Suspicion Aroused E-Book

Dick Donovan

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This collection dates from 1893 and includes 13 short stories written by British journalist and author of mystery and horror fiction J. E. Preston Muddock. Many of Muddock’s mystery stories feature the character Dick Donovan, a Glasgow Detective, named for one of the 18th Century Bow Street Runners. The character was so popular that later stories were published under this pen name. Muddock also wrote true crime stories, horror, and 37 novels, most as „Dick Donovan.”

Leseprobe

Contents

1. SPOILING THEIR GAME

2. AT THE DAWN OF DAY

3. THE GREAT DIAMOND FRAUDS

4. A WIDOW'S MITE

5. THE FATAL FORTY

6. THE MARFIELD MYSTERY

7. FOILED: A DARK CHAPTER FROM A STRANGE HISTORY

8. THE STORY OF BILLY THE BAGMAN

9. A DESPERATE VENTURE

10. THE TRUE STORY OF PERCY MAPLETON LEFROY

11. THE MELVILLE POISONING CASE

12. THE STRANGE STORY OF AN OLD MAN'S LOVE

13. A POLISHED IMPOSTOR

1. SPOILING THEIR GAME

ONE autumn evening I was waiting on the railway platform at Edinburgh for the train to London, having about a quarter of an hour to spare, and, in accordance with my wont, I was deeply interested in the many different types of my fellowmen who constantly passed and repassed before me. I don’t know of any place where the leading characteristics of individuals display themselves so prominently as they do at a railway station. It is a place where less politeness and more selfishness is shown than anywhere else. I was particularly amused with a lady of uncertain age, and of the gorilla order of beauty, who, surrounded by many parcels, bundles, an wraps, had button-holed a porter, who, in view of the probable “tip,” was exercising his patience as best he could.

“Is this the London train, porter?” asked the lady.

“Yes, mum.”

“When does it start?”

“In ten minutes, mum.”

“From here?”

“Yes.”

“Will you get me a seat?”

“What class, mum?”

“Third, of course.”

Here the porter began to gather up her many packages when she exclaimed–

“Oh, porter, don’t handle those things as if they were sacks of coal; and, look here, be sure you don’t let that brown paper parcel fall, because there is something in it that will break.”

The porter made no response, but opened the door of a third class compartment, when the lady inquired–

“Is this a third class?”

“Yes, mum.”

“It’s not smoking, I hope?”

“No, mum.”

“You are quite sure it’s not a smoking carriage?

“Perfectly sure.”

“I think it is an abominable shame that the railway companies permit smoking at all on their railways.”

“Will you sit with your back or face to the engine?” asked the porter.

“Which way does the train go?”

“That way.”

“Then I’ll sit with my back to the engine. No, I won’t; I’ll sit the other way.” Here she almost broke into a scream as she exclaimed–

“Porter, you told me this wasn’t a smoking carriage.”

“No more it isn’t,” answered the man, with a growl.

“But I am sure somebody has been smoking in it.”

“Very likely, mum, we can’t keep our eyes on everybody.”

“Well, it’s shameful, that it is If I had my way I’d shoot all the men that smoked.”

“Then there would be none left, mum, except a few male old women.”

“And a good job too,” said the lady snappishly.

“But the ladies wouldn’t think so perhaps,” suggested the porter slyly.

“Oh, women are fools!”

“Yes, mum, some of ’em are.”

This particular lady did not notice the irony in the man’s speech, and she insisted on having all her things removed into another compartment; and having again catechized the porter as to whether it was third class, non-smoking, and if he was sure it was the right train, how often did it stop, would she have to change carriages, what time did it arrive in the morning, &c., she fumbled in her pocket for her purse, and having found it, she presented the man with the munificent sum of a penny. Then she proceeded to settle herself in the scat, trying first one way, then another, next she banged the door and spread a rug over her knees, then she began to hunt about for her ticket, and having searched every place where it was not, and got very excited, she found it at last in her glove. Now a porter came up with another lady, and number one glowered and scowled as though she thought that the entrance of any one else into that particular compartment, in which she had a right to one seat only, was an outrageous intrusion not to be tolerated.

While I stood watching this scene and feeling highly amused, the stationmaster, with whom I was well acquainted, approached me.

“Good evening, sir,” he remarked. “You are going up to the village, I think?”

“Yes; I have some business there.”

“Well, your presence is very opportune.”

“Indeed. Anything on?”

“Yes. I think, with your aid, we can accomplish now what we have been long trying to accomplish; but you will appreciate the difficulties that lie in our way.”

“Well, if I can be of any service, pray command me.”

“I knew we could count on you, and you can, I believe, render the railway company a very great service indeed.”

“Pray explain.”

“Will you walk down the platform with me?” he answered. “There are still eight minutes to spare before the train starts.”

Agreeable to this request, I strolled along with him for about fifty yards, when he stopped and pointed to a well-dressed man, wearing a handsome coat trimmed with fur at collar and cuffs, and carrying a costly railway rug over his arm. He was buying some papers at the bookstall, and had all the appearance of a well-to- do gentleman.

“You see that fellow?” whispered the stationmaster.

“Yes.”

“Well, he is one of the most notorious cardsharpers in the whole of Great Britain, perhaps. He travels all over the country, and makes a fat living. He came down here a few days ago. He travelled here by the Great Northern, and fleeced some of the passengers. He is going up to town again to-night, and has a London and North-Western ticket. He has booked for Euston, but, of course, it is probable he may get out somewhere on the road if he has a good haul.”

“If you know all this, why have you not arrested him before now?” I asked.

“Ah, that’s where the difficulty is. Passengers who have been fleeced won’t take the trouble, or are too much ashamed of themselves to appear against him; and he is so cute and so sharp, that though we have set traps for him he has nosed them out, and would not be trapped.”

“I understand. And so you want me to try what I can do?”

“Precisely.”

“But I shall want the co-operation of the company.”

“Oh, you can count on that, and the company will gladly defray every possible expense. There are a good many gentlemen returning to London to-night by this train, and this fellow hopes to make a rich haul. Will you undertake to spoil his little game?”

“I will try,” I remarked, as I studied the face of the man in the fur-trimmed coat.

“He has a confederate,” continued the stationmaster. “I haven’t seen him yet on the platform, but no doubt he will turn up. As to how you will lay your trap that is a matter entirely for you to decide. I have no doubt at all you will be able to outwit him.”

I felt a little flattered by the compliment, and requested the stationmaster to telegraph to all the stopping places on the route, and ask that a plain-clothes policeman might be on the platform in case I should require his services; and in order that I might recognize him, he was to tie a white pocket-handkerchief round his throat.

These preliminaries settled, the stationmaster left me, wishing me success, for he said that the sharper was an intolerable nuisance, and if legal evidence was only forthcoming, the fellow would get a long term of imprisonment. I kept my eye on the man whom I was so unexpectedly called upon to shadow, and I saw him go up and down the platform, and peer into the different carriages as if selecting his victim. Then I saw another well-dressed man join him for a moment and whisper something to him. Whereupon number one went to a particular carriage in which were two young swells who seemed to belong to the aristocracy. Into this compartment the sharper got, and in a few moments I followed; and just as the train was in motion the confederate rushed up with a porter after him. The door was hurriedly opened, the confederate sprang in, the porter flung in a rug and bag after him, banged the door with that terrific bang which delighteth the heart of your railway porter so much, then the train increased its speed, and we were rushing forth into the night.

The confederate, breathless and apparently exhausted, sank down on the seat, and the sharper, with a pleasant smile, remarked–

“You’ve had a narrow squeak, sir.”

“Yes, confound it?” gasped the confederate. “Saved it by the skin of my teeth only.”

“Ah, there’s nothing like punctuality,” remarked the sharper, with the air of a benign philosopher. “A man has no business to be late.”

“Hasn’t he?” growled the confederate, looking fierce and angry. “I suppose you are one of the band-box sort of people who do everything with the precision of clockwork. Well, all I’ve got to say is I hate them.”

“Well, you needn’t be rude,” answered the sharper, as he exchanged his well-polished tile for a travelling-cap, and began to spread his rug over his knees.

“Who the devil is rude?” demanded the confederate menacingly.

“You are?” was the sharp answer.

“You began it. I’m a stranger to you, and you had no business to make an offensive remark.”

“I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Well, don’t address yourself to me any more or I’ll pull your nose!”

“Will you, by–”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” I interposed, “pray don’t quarrel. I’m sure there is nothing to lose your tempers about.”

“Oh, I don’t want to quarrel,” said the sharper.

“And I’m sure I don’t,” responded the confederate.

“That’s all right, then,” I said; “pray let the subject drop.”

They each professed to be satisfied, and proceeded to settle themselves in their respective places.

Our fellow passengers were two fashionably-dressed young men, evidently brothers by the strong likeness they bore to each other; and from their costly rugs, their diamond rings and pins, they did not seem to lack this world’s goods. These young men occupied a corner each, I and the sharper the other corners, and the confederate had a middle seat. It was not a smoking carriage, but presently the sharper drew out a cigar-case with a silver monogram on it, and asked if any one objected. to smoking.

“Yes, I do,” said the confederate.

The sharper appealed to me and the two young men, and as we offered no objection, he said, addressing his confederate–

“The majority is against you, sir. Therefore I shall smoke.”

“And by heaven, if you do, I’ll throw your cigar out of the window, and lodge a complaint against you at the next station. I particularly requested to be put into a non-smoking carriage. I hate smoke.”

“Gentlemen, what do you say?” exclaimed the sharper, and he produced a box of matches.

“Well, sir,” I put in, “this gentleman is quite within his rights in objecting; therefore I think you ought not to smoke.”

“All right,” he remarked, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders as he restored his smoking gear to his pocket again, and then, with a scowl at the confederate, he muttered–

“You are a cad!”

“And you are a bully?” retorted the other.

This bit of acting was cleverly done, and simulated truth very closely; but I wasn’t deceived by it, and I waited patiently for further developments. The sharper now settled himself snugly in his corner, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and pretended to sleep. After we had passed Melrose, however, he started up, appealed to his watch, yawned, and then remarked–

“This is dreadfully slow work. What do you say, gentlemen, to a game at cards–pour passer le temps?Nobody spoke.

“Will you play, sir?” This to me.

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I don’t care about it.”

Then he asked the two young men, but they declined. For a moment or two he looked at his confederate as though it was in his mind to ask him, but finally, with a sneer and without speaking, he sank into his corner again. He did not remain inactive long, however, for once more he roused himself up, and appealing to the young gentlemen, he urged them to play, and opening a little black handbag he produced a pack of cards and a small folding board covered with green baize. “Come on, let us have a game at Nap for penny points,” he said as he began to shuffle the cards.

“No, I won’t play. In fact, I don’t understand Nap,” answered one of the brothers.

“Nor I,” said the other.

Then the sharper asked me, but I also declined, telling him I wished to sleep, as I was very tired.

“Well, well, this is extraordinary,” he remarked dolefully, and he was about to restore the cards and board to the bag again, when he suddenly changed his mind, and, placing the board on his knees, he selected three cards, one the deuce of hearts, the other the three of clubs, and the third the knave of spades. Dexterously shuffling them about, he held them up, and showed them to us, then he turned them down on the board again and moved them quickly. “Now, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll bet any one a level sovereign he can’t pick out the knave.” There was dead silence. No one offered to take the bet; no one spoke. “Well, upon my word,” he exclaimed, “this is extraordinary,” and once more he picked up the cards and held them before our eyes. “Come on, gentlemen. I’ll give two to one. What do you say?”

“Will you give five to one?” asked the confederate.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” sneered the sharper. “Besides, I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

“Don’t you!” was the snarling answer. “Well, I do think you are a fool if you want me to reply to your question.”

“Look here,” cried the sharper, with suppressed passion, “have you a five-pound note?”

“What has that got to do with you.”

“Pooh! I don’t suppose you’ve got five pounds to bless yourself with.”

“Don’t you!”

“No, I don’t. But if you have I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bet you ten pounds to five you can’t pick out the knave.” He had shuffled the three cards again, and they were lying on the board. Suddenly the confederate stretched out his hand, placed it on the middle card saying–

“I’ll take you on that bet. Gentlemen, you are witness–ten pounds to five. This is the card.” Here he held up the card triumphantly, and sure enough it was the knave.

The sharper seemed furious.

“You took an unfair advantage there,” he said, “and I won’t pay.”

“Won’t you?” cried the confederate. “Then, by George, I’ll give you in charge as a sharper!”

“Gentlemen, this man is a blackguard,” said the sharper, with flashing eyes. “But there, I’ll appeal to you and rest by your decision. If you say I ought to pay the ten pounds, I’ll pay it.”

We agreed that he should pay it, whereupon he opened a porte- monnaie, from which he took two crisp five-pound Bank of England notes, and tossed them at the confederate, who picked them up, examined them critically, and as he put them in his pocket, said–

“Ah, I had you there!”

“Well, now, look here,” exclaimed the sharper. “I’ll bet you fifty pounds to ten you don’t pick out the knave again.”

“I’m not such an idiot,” said the confederate, with a provoking laugh. “I’m going to stick to that ten.”

“Well, I hope it will do you good. Come on, sir, will you have a trial?” This to me.

I said “No,” but said it in a way that seemed to imply I should like to do so. So he urged me strenuously, and at last I asked if he would give me ten to five, and he said he would. I therefore agreed to take the bet, so he proceeded to shuffle the cards, then dropped them on the board, and said–

“Now, sir. Which is the card?”

I picked up the right-hand one. It was the knave. “Give me ten pounds,” I said.

He looked flabbergasted, and the confederate burst into a mocking roar of laughter, and said to him–

“Well, you are a griffin. Why, you don’t know how to do it.”

The sharper made no reply to this, but seemed very downcast. However, he gave me two five-pound notes, which were genuine enough, and I put them into my pocket. As we were now nearing Carlisle, he restored the board and pack of cards to his bag. But ten minutes after we had left the station, in continuation of our journey, he got his stock-in-trade out again and told the confederate that he ought to give him a chance of winning back his money, but the confederate said he wasn’t such a fool, and he intended to stick to the ten pounds. Then he tried me, but I expressed reluctance, and so he turned his attention to the two young gentlemen, and at last one of them was tempted, but he would only risk a sovereign, which he lost. Then the sharper said he would bet a level two, which was taken, and he exposed the right card so plainly that no one who watched could be mistaken, and the young fellow easily picked it out, and received the two pounds.

The bait having taken, the sharper made the best of his opportunity, and the two brothers both made guesses. Sometimes they were right, and sometimes they were wrong. Money changed hands frequently, but neither side lost anything nor won anything. They kept even. I need scarcely say, perhaps, that I was not deceived by this. I was too well acquainted with the ways of sharpers to suppose that this rascal didn’t know what he was doing. He believed he had got hold of two griffins, and he intended to pluck them. But it had to be done cautiously, or they might take fright. He now proposed that they should have an even bet of three pounds, which was accepted. The elder of the two brothers guessed first and lost. The second followed and lost also.

“Come, gentlemen, double or quits?” said the sharper, encouragingly.

The brothers assented, and again they lost.

“Double or quits again?” cried the sharper.

“Done!” said the brothers, who were getting a little desperate.

Again they lost.

“I’ll continue; double or quits?” remarked the three-card man, in a benevolent tone.

“We’ll take you,” was the answer, and once again the sharper scored.

By this time the brothers had lost £24 each, and they looked somewhat disconcerted.

“Will you have another chance?” asked the younger of the two brothers.

“Certainly.”

“Double or quits?”

“Certainly, my dear sir,” answered the sharper, with a pleasant smile.

This time the luck turned. The brothers won, and their faces beamed with smiles The sharper took a leather case from his pocket and opened it. It seemed to be crammed with bank-notes, and he was about to count out the brothers’ winnings when he stopped and said–

“Look here, gentlemen, give me my revenge. I’ll bet you a level hundred each that you don’t guess right in two times out of three.”

The brothers, after a few moments’ hesitation, consented.

They lost, of course, and the smile faded from their faces.

“That’s a hundred and twenty-four each, gentlemen,” remarked the sharper coolly and collectedly. “Shall we go on or stop?”

The brothers whispered together, then the elder said–

“Yes, we’ll go on if you like. I’ll be responsible for the two payments, and I’ll make it double or quits again.”

To this the sharper affected to demur; but he knew his book too well to miss such a chance. He was perfectly well aware that all the odds were in his favour, and it was not often that he had the chance of making such a haul as he had now. So he consented with apparent reluctance. The cards were, therefore, shuffled, placed, and the griffin was told to select. It was an anxious and exciting moment. There was a nervous look in his eyes, and his face was anxious and pale. He made his selection. It was wrong.

“The luck’s against you, sir,” remarked the sharper pleasantly, “but it will come back. What do you say now, shall we continue?”

“Certainly,” exclaimed the young man with dignity, as though he was too proud to confess his defeat.

“Good. What shall the betting be?”

“Double or quits.”

“Good again! Come on, then. One, two, three. Now, then, which card will you take?”

The young man hesitated. The look of nervous anxiety in his face was pitiable. He knew that if he lost now his debt would be nearly a thousand pounds. It was a large sum to forfeit in such a foolish way; and perhaps it never occurred to him that the debt could not be legally enforced, nor, indeed, was he under any moral obligation to pay money for bets on cards under such circumstances. But it was plain to see that he was a man of good birth and breeding, and no doubt he would regard this as a debt of honour. He made his selection at last, and of course he chose the wrong card. The whiteness of his face increased, and he said–

“I have been a fool, but you shall have the money.”

“Well, I’ll give you one more chance,” observed the sharper.

“No more chances,” replied the young man firmly.

“As you will.” Then, turning to me, he asked me if I would have a “flutter.” I assented, and I lost the ten pounds I had won, and another ten pounds besides. I refused to continue, and as the confederate was apparently sound asleep, with his chin buried deep in his coat-collar, the sharper had no more worlds to conquer, so he put up his tools, and began to gather his small belongings together, saying–

“We’re nearing Rugby. I get out here. Is it convenient, sir, for you to give me the money now?”

“No,” answered the young man, “but here is my card. Give me your address, and I will send a cheque.”

He handed the sharper his card. The fellow looked at it, and read off the name. “Henry, Lord–.”

Then, as he put the card into his pocket, he said–

“Good, my Lord. Your social position is a guarantee for the payment of this debt of honour. But perhaps your Lordship will kindly scribble me an I.O.U.”

His Lordship complied with the request. He tore a leaf from his notebook, asked the man for his name, and received for answer. “Richard Waring Eastman.” Then he wrote on the slip of paper:–

Richard Waring Eastman, I.O.U. Nine Hundred and Ninety-two Pounds (£992). Henry, Lord– Bruton Street, Mayfair, London.

Richard Waring Eastman took the document, scrutinized it to see that it was in order, and as he carefully placed it in his pocket-book, a look of keen satisfaction sat on his face.

“I am much obliged to you, my Lord,” he said, “and I hope the next time you play you will be more fortunate. I will give you your revenge any time and anywhere.”

“I shall not exact it,” answered his Lordship loftily. Eastman bowed, and shrugging his shoulders said–

“As you will. I have made the offer. I can do no more.”

The train now began to slow down as we neared Rugby. Daylight was breaking. It was a beautiful, fresh morning, and there was a delicate flush in the sky. Everything stood out sharply and clear cut, and the lights of the town were paling before the dawn. As the brakes were applied more vigorously, the confederate, who had been sleeping through the scene I have described, sprang up with a start, and exclaimed–

“Hullo! what station is this?”

“Rugby,” I answered.

“By Jove! I get out here,” he said, hastily folding up his rug, and lifting a small handbag from the rack. Then noticing that the sharper was prepared to leave the train, he said in well-simulated tones of surprise–”What, you don’t mean to say you get out here, do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Are you the only person privileged to get out at Rugby?”

“Oh dear, no!” answered the other, with a sneer of concentrated scorn.

Further conversation was prevented now by the train pulling up at the platform. Eastman handed his rug and other things to a porter, and then got out.

His confederate followed, and I whispered hurriedly to Lord–, saying. “Make your mind easy. You won’t have to pay that money. Those two fellows are cardsharpers. I am a detective, and am going to arrest them.”

His Lordship made some response, but I did not catch what it was, as I was anxious not to lose sight of my men. So I left the carriage, glanced about, and saw a tall, powerful-looking man coming towards me with a white handkerchief tied round his neck. I went to him.

“My name is Donovan,” I said. “Get hold of that man,” pointing to the confederate, who was some yards behind his companion, but both were making for the hotel, and no doubt were highly delighted with their night’s work, which would have been only too successful if I had not spoilt their little game.

I hurried up to Eastman, laid my hand heavily on his shoulder, and said–

“I arrest you as a cardsharper and swindler.”

The sudden and unexpected shock almost caused him to fall to the ground, and I noted that his face went as white as a sheet. He turned upon me fiercely and exclaimed–

“What do you mean, fellow?” Then, as he recognized me, he blanched still more, if that were possible, and with a sickly smile said–

“Oh, I say, come, this sort of joking is not pleasant, you know. It’s not even funny, and you may get yourself into trouble.”

“No,” I answered, “it’s not funny nor pleasant for you; that I can well understand. You would rather be swindling that silly young gentleman, Lord–, out of more money.”

“Who are you, fellow?” he demanded savagely.

“A detective, who was put on your track at Edinburgh.”

“You are a scoundrel, and are making a mistake for which you will have to pay dearly.”

“I will risk all that,” I remarked, as I gripped his arm tightly. He wrenched himself free, and seemed disposed to make off; but I seized him again, and as he offered some resistance I beckoned to an inspector, who grasped the situation at once, and between us we held the fellow until a policeman came up and handcuffed him. In the meantime, the other man had been secured, and they were at once conveyed to the station. The only luggage they had was a bag each and a few odds and ends. When they were searched, about a hundred pounds were found between them in Bank of England notes and gold; and they had a quantity of most excellent imitation notes representing a sum of nearly two thousand pounds. In an uncertain light these notes might easily have been taken for genuine ones. In addition, several packs of cards were found in Eastman’s bag, and, on examination, they were all found to be marked. There was also a box and some dice, a false beard and moustache, and an admirably made wig. The other fellow also had a false beard, moustache, and wig in his bag.

There was now not the slightest doubt that they were in league together, and unmitigated rascals, and the company’s officers expressed their great satisfaction that they had at last been brought to book, for complaints about them had been numerous. But they had played their game once too often, and now the law stepped in and won.

Eastman turned out to be a fellow by the name of Arthur Blanch, who had suffered two years’ imprisonment for swindling. He was well educated, having originally been a schoolmaster; but he had chosen to live by his wits, and though he must have had a pretty good harvest, retribution had at last overtaken him. His companion was an inferior rascal by the name of Thomas Atkinson. He, too, had suffered imprisnment. He had been a draper’s assistant originally, and had robbed his master. He had met Blanch in prison, and they agreed to enter into partnership on their release. Blanch, having a good address and being rather an imposing-looking man, was the lion, while Atkinson was content to act the part of the jackal. Their plan of action was to travel on those lines where they were most likely to fall in with well-to- do people, and Atkinson prowled about the luggage vans to endeavour to find out by the names on the luggage if any one of note was travelling in that particular train. By this means they became aware that young Lord–, and his brother, were going from Edinburgh to London on the fateful night when chance gave them into my hands. Had it not been for my being in the compartment they would have had a very fine night’s work indeed, and would certainly have netted that nine hundred and ninety-two pounds, for Lord–was a very young and inexperienced man, and he had but recently come into the title and estates. I had some difficulty in getting him to appear against the prisoners, but he consented at last to do so, and with the evidence I was enabled to offer, and having regard to their previous convictions, they were both sentenced to long terms of imprisonment.

2. AT THE DAWN OF DAY

THE romantic side of crime–and it must be admitted that it occasionally has a romantic side–has often been seized upon by writers for the purposes of fiction. But seldom or never do we hear of the poetical side. And yet dark deeds have been done which, when viewed from a certain standpoint, seem to possess all the elements of a poem–a tragic poem, it must be confessed. It is impossible, of course, to associate the villainy begotten of sordidness or the vulgar wickedness born of hungering greed with any of the sentiment which finds its expression in the poet’s fancy; but where love–which, next to hate, is the strongest passion of the human heart–drives its victim to the commission of wrong- doing, the harshness and bitterness which one feels under ordinary circumstances are changed into pitying sorrow; and the recording angel, who notes men’s evil deeds, may often perhaps drop a tear as he writes that “It was done for Love’s sake.”

The foregoing remarks suggest themselves to me as I recall all the circumstances of a strange case with which I was associated years ago. In a quaint old church that stands near one of the breezy wold villages of Yorkshire is a marble monument which at once puzzles the stranger, while it arouses his admiration. It is in itself a magnificent work of art, for it was executed by no less an artist than the world-renowned Italian sculptor Torcielli. It is, indeed, a poem in stone, and yet it embodies the story of the strange crime which forms the subject of this paper.

The village itself is old fashioned and dreamy, and the church solemn and silent. It was reared in a far-off age, and the men who builded so well and strong have long since entered into rest. Ivy covers its walls; ancient yews enshadow it; and beneath its floor is the dust of generations of villagers, who loved and hated, worshipped and wept, laughed and sang, until their sands ran out and the Great Smiter smote them, and in the hallowed precincts of that old church they were returned to the earth from which they sprang. The least reverential stranger who enters the holy fane must feel the effects of the solemnity of the subdued light which is filtered through the magnificent stained-glass windows, embodying a soul-thrilling story of the Passion; and he will tread with muffled footfalls as he notes that the whole floor is one huge tombstone, recording that beneath are the ashes of hundreds of human beings. If it be a summer day, he will hear the birds outside singing a passionate melody of joyous life; but the sad swaying of the whispering trees will somehow remind him that the world is a world of death, in which life is but a transient shadow.

Brasses and marble tablets affixed to walls bear the names of hundreds of well-known Yorkshire families. Here is one to a gallant soldier who fell in his country’s cause on the burning strand of India; there another to an equally gallant sailor, who, knowing not the meaning of the word “defeat,” blew up his ship rather than let it fall into the hands of his enemies; and here in a dim corner is another, which tells how a pious lady gave up all the comforts and pleasures of a luxurious home to go forth amongst sickness, want, and disease, in order that by her gentle presence and ministering hand she might alleviate mortal misery. Beautiful she was, and wealthy and clever, but long ere she had reached the noon of life she fell a victim to her devotion, being stricken down by a pestiferous disease which she contracted in a city slum. But these pathetic records, telling of duty done nobly, of life lived well, of death met bravely, will probably fade from the memory of the visitor as soon as he passes from the dim religious light, so suggestive of death, into the glare of day again; though there is one monument there he will continue to see in his mind’s eye so long as he may live.

It stands in a niche near the communion rails, and it is so placed that a softened and chastened light, from a small window near the roof, falls full upon it. On a solid block of marble are two life-size figures. One is that of a young and beautiful girl with a wealth of magnificent hair flowing down her back, the other is a young man. They are rushing towards each other with outstretched arms, and on the face of each is an expression of seraphic joy. There is no record of any kind on this unique monument, but in deeply-carved letters is the simple line–

AT THE DAWN OF DAY.

The monument is at once a poem and a puzzle. As a work of art it is superb; and artists, sculptors, and poets have made pilgrimages to see it. But the ordinary visitor is impressed with a sense of something wanting. He is confronted with a problem where of all places in the world he least expects to find a problem carved in stone. But that monument is eloquent of a sad and pathetic story, which I now propose to tell.

It was an early spring morning, I remember, that a gentleman called upon me, and in an abrupt and unceremonious way said–

“I am a man of few words. My niece and ward, Miss Blanche Harley, aged eighteen, has clandestinely left my roof and care, and I have reason to believe she has gone off to join a rascal who, without my consent and against my will, has been making love to her. As the girl is a ward in Chancery, and I have been appointed her guardian under an order of the Court, she can be brought back under a warrant, and the fellow who has taken her off will be severely punished.”

The speaker–Major-General Panton, retired–was a tall, straight, grizzled man, with a hard, stern face, cold, piercing grey eyes, thin lips, and a general suggestiveness in his manner and address of being very determined and possessed of an unpoetical and unsympathetic nature. He looked like one who had been born to command, and who could make his power felt and respected. The result of my interview with him was that I gathered the following particulars. He represented a very old Yorkshire family, and had passed his life as a soldier in the service of the Hon. East India Company. He had an only sister, who against the wishes and will of her family married Gregory Heinault Harley, the representative of an equally good Yorkshire family, who boasted that they were settled in the county in the Saxon times, and opposed the landing of the Conqueror, but subsequently made their peace with him, and rendering him fealty, received grants of large estates. Between the Harleys and the Pantons, however, there had for many years existed a family feud, the result of a property dispute, which had long occupied the attention of Chancery, and had been the means of pouring into the coffers of the ghoulish lawyers thousands and thousands of pounds. But deadly as the enmity was between certain members of the two families, it did not prevent Gregory Harley and Blanche Panton from falling desperately in love with each other, and marrying in spite of all the efforts of their friends to frustrate their desire. Young Harley had been brought up to the profession of arms, and was gazetted to a captaincy soon after his marriage. Six months later he was ordered abroad with his regiment to take part in the terrible Crimean campaign. He was one of the very earliest victims of that great war, and his young widow, broken-hearted and crushed with grief, bore him a posthumous daughter; but the shock to her constitution by the news of her husband’s death prevented her rallying from the trying ordeal, and she joined her husband in that realm–

Where beyond these voices there is peace.

The infant daughter, through her parents, was heiress to a very large fortune, and subsequently she was made a ward in Chancery and placed under the care of her uncle. She had been educated with every care, and brought up in a style commensurate with her social position, but in spite of all the vigilance exercised, she had fallen in love with her cousin Jasper Harley, a young fellow some four years her senior. The lovemaking was carried on clandestinely for a long time, but at length it came to the ears of General Panton, and from what I gathered there is little doubt he took very high-handed proceedings indeed; and the bitter feelings he entertained for the Harleys caused him, I think, to forget that he was a “soldier and a gentleman.” But as love laughs at locksmiths, so it is capable of defying furious uncles and stern Courts of Chancery. At any rate, in this particular case both young Harley and Miss Panton seem to have made up their minds that they would not be separated, come what might; and, of course, if the young lady had waited until she came of age, she could have done as she liked. But youth is impatient and love blind, so Jasper Harley and Blanche Panton found some means of keeping up communication, and the affair culminated in the flight of Blanche.

Such was the sum and substance of this tale of chequered love which I learned from the gruff and grim old soldier, whose feeling against Jasper found expression in language that was something more than peppery. The General had a town house, and a box down in Yorkshire, but he only occupied the latter during the shooting season, and the greater part of his time was spent in London. His house was situated in Mayfair, where he kept up a pretty expensive bachelor establishment, and, being fond of company and dining, he entertained a good deal.

The Harleys lived in Yorkshire, their place being known as Castle Moorland. It had been in the occupation of the family for generations, although, as things go nowadays, they were considered poor. At any rate, the General referred to them a. “these beggarly wretches who starve themselves in order to keep up an appearance.” Of course I could not fail to see how very embittered the General was, and I ventured to hint as delicately as I could that as the young couple were related, and obviously desperately in love with each other, it might not be a bad thing to look leniently on the young man’s offence, and ultimately allow them to find in possession of each other the happiness they sighed for. But this suggestion made the fiery old martinet furious. He banged the table with his fist, stamped his foot, and exclaimed in stentorian tones–

“Look here, Mr. Donovan, I came to you because I understood you are a crack-hand at tracing people; but, demme! I–I won’t be dictated to, and if your sympathies are with this rascal and my ungrateful niece, I’ll precious soon find somebody who’ll take a different view.”

“As the young lady and gentleman are utter strangers to me,” I remarked. “I can have no interest one way or the other, and as you seek my professional services I am perfectly willing to place them at your disposal. But serious as Mr. Harley’s offence is, in running away with a ward in Chancery, I do think some allowance should be made for his youth and for the young lady’s feelings.”

“I tell you, sir, he is an unmitigated rascal, and she is an ingrate, and I’ll make no allowance whatever for their feelings. As for love between them–pooh, bosh, humbug! There’s no such thing. It is a stupid, mad infatuation on her part. He has crammed her head with all sorts of rubbish until he has quite turned her brain; and all he thinks of is her money. It’s her fortune that he’s got his eye on, and since he’s been warned over and over again I’ll show him no mercy. Not a scrap. I’ll have the law on him to its fullest extent.”

I had to admit to myself the possibility that as the young lady was heiress to a very large fortune, it was that which had prompted the young man to commit so serious an offence as the carrying off a Chancery ward, so I told the General that I would set to work at once and do my best to trace them. On this understanding he took himself off seething with smouldering fire and fury, and I certainly felt that young Harley had little to hope for from his stony-hearted relative.

By this time my interest was aroused; it was a romantic case, and I thought that, whatever happened now, it was safe to predict that if the young people really loved each other they would ultimately come together again for good and aye. But I was not indifferent to the possibility of the young man, after all, being only a vulgar fortune-hunter; such people were not uncommon.

I found on inquiry that on the previous night the General had had a dinner-party, and he and his friends played whist until the early hours of the morning. The consequence was he did not rise till very late, but Miss Harley was up unusually early, and told her maid that as she had a headache, and the morning was so very fine, she was going to walk in the park. According to the maid’s statement, she was profoundly astonished at such an unusual proceeding on her young mistress’s part, and offered to accompany her, but Blanche insisted on going alone. Nearly three hours had passed, and as the young lady had not returned, Judson, the maid, got very anxious, and as soon as the General came downstairs she mentioned the circumstance to him. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that his niece had eloped with her lover, and, only waiting to swallow a cup of coffee, he drove down to my office. As six hours had passed when I reached the house from the time the young lady had gone out, and as she had not come back, it was clear something had happened. But the General would not for a moment listen to the suggested possibility of an accident. He declared he would stake all he had in the world on it that she had gone off with her cousin. Circumstances certainly did point to that being the case, and particularly when we learnt that Miss Harley had carried off the greater part of her jewellery with her.

Now it occurred to me that though Judson was very plausible and seemed greatly distressed, she was not quite so ignorant of the reason which had taken her mistress out as she pretended to be. I therefore requested her to grant me a private interview.

“Probably you are aware,” I began, “that some love-making had taken place between Miss Blanche and her cousin?”

“I have heard of it,” she answered curtly.

“How did you hear of it?”

“Well, Miss Harley herself told me about it.”

“And what is your opinion with reference to the feeling she entertained for her cousin? Do you think she loved him?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure she does.”

“She has always given you that impression?”

“Yes. And I am sure he was the dream of her life.”

“And what about his feelings for her?”

“He is just as much in love with her as she is with him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have seen his letters, and they are the most delightful love-letters a man could possibly write.”

“Then you don’t think it’s merely the young lady’s fortune he is aiming at?”

“Indeed I do not. I don’t think he cares one rap whether she has a fortune or not.”

“How was it you came to see his letters?”

“Because she showed them to me.”

“Oh, I see. You were in her confidence?”

“Certainly.”

“How did her lover manage to send letters to her without her uncle knowing it?”

This question seemed to throw Miss Judson into a state of considerable confusion, and she was evidently at a loss how to answer. But at last she blurted out–

“I don’t know.”