whole affair; but one man said nothing.
That man was Naball!
When the inquest was over, Naball went straight home, and carefully read all the notes he had taken of the evidence given. After doing so, he came to the conclusion that the person on whom most suspicion rested was Keith Stewart.
In the first place, said Naball, thoughtfully eyeing his papers, "Stewart was the clerk of old Lazarus, and knew what was in the safe, and where the keys were kept; he is a member of an expensive club, which he can't possibly afford to pay for out of his salary as a clerk; as to his coming in for money, that's bosh!--if he had, agreement or no agreement, he wouldn't have remained with old Lazarus. He states that he left the theatre at half-past twelve, and the doctor says the death took place at midnight; but then he wasn't sure, and it might have taken place at half-past one, which would give Stewart time to commit the crime. He could not account for his time between leaving the theatre and seeing Villiers except by saying he had been walking, which is a very weak explanation. Humph! I think I'll see Mr. Stewart and ask him a few questions."
Mr. Naball glanced at himself in the mirror, arranged the set of his tie, dusted his varnished boots, and then sallied forth in search of Keith. Passing along Swanston Street, he went into a florist's, and purchased himself a smart buttonhole of white flowers, then held a short council of war with himself as to where to find Stewart.
Wonder where he lives? muttered the detective, in perplexity; "let me see, what's the time," glancing at his watch--"nearly five; he's a great friend of Mr. Lazarus, and I know Lazarus is sub-editor of The Penny Whistle; I'll go along and ask him--he's sure to be in just now."
He walked rapidly along to the newspaper office, and, being admitted to Ezra's room, found that young man just putting on his coat preparatory to going away, his labours for the day now being concluded.
Well, Mr. Naball, asked Ezra, in his soft voice, "what can I do for you--anything about this unfortunate affair?"
Yes, said Naball bluntly; "I want to see Mr. Stewart."
Oh, you do! broke in a new voice, and Stewart stepped out of an adjoining room, where he had been waiting for his friend; "what is the matter?"
Nothing much, observed Naball, in a frank voice; "but as this case has been put into my hands, I want to ask you a few questions.'
Am I in the way? asked Lazarus, taking up his hat.
By no means, replied Naball politely; "in fact, yon may be of assistance."
Well, fire away, said Keith, coolly lighting a cigarette. "I'm ready to answer anything."
Naball glanced keenly at both the young men before he began to talk, and noted their appearance. Keith had a rather haggard look, as though he had been leading a dissipated life; while Ezra's face looked careworn and pale.
Cut up over his father's death, I guess, said Naball to himself; "poor chap!--but as for the other, it looks like late hours and drink. I must find out all about your private life, Mr. Stewart."
I'm waiting, said Keith impatiently; "I wish you wouldn't keep me very long; I've got to meet a train from the country to-night."
Naball closed both doors of the room, and, resuming his seat, looked steadily at Keith, who, seated astride a chair, leaned his elbows on the back, and smoked nonchalantly.
Are you aware, asked Naball deliberately, "if the late Mr. Lazarus had any enemies?"
I can answer that question best, said Ezra quickly, before Keith could speak. "Yes, he had plenty; my father, as you know, was a moneylender as well as a pawnbroker, and, as he took advantage of his possession of money to extort high interest, I know it made a lot of people feel bitter against him."
Considering that you are his son, sir, said Naball, in a tone of rebuke, "you do not speak very well of the dead."
I have not much cause to, rejoined Ezra bitterly; "he was father to me in name only. But you need not make any comments--my duty to my father's memory is between myself and my conscience. I have answered your question--he had many enemies."
So I believe also, said Keith slowly; "but I don't think any one was so hostile as to desire his death."
As you don't think so, observed Naball sharply, "I myself believe that the murder was committed for the sake of robbery."
That's easily seen, said Ezra calmly, "from the fact of the safe being open and the money gone."
That might have been a blind, retorted Naball quickly, "but you talk of money being stolen; I think, Mr. Stewart, in your evidence to-day you said they were bank notes?"
Yes; twenty ten-pound notes, replied Keith.
Do you know the numbers of them?
No; I never thought of taking the numbers.
And you handed them to Mr. Lazarus?
I did; at half-past five--he put them in his safe.
Were there any other valuables in the safe?
I don't know, retorted Keith coldly; "I was not in the confidence of my employer."
Do you know? said Naball, turning to Ezra.
The young Jew smiled bitterly.
I also was not in my father's confidence, he said, "so know nothing."
There was some gold and silver money also in the safe, said Keith to Naball, knocking the ashes off his cigarette.
Humph! that's not much guide, replied the detective; "it's the notes I want--if I could only find the numbers of those notes--where did they come from?"
A man at Ballarat, called Forbes.
Oh! I'll write to Mr. Forbes of Ballarat, said Naball, making a note, "but if those notes are put in circulation, do you know of any means by which I can identify them?"
Keith shook his head, then suddenly gave a cry.
Yes; I can tell you how to identify one of the notes.
That will be quite sufficient, said the detective eagerly. "How?"
That boy, Isaiah, said Stewart, "he's great on backing horses, and frequently tells me about racing. When I was making up my cash on that night, the notes were lying on the desk, and as the door of Mr. Lazarus' room was open, Isaiah was afraid to speak aloud about his tip, so he wrote it down."
But how can that identify the bank-note? asked the perplexed detective.
Because the young scamp wrote his tip, 'Back Flat-Iron,' on the back of a ten-pound note.
In pencil? asked Naball.
No; in ink!
So one of the notes that were stolen has the inscription 'Back Flat-Iron' on the back of it?
Exactly!
Naball scribbled a line or two in his pocket-book, and shut it with a snap.
If that note goes into circulation, he said, in a satisfied tone, "I'll soon trace it to its original holder."
And then? asked Ezra.
And then, reiterated Naball quietly, "I'll lay my hands on the man who killed your father. And now, Mr. Stewart, I want to ask you a few questions about yourself."
Go on! said Keith imperturbably; "I hope you don't think I killed Lazarus?"
I think--nothing, replied Naball quietly; "I only want to find out as much as I can. You were at the Bon-Bon Theatre on that night?"
Yes; talking to Mr. Mortimer.
Any one else with you?
Yes, replied Ezra, "I was, and Caprice; we left about half-past eleven."
And you, Mr. Stewart?
I left at half-past twelve.
Where did you go then?
I was excited over some business I had done, and strolled about the city.
Anywhere in particular?
No. I went along Collins Street, up William Street, round about the Law Courts, and then came down Bourke Street, on my way home.
How long were you thus wandering about?
I think about an hour and a half, because as I turned into Russell Street the clock struck two.
Why did you turn into Russell Street?
Why! echoed Keith, in surprise, "because I wanted to go home. I went through Russell Street, down Flinders Street, and then walked to East Melbourne, past the Fitzroy Gardens."
Oh! and you saw Villiers standing about the shop?
Yes; he was leaning against the door.
Drunk?
Very!
What did you do?
I ordered him off.
Did he go?
Yes; rolled down the street towards Bourke Street, singing some song.
You noticed nothing peculiar about him?
No.
Was the door of the alley leading to the back open or shut?
I don't know--I never noticed.
After Villiers disappeared, you went home?
I did--straight home.
Naball pondered for a few moments. Stewart certainly told all he knew with perfect frankness, but then was he telling the truth?
Do you want to ask me any more questions? asked Keith, rising.
Naball made up his mind, and spoke out roughly,--
I want to know how you, with a small salary, can afford to belong to an expensive club like the 'Skylarks?'
Keith's face grew as black as thunder.
Who the devil gave you permission to pry into my private affairs?
No one except myself, retorted Naball boldly, for, though inferior to Stewart in size, he by no means wanted pluck; "but I'm engaged in a serious case, and it will be best for you to speak out frankly.
You surely don't suspect Stewart of the murder? interposed Ezra warmly.
I suspect nobody, retorted Naball. "I'm only asking him a question, and, if he's wise, he'll answer it."
Keith thought for a moment. He saw that, for some extraordinary reason or another, Naball suspected him, so, in order to be on the safe side, resolved to take the detective's advice and answer the question.
It is, as you say, a serious matter, he observed quietly, "and I am the last person in the world not to give any assistance to the finding out of the criminal; ask what you please, and I will answer."
This reply somewhat staggered Naball, but, as he had strong suspicions about Stewart's innocence, he put down the apparent frankness of the answer to crafty diplomacy.
I only want to know, he said mildly, "how a gentleman in your position can afford to belong to an expensive club."
Because I can afford to do so, replied Keith calmly. "When I first came to Melbourne, I had no money, and was engaged by Mr. Lazarus as his clerk, with the understanding I should stay with him six months. To this I agreed, but shortly afterwards a sum of five hundred pounds was placed to my credit, and afforded me a chance of living in good style. I wished to leave the pawnshop, but Mr. Lazarus reminded me of my position, and I had to stay. That is all."
Who placed this five hundred to your credit? asked Naball.
I don't know.
You don't know? echoed Naball, in surprise. "Do you mean to say that a large sum like that was placed to your credit by a person whom you don't know?"
I do.
And I can substantiate that statement, said Ezra quietly.
Naball looked from one to the other in perplexity, puzzled what to ask next. Then he felt the only thing to be done was to go away and think the matter over. But he did not intend to lose sight of Keith, and this absurd statement about the five hundred only seemed to strengthen his suspicions, so he determined to have him shadowed.
Thank you, Mr. Stewart, he said quietly. "I have nothing more to ask. What time did you say you were going to meet a country train?"
I mentioned no time, replied Keith sharply.
Baffled by this answer, Naball tried another way.
Will you kindly give me your address? he asked, pulling out his pocket-book. "I may want to communicate with you."
Vance's boarding-house, Powlett Street, East Melbourne.
Mr. Naball noted this in his book, and then, with a slight nod, took his leave.
Damn him, cried Keith fiercely, "he suspects me of this crime."
Pooh! that's nonsense, replied Ezra, as they went out, "you can easily prove an alibi."
No, I can't, replied Keith, in a hard tone. "From half-past twelve o'clock till two I was by myself, and no one saw me. I say I was wandering about the streets, he thinks I was in Russell Street committing a murder."
I don't think you need be a bit afraid of anyone suspecting you, said Ezra bitterly. "Why, they might as well think I killed my father."
You!
Yes. I had a quarrel with him, and then he was murdered. Oh, I assure you they could get up an excellent case against me.
But you could prove an alibi.
That's just where it is, said Ezra coolly; "I can't."
Why not?
Because, after leaving Kitty Marchurst, I went down the street to The Penny Whistle office, and found it closed. I then walked home along Collins Street, through the Fitzroy Gardens. It was a beautiful night, and, as I was thinking over my quarrel with my father, I sat down on one of the seats for a time, so I did not get home till two o'clock in the morning. No one saw me, and I've got quite as much difficulty in proving an alibi as you have.
Do you think Naball suspects you?
No; nor do I think he suspects you, but I've got a suspicion that he suspects some one.
And that some one--
Is called Randolph Villiers.
When Naball left the two young men, he went straight to the Detective Office in order to get some one to look after Keith Stewart, and see that he did not leave Melbourne. Naball did not believe that he was going to meet any one that night, and wanted to find out why he was going to the station.
If he wanted to give me the slip, he thought, "he wouldn't have told me he was going to the railway station--humph! can't make out what he's up to."
The gentleman who was to act as Mr. Stewart's shadow was a short, red-nosed man with a humbled appearance and a chronic sniffle. He was sparing of words, and communicated with his fellow-man by a series of nods and winks which did duty with him for conversation.
Tulch! said Naball, when this extraordinary being appeared, "I want you to go to Vance's boarding-house, Powlett Street, East Melbourne, and keep your eye on a man called Keith Stewart."
An interrogatory sniff from Tulch.
Ah, I forgot you don't know his personal appearance, said Naball thoughtfully; "he's tall, with fair hair, wears a suit of home-spun--humph;--that won't do, there are dozens of young men of that description. Here!--tell you what, I'll give you a note to deliver to him personally; muffle yourself up in an ulster when you deliver it, so that he won't know you--understand?"
Mr. Tulch sniffed in the affirmative.
Follow him wherever he goes, and tell me what he's up to, said Naball, scribbling a note to Stewart and handing it to Tulch. "That's all--clear out."
A farewell sniffle, and Tulch was gone.
Humph, muttered Naball to himself, "now I'd like to know the meaning of all this--I don't believe this cock-and-bull story about Stewart having money left him in this mysterious manner--people don't do that sort of thing now-a-days--I believe he's been robbing the old man for some time and was found out--so silenced him by using his knife. Knife," repeated Naball, "that's not been found yet--I must see about this--now there's Villiers--I wonder if he could help me? It was curious that he should have been about the shop at that special time--he's a bad lot--gad, I'll go and see what I can find out from him."
Knowing Mr. Villiers' habits, he had no difficulty in discovering his whereabouts. Ah Goon's was where Villiers generally dwelt, so, after Naball had partaken of a nice little dinner, he went off to Little Bourke Street.
It was now between seven and eight o'clock, which was the time Villiers generally dined, so, Naball not finding him at Ah Goon's, betook himself to a cook-shop in the neighbourhood, to which he was directed by a solid-looking Chinaman.
It was a low-roofed place, consisting of a series of apartments all opening one into the other by squat little door-ways. The atmosphere was dull and smoky, and the acrid smell of burning wood saluted Naball's nostrils when he entered. Near the door-way a Chinaman was rolling out rice bread to the thinness of paper; then, cutting it into little squares, he wrapped each round a kind of sausage meat, and placed the rolls thus prepared on a tray for cooking.
In the next apartment was a large boiler, with the lid off, filled with water, in which ten or twelve turkeys, skewered and trussed, were bobbing up and down amid the froth and scum of the boiling water. A crowd of Chinese, all chattering in their high shrill voices, were moving about half seen in the smoky atmosphere, through which candle and lamp light flamed feebly.
Villiers, in a kind of little cell apartment, was having his supper when the detective entered. Before him was a large bowl filled with soup, and in this were squares of thin rice bread, and portions of turkey and duck mixed up into a savoury mess, and flavoured with the dark brown fluid which the Chinese use instead of salt.
Oh, it's you, growled Villiers, looking up with a scowl, "what do you want?"
You, my friend, said Naball cheerfully, taking a seat.
Oh, do you? said Villiers, rubbing his bleared eyes, inflamed by the pungent smoke of the wood-fire. "I s'pose you think I killed old Lazarus?"
No, I don't, retorted the detective, looking straight at him, "but I think you know more than you tell."
He! he! grinned the other sardonically. "Perhaps I do--perhaps I don't--it's my business."
And mine also, said Naball, somewhat nettled. "You forget the case is in my hands."
Don't care whose hands it's in, retorted Villiers, finishing his soup, "t'aint any trouble of mine."
The detective bit his lip at the impenetrable way in which Villiers met his advances. Suddenly a thought flashed across his mind, and he bent forward with a meaning smile.
Got any more diamonds?
Villiers pushed back his chair from the table, and stared at Naball.
What diamonds? he asked, in a husky voice.
Come now, said Naball, with a wink, "we know all about that--eh? Ah Goon is a good pawnbroker, isn't he?"
Ah Goon! gasped Villiers, turning a little pale.
Yes; though he did only lend twenty pounds on those diamonds.
Look here, Mr. Jack-o'-Dandy, said Villiers, bringing his fist down on the table, "I don't want no beating about the bush, I don't. What do you mean, curse you?"
I mean that I know all about your little games, replied Naball, leaning over the table.
I know Caprice stole her own jewels for some purpose, and gave you some of the swag to shut your mouth, and I know that you're going to tell me all you know about this Russell Street business, or, by Jove, I'll have you arrested on suspicion.
Villiers gave a howl like a wild beast, and, flinging himself across the table, tried to grapple with the detective, but recoiled with a shriek of wrath and alarm as he saw the shining barrel of a revolver levelled at his head.
Won't do, Villiers, said Naball smoothly; "try some other game."
Whereupon Villiers, seeing that the detective was too strong for him, sat down sulkily in his chair, and after invoking a blessing on Naball's eyes, invited him to speak out. The detective replaced the revolver in his pocket, whence it could be easily seized if necessary, and smiled complacently at his sullen-faced friend.
Aha! he said, producing a dainty cigarette, "this is much better. Have you a light?"
Villiers flung down a lucifer match with a husky curse, which Naball, quite disregarding, took up the match and lighted his cigarette. Watching the blue smoke curling from his lips for a few moments, he turned languidly to Villiers, and began to talk.
You see, I know all about it, he said quietly; "you were too drunk to remember that night when you tried to take a diamond crescent off that woman, and I expect Ah Goon never told you!"
It was you who took it, then, growled Villiers fiercely.
In your own words, perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't, replied Naball, in an irritating tone; "at all events, it's quite safe. You had better answer all my questions, because you bear too bad a character not to be suspected of the crime, particularly as you were about Russell Street on that night."
Yes, I was, said Villiers angrily; "and who saw me--Keith Stewart--a mighty fine witness he is."
Aha! thought the astute Naball, "he does know something, then."
I could put a spoke in Stewart's wheel, grumbled the other viciously.
I don't think so, replied the detective, fingering his cigarette, "he is far above you--he's got money, is going to make a name by a successful play, and, if report speaks truly, Caprice loves him.
I don't care a farthing whether she does or not, said Villiers loudly; "she'd love any one who has money. Stewart's got some, has he; where did he get it?"
I'm sure I don't know.
I do!
Indeed! where?
Never you mind, said Villiers suspiciously. "I know my own knowing."
Remember what I said, observed Naball quietly, "and tell me all."
If I tell you all, what will you do? asked Villiers.
I'll save your neck from the gallows, replied Naball smoothly.
Not good enough.
Oh, very well, said the detective rising, "I've no more to say. I'm off to the magistrate."
What for?
Naball fixed his keen eyes on the bloated face of the other.
To get a warrant for your arrest.
You can't do that.
Can't I--you'll see.
No; wait a bit, said Villiers in alarm; "I can easily prove myself innocent."
Indeed; then you'd better do so now, before a warrant is out for your arrest.
You won't give me any money?
Not a cent--it's not a question of money with you, but life or death.
Villiers deliberated for a moment, and then apparently made up his mind.
Sit down, he said sullenly. "I'll tell you all I know."
Naball resumed his seat, lighted a fresh cigarette, and prepared to listen.
I was rather drunk on the night of the murder, he said, "but not so bad as Stewart thought me. He saw me at the shop-door at two o'clock, but I was there a quarter of an hour before."
Did you see anything?
I saw the gate which led into the alley open, replied Villiers. "No one was about, so I walked in."
What for? asked Naball, glancing at him keenly.
Oh, nothing, replied Villiers indifferently; "the fact was, I saw a policeman coming along, and though I was pretty drunk, I'd sense enough to know I might be run in, so I went into the alley and closed the gate till he passed."
And then you came out.
No, I didn't. I walked to the back of the house just to see where it led to. I saw the window wide open, and looked in and saw--
The murdered man?
Villiers nodded.
Yes; the moonlight was streaming in at the window, and I could see quite plainly. I was in a fright, as I thought, seeing I had no business on the premises, I might be accused, so I got down from the window and went off, closing the gate of the alley after me.
It wasn't wise of you to stay about the premises, said Naball.
I know that, rejoined Villiers tartly; "but I couldn't get away, because I saw Stewart coming up the street just as I was wondering where to go; I then pretended to be drunk, so that I could get away without suspicion."
Why didn't you run? asked Naball.
Because he was too close, and besides, he might have given chase, thinking I had been robbing the shop; then, with the open window and the murdered man, it would have been all up with me.
I don't know if it isn't all up with you now, said Naball drily. "How do I know you are innocent!"
Because I know who killed Lazarus.
The deuce you do--who?
Stewart himself.
Humph! that's what I thought; but what proof have you?
Villiers put his hand in his pocket and brought out a large knife.
I found this just under the window, he said, handing it to Naball. "You'll see there's blood on the handle, so I'm sure it was with it the crime was committed."
But how do you know it's Stewart's knife? asked Naball.
Villiers placed his finger on one side of the handle.
Read that, he said briefly.
From Meg, read Naball.
Exactly, said Villiers. "Meg is Kitty Marchurst's child, and she gave it to Keith Stewart."
By Jove, it looks suspicious, said Naball. "He is in possession of a large sum of money, and can't tell how he got it. He can't account for his time on the night of the murder, and this knife with his name on it is found close to the window through which the murderer entered--humph!--things look black against him."
I suppose you'll arrest him at once? said Villiers malignantly.
Then you suppose wrong, retorted Naball. "I'll have him looked after so that he won't escape; but I'll hold my tongue about this, and so will you."
Until when?
Until I find out more about Stewart. I must discover if the knife was in his possession on the night of the murder, and also if this story about his money is true; again, I want to wait till some of these stolen bank notes are in circulation, so as to get more evidence against him.
But what am I to do? asked Villiers sulkily.
You are to hold your tongue, said Naball, rising to his feet, "or else I may make things unpleasant for you--it's a good thing for your own sake you have told me all."
Told you all, muttered Villiers, as Naball took his departure. "I'm not so sure about that."
It is a great blessing that the future is hidden from our anxious eyes, otherwise, to use a familiar expression, we would go out in a coach and four to meet our troubles. If Keith Stewart had only known that the detective suspected him of the murder of Lazarus, and was surely but slowly finding out strong evidence in favour of such a presumption, he, no doubt, would have been much troubled. But he thought that Naball's hints at the interview were not worth thinking about, for, strong in the belief of his own innocence, such an idea of his being accused of the crime never entered his mind.
In spite of the disagreeable event which had occurred, Keith felt very happy on this night. He was young, he had a good sum of money in the bank, the gift of some beneficent fairy, he was going to make his début as a dramatic author, and, above all, he was going to see Eugénie again. Therefore, as he sat at dinner, his heart was merry, and to him the future looked bright and cheerful. Things seemed so pleasant that, with the sanguine expectations of youth, he began to build castles in the air.
If this burlesque's a success, he thought, "I'll write a novel, and save every penny I make; then I'll go to London, after marrying Eugénie, and see if I can't make a name there--with perseverance I'm bound to do it."
Poor youth, he did not know the difficulty of making a name in London; he was quite unaware that the literary market was overstocked, and that many criticisms depend on the state of the critic's liver. He did not know any of these things, so he went on eating his dinner and building castles in the air, all of which buildings were inhabited by Eugénie.
From these pleasant dreams he was aroused by the entrance of the housemaid, a fat young person, who breathed hard, and rolled up to Keith, puffing and panting like a locomotive.
If you please, said the young lady, "the man."
What man? asked Keith sharply.
He's waiting to see you, returned the housemaid stolidly.
From experience Keith knew it was useless to expect sense from the housemaid, so he got up from the table and went out to the front-door, where a bundle, with a head at one end and a pair of boots at the other, held out a letter.
For me? asked Keith, taking it.
The bundle sniffed in an affirmative manner, so Stewart opened the letter and read it quickly. It only contained a line from Naball that if he heard of any new development of the case he would let Keith know, so that young gentleman, wondering why the detective took the trouble to write to him slipped the letter in his pocket, and nodded to the bundle.
All right, he said quickly; "no answer," and he shut the door in the bundle's face, whereupon the bundle sniffed.
I know him now, said Mr. Tulch to himself in a husky voice, as he walked away. "I'd know 'im if he was dooplicated twice h'over." Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, Mr. Tulch took up his position a short distance away, and began his dreary task of watching the house.
And it was dreary work. The long hot day was over, and the long hot night had begun. It was just a quarter past seven, and the sky was a cloudless expanse of darkish blue, blazing with stars; a soft wind was whispering among the leaves of the trees, and making little whirls of white dust in the road. Every now and then a gay party of men and women on their way to some amusement would pass the spy, but he remained passively at his post, watching the sun-blistered varnished door of Vance's boarding-house. At last his patience was rewarded, for, somewhere about half-past seven, Keith came hurriedly out, and sped rapidly down the street.
What's he arter? sniffed Mr. Tulch, stretching his cramped limbs. "I'll 'ave to ketch 'im h'up," and he rolled as quickly as he was able after the tall figure of the young man.
A tram came along, and, without stopping it, Keith jumped on the dummy--the spy, breathless with running, sprang on the step of the end car and got inside, keeping his eye on Keith. The tram car went rapidly along Flinders Street, stopping every now and then to pick up or drop passengers, at which Keith seemed impatient. At last Spencer Street station was reached, and Keith sprang out; so did Tulch, keeping close to his heels.
Stewart walked impatiently up and down one of the long platforms, which shortly began to fill with people expecting their friends. The shrill whistle of an approaching engine was heard, a red light suddenly appeared, advancing rapidly, and presently the long train, with its lighted carriages, drew up inside the station.
Such a hurry-scurry; people jumping out of the train to meet those pressing forward on the platform, porters calling to one another, boxes, rugs, portmanteaus, bundles, all strewing the ground--a babel of voices, and at intervals the shrill whistle of a departing train.
Amid all this confusion Tulch missed Keith, and was in a terrible state, for he knew what Naball would say. He dived hither and thither among the crowd with surprising activity, and at last came in sight of Stewart putting a young lady into a cab, in front of which was the luggage. He tried to hear the address given the cabman, but was unsuccessful, so he rapidly jumped into another cab and told him to follow. The cabby obeyed at once, and whipping up his horse, which was a remarkably good one, he easily kept the first cab in sight.
The front cab drove up Collins Street as far as the Treasury Buildings, and then turned off to the left, going towards Fitzroy. It stopped at the Buttercup Hotel, in Gertrude Street, and, Stewart alighting, helped the young lady out; then the luggage was taken care of by the porter of the hotel, and Keith, with his charge, vanished through the swing doors of the private entrance.
On seeing this, Tulch dismissed his cab, went into the bar of an hotel on the opposite side of the street, and, ordering a pint of beer, sat watching the door of the Buttercup Hotel.
Meanwhile Keith and Eugénie had been shown into a private room, and the landlady, a stout, buxom woman, in a silk dress and lace cap, made her appearance.
Miss Rainsford? she said interrogatively, advancing towards the girl.
Yes, replied Eugénie brightly. "You are Mrs. Scarth, I suppose. Did you get Mrs. Proggins' letter?"
Oh, yes, that's all right, replied the landlady, nodding. "Your room is ready, and I will do anything I can for you. Mrs. Proggins is an old friend of mine, and I'm only too happy to oblige her."
Thank you, said Eugénie, taking off her hat. "Let me introduce Mr. Stewart to you; he kindly came to the station to meet me."
Mrs. Scarth nodded with a smile, for Mrs. Proggins had informed her of the relationship between the two young people, then observing she would go and order some tea for Eugénie, sailed majestically out of the room.
Why did you introduce me to that old thing? asked Keith, in a discontented tone.
Policy, my dear, replied Eugénie mildly. "Mrs. Proggins wrote to her to look after me, and I'm very glad, otherwise a young lady with you as escort would hardly have found shelter for the night in this place. I always like to be in favour with the powers that be."
Eugénie Rainsford was a tall, dark-complexioned girl, with clearly cut features and coils of black hair twisted round the top of her well-shaped head. She was dressed in a blue serge costume, with a red ribbon round her throat, and another round her waist. A handsome girl with a pleasant smile, and there was a look in her flashing dark eyes which showed that she had a will of her own. Keith stood beside her, as fair as she was dark, and a handsomer couple could not have been found in Melbourne.
Well, here I am at last. Keith, said Eugénie, slipping her arm through his. "Aren't you pleased to see me?"
Very, replied Stewart emphatically; "let me look at you--ah, you are more beautiful than ever."
What delightful stories you do tell, said Eugénie with a blush. "I wish I could believe them; now, my friend, let me return the compliment by looking at you."
She took his face between her hands and looked at it keenly beneath the searching glare of the gas, then shook her head.
You are much paler than you used to be, she said critically. "There are dark circles under your eyes, deep lines down the side of your mouth, and your face looks haggard. Is it work, or--or the other thing?"
Do you mean dissipation, Eugénie? said Keith, with a smile, taking a seat. "Well, I expect I have been rather dissipated, but now you are here I'll be a good boy."
Have you been worried? asked Miss Rainsford.
Keith sighed.
Yes; very much worried over this terrible case. I suppose you've seen all about it?
Eugénie nodded.
Yes; I've read all about it in the papers. Now I suppose you've nothing to do?
No--not that I care much--you see I've got this burlesque coming off, and then there's that money.
The five hundred pounds, said Miss Rainsford reflectively. "Have you found out who sent you that?"
No; I can't imagine who did so, unless it was Caprice.
Caprice!
Yes, replied Keith hurriedly, flushing a little; "the actress I told you about, who is going to play the principal part in 'Faust Upset.'"
Oh!
It was all the comment Miss Rainsford made, but there was a world of meaning in the ejaculation.
From what I've heard of the lady, I don't think it's likely, she said quietly.
Well, at all events, I suppose I'd better use the money.
Yes; I suppose so.
You're not very encouraging, Eugénie, said her lover angrily.
Well, observed the girl deliberately, "if you think this money came from Caprice, I certainly would not touch it. Why don't you ask her?"
I can't; she's been so disagreeable to me lately.
Oh!
Eugénie Rainsford was of a very jealous temperament, and she began to feel vaguely jealous of this actress whom Keith seemed to know so well. She remained silent for a few moments, during which Keith felt somewhat awkward. He was not in love with Kitty, nor, as far as he knew, was she in love with him, yet he saw that some instinct had warned Eugénie against this woman.
Come, Eugénie, said Keith, putting his arm round her slender waist; "you mustn't be angry with me the first night we meet."
I'm not angry, said the girl, turning her face towards him; "but I'd like to see this Caprice."
So you shall, dear--on the stage.
Why not in private?
Keith frowned, and pulled his moustache in a perplexed manner.
Well, she's hardly a fit person for a girl to see.
Pshaw! replied Eugénie impatiently; "I'm not a girl, but a woman, and am not afraid of anything like that, and besides--besides," with hesitation, "I'm going to see her."
What do you mean? asked Keith, abruptly withdrawing his arm.
Nothing; only I saw an advertisement in the paper wanting a governess for a little girl. I answered it, and found it was Miss Marchurst who wanted a governess. She engaged me, and I'm going there to-morrow.
No, no, cried Keith vehemently; "you must not--you shall not go."
Eugénie raised her eyes to his.
Have you any reason for wishing me not to go?
Yes, every reason--she's a bad lot.
I thought you knew her?
So I do, but men may know women of that class, and women like you may not.
I don't agree with you, said Eugénie, rising; "what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, and if you persist in wishing me not to go, I'll begin to think you've some reason."
I have none except what I've stated, said Keith doggedly.
Then I'll go to-morrow, replied Eugénie quietly; "at all events, I've got the right to have a personal interview, whether I take the situation or not."
You must not see her.
That decides it, said Eugénie composedly; "I will."
Eugénie, don't go, or I'll begin to think you don't trust me.
Yes, I do, but--but you've been so much with this Caprice lately, that I want to see her.
I don't care two straws about her.
I know that, but I wish to see her.
You intend to go?
I do.
Keith snatched up his hat and stick.
Then I'll say good-bye, he said angrily; "if you disregard my wishes so much, you can't love me."
Yes, I can!
You are jealous of this confounded woman.
Perhaps I am.
Keith looked at her angrily for a moment--then dashed out of the room, whereon Eugénie burst out laughing.
What a dear old boy he is, she said to herself; "he thinks I'm jealous. Well," with a frown, "perhaps I am. I wonder, if he knew that I gave him the five hundred pounds, what he'd say? He doesn't know that I'm a rich woman now, so I can test his love for me. I'm sure he's as true as steel."
She picked up her hat, and, going over to the mirror, leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece, looked searchingly at her beautiful face.
Are you jealous, you foolish woman? she said, with a laugh. "Yes, my dear, you are; at all events, you'll see your rival to-morrow. I'm afraid I'll make Keith a dreadful wife," she said, with a sigh, turning away. "For I think every woman is in love with him. Poor Keith, how angry he was!"
She burst out laughing, and left the room.
Eugénie Rainsford was a very clever young woman, much too clever to pass her life in the up-country wilds of Australia, and no doubt she would have left her solitude in some way even had not fortune favoured her. Luckily, however, fortune did favour her and in a rather curious way, for a rich sharebroker having seen her, fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her; she however refused, telling him that she was engaged to marry Keith Stewart, whereupon he made inquiries, and she told him the whole story.
He was so delighted with her fidelity to a poor man, that he made his will in her favour, feeling sure that, as he had no relations, she would be the most deserving person to leave it to. A carriage accident killed him six months afterwards, and Eugénie found herself a very rich woman, with as many thousands as she had pence before.
She took her good fortune very calmly, telling no one about it, not even her employers; but, after consultation with the lawyer, she sent five hundred pounds to Keith, with instructions to the bank that he was not to know where it came from. Then she set herself to work out a little scheme she had in her head, to find out if he were true to her.
In many of the letters he had written, she had been struck with the frequent mention of one name, Caprice, and on making inquiries, found out all about the actress. She bought a photograph of her, and was struck with the pathetic face of a woman who was said to lead so vile a life. Dreading lest Keith should have fallen in love with this divinity of the stage, she determined to go down to Melbourne and see for herself.
By chance, however, she found in a newspaper an advertisement that Kitty Marchurst wanted a governess for her little girl, and seeing at once an excellent opportunity of finding out if her suspicions were correct, wrote offering herself for the situation.
Kitty on her side remembered the name of Eugénie Rainsford as that of the girl to whom Keith told her he was engaged, so, curious to see what she was like, engaged her for a governess at once. Eugénie was delighted when she received this letter, and, still in the character of a poor and friendless girl, she left Mr. Chine, the lawyer, to manage her property, after binding him to secrecy, and came down to take the situation.
Keith's evident desire that she should not accept the situation made her all the more determined to do so, and twelve o'clock the next day found her in the drawing-room of Caprice's house, waiting for the entrance of her future mistress.
When Kitty entered the room she could not help admiring the handsome woman before her, and on her part Eugénie was astonished to see the bright vivacity of the melancholy face, for Caprice's features were sad only when in repose.
The two women stood opposite to one another for a moment, mentally making up their minds about each other. Kitty was the first to speak.
Miss Rainsford, I believe?
Yes; I came to see you about--about the situation.
Governess for my little girl, said Kitty, nodding her head. "Yes, I want some one whom I can trust."
I hope you will be able to trust me.
Caprice looked keenly at her, and then burst out into a torrent of words.
Yes, I think I can trust you--but the question is, will you take care of my child--I mean will you accept the trust? You have come from the country--you don't know who I am?
Yes, I do--Miss Marchurst.
No! not Miss Marchurst--Caprice!
She waited for a moment to see what effect this notorious name would have on her visitor, but, to her surprise, Eugénie simply bowed.
Yes, I know, she replied.
Caprice arose and advanced towards her.
You know, she exclaimed vehemently, "and yet can sit down in the same room with a woman of my character. Are you not afraid I'll contaminate you--do you not shrink from a pariah like me--no--you do not--great heavens!" with a bitter laugh, sitting down again; "and I thought the age of miracles was past--ah, bah! But you are only a girl, my dear, and don't understand."
Eugénie arose and crossed over to her.
I do understand; I am a woman, and feel for a woman.
Kitty caught her hand and gave a gasping cry. "God bless you!" she whispered, in a husky voice.
Then in a moment she had dashed the tears away from her eyes, and sat up again in her bright, resolute manner.
No woman has spoken so kindly as you have for many years, she said quickly; "and I thank you. I can give you my child, and you will take care of her for me when I am far away."
What do you mean? asked Eugénie, puzzled.
Mean--that I am not fit to live with my child, that I am going to send her to England with you, that she may forget she ever had a mother.
But why do this, said Eugénie in a pitying tone, "when you can keep her with you?"
I cannot let her grow up in the atmosphere of sin I live in.
Then why not leave this sinful life, and go to England with your child?
Kitty shook her head with a dreary smile.
Impossible--to leave off this life would kill me; besides, I saw a doctor some time ago, and he told me I had not very long to live; there is something wrong with my heart. I don't care if I do die so long as my child is safe--you will look after her?
Yes, replied Eugénie firmly; "I will look after her."
Kitty approached her timidly.
May I kiss you? she said faintly, and seeing her answer in the girl's eyes, she bent down and kissed her forehead.
Now I must introduce you to your new pupil, she said, cheerfully overcoming her momentary weakness.
Wait a moment, said Eugénie, as Caprice went to the bell-pull. "I want to ask you about Mr. Stewart."
Caprice turned round quickly.
Yes--what--about him?
Does he love you?
Caprice came over to the fire and looked closely at her.
You are the girl he is engaged to?
Yes.
Then, make your mind easy, my dear, he loves no one but you.
Eugénie gave a sigh of relief, at which Kitty smiled a little scornfully.
Ah! you love him so much as that? she said half pathetically; "it's a pity, my dear, he's not worth it."
What do you mean?
Don't be angry, Miss Rainsford, said Kitty, quietly; "I don't mean that he loves any one else, but he's not the man I took him for."
I don't understand.
I wouldn't try to, if I were you, replied Kitty significantly. "I helped him when I first met him, because he saved my child's life. He came down here, and I liked him still more."
You loved him?
No; love and I parted company long ago. I liked him, but though I do my best to help him, I don't care for him so much as I did, my dear: he's not worthy of you.
That's all very well, but I don't see the reason.
Of course not, what woman in love ever does see reason; however, make your mind easy, things are all right. I will tell you the reason some day.
But I want to know now.
Curiosity is a woman's vice, said Kitty lightly "Don't worry yourself, Miss Rainsford, whatever I know of Keith Stewart won't alter him in your eyes--now, don't say anything more about it. I'll ring for Meg."
Eugénie tried to get a more explicit answer out of her, but Kitty only laughed.
It can't be anything so very bad, she said to herself, "or this woman would not laugh at it."
Meg came in quietly, a demure, pensive-faced little child, and after Kitty had kissed her she presented her to Eugénie.
This is your new governess, Meg, she said, smoothing the child's hair, "and I want you to love her very much."
Meg hung back for a few moments, with the awkward timidity of a child, but Eugénie's soft voice and caressing manner soon gained her confidence.
I like you very much, she said at length, nestling to Eugénie's side.
As much as mumsey, Meg? said Kitty, with a sad smile.
Oh, never--never as much as mumsey, cried Meg, leaving her new-found friend for her mother, "There's no one so good and kind as mumsey."
Kitty kissed the child vehemently, and then bit her lips to stop the tears coming to her eyes.
Mumsey, said Meg at length, "can I tell the lady a secret?"
Yes, dear, replied Kitty smiling. Thereupon Meg slipped off Kitty's lap and ran to Eugénie.
What is this great secret? asked Eugénie, bending down with a laugh.
Meg put her mouth to Eugénie's ear, and whispered,--
When I grow up I'm going to marry Keith.
You see, said Kitty, overhearing the whisper, "my daughter is your rival."
And a very dangerous one, replied Eugénie with a sigh, touching the auburn hair.
Meg was sent off after this, and then Kitty arranged all about the salary with Eugénie, after which she accompanied her to the door to say good-bye.
I'm sorry I put any distrust into your heart about Mr. Stewart, she said; "but don't trouble, my dear, get him to give up his dissipated habits, and you'll no doubt find he'll make an excellent husband."
Ah! said Eugénie to herself as she walked to the station, "it was only dissipation she meant--as if anything like that could hurt Keith in my eyes."
Then she began to think of the strange woman she had left--with her sudden changes of temperament from laughter to tears--with her extraordinary nature, half-vice half-virtue, of the love she bore for her child, and the strong will that could send that child away for ever from her lonely life.