The Ends of Justice E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Jovian Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 335

Beschreibung

He would awaken from the dream fearing he may go mad. It was horribly realistic; as realistic as the prison bars, the tramp of heavy feet in the clanging corridors, the rattle of keys in distant locks. Was he a criminal? Perhaps. George Cathcart stood face to face with the certainty of a long term of penal servitude. He claimed to be a victim of circumstances. He was charged with conspiring with Seth Powell, who'd since died in mysterious circumstances, to cast away the yacht Lone Star on the high seas. Would anyone every believe his story?

Leseprobe

THE ENDS OF JUSTICE

Fred M. White

JOVIAN PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by Fred M. White

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I - HIS LORDSHIP IS INDISPOSED

II - THE EVENING AFTER

III - DELILAH!

IV - “I AM INNOCENT”

V - THE MAN WITH THE TARRY THUMBS

VI - THE CLICK OF THE TYPEWRITER

VII - THE WANDERER RETURNS

VIII - A SURPRISE FOR THE PROSECUTION

IX - IN FAVOR OF THE PRISONER

X. MOSTYN HAS A VISITOR

XI - THE EMPTY CHAMBER

XII. THE WORM TURNS

XIII - MORE TELEGRAMS THAN ONE

XIV - REMORSE

XV - FOUND!

XVI - A FRIEND IN NEED

XVII - A DRAMATIC ENTRANCE

XVIII - MOSTYN IS ALARMED

XIX - “THE QUEEN OF THE MIST”

XX - POWELL INTERVENES

XXI - RENTON TAKES THE RISK

XXII. DANGER

XXIII - WHAT DID HE KNOW?

XXIV. MADNESS

XXV - THE INTERRUPTED FEAST

XXVI - A WAITING GAME

XXVII - A PERILOUS ERRAND

XXVIII - THE FLASK OF BURGUNDY

XXIX - ON THE VERGE

XXX - IN THE NET

XXXI - DRAWING CLOSER

XXXII - ON THE LONE STAR

XXXIII - BY THE THROAT

XXXIV - ON THE FLAT SANDS

XXXV - AN OPEN VERDICT

I - HIS LORDSHIP IS INDISPOSED

~

IT WAS NOTHING BUT a dream. He would wake up presently, with the heaving deck under his feet and the salt of the sea pungent in his nostrils. Meanwhile the dream was horribly realistic; so were the prison bars, the acrid smell of fresh whitewash, the tramp of heavy feet in the clanging corridors, the rattle of keys in distant locks.

“My God!” George Cathcart cried. “I shall go mad. I shall—”

He paused, overcome with the crushing burden of it all. He paced up and down the narrow cell, backwards and forwards, restlessly, like a tiger in a cage, his magnificent chest heaving like that of a distressed runner.

A criminal? Well, perhaps. But there was nothing criminal about the clear-cut brown face, nothing furtive in those clear, blue eyes. And yet, unless some miracle happened, George Cathcart stood face to face with the certainty of a long term of penal servitude. A victim of circumstances, the tool and scapegoat of rascals who walked unscathed in the broad light of day. One moment it seemed impossible that he could be convicted, yet another moment and the damning evidence on which he had been committed for trial caused him to tremble with something worse than fear.

In the face of that evidence, who would believe his story? He might as well stand up in court and denounce the learned judge who tried him, as attack the name of those who had brought him to this pass.

Cathcart flung himself down at length, utterly worn out and exhausted. He turned to his breakfast, and then away again with a loathing and disgust. A foggy November sun struggled through the narrow window; outside, in the street beyond, some boys were squabbling over a game of marbles. The little assize town of Lewton took but faint interest in the legal function annually held there. Lewton ‘gaol’ was little more than a lock-up. The court accommodation was of the vilest, and loud were the complaints of Bench and Bar that the whole assize had not been transported to Beachmouth years before. It was all the same to Cathcart. On the whole, he could hide his shame better there.

Cathcart could hear the sounds of bustle and pomp outside. He heard the judge’s carriage drive up presently; he could catch the thud of dogged, patient footsteps of witnesses as they shuffled up and down the pavement outside. Then the door of the cell opened, and the warder in charge came in. Lewton gaol was not of sufficient importance to boast of a governor. Samuel Gem nodded to the prisoner.

“Your case will be called next,” he said. “If you want to see a lawyer—”

“I want to see nothing.” George replied doggedly. “When all the powers of hell are allied against me, what does one paltry servant of the devil matter?”

“Going to plead guilty, eh?”

“Going to do nothing of the sort. But I’m not going to waste the little money I have on lawyers.”

Gem fidgeted pompously about the cell. He was a little man, with a distinctly military manner, and a large idea of his own importance. A lady-killer, too, in his own small way, and impressionable so far as the other sex was concerned. Beyond a love for being mistaken for a commissioned officer, Samuel Gem had one rosy dream. That was to save one thousand pounds and take a place in the country, where he could grow flowers and fruit. But this weakness was known to few.

“I suppose you’ve got friends some where,” he suggested.

“Ay, I have,” George said bitterly. “But I’m not going to let them know of the disgrace that has befallen me. There were one or two men who were with me at Oxford, and there is a girl who lives not two miles from here; but that’s my business.”

A couple of hours dragged slowly away before the cell door opened again. George noticed how thick the fog lay in the corridor. Out of the gloom the two stalwart policemen came clanking imperiously.

“Prisoner, you’re wanted,” one of them said curtly.

George nodded defiantly. He hoped that these men could not hear how wildly his heart was beating. With a proud face Cathcart marched between the two men in blue, he passed through an old nail-studded door into a kind of deep brown well, and was immediately conscious that three hundred pairs of eyes were turned upon him. Those glances stung like whip lashes; they seemed to fall on Cathcart’s heart, and leave it bare and bleeding. In a dazed kind of way he stumbled into the dock, and stood there trembling. He clutched the rail before him until the stout oak creaked, and then the knowledge that his soul was free from crime came back to him, and he took in the whole court with clear and steady gaze.

He saw a group of vagrant loungers in the gallery, half-hidden in the gloom, and yet eager to follow the story of a crime. Under the dock, in the well of the court, was the long solicitors’ table, and behind that a circular bench and table for the use and benefit of the bar. Some of the bewigged juniors were so close that Cathcart could have snatched the horsehair from the heads of several had he been so disposed.

Across the other side of the hall was a weird old oak four-poster kind of arrangement, under which the commissioner sat. For the moment the judicial throne was deserted. Presently there was a movement and flutter amongst the bar, the rep curtains were drawn back, and as Sir Cyril Bath came in Cathcart glanced up at him listlessly and then down again. It seemed to him that he had seen that clear-cut, incisive face before, only the heavy grey wig and gold-rimmed spectacles made a difference. His mind went wandering off vaguely. He was at sea again, with the rolling deck swaying under his feet....

“Prisoner at the bar! Prisoner at the bar!”

A policeman shook Cathcart roughly. He murmured some vague, hoarse apology under his breath. The Clerk of Sessions was reading the long indictment with level monotony.

“Prisoner at the bar! You are charged inasmuch as that you did, between the 17th and the 19th of September last, conspire with one Seth Powell, since deceased, to cast away the yacht Lone Star on the high seas. And, furthermore—”

Cathcart ceased to listen. He had heard that jargon till he was sick to death of it. He had conspired to cast away the Lone Star, so said the prosecution, for the sake of the heavy insurance, in connection with one Seth Powell, who had since committed suicide. And the deadly thing was that he really had cast away the Lone Star by which catastrophe no lives had been lost, so that only by good luck did he escape the capital charge. And how could he prove that he had been made the victim of a gang of the most infamous rascals who ever sent a coffin ship to her doom for the sake of her heavy insurance?

“Do you plead guilty, or not guilty?”

Cathcart came to himself again with a start. He drew himself up, but glanced round the gloomy court proudly. He looked with blue eyes into the face of the judge.

“Not guilty,” he cried. His voice rang in the brown rafters. He seemed to rivet Sir Cyril Bath with his steely gaze. “Not guilty, your lordship, if I stand here—”

George Cathcart said no more. Just for the moment he might have been the judge and the keen-faced man in the wig the prisoner. With a queer, startled cry, the great man pitched forward, he swayed from side to side of his judicial throne. He would have fallen it the associate by his side had not caught him. The strange white pallor of his face was a grotesque contrast to his grey wig. His queer, tremulous cry still rang in the ears of all present.

A jangled hubbub followed. Obsequious ushers came charging in with glasses of water. The prisoner was forgotten for the moment. He had quite forgotten his own parlous state. With a curious feeling he watched that huddled heap of silk and ermine and horsehair, till he saw it struggle upwards into the semblance of a man.

“I’m all right now,” came a hoarse whisper that echoed round the rigidly still court-house. “A heart spasm. Please go back to your places.”

The ghastly grey of the face gave way to a healthier hue, but Cathcart did not fail to note that Sir Cyril lay back with his features quite hidden throughout the morning. The cool, judicial air came back presently, gradually the incident was forgotten. But not one word did Sir Cyril utter as the prosecution proceeded.

The case was damning enough; it was black as Erebus from the first. One or two witnesses were obviously lying, but there were other witnesses who made a telling story against the prisoner. He was startled to find what a deal they knew of his career. The production of his banking account of itself almost proved the case for the prosecution.

Well, it didn’t matter. The court was getting hot and stuffy, and Cathcart was nodding, dazed, and tired, and worn out with want of sleep. Moreover, there was no chance of the case being finished to-day, so that the nervous tension was not so great as it would be later on.

Cathcart was dreaming of many things. He wondered why those idle young barristers could remain in court when they might have been much more healthily employed outside. Some of them assumed to be busy—one especially, right under the dock, who was making notes in a dashing handwriting on sheets of paper, and then tearing them up again. He had a couple of big books before him that effectually protected his literary labors from the curious gaze of his next-door neighbor. He was a brown-faced young man, with filaments of tar on his well-shaped hands. An enthusiastic yachts man evidently, a man who could sail his own boat. Cathcart was quite interested in the brown-faced man.

The latter was making notes again. Cathcart glanced down curiously. He could see the words quite plainly. He bit his lip to keep back the cry that knocked hard at his lips for exit.

“Keep your heart up, Cathcart: fine weather is coming. If you’ve got that, give a quiet sigh—I shall hear you.”

Cathcart sighed gently in a dazed kind of way. He saw a quick jerk of the sleek, close-cropped head below, and then the slip of paper was torn into the most minute fragments. Cathcart had forgotten all about his perilous position for the moment; he heard not the voice or the witness, or the mouthing questions of the eminent K.C. who represented the Crown. His whole soul was absorbed in the contemplation of the scribe below him, who was busy with his pen again. A moment later and he was reading with breathless interest once more:

“A stout heart and do exactly what you are told. You are an honorable man, and I can trust you. At midnight you will stand outside Lewton gaol a free man. Wait there and do as you are told, or you may get a girl into serious trouble.”

The paper was destroyed again. There was a pause for a moment, and then on a fresh sheet the strange ally wrote two words. They were the name of a girl—the pretty name of Russet Ray.

“My God!” Cathcart thought. “My own dear Russet. I am losing my senses.”

But he wasn’t. Far from it. The name disappeared, and more writing followed.

“You are to do as you are told, and when your task is finished you are to come back here to the gaol, and the hand that releases you will be the hand that sees you safe under lock and key again. But you will have done the best day’s work you ever did in your life. Give me your word of honor that shall be so. Cough.”

Cathcart coughed. He held his breath, waiting for what was to come. But nothing more came, for the simple reason that the man with the tar on his nails rose quietly and left the court. As he passed through the nail-studded door he flashed Cathcart one meaning look.

The prisoner passed his hand across his brow; he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Then somebody was heard to say that the court was held adjourned till ten the following morning and George saw, to his intense surprise, that it was four o’clock.

He was back in his cell again, pacing up and down, mad for the quick flight of time and the coming of midnight. He fought down a wild desire to beat himself against the bars.

“What does it mean?” he murmured. “Hope! I dare not think of it! Heaven grant me patience to wait. If I could only sleep!”

II - THE EVENING AFTER

~

THE HOARSE VOICE OF the commissioner coming like the croak of a raven out of the foggy gloom had signified the hour of adjournment but the prisoner in the dock had heard nothing strange. He was too deeply wrapped up in the amazing drama that had been played to himself as the sole audience. But others had not failed to heed.

The bar had noticed it, and were discussing the matter eagerly. A few of the more thoughtful spectators marvelled as they took their way home-wards. And Lockwood Mostyn smiled as he shuffled out of court in his peculiar cat-like fashion. Men made way for him, others touched their hats to the capitalist, but he pushed by all of them. The smile on his dark features deepened. A little way down sleepy High-street a seedy-looking man, who might have been a broken-down professional man of some kind, was lounging. As Mostyn passed, the seedy man looked up with an inquiring eye.

“Yes,” Mostyn muttered, “Sir Cyril is in his private room at the Courthouse. See him at once and serve the writ upon him. Then come to my house between six and seven.”

The seedy man nodded and quickened his footsteps. Mostyn passed on with the air of a man who, on the whole, is pleased with his day’s work.

He had a well-sounding, good old English name, but there was little of the Anglo-Saxon in Mostyn’s blood. His jaw was heavy, and his face determined, but his thick lips and dark, beady eyes proclaimed the fact that Mostyn was not far remote from a Russian Jew. He was reputed to stand fairly high in the world of finance; he lived in great style at Lewton, which was within an hour of the city, and amongst a certain set he was regarded as a coming man. As to his antecedents, nobody knew or cared anything. He was one of the mysterious flowers in the garden of finance that occasionally grows into a strong plant, and just as occasionally withers away in a gaol. If Mostyn had one particular line, it was shipping.

“I must tighten the cord a little,” Mostyn muttered as he walked along. “Bath has not quite the grit I gave him credit for. The fool was very near to the rocks this morning. I’ll drop into the club and send him an ultimatum to come and dine with me to-night.”

Meanwhile, Sir Cyril Bath had flung off his robes and wig, and was lying back in his chair with a white face and eyes that told of strange mental anguish. The usually strong man had been greatly moved by something. Unsuccessful rivals said that Sir Cyril Bath had no heart and no feeling. In ten years he had jumped from almost the outer bar into a judgeship. And there was no more miserable man in England at that moment. He saw and heard nothing, not even the loud, impatient knocking on the door. Then a handle was turned, and a seedy-looking man, with a faint, apologetic smile, crept in.

“Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said. “But I was bound to give you this. Thank you, my lord. I wish your lordship good-day.”

The man slipped silently away. Bath took up the oblong slip of paper. He opened it with something like a curse on his lips. It was a writ for nearly two thousand pounds. With a sudden frenzy of passion he tore the offending document in pieces.

“This will finish it,” he groaned. “Well, there will be a pretty scandal at the bar, and a vacancy for some of those hungry fellows. Speculation, and betting, and moneylenders! A fitting epitaph for the grave of a man who aspired to be Lord Chancellor. Well!”

A porter came in with a letter, a note from Mostyn, asking, or rather commanding, Sir Cyril to dine with him that night. Perhaps Mostyn could find some way out of the difficulty. His lordship never dreamt that Mostyn had deliberately brought it about.

“My compliments to Mr. Mostyn, and I shall be very pleased,” he said. “Send over to Langdean Cross for my dress clothes, and tell them to send a brougham over to bring me to Langdean Cross not later than midnight. My man is to come to the judge’s lodgings.”

As a matter of fact, Bath’s country house was close to Lewton, a fine old place where he spent as much time as possible. For Sir Cyril was ambitious, he hoped to marry some day and found a county family. But for the expensive luxury of Langdean Cross things might have been fairly prosperous with him.

But Cyril Bath was in no mood to think of that for the present. He crossed moodily over to the judge’s lodgings, where he had tea, and where he waited for his man to come and dress him for dinner. A little after seven be passed jauntily into the streets, and walked in the direction of Mostyn’s house. There were many people who recognised him, and saluted him respectfully for the great and powerful, envied man that he was. Bath smiled bitterly. If those people only knew!

He came at length to Mostyn’s resplendent place, with its mock Gothic lodge, its sheets of glittering glass, and its showy furniture. It was all very costly, and garish and overpowering, loud with the flavor of wealth, and varnished with the gloss that Mostyn’s soul loved.

The costly, loud vulgarity of the drawing-room was chastened and toned by the wealth and beauty of the flowers there. Even the parvenu cannot debase flowers. It is impossible to have too many of them anywhere. Half-a-dozen pink-shaded lamps gave repose to the room, and toned down the pictures and the garish statuary. Evidently a feminine hand and a dainty feminine mind had been at work here. Sir Cyril looked round approvingly.

There was just the suggestion of a silken whisper, and a girl rose from a low seat by the fire. This was Mostyn’s niece, Russet Ray. Nobody had ever got to the bottom of the relationship, and nobody really believed it. For Russet was gentle, and sweet, and refined, a genuine English girl with a complexion of milk and roses, and a pair of grey eyes that glowed in her face like the clear surface of a summer lake. The little mouth was firm and resolute, the low, broad forehead told of a mental power and intelligence beyond the common.

“How are you, Sir Cyril?” she asked in the sweetest possible voice. “And how is Grace? She has not been to see me for quite a time.”

“I believe my ward is very well,” the judge replied. “So long as she is at Langdean Cross she is perfectly happy. Most girls of her age always long for London. Where is your uncle?”

Mostyn, resplendent in glossy linen and diamond studs, solved the conundrum by appearing at the same moment. A magnificent specimen of the butler tribe stood in the doorway with the announcement that dinner was served.

The dinner was long and elaborate, a repast worthy of Lucullus. The table glittered with plate and linen and crystal, a garish display softened and chastened by the banks of feathery ferns and flowers. Everything was redolent of wealth: you could imagine the master of it all signing cheques for millions with less effort than a child over a copybook. Sir Cyril sat there quiet and moody, eating little and drinking a deal of champagne. Russet rose from her chair at length.

“I have ordered coffee in the billiard-room,” she said, “where I shall leave you to talk the business you both like so much. As for me, business seems a horrid thing. But I am only a girl.”

She passed out with a little laugh. Her face grew hard and grave as she found herself alone. She crept into the billiard-room, and from thence in to the dark green heart of the winter garden beyond, leaving the glass door slightly open behind her. There she sat with the air of one who listens. She had come on purpose.

Mostyn came swaggering and whistling into the billiard-room, followed by his guest. He switched on an extra electric light or two.

“Give me plenty of light,” he said. “Have a cigar? Here’s your coffee, and the liqueur stand is behind you. You’ve had a nasty jar to-day.”

“It was a bit of a shock,” Bath muttered. “I never expected it. I had come to Lewton to-day to take the place of my learned brother, Judge Denham. The sudden illness of his wife, you know.”

Mostyn nodded and chuckled. There was a demoniac grin on his face, a look of cunning in his dark eyes.

“I knew what you had to face,” he said. “And you didn’t come out of it well, Bath; you’re not the man I took you for.”

“My good friend, if I had been recognised—”

“Pooh! There was no chance of that. Who could possibly mistake the most learned Commissioner Bath in his wig and spectacles for the reckless, rollicking—but no matter. All’s well that ends well.”

“But will it end well?” asked Bath, as he pulled moodily at his cigar. “Fancy me sitting there trying the very man—”

“Who put the Lone Star away,” Mostyn growled. “The case is as clear as daylight; as clear as—”

“Mostyn, a blacker conspiracy against an innocent man—”

“You chattering fool!” Mostyn hissed. “Harden your heart; send him to gaol. Give him as long a term as possible—say, twenty years. A few weeks ago it was a toss-up whether we sank or swam. If I hadn’t laid the plant for Cathcart, who would have stood in his place? If that cur of a Powell hadn’t funked it and committed suicide, not one breath of the story would ever have become public property. And when the facts began to leak out, somebody had to suffer. And it won’t be the first time that an innocent man has had to suffer. You’re not going to back out now.”

“It’s a fearful position for a man to be in.”

“Better than being in gaol,” Mostyn said pointedly. “Look here, Bath. You are in a pretty tight place, and it will take all our skill to get out of it. We are both in need of money—”

“I—well, you know pretty well how I stand. And I’ve just been served with a writ for two thousand pounds. I’ve got eight days. My God! I’m afraid to think what will come at the end of that time.”

Mostyn nodded. The information of this new crisis was no news to him. As a matter of fact, he had engineered it for his own ends.

“I daresay I can manage that for you,” he said. “Nothing like push and audacity. Look at my house, my pictures, my jewellery. Every stick of it is mortgaged, not a bottle of wine paid for. Why, I am in debt for the very socks I wear. And out of the hundreds of pounds I owe in Lewton there is no tradesman who dares ask for his money. If they suggest payment, I bully them, and then give them large orders. And they charge me forty per cent. extra, and chuckle over the idea they are doing me. Well, if it turns out trumps they will be paid; if not, serve the greedy rascals right. But I’m not going to fail. My courage and audacity will pull me through, and you and I are going to be two of the richest men in England. We shall live to have many a laugh over this business.”

But Sir Cyril shook his head moodily. Mostyn had nothing to lose. If he came to grief he could start again. Whereas the other bulked large in the public eye, he stood on a lofty pedestal, and if he fell he fell like Lucifer, never to rise again. Bankruptcy was bad enough, but only Bath knew what a disgraceful bankruptcy his would be.

“It’s all very well,” he muttered. “You and I have been in some queer schemes together, but none of them ever turned out well. The Lone Star business was to put one hundred thousand pounds in our pockets, instead of which we lose our original outlay and narrowly escape—”

“But we haven’t lost it yet, man,” Mostyn cried impatiently. “We have only to lie low and do the dignified, and the underwriters must pay in time. And your name does not appear in the business at all. It was no fault of mine that Cathcart turned traitor for his own ends, but merely a coincidence. If you will only be a man, all will be well yet, and you will finger your fifty thousand pounds before the year is out.”

Bath rose and paced the room with agitated strides.

“If I only could,” he muttered. “If I had that money I should be free of all the anxiety and trouble that is slowly crushing the life out of me. I should be able to look the whole world in the face instead of a disgraceful finish that would be a record in the history of the bench of judges. And never would I be tempted to speculate again.”

“Not till the next time,” Mostyn sneered. “You’re a pretty fine lot, because you’ve never been found out, at least, hardly ever. But there was Judge Jefferies, and Bacon, and Walpole, and one or two more who weren’t exactly angels in their way. A judge is only a man after all. If you like to fight it out you may dine in the House of Lords, or if you lie down to it you may peg out in a gutter. I’ve got a little plan—”

Bath groaned aloud. He hastily poured out a glass of brandy and tossed it down his parched throat. Mostyn watched him uneasily and with some contempt.

“That’s not the way,” he said significantly. “There’s only one finish for a man who starts bracing himself up with brandy. How long can you give me?”

“An hour or more,” said Bath. “I sleep at Langdean Cross to-night. My brougham comes for me at midnight. What’s that noise?”

There was no noise beyond the stirring of a leaf in the conservatory. Russet crouched closer and held her breath.

* * * * *

A big clock was striking the hour of midnight as Sir Cyril slipped into his brougham. A cold stream of air came from the direction of the conservatory. The further door leading into the garden had been open for this half-hour past. A woman by the outer gate darted in the direction of Lewton High-street. The big, old-fashioned brougham lumbered along with Bath inside. He seemed to be half asleep, as was the red-faced coachman on the box. Neither of them appeared to see anything. They did not see the solitary figure of a man lounging in the shadow of the gaol. They did not see the figure dart out and swing itself on the bar behind the brougham; they had no knowledge of the white-faced, tight-lipped burden they were carrying into the heart of the night.

III - DELILAH!

~

CHIEF WARDER SAMUEL GEM was relaxing his official duties after the toils of the day. The great man was full of pleased importance. For something like eleven months in the year he was little more than a sergeant of police with the smaller criminal fry to deal with, for Lewton was not a modern gaol, and such prisoners as were tried there at the Assizes were brought from afar.

There were only a few cells there, and a determined criminal would have made light of his prison. Also Gem had but one subordinate, and he had gone home for the night, leaving Gem to look after George Cathcart and two other prisoners.

It was nearly ten, and Samuel Gem stood under the heavy stone gateway leading to his house and the prison beyond smoking a choice cigar, a present from an amiable member of the junior bar. Gem was on exceedingly good terms with himself to-night. He was thinking of his prospects and his conquests. Really, it was quite time that he got married, if only in fairness to others and less favored men. He was a little tired, too, of the old woman who cooked his food and kept his house clean, and then left him like an official Robinson Crusoe till morning.

By the time that Gem had finished his cigar he had practically made up his mind. On the whole, it should be Lottie Fair. There was a time when Gem was almost forced to believe that Lottie was laughing at him. But the last week or two she had been so different. Gem sighed gently as he thought of those bright eyes, and that bewitching little figure. And Miss Russet Ray’s maid had two hundred pounds in the bank. She had told Gem so. Well, he might do worse.

It was only in accordance with the eternal fitness of things that the object of Gem’s thoughts should loom in sight at that same moment. The trim little figure half paused, stopped, and shook hands.

“I declare if it isn’t Mr. Gem,” she said.

Gem admitted his identity quite genially. He also remarked that Miss Lottie was late to-night. Perhaps she had been out to supper, or perhaps some favored mortal of the sterner sex—

Lottie of the bright eyes was properly shocked. She had never done that kind of thing, and she never would until an engagement ring sparkled on her fair finger. In some subtle way she gave Gem to understand that he was more favored than most mortals. But then he was a superior man, and had a residence inside the precincts of the gaol. Lottie was moved by a sudden curiosity to see the inside of that grim place. To Gem’s great satisfaction she was seated in his sitting room a few minutes later. In that time she had learnt as much about the gaol as Gem had done in the course of years.

“And you could let the prisoners out and nobody be any the wiser?” she asked.

With a Burleigh-like nod Gem admitted that such was the case.

He looked down admiringly into Lottie’s bright eyes. She was very close to him; she was deeply interested. In an absent-minded way Mr. Gem slipped his arm around the girl’s slender waist. Lottie blushed rosily.

“It’s easy, but dull,” Gem said. “If I had a wife now! Lottie, I’ve been thinking a good deal about you lately.”

“Have you?” Lottie asked, with a tender smile. “I don’t fancy I could live here, Samuel—I mean Mr. Gem. A little place in the country now. If we’d got another five hundred pounds!”

“Ah!” Gem sighed. “If ifs and ans were pots and pans!”

Lottie sat up suddenly. Her eyes were gleaming, a bright red spot burned on either cheek. From her pocket she produced a crackling white packet, and proceeded to display five one-hundred pound Bank of England notes before Gem’s dazed and astonished eyes. Visions of a cottage with roses on it, dreams of a cow, and pigs, and prize poultry danced before Gem’s mental vision. He felt that he had never loved with a pure and genuine and disinterested passion till now.

“All that yours,” he gasped. “What a darling.”

He bent over and sought Lottie’s coy lips. They were not withheld.

“It isn’t mine,” she whispered; “it’s yours. You have only to do one little thing and the notes are your own. And then you will be able to take that cottage you told me about.”

Gem could say nothing for a moment.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked hoarsely.

“To give one of your prisoners the key of the street for an hour or two. Don’t stand staring at me like that. It’s Mr. George Cathcart that I want you to be kind to.”

“It can’t be done,” Gem said unsteadily.

Lottie’s bright eyes filled with tears. She murmured that all her hopes were shattered. Meanwhile the white, crisp banknotes stared into Gem’s fascinated eye from the table. Dare he risk it? Was it not possible that the prisoner might come back again? If not, he would lose his pension, but he would still have his five hundred pounds and the cottage.

“It’s like a bit from one of them novels,” he murmured. “Sort of persecuted hero. If I only felt certain that chap would come back—”

Miss Farr cast herself into Gem’s arms. She carried the fortress with a rush. It was not the first time that a great man has been led by a pretty woman. Lottie was sobbing on his shoulder, but there was a smile on her face.

“Stay here till I come back,” Gem said. “I never saw such a girl. Get round a judge almost, you would.”

Lottie rose as Wellington might have done before the Guards at Waterloo, for the field was won. She could not stay another moment, indeed she had stayed already too long. If folks only knew, she would never hold up her head in Lewton again. She wiped her eyes, blew a kiss to Gem, and was gone like a playful zephyr before he could say another word.

Once in the dark and deserted street Lottie picked up her dress and flew. Outside the gates leading to Mostyn’s house a figure accosted her.

“Well?” the other girl whispered eagerly. “Have you done it?”

“The job is done, Miss Russet,” Lottie said breathlessly. “It took a little longer than I expected; dear Samuel is so slow. But he is very fond of me, and I should be sorry to get him into trouble.”

“Heaven reward you for what you have done to-night,” Russet Ray said. “Lottie, you must go back and watch. You must see that I am not missed. What time will George—Mr. Cathcart—be free?”

“At the time you suggested, miss. Just before midnight.”

“Then I am going as far as the gaol. I cannot sleep to-night until I have seen George. I must comfort him. I must let him know that I am still true and loyal to him. I must hear his voice and feel the clasp of his hand again. You can sit up for me, and let me in when I come back. Tell my uncle that I have gone to bed with a headache.”

“Better let me go and see the gentleman,” Lottie suggested.

“Oh, I cannot,” Russet cried. “There are things he must be told that I cannot confide to anybody. And it may be years before I shall see him again. If his enemies triumph, I want him to feel that I am still true, and that I am still waiting for him. Hark! A quarter to twelve. Go up to the house, I must fly. Go, Lottie.”

Russet flashed away into the darkness, and, somewhat unwillingly, Lottie made her way up the drive.

“I’m rather fond of Samuel,” she murmured; “but I don’t fancy that I shall ever care for him so much as that!”

* * * * *

Somebody else heard the quarter before midnight strike besides Russet. The heavy tones of the bell came to the ears of the prisoner as he sat on the edge of the bed. For some three hours sleep had been merciful to him. Then he had come to his senses again: he recollected the scene in court, and the man with the tarry nails, as one recalls a vivid dream. Would that come all right, or was that only some delusion? But no sane man would be guilty of a hoax like that.

And if he were free for a few hours after midnight, where was he to go? and what was he to say? He could hear no sound of life in the prison. Perhaps the scheme had been detected, and promptly nipped in the bud. The place was as quiet as the grave. And there was the hour of midnight at last, midnight and nothing else. George felt his heart sink within him. Nothing was going to happen after all.

Stop! Was that a footstep? Surely, yes. Another and another, the rattle of a key in a distant lock, the sullen clanging of a metal door. Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, a lantern shone brilliantly into the cell, and a hoarse voice addressed George.

“Come this way,” the voice whispered. “Quick! Ask no questions. Go on till you come to the house outside the walls.”

Cathcart obeyed in a kind of dazed way. Presently he stood by the great entrance gates, which were ajar.

“Out you go,” the voice whispered. “Back at six sharp, and give three knocks on the door. I’m taking a big risk, and I don’t want to get myself into trouble. Lord, when I think that you might die before morning, or get run over, or break a leg. I’m a mass of sweat from head to foot at the mere idea of my folly. It’s all along of them confounded women, and the scrapes they get us into. Just you hurry off before I change my mind, and haul you back again.”