Tracked and Taken E-Book

Dick Donovan

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

James Edward Preston Muddock also known as „Joyce Emmerson Preston Muddock” and „Dick Donovan” (1843-1934) was a prolific British journalist and author of mystery and horror fiction. For a time his detective stories were as popular as those of Arthur Conan Doyle. Most of Muddock’s stories featured his continuing character Dick Donovan, the Glasgow Detective, named for one of the 18th Century Bow Street Runners. Other works include these short stories as well.

Leseprobe

Contents

1. A STERN CHASE

2. A TERRIBLE DEED

3. THE MISSING DIAMONDS

4. HOW I CAUGHT A LAND SHARK

5. THE STORY OF A DIAMOND RING

6. A STRANGE CASE

7. THE MYSTERY OF A TIN BOX

8. A FAIR DECEIVER

9. THE MURDER OF MR. NORRAWAY

10. THE GREAT BANK FRAUDS

11. A NOTED IMPOSTOR

12. A NICE YOUNG WOMAN

13. THE STOLEN BANK NOTES

14. THE STORY OF A LITTLE CHILD

15. A LEAP FOR LIBERTY

16. THE HELVELLYN TRAGEDY

17. A BIG JOB

1. A STERN CHASE

‘A stern chase is a long chase,’ so runs the proverb, and I once had occasion to testify in my own person to the truth of the adage, and in a somewhat remarkable manner, as I am sure the reader will admit when he has perused the following narrative.

Mr. Wilfrid Amos Orme was the managing director of a very large company, having its head-quarters in London. The ramifications of the company were as extensive as its transactions were varied. One branch of its business–and a very important branch too–was that of putting money out on mortgage. In this particular Mr. Orme was said to excel, for he brought an unusual amount of shrewdness to bear, and few men knew how to drive a better bargain. The result was that the company’s mortgaging department flourished exceedingly for many years. Mr. Orme was a highly-respected gentleman. Portly, rubicund, and jolly as to his personal appearance, with a character for bonhomieand a love for the fleshpots of Egypt. As a raconteur,he seldom met his equal, and he was one of the best diners-out in London, for he had an aldermanic capacity, a perfect digestion, a suavity of manner, a sweetness of disposition, a fund of anecdote, a refined native wit, and the ability to make a capital after-dinner speech. No wonder, therefore, that his company was much sought after, and that that board which was graced with his presence was considered to be honoured. It seemed, indeed, as if Fortune had showered her favours upon this gentleman, for, apart from his attractive appearance and perfect health, his social position was one to be envied. He was reputed to be wealthy, and lived in one of those charming and aristocratic mansions in the Cromwell Road, near Hyde Park. He kept a retinue of servants, drove the finest turn- out to be seen in Rotten Row, and rode to hounds on a thousand guinea hunter. Besides his town house, he had a perfect little paradise of a place down in Wales, and those of his friends who received invitations to visit him there in the summer time considered themselves lucky indeed.

Mr. Orme’s business transactions were not confined to the company over whose destiny he wielded such power, for he was chairman of a railway company, of two or three gold mining companies, and a member of the Stock Exchange, where–so it was said–his transactions were enormous at times. In his domestic life he seemed to be no less favoured than in his public capacity, for he had a charming wife and family. Mrs. Orme, who was said to be a member of an aristocratic family, was a singularly handsome and ladylike woman. There were three sons, all of whom were at Oxford, and four daughters, who inherited their mother’s beauty and their father’s placidity of temper. The head of this happy household was a liberal supporter of the church, and there were few charitable subscriptions in which his name did not appear. Mr. Orme was said to be the pink of honesty and the soul of honour, and the man who would have dared to breathe a word against his reputation might have found himself in a dangerous position. The complexities of human nature, however, have puzzled philosophers and moralists in all ages, and frequently it happens that he who is most honoured should be most shunned. If men were satisfied with a sufficiency, and craved not to accumulate hoards of wealth, there would be less crime among the better class of people. But ambition, pride, and a desire to outstrip their neighbours are responsible for the falling away from the paths of honesty of many a man.

One morning, when Mr. Wilfrid Amos Orme was in what seemed to be the very zenith of his power and popularity, he was to have attended in his capacity as chairman a very important Board meeting. Punctuality was a virtue upon which he strongly prided himself, and his colleagues, therefore, were surprised when, an hour after the appointed time, he had not put in an appearance. A telegraphic message was consequently despatched to his house, but as it brought forth no response–another extraordinary thing–a special messenger was sent to inquire if he was ill or dead. The messenger saw Mrs. Orme, who appeared to be in great distress, and she stated that her husband had been hastily summoned the night previous to Gloucestershire to attend the deathbed of his aged father, to whom he was devotedly attached. She had intended to telegraph this piece of information to the Board, but she had been so distressed herself that she had neglected to do so, and she was profuse in her apologies for the oversight.

When Mr. Orme’s fellow-directors heard the news they were full of sympathy, and they proceeded to hold their meeting, although they were much inconvenienced by his absence, as he was in possession of certain business details which none of the others possessed. The directors of the company of which he was the manager were equally sympathetic, although they thought it strange that a man who was so thoroughly precise and business- like in all he did should have gone away without sending a message of some kind. When three days had passed and there was no word of the absentee, one of his colleagues–perhaps a little more suspicious than the rest–threw out a vague hint of the possibility of something being wrong.

‘Of what being wrong?’ the men asked as they held their breath, for the mere hint of such a thing against a person so highly respected as Mr. Orme seemed to be only a few degrees removed from sacrilege. The seed of suspicion, however, once dropped fructifies with amazing rapidity, and on the fourth day, those who had been the most reluctant to think evil, much less to speak it, began to whisper ominously one with the other, until the whisperings grew into loudly expressed opinions, and it was suggested that an investigation of Mr. Orme’s books should take place. This suggestion, however, did not meet with unanimous support, for it was so hard to believe evil of the genial, much beloved, and philanthropic Mr. Orme. Thus another day was wasted, and then as no news of Mr. Orme could be obtained, even the most sceptical began to waver, and a meeting of the Board was hastily summoned, at which it was unanimously decided to investigate Mr. Orme’s affairs so far as they concerned the company. This decision was the death warrant of one person. That person was Mr. Orme’s confidential clerk, who went home and blew out his brains. This tragic event removed the last doubt, for it was felt that nothing short of fear of exposure could have driven the unfortunate clerk to the rash act.

It will readily be supposed that to investigate even a branch of so gigantic a concern as that in which Mr. Orme had held such a responsible position was an affair of no small moment, and several days elapsed before the accountants and others engaged were enabled to say definitely that a system of gigantic frauds had been carried on for a period of several years, and involved a loss to the company of something like one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. These frauds, which had been committed no doubt with the aid of the confidential clerk, were of a most ingenious character, and consisted for the most part of bogus mortgages and the purchase of property that existed only on paper.

As the investigation proceeded it became evident that a third person must have been mixed up in the transaction, and that person a lawyer. At once suspicion fell upon a solicitor who had been engaged, in the face of considerable opposition, by Mr. Orme some ten years before. This man’s name was Llewellen Jarvis, but when inquiries were made it was found that he too had decamped, though it was clear he had only gone when he heard that an investigation had been decided upon. Jarvis’s escutcheon had not been altogether unstained, for at one period of his career he had been prosecuted for fraudulently misappropriating moneys entrusted to him by clients for investment. The prosecution, however, failed to prove its case owing to the want of evidence, and Mr. Jarvis was discharged, though a good deal of odium clung to him; and it was a knowledge of this matter that induced Mr. Orme’s colleagues to oppose Jarvis’s engagement; that opposition would undoubtedly have been successful had Mr. Orme been less trusted and less influential.

Men stood aghast now when they found out how thoroughly they had been deceived in their idol, and of what common clay he was made. Nevertheless there was wide-spread sympathy for his unfortunate family. There was no doubt Mrs. Orme had been aware of her husband’s frauds, or at any rate she knew perfectly well of his flight, for the story about the dying father was found to be false. But still people sympathised with her, for it was felt, or at all events believed, that she was an innocent victim, and her endeavour to save her husband by a falsehood was only what ninety-nine women out of every hundred would have done who loved their husbands.

As soon as the frauds were known I received instruction to hunt for the culprit, and to spare neither expense nor trouble in my endeavours to capture him; for, wealthy as the company was supposed to be, the loss was so heavy as to threaten it with bankruptcy, and it was hoped that if the criminal was captured he might be made to disgorge some of his ill-gotten wealth. It was found that the valuable freehold of his house belonged to his wife, and that the equally valuable furniture, plate, paintings, carriages, and horses were settled upon her, and therefore could not be touched, and the only hope was in securing him and making him give back that which he had stolen.

His house in Wales was only a short leasehold, and on the handsome and costly furniture it contained there was a bill of sale. The solicitor, Llewellen Jarvis, was captured in a few days in the house of a relative in Southampton. He had delayed his departure too long, and the telegraph had set the police throughout the country on his track, so that he was speedily unearthed, and it was then found he had taken his passage in one of the West India boats for the River Plate, but had allowed the steamer to go without him, for he had learned by the papers how closely every port was watched, and that his capture was certain if he ventured to go on board. His capture was no less certain by his remaining; it was only delayed a little with the death of the confidential clerk. By the arrest of the solicitor the lines of pursuit were narrowed, and attention could now be directed solely to the principal. As the investigation of affairs proceeded people learned the cause that determined his flight; and that cause was the all but unanimous resolve of the company’s directors to make a very radical change in their system of effecting mortgages, and that change must have inevitably disclosed the frauds. The crisis, therefore, had been precipitated, but the arch rogue had taken time by the forelock, and had escaped before discovery.

As I entered upon my duties I could not close my eyes to the fact that it was neither an ordinary case nor an ordinary criminal I had to deal with. He was an educated and exceedingly clever man, and so little likely to arouse the suspicion of those with whom he mixed, that his escape was thereby rendered the easier. His wife, for whom I was deeply sorry, for she was such an amiable, gentle, beautiful lady, vowed that she did not know of his whereabouts; and she declared that the contents of the house and the freehold were all she possessed for the support of herself and children.

So far then I got no clue from Mrs. Orme, and I had to seek elsewhere. I ascertained that on the very day of the criminal’s disappearance a steamer had sailed for New York from Liverpool; and amongst the passengers who had booked a passage and sailed in her was a Rev. Launcelot Gibbons.’ As I could not find this gentleman’s name in the clergy list, I came to the conclusion that he was none other than the man whose acquaintance I was so anxious to make, and a description of Mr. Gibbons tallied so accurately with that of Mr. Orme as to leave no room to doubt that they were one and the same person.

Unfortunately the Atlantic telegraph cables had not then brought England and America within speaking distance, and in view of the long start my man had got, the strong probabilities were that he would succeed in baffling pursuit for some time, even if he had not escaped beyond the fear of capture.

Mr. Jarvis, who had undergone a preliminary examination before the magistrates and been remanded, swore that he had been drawn into his wrongdoing by Orme, and that he had profited comparatively little, for all that had come to his net had been the trifling sum of twenty thousand pounds or thereabouts, and nearly the whole of that sum he had lost on the turf. He further declared that he had not the least idea that his chief was meditating flight, for he had said nothing to him about it, and he was no less ignorant as to where he had gone to. It was evident that this man, as well as the wretched fellow who had shot himself, had been simply tools of the cleverer rogue, though, of course, they were equally amenable to the law. But as one had chosen to submit himself to the supreme tribunal of us all rather than to his fellow man’s, and as the one who was in custody was a man of straw from whom nothing tangible could be obtained, our energies were naturally turned to the endeavour to capture the big fish. Therefore, having provided myself with sworn affidavits, and all the necessary papers for his extradition in case I should come up with him on American soil, I took my passage in a New York steamer and started in pursuit.

As the steamer I was in sailed down the Mersey and out to the steel blue waters of the stormy Atlantic, I could not suppress a feeling that the chase was certainly likely to be a long one, if Mr. Orme was as clever as he was reputed to be, and it might even end in my failure altogether, and that distressed me more than anything else. I could not bear the idea of failure in anything I undertook. Of course I had not always been successful; what man is? But my failures had been so few, comparatively speaking, that I had earned the proud position of being considered the most certain man in my profession. I should like to say here, and I think I am justified in so saying, that I attribute my success to the fact that I never failed to value the most insignificant detail of any case in which I was engaged. And my readers are aware that I have persistently urged the importance of a detective remembering that what seems the most improbable may, on being sifted, turn out to be the most probable; and unless a detective recognises this he will as frequently as not fail to get the all essential clues that would lead him to his quarry. It cannot be denied, except by those who know nothing at all about it, that criminal-hunting is a science, and is governed by certain fixed rules and laws, as all sciences are; and unless these rules and laws are closely studied no man calling himself a detective can hope to attain to even a passing efficiency in his work. Zeal is all very well, but unless it is accompanied by cool-headed calculation it is useless.

I have been led into these remarks by vividly recalling my feelings and impressions on the particular occasion I am dealing with. I remember it was in the stormy autumn time, and not only was the Atlantic roaring with a thunderous roar, but the sky was one unbroken arch of sepia darkness. And as I gazed across the indigo sea to the dark horizon, I began to think it typified the inscrutable veil. Mr. Orme had placed between himself and those who were so anxious to meet him.

Beaten out of her course by powerful gales and heavy seas, the steamer I was in made an extraordinary long passage, a day and a half being wasted on the banks of Newfoundland owing to a fog of remarkable density. All things come to an end, however, and so did this tedious and trying voyage. We sighted the Never Sink ‘Ems’ and the Fire Islands,’ and then steamed up the East River, and very soon–much to my intense relief–we were moored alongside our berth. I lost no time in getting ashore, but I am bound to say I had not much hope of capturing my man. He had got too much start, and I could not imagine him being such a fool as to remain in New York, for he would know very well that the hue and cry when once raised would be very hot, and he could hardly imagine that his assumption of the character of a clergyman was a perfect safeguard against his being traced. At any rate, if he did he was unworthy of all that had been said about his shrewdness and his cleverness. I did not know the man personally, but I carried his photograph, and his mental and physical peculiarities had been minutely described to me.

The photograph in my possession represented a most philanthropic looking gentleman, with a keen grey eye, silvery hair, and greyish whiskers and moustache, with a benevolent and frank expression that was quite fascinating. It would be a curious and interesting psychological study to try and determine in what way this expression belied his true character. For benevolent he certainly was, and although he had given much ostentatiously he had, as I had learned, done many good deeds which the public knew not of; and various anecdotes told about him proved that he was a most kindly man, affable, polite, and deferential to his inferiors, with a heart that melted to charity; and he was never known to turn a deaf ear to any talc of wrong or woe. And yet in spite of this and his seeming frankness he had for years been committing frauds of a gigantic character, and living upon money thus dishonestly gained. These inconsistencies were glaring and he was a striking contradiction in terms. It was another pitiable illustration too, that pride of birth, good social status, luxurious surroundings, the love of wife and children, and the respect and honour of others, are not sufficient, under given conditions, to keep a man from swerving from rectitude, and sinking to the depths of the poorest and most ignorant criminal. It is pitiable to have to admit this truism, but alas it is true, and serves to show how inherently weak we all are!

There is an old Greek proverb which says ‘See that thou do it not,’ meaning that you must be careful not to fall into the sin you are condemning in others, for, as the proverb goes on, ‘Fate is common and the Future is hidden.’ Good old Archbishop Fenelon used to say with a sigh, whenever he heard of a criminal going to execution, ‘Ah, alack, there goes my unfortunate self.’ While sorrowfully pondering, therefore, over the vexing problems human nature presents us with, let us not in our haste to condemn others forget our own shortcomings. Nor should he who doeth wrong forget the warning of the moralist–‘For every ounce of pleasure a pound of pain. For every drop of milk a sea of fire. The comedy is short, but the tragedy is long. Iniquity soon plays its part, and then Vengeance leaps on the stage.’ It would be well indeed if these weighty and warning sentences were engraved in huge characters on the wall of every school where the young are taught, so that, by constantly being before the eyes, they might make such an impression as never to be forgotten, and in after life, when the feet would stray and the heart tend to harden itself against truth and virtue, the remembered warning might act as a deterrent.

I am afraid I have been led into moralising in this paper at an undue length, but a consideration of Mr. Orme’s case must necessarily set a man moralising if he is not altogether indifferent to his kind, and is able to shed a tear for the sufferings of the wrong-doers’ victims. Mr. Orme had brought ruin and disgrace upon his wife and children; his comedy had been short, and the first act of the tragedy had commenced in the sad suicide of his confidential clerk, who had thus brought weeping and woe to his own family and relations, while vengeance was on the track of Orme himself, who must sooner or later be taken, or live the rest of his days as a hunted animal.

Pursuing my inquiries in New York-, I found that the Rev. Launcelot Gibbons’ had proceeded from the steamer that brought him over to the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a gigantic house (since burnt down and rebuilt), where it was not an easy matter, and in fact no attempt was made, to keep even a passing record of the hundreds of people who were constantly coming and going. And what seemed like a stumbling block to me at first was that, though I traced my gentleman from the steamer to the hotel, and found out the cab-driver who drove him there, no such name as the ‘Rev. Launcelot Gibbons’ appeared in the books of the hotel. But I soon came to the conclusion that the pseudo clergyman had dropped his clerical character on arriving at the hotel, the better to put his followers off the scent. And, on exhibiting the photograph I carried to the book-keepers and some of the waiters, they at once recognised it as a gentleman who gave the name of Henry George Priestly, from Bradford, Yorkshire, England. He had stayed in the hotel for a week, and then had left, but where he had gone to nobody seemed to know.

If it had been my nature to feel beaten at the first repulse, I should certainly have come to the conclusion that Mr. Orme had fairly baffled me, and had cunningly and artfully contrived to entirely destroy his tracks, and thus throw the pursuer off the scent. But I had no such feeling. It is true I was baffled for the time, but that only served to arouse all my energies, and put me on my mettle. I thought of the possibilities of Mr. Orme lying perduin the great city of New York; but I dismissed that thought very soon, as the probabilities would not work out. He had already showed superior cunning, and knowing as he would know that as soon as the news of his defalcations reached New York, all the police and detectives of that city would be on the alert, he was hardly the man to risk capture by remaining there; for big and populous as the place was, he had too conspicuous a personality to entirely escape the scrutiny of the Argus eyes that would be everywhere prying for him. No, what he had done, I felt sure, was to place distance between him and New York. But where had he gone to? That was the question I had to answer, the problem I had to solve, and I answered it and solved it by a strange chance.

It occurred to me that I might possibly learn some interesting particulars about Mr. Orme if I could obtain interviews with a few of the first-class passengers who had come out in the same steamer, and I at once set to work to try and find out the whereabouts of any who might be near. In this I was so far successful as to hear of a Mr. Spearman, a jeweller in a very large way of business in Boston. He had been making a tour in Europe with his daughter, and a feeling that I could not account for by any ordinary process of reasoning impressed me that this gentleman might be able to tell me something about the ‘Rev. Launcelot Gibbons.’ It must not be forgotten that Mr. Orme was a striking personage; and I had learned enough of his habits and peculiarities to be assured that he would not hide his light under a bushel, especially in his assumed character of a clergyman. I therefore took train to Boston, and waited upon Mr. Spearman.

I found him an exceedingly intelligent and affable gentleman, with whom one at once felt at home.

‘My object in calling upon you, sir,’ I began, ‘is to inquire if your attention was in any way directed to a “Rev. Launcelot Gibbons,” who was a fellow-passenger with you from Liverpool to New York?’

Mr. Spearman smiled genially as he made answer–

‘Oh, yes. One could hardly help being attracted to him. He happened to be the only clergyman on board, and besides officiating as a clergyman, he made himself singularly agreeable to everyone.’

I smiled now as I heard how the clever rascal had gulled his fellow-passengers, and had had the consummate audacity to play the role of clergyman to the letter.

‘I suppose you do not happen to know what has become of him?’ I asked, not without some misgiving and anxiety, though I assumed a nonchalant air.

‘Well, I had some little business transactions with him after we landed.’

‘Indeed!’

Perhaps there was something in the way I uttered this exclamation that struck Mr. Spearman, for he looked at me hard and asked pointedly–

‘But tell me, sir, why do you make these inquiries?’

‘You have a right to know, and I will tell you,’ I answered. ‘The Rev. Launcelot Gibbons is not a clergyman at all, but a Mr. Orme, who is wanted in London for gigantic frauds.’

It almost seemed as if Mr. Spearman would have fallen to the ground with astonishment as I made this announcement. His whole expression changed, and his mild eyes flashed up with the fire of wrath.

‘Sir,’ he said angrily, are you perfectly warranted in making this charge against the Rev.–against Mr. Orme, I think you said was his name?’

‘Perfectly warranted,’ I answered. ‘I am a detective, and have voyaged from England specially to effect his arrest, and for that purpose I hold a warrant.’

‘Well, upon my word,’ exclaimed the jeweller. ‘Who could possibly have thought it? Even now I fancy there must be some mistake.’

‘Oh, no, sir; there is no mistake,’ I answered.

‘Well, I never was more deceived in my life. Really there is no trusting anyone, and it serves to show how careful we should be in forming promiscuous acquaintances. Dear, dear me, how shocked my daughter will be to be sure.’

‘You spoke, I think, of some business transactions?’ I ventured to remind him, as he seemed inclined to become reflective and to moralise, and I was burning with eagerness to get on the trail of my man.

‘Oh, yes. He learned that I resided in Boston, and so he asked me for my address, as he told me he was intending to visit Boston. Of course, I gave it to him, and a day or two after I returned home he called upon me, and I and my family entertained him. He informed us that he was going out west, to Nevada–I think he said–to see a brother, who was a farmer. The brother had been a scapegrace, and had come to America some years ago, and subsequently had taken to farming, but was not doing well, and was in monetary difficulties. Mr. Orme was therefore anxious to give him some money, but did not find it convenient to do so unless he could dispose of some diamond jewellery he had with him, and he asked me to buy it.’

‘Did that not strike you as a strange request for a clergyman to make?’

‘No. I can’t say that it did. The desire to help his brother seemed to me perfectly natural.’

‘No doubt. And so you bought the jewellery?’

‘I did. It consisted of four sets of exceedingly valuable shirt studs, two diamond collar studs, diamond sleeve links, and several diamond rings. Altogether I paid him 4000 dollars.’

‘You have no means of knowing if he went to Nevada, or if he really went west at all?’ I asked.

‘No. He promised to write to me, for I and my family were so impressed with him that we cordially invited him to stay with us for some time on his way back.’

‘Of course you haven’t heard from him yet?’ I asked, a little ironically.

‘No.’

‘Do you expect to do so?’

‘Well, no; not after what you have told me, if that is correct.’

‘Of its correctness you need entertain no doubt,’ I answered, and to doubly assure him I showed him a photograph of Orme, which he instantly recognised, and I also showed him the warrant for his arrest.’

As I left Mr. Spearman I pondered upon what he had told me, and worked the thing out logically in my own mind, with the result that I came to the following conclusions.

Mr. Orme had no intention originally of going to Boston. Why should he? Boston is to the north of New York, and on the sea coast, and a place where he would be even more liable to arrest than in New York. But when he found out that Mr. Spearman was a jeweller and dealer in precious stones, he thought it a splendid opportunity to dispose of his superfluous jewellery, especially if he was going west, and selling the jewellery seemed to me to be evidence in favour of his having gone west, where, owing to the comparative wildness of the country, diamonds would be mere lumber, and a man wearing them would run the risk of being murdered by the lawless desperadoes who live by plundering.

The exceedingly plausible and ingenious story Orme told to Mr. Spearman as an excuse for his selling the jewellery, showed his cleverness, for it was calculated not only to attract sympathy, but to disarm suspicion, if any had existed in the jeweller’s mind. But there were other reasons why I thought it highly probable he had gone to Nevada.

The first of these was that having no shadow of an idea that his pursuers would come to know of his transactions with the jeweller, he was exceedingly likely to have mentioned to Mr. Spearman what his real destination was, because, having no fear, he would not consider it necessary to exercise caution.

The second reason I had for thinking he had gone was that Nevada was within easy distance of the Rocky Mountains to the east and of San Francisco to the west. Now, if he should find that he was being pressed too hotly by the pursuers he could retreat to the Rockies on the one hand, and in some of the wild and all but inaccessible spots that abound there he might lie concealed, and defy his would-be captors to find him. On the other hand, he could easily and quickly reach San Francisco, where he could get a steamer for some of the South Sea Islands, Japan, China, Australia, New Zealand, India. In such a case it would not matter to him where he went to. Steamers were leaving daily for the places named, and he would take the first that was going. I could not help thinking that I was correct in my surmises; for such a clever man as Orme must have worked out, as a problem, all the chances that were for and against him; and he would have been singularly obtuse had he failed to see the advantage he would have by locating himself midway between the Pacific and the Rockies, and that would be his position in Nevada. Moreover, this State was a wild and sparsely-populated one, and by adapting himself to the style of the country, as I was sure he would–that is, he would assume the character of a squatter, a gold digger, a teamster, or even a loafer–he might reduce detection and capture to a minimum.

Arguing thus with myself I decided that it was my duty to go to Nevada, having first of all used every means to discover if he had gone elsewhere. I did not shut my eyes, of course, to the fact that Nevada was an extensive region, and that to search for a man there without a well-defined trail was not unlike the task of looking for a needle in a truss of hay. But still, priding myself, as I did, on being able by some peculiar natural aptitude to scent a criminal from afar if I could only get within reasonable distance of him, I thought if he was in Nevada and I was there too I should somehow or other nose him out.

I ascertained that when Orme was in Boston he stayed at the Great Britain Hotel, and that being only a small hotel, it was remembered that a Rev. Launcelot Gibbons had had his baggage sent through to New York. As he had stayed in New York under the name of Henry George Priestly, it was obvious that he had assumed the clerical roll again in Boston in order to deceive the jeweller, and this again favoured my theory that he had not originally contemplated going to Boston, and his going there was due to his chance acquaintance with Mr. Spearman. I could not at first suggest to myself a reasonable theory for his returning to New York, as he could have gone west from Boston quite as well, until suddenly it occurred to me that he went there to get letters, and so, as soon as I arrived, I went to the Post Office and inquired if letters had been addressed there to the Rev. Launcelot Gibbons, and I was informed that a number had been delivered to that gentleman some time ago, and since then others had been re- addressed to him to the Post Office, Great Salt Lake City. This was somewhat in the nature of a revelation, though it confirmed the correctness of my theory about his having tracked west. But why on earth had he gone to the Great Salt Lake City? That somewhat puzzled me. Surely he had no intention of settling amongst the Mormons. And yet, on second thoughts, it seemed probable that he might have such intention. For a man who declared his readiness to embrace the Mormon faith might have found a safe refuge in the city by the Salt Lake.

Within twenty-four hours, therefore, of this discovery I was on my way west. It is true I was a long way astern of the man I was pursuing, but I had every reason to believe I was full in his wake, and as a stern chaser muse go faster than the one that is chased if he would gain his object, I resolved to lose no time on the road, strong as the temptation was to linger in the grand country through which my route ran.

It is difficult now at this period, when so many years lie between me and that exciting chase, to keep my pen from slipping into a description of that wonderful journey, in spite of its having been written over and over again. The impression made by the magnificence of the Rocky Mountains lingers with me yet, for though I was man-hunting I yet had an eye for the grandeur of Nature, and a soul to appreciate it. I must content myself, however, with saying that I travelled night and day until I found myself in Salt Lake City, but it was only to learn with chagrin that the man I wanted had been and gone, and had left no address behind him. This proved then that I was wrong in supposing that it had been Orme’s intention to settle amongst the Mormons. It seemed that he had gone to Salt Lake simply as a sightseer; and though his letters had been addressed to the Post Office in the name of Launcelot Gibbons, he dropped the clerical character, and gave those with whom he came in contact to understand that he was a private gentleman travelling for distraction, as he had recently lost a much-beloved wife. Here again he showed his cleverness in adapting himself to the circumstances of the hour. Such a tale as that in the Mormon city would ensure him attention, for it would be supposed that as a widower, mourning for a dead wife, he would be susceptible to influences that might secure him as a convert; and a natural inference to be drawn by those who might have the desire to convert him would be that he was wealthy, and money was a powerful factor in the Mormons’ calculations. If they had any such views, however, Mr. Orme had disappointed them, and he had gone off leaving no trail behind. I was not disconsolate, for somehow I could not shake off a feeling that I should pick his trail up again. I was still astern, but by-and-by I would overhaul him. That seemed to impress me like a conviction.

Singularly enough while I was still resting in Salt Lake City, and a little undecided what course to take, news came in that an Englishman, believed to be a Mr. Priestly from Bradford, in Yorkshire, had been attacked by coach robbers near Lake Walker, in Nevada. I ascertained that Lake Walker was a lonely spot under the shadow of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and almost in a straight line as the crow flies from San Francisco, from which it was distant exactly two hundred miles, but the great barrier of the Sierra intervenes between the two places. From Salt Lake City it was about three hundred miles, and the only means of reaching it other than by tramping was on horseback. My mind was instantly made up. I was told that the road bristled with dangers, not the least of them being predatory bands of Indians and reckless desperadoes of various nationalities, who lived by plundering, and who set no more value upon human life than they did on a pin.

‘You are sure to be either bowie-knifed or plugged with bullets,’ remarked one smirk-faced Job’s comforter to me, but I thought to myself that bowie-knifing or plugging with bullets was a game that any one might play at who had ordinary nerve and pluck. And so providing myself with the necessary tools for the game in the shape of a very formidable bowie and two first-class revolvers, in addition to a thoroughly sound and hardy prairie horse, I started on my long ride. Besides what I have enumerated I had furnished myself with a very light portable tent and a waterproof sheet and a blanket, and a bag of dried provisions; so that I was prepared for any emergency.

That the dangers I had been warned against did exist there was no reason to doubt, but I believe they were much exaggerated, though my journey was not to be accomplished without a somewhat exciting adventure. On one part of the route I was overtaken by a tremendous thunderstorm such as are common in those regions at certain seasons. The rain came down as if a second deluge had commenced, and in a very few minutes I was saturated, while my horse became restive and nervous, as the lightning flashed incessantly, and the thunder roared like a dozen big batteries all firing at once. I looked anxiously about for a place of shelter, and espied about half a mile away a film-house perched beneath a mass of rock. ‘Urging my horse to its best speed I gained the house, and the people instantly extended their hospitality to me and my beast. I found that I was not the only storm-driven traveller there, for two men had arrived a little while before. They were wild but picturesque-looking fellows, armed to the teeth, and dressed in red shirts, loose pants, and long boots, into which their pants were tucked. Their large Sombrero hats, from which the rain was dripping, were hanging on pegs at the door, and the fellows were kicking their spurred heels in the porch, while their mustangs were hitched to posts beneath a long wooden shed.

These men gave me travellers’ greeting as I entered, and I fancy they eyed me askance. Presently they became very inquisitive about my nationality, where I had come from, what I was doing, and where I was going to. To none of these questions did I give any direct answer. I remained a mystery to them, and it seemed to me that their dark eyes flashed (they were half- breed Mexicans) and their swarthy faces flushed, with anger or wounded pride. However, we exchanged cigars, and they gave me a good deal of information about the country. Before the storm had quite finished these gentlemen took their departure, and were soon lost in the haze that floated up from the hot sand after the rain.

‘Who are those men?’ I asked of my host.

Loafers and desperadoes,’ was the answer. ‘We have to be civil to those sort of gentry, but I should be sorry to trust myself with them if I had anything about me worth stealing. Fortunately for you, they have taken the opposite road to that you are travelling.’

I did not feel sorry that they had, and after warmly thanking my host for the shelter and hospitality, I continued on my way. About an hour later I noted two horsemen, drawn up beneath a clump of trees, a little ahead of my route. II was a wild and solitary region, and at first I was glad at the idea of meeting fellow-travellers; but the second glance showed me that they were the desperadoes I had seen at the farm. I guessed in an instant that they meant mischief, and had made a detour to intercept me. Thinking that under the circumstances discretion was the better part of valour, I turned my horse’s head to the plain, and let him go, and he went like a whirlwind, but after me came the ruffians, and preceding them were bullets that whizzed unpleasantly near my head. Rising in my saddle, I turned, took aim, and fired, and I saw one fellow throw up his arms and sink to the ground, and his Companion stopped to assist him. This check to them enabled me to escape, and I never heard whether the man was killed or only wounded. I barely expected to accomplish so much when I fired, for I did not profess to be a crack shot by any means, and luck favoured me.

Without further adventure, I reached Lake Walker, as wild and desolate a region as can well be imagined, but there is a little traffic going on, as it is on the road to one of the passes that cross the Sierra Nevada. There is a small post-house, and here I heard of Orme. He had been severely injured, and had been borne in an improvised litter on the back of a mule over the mountains to San Francisco. I was still astern therefore; and only waiting long enough to recruit myself and animal, I resumed my journey. On reaching Sacramento, I sold the wiry little mustang that had carried me so well, and got the coach into ‘Frisco. But, alas! it was only to learn that I was again too late. Orme aliasPriestly, having recovered, or partially so, from his injuries, had taken passage in a steamer for Melbourne. It was a bitter disappointment to me after following the fugitive all across the great American Continent. But I was determined to make another effort to come up with him, and secured a berth in the next steamer for Australia.

Briefly, I made a good voyage, and punctual to time reached Melbourne; and before I had been in the city two days I discovered that at last I had overtaken my man. He was living under the assumed name of Carter in a private house at St. Kilda, one of the most beautiful suburbs of Melbourne. Of course, I at once placed myself in communication with the police authorities, and, proceeding with half-a-dozen men to Orme’s residence, I found him seated in an exquisite garden. Tapping him on the shoulder, I showed him my warrant, and told him he was my prisoner.

‘I have followed you all across America and the Pacific, Mr. Orme,’ I said, and now I do not intend to lose sight of you again until we reach England.’

He was deadly pale, and showed some traces of nervousness.

‘You have fairly hunted me down,’ he said sadly, ‘and the bold and tireless hunter deserves his prey. You have secured me, and my race is run.’

He was duly lodged in prison, and a fortnight later we both sailed in Money Wigram’s magnificent sailing ship Superbfor London, round the Horn. Mr. Orme’s spirits had quite deserted him, and he became very dejected. I put him upon his word of honour–though no doubt some people will say that was not worth much–that he would not do anything rash, and while exercising a certain amount of vigilance I tried not to make it irksome to him, and he enjoyed the liberty of the ship. We made a splendid run down to Cape Horn, where we fell in with terrific weather. And one hideous night when all the elements seemed to be at strife Orme disappeared. Nobody saw him go; nobody knew how he went. But there is little doubt the burden of his shame and remorse for his crime were too much for him, and he went to his death in that howling waste of waters.

Reader, will you think me weak when I say that I wept when I heard of his sad end? A pitiable end indeed for one so gifted, and for a life that had been so brilliant. I was there in the position of an instrument of the stern and outraged law, but I had a man’s heart to feel for the weakness of poor humanity, and I truly pitied Orme, and had tears and sympathy for his wife and children. He had done some good deeds in his time, and I breathed a silent prayer that they might weigh well in his favour when the balance was cast.

Truly, ‘Fate is common and the future is hidden.’

Orme had made his fate and he saw not the dark future that awaited him. Iniquity had played her part, and vengeance had leapt on the stage–the vengeance of conscience and remorse that smote him to his death with a whip of scorpions.

Conscience had been lashing him before I overtook him in Melbourne, for as I learned, on my arrival in England, he had previously written to a relative giving him a power of attorney, and instructing him to realise all his estate, and, after making provision for his wife and family, to refund as much money as possible to the company he had defrauded. The result was that nearly fifty thousand pounds was paid back.

His suicide was a terrible blow to his wife and children, and even men whom he had wronged pitied him. And I mentally exclaimed out of the charity of my heart–Vade in pace.