“It is arranged,” he said,—“finished. To-morrow morning at nine o’clock I receive it.”
“You are sure?” she begged. “Why need there be any delay?”
“It is locked up in a powerful safe,” he explained, “and the clerk who has the combination will not be on duty again till nine. Laverick is there simply waiting for the hour. You were right, Louise, as usual. I should have trusted him from the first.”
The Prince had been listening to their conversation with undisguised interest.
“There is a rumor,” he said, “that some secret information concerning the compact of Vienna has found its way to this country.”
Bellamy smiled.
“Hence, I presume, your mission, Prince.”
“We three have no secrets from one another,” the Prince declared. “Our interests in this matter are absolutely identical. What you suggest, Mr. Bellamy, is the truth. There is a rumor that the Chancellor, in the first few moments of his illness, gave valuable information to some one who is likely to have communicated it to the Government here. To be forewarned is to be forearmed. That, I know, is one of your own mottoes. So I am here to know if there is anything to be learned.”
Bellamy nodded.
“Your arrival is not inopportune, Prince. When did you come?”
“I reached Charing Cross at midnight,” the Prince answered. “Our train was an hour late. I am presenting my credentials early this morning, and I am hoping for an interview during the afternoon.”
Bellamy considered for a moment.
“It is true!” he said. “Between us three there is indeed no need for secrecy. The information you speak of will be in our hands within a few hours. I have no doubt whatever but that your Minister will share in it.”
“You know of what it Consists?” the Prince inquired curiously.
“I think so,” Bellamy answered, glancing at the clock. “For my own part, although the information itself is invaluable, I see another and a profounder source of interest in that document. If, indeed, it is what we believe it to be, it amounts to a casus belli.”
“You mean that you would provoke war?” Prince Rosmaran asked.
Bellamy shrugged his shoulders.
“I,” said he,—“I am not even a politician. But, you know, the lookers-on see a good deal of the game, and in my opinion there is only one course open for this country,—to work upon Russia so that she withdraws from any compact she may have entered into with Austria and Germany, to accept Germany’s cooperation with Austria in the despoilment of your country as a casus belli, and to declare war at once while our fleet is invincible and our Colonies free from danger.”
The Prince nodded.
“It is good,” he admitted, “to hear man’s talk once more. Wherever one moves, people bow the head before the might of Germany and Austria. Let them alone but a little longer, and they will indeed rule Europe.”
Three o’clock struck. The Prince rose.
“I go,” he announced.
“And I,” Bellamy declared. “Come to my rooms at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, Prince, and you shall hear the news.”
Bellamy lingered behind. For a moment he held Louise in his arms and gazed sorrowfully into her weary face.
“Is it worth while, I wonder?” he asked bitterly.
“Worth while,” she answered, opening her eyes and looking at him, “to feel the mother love? Who can help it who would not be ignoble?”
“But yours, dear,” he murmured, “is all grief. Even now I am afraid.”
“We can do no more than toil to the end,” she said. “David, you are sure this time?”
“I am sure,” he replied. “I am going back now to the hotel where Laverick is staying. We are going to sit together and smoke until the morning. Nothing short of an army could storm the hotel. I was with them all only an hour ago,—Streuss, that blackguard Lassen, and Adolf Kahn, the police spy. They are beaten men and they know it. They had Laverick, had him by a trick, but I made a dramatic entrance and the game was up.”
“Telephone me directly you have taken it safely to Downing Street,” she begged.
“I will,” he promised.
Bellamy walked from Dover Street to the Strand. The streets were almost brilliant with the cold, hard moonlight. The air seemed curiously keen. Once or twice the fall of his feet upon the pavement was so clear and distinct that he fancied he was being followed and glanced sharply around. He reached the Milan Hotel, however, without adventure, and looked towards the little open space in the hall where he had expected to find Laverick. There was no one there! He stood still for a moment, troubled with a sudden sense of apprehension. The place was deserted except for a couple of sleepy-looking clerks and a small army of cleaners busy with their machines down in the restaurant, moving about like mysterious figures in the dim light.
Bellamy turned back to the hall-porter who had admitted him.
“Do you happen to know what has become of the gentleman whom I was with about an hour ago?” he asked,—“a tall, fair gentleman—Mr. Laverick his name was?”
The hall-porter recognized Bellamy and touched his hat.
“Why, yes, sir!” he answered with a somewhat mysterious air. “Mr. Laverick was sitting over there in an easy-chair until about half-an-hour ago. Then two gentle-men arrived in a taxicab and inquired for him. They talked for a little time, and finally Mr. Laverick went away with them.”
Bellamy was puzzled.
“Went away with them?” he repeated. “I don’t understand that, Reynolds. He was to have waited here till I returned.”
The man hesitated.
“It didn’t strike me, sir,” he said, “that Mr. Laverick was very wishful to go. It seemed as though he hadn’t much choice about the matter.”
Bellamy looked at him keenly.
“Tell me what is in your mind?” he asked.
“Mr. Bellamy, sir,” the hall-porter replied, “I knew one of those gentlemen by sight. He was a detective from Scotland Yard, and the one who was with him was a policeman in plain clothes.”
“Good God!” Bellamy exclaimed. “You think, then,—”
“I am afraid there was no doubt about it, sir,” the man answered. “Mr. Laverick was arrested on some charge.”
XXXIV. MORRISON’S DISCLOSURE
Table of Contents
Into New Oxford Street, one of the ceaseless streams of polyglot humanity, came Zoe from her cheerless day bound for the theatre. She was a little whiter, a little more tired than usual. All day long she had heard nothing of Laverick. All day long she had sat in her tiny room with the memory of that horrible night before her. She had tried in vain to sleep,—she had made no effort whatever to eat. She knew now why Arthur Morrison had fled away. She knew the cause of that paroxysm of fear in which he had sought her out. The horror of the whole thing had crept into her blood like poison. Life was once more a dreary, profitless struggle. All the wonderful dreams, which had made existence seem almost like a fairy-tale for this last week, had faded away. She was once more a mournful little waif among the pitiless crowds.
She turned to the left and past the Holborn Tube. Boys were shouting everywhere the contents of the evening papers. Nearly every one seemed to be carrying one of the pink sheets. She herself passed on with unseeing eyes. News was nothing to her. Governments might rise and fall, war might come and go,—she had still life to support, a friendless little life, too, on two pounds fifteen shillings a week. The news they shouted fell upon deaf ears, but one boy unfurled almost before her eyes the headlines of his sheet.
SENSATIONAL ARREST OF A WELL-KNOWN
STOCKBROKER. CHARGE OF MURDER.
She came to a sudden stop and pulled out her purse. Her fingers trembled so that the penny fell on to the pavement. The boy picked it up willingly enough, however, and she passed on with the paper in her hand. There it was on the front page—staring her in the face:
Early yesterday morning Mr. Stephen Laverick, of the firm of La
verick & Morrison, Stockbrokers, Old Broad Street, was arrested at the Milan Hotel on the charge of being concerned in the murder of a person unknown, in Crooked Friars' Alley, on Monday last. The accused, who made no reply to the charge, was removed to Bow Street Police-Station. Particulars of his examination before the magistrates will be found on page 4.
There was a dull singing in her ears. An electric tram, coming up from the underground passage, seemed to bring with it some sort of thunder from an unknown world. She staggered on, unseeing, gasping for breath. If she could find somewhere to sit down! If she could only rest for a moment! Then a sudden wave of strength came to her, the blood flowed once more in her veins—blood that was hot with anger, that stained her cheeks with a spot of red. It was the man she loved, this, being made to suffer falsely. It was the fulfilment of their threat—a deliberate plot against him. The murderer of Crooked Friars’ Alley—she knew who that was!—she knew! Perhaps she might help!
She had not the slightest recollection of the remainder of that walk, but she found herself presently sitting in a quiet corner of the theatre with the paper spread out before her. She read that Stephen Laverick had been brought before Mr. Rawson, the magistrate of Bow Street Police Court, on a warrant charging him with having been concerned with the murder of a person unknown, and that he had pleaded “Not Guilty!” Her eyes glittered as she read that the first witness called was Mr. Arthur Morrison, late partner of the accused. She read his deposition—that he had left Laverick at their offices at eleven o’clock on the night in question, that they were at that time absolutely without means, and had no prospect of meeting their engagements on the morrow. She read the evidence of Mr. Fenwick, bank manager, to the effect that Mr. Laverick had, on the following morning, deposited with him the sum of twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, by means of which the engagements of the firm were duly met, that those notes had since been redeemed, and that he had no idea of their present whereabouts. She read, too, the evidence of Adolf Kahn, an Austrian visiting this country upon private business, who deposed that he was in the vicinity just before midnight, that he saw a person, whom he identified as the accused, walking down the street and, after disappearing for a few minutes down the entry, return and re-enter the offices from which he had issued. He explained his presence there by the fact that he was waiting for a clerk employed by the Goldfields’ Corporation, Limited, whose offices were close by. Further formal evidence was given, and a remand asked for. The accused’s solicitor was on the point of addressing the court when Mr. Rawson was unfortunately taken ill. After waiting for some time, the case was adjourned until the next day, and the accused man was removed in custody.
Zoe laid down the paper and rose to her feet. She made her way to where the stage-manager was superintending the erection of some new scenery.
“Mr. Heepman,” she exclaimed, “I cannot stay to rehearsal! I have to go out.”
He turned heavily round and looked at her.
“Rehearsal postponed,” he declared solemnly. “Shall you be back for the evening performance, or shall we close the theatre?”
His clumsy irony missed its mark. Her thoughts were too intensely focussed upon one thing.
“I am sorry,” she replied, turning away. “I will come back as soon as I can.”
He called out after her and she paused.
“Look here,” he said, “you were absent from the performance the other evening, and now you are skipping rehearsal without even waiting for permission. It can’t be done, young lady. You must do your playing around some other time. If you’re not here when you’re called, you needn’t trouble to turn up again. Do you understand?”
Her lips quivered and the sense of impending disaster which seemed to be brooding over her life became almost overwhelming.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she promised, with a little break in her voice,—“as soon as ever I can, Mr. Heepman.”
She hurried out of the theatre and took her place once more among the hurrying throng of pedestrians. Several people turned round to look at her. Her white face, tight-drawn mouth, and eyes almost unnaturally large, seemed to have become the abiding-place for tragedy. She herself saw no one. She would have taken a cab, but a glimpse at the contents of her purse dissuaded her. She walked steadily on to Jermyn Street, walked up the stairs to the third floor, and knocked at her brother’s door. No one answered her at first. She turned the handle and entered to find the room empty. There were sounds, however, in the further apartment, and she called out to him.
“Arthur,” she cried, “are you there?”
“Who is it?” he demanded.
“It is I—Zoe!” she exclaimed.
“What do you want?”
“I want to speak to you, Arthur. I must speak to you. Please come as quickly as you can.”
He growled something and in a few moments he appeared. He was wearing the morning clothes in which he had attended court earlier in the day, but the change in him was perhaps all the more marked by reason of this resumption of his old attire. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes scarcely for an instant seemed to lose that feverish gleam of terror with which he had returned from Liverpool. He knew very well what she had come about, and he began nervously to try and bully her.
“I wish you wouldn’t come to these rooms, Zoe,” he said. “I’ve told you before they’re bachelors’ apartments, and they don’t like women about the place. What is it? What do you want?”
“I was brought here last time without any particular desire on my part,” she answered, looking him in the face. “I’ve come now to ask you what accursed plot this is against Stephen Laverick? What were you doing in the court this morning, lying? What is the meaning of it, Arthur?”
“If you’ve come to talk rubbish like that,” he declared roughly, “you’d better be off.”
“No, it is not rubbish!” she went on fearlessly. “I think I can understand what it is that has happened. They have terrified you and bribed you until you are willing to do any despicable thing—even this. Your father was good to my mother, Arthur, and I have tried to feel towards you as though you were indeed a relation. But nothing of that counts. I want you to realize that I know the truth, and that I will not see an innocent man convicted while the guilty go free.”
He moved a step towards her. They were on opposite sides of the small round table which stood in the centre of the apartment.
“What do you mean?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Isn’t it plain enough?” she exclaimed. “You came to my rooms a week or so ago, a terrified, broken-down man. If ever there was guilt in a man’s face, it was in yours. You sent for Laverick. He pitied you and helped you away. At Liverpool they would not let you embark—these men. They have brought you back here. You are their tool. But you know very well, Arthur, that it was not Stephen Laverick who killed the man in Crooked Friars’ Alley! You know very well that it was not Stephen Laverick!”
“Why the devil should I know anything about it?” he asked fiercely.
A note of passion suddenly crept into her voice. Her little white hand, with its accusing forefinger, shot out towards him.
“Because it was you, Arthur Morrison, who committed that crime,” she cried, “and sooner than another man should suffer for it, I shall go to court myself and tell the truth.”
He was, for the moment, absolutely speechless, pale as death, with nervously twitching lips and fingers. But there was murder in his eyes.
“What do you know about this?” he muttered.
“Never mind,” she answered. “I know and I guess quite enough to convince me—and I think anybody else—that you are the guilty man. I would have helped you and shielded you, whatever it cost me, but I will not do so at Stephen Laverick’s expense.”
“What is Laverick to you?” he growled.
“He is nothing to me,” she replied, “but the best of friends. Even were he less than that, do you suppose that I would let an innocent man suffer?”
>
He moistened his dry lips rapidly.
“You are talking nonsense, Zoe,” he said,—“nonsense! Even if there has been some little mistake, what could I do now? I have given my evidence. So far as I am concerned, the case is finished. I shall not be called again until the trial.”
“Then you had better go to the magistrates tomorrow morning and take back your evidence,” she declared boldly, “for if you do not, I shall be there and I shall tell the truth.”
“Zoe,” he gasped, “don’t try me too high. This thing has upset me. I’m ill. Can’t you see it, Zoe? Look at me. I haven’t slept for weeks. Night and day I’ve had the fear—the fear always with me. You don’t know what it is—you can’t imagine. It’s like a terrible ghost, keeping pace with you wherever you go, laying his icy finger upon you whenever you would rest, mocking at you when you try to drown thought even for a moment. Don’t you try me too far, Zoe. I’m not responsible. Laverick isn’t the man you think him to be. He isn’t the man I believed. He did have that money—he did, indeed.”
“That,” she said, “is to be explained. But he is not a murderer.”
“Listen to me, Zoe,” Morrison continued, leaning across the table. “Come and stay with me for a time and we will go away for a week—somewhere to the seaside. We will talk about this and think it over. I want to get away from London. We will go to Brighton, if you like. I must do something for you, Zoe. I’m afraid I’ve neglected you a good deal. Perhaps I could get you a better part at one of the theatres. I must make you an allowance. You ought to be wearing better clothes.”
She drew a little away.
“I want nothing from you, Arthur,” she said, “except this—that you speak the truth.”
He wiped his forehead and struck the table before her.
“But, good God, Zoe!” he exclaimed, “do you know what it is that you are asking me? Do you want me to go into court and say—‘That isn’t the man… It is I who am the murderer’? Do you want me to feel their hands upon my shoulder, to be put there in the dock and have all the people staring at me curiously because they know that before very long I am to stand upon the scaffold and have that rope around my neck and—”
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