“I cannot believe this,” she said slowly.
Crawshay’s face darkened.
“It is no business of mine, Miss Beverley,” he declared, “but if you will forgive my saying so, you must be infatuated by this man. The evidence is perfectly clear. You are a prominent citizeness of a great country, and you have been made an accessory to an act of treason against that country. Yet, with plain facts in my hands, it seems impossible for me to shake your faith in this person. What is the reason of it? What hold had he upon you that he should have induced you to leave your work and your home and betray your country?”
“He has no hold upon me at all,” she replied indignantly. “Since you are so persistent, I will tell you the truth. I once saw him do a splendid thing, a deed which saved me from great unhappiness.”
“There we have it then at last!” Crawshay exclaimed eagerly. “You are under obligations to him.”
“I certainly am,” she acknowledged.
“And he has taken advantage of it,” Crawshay continued, “to make you his tool.”
“Whatever he has done,” she replied, “rests between Jocelyn Thew and me. I am not in the least disposed to excuse myself or to beg for mercy from you. If you represent the law, directly or indirectly, I do not ask for any favours. I shall be perfectly ready to go to your police station whenever I am sent for.” There was a knock at the door. They both turned around. In reply to Katharine’s mechanical “Come in,” Jocelyn Thew entered.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “was I mistaken or did I hear my name?”
“We were speaking of you,” Crawshay admitted, turning towards him, “but I do not think that either Miss Beverley or I have anything to say to you at the moment.”
“That’s rather a pity,” was the cool reply, “because you may not see me again. I was looking for Miss Beverley, in fact, to say good-by. We are docking in half an hour, and those who have been searched can go on shore, if they like to leave their hold luggage. As I have been searched twice in the most thorough and effective fashion, I have my pass out.”
“You mean that you are going away altogether to-night?” Katharine exclaimed.
“Only so far as the Adelphi,” he told her. “I have some friends to see who live near Liverpool, so I shall probably stay there for two or three days.”
“I was coming to look for you on deck presently,” Crawshay intervened, “but if your departure is so imminent, I will say what I have to say to you here.”
“That would seem advisable,” Jocelyn Thew agreed.
“I think it is only right that you should know, sir,” Crawshay continued, “that a very serious position has arisen here in which Miss Beverley is unfortunately involved. Incriminating documents have been found in her luggage, placed there obviously by some unscrupulous person, who was in search of a safe hiding-place.”
“Is this true?” Jocelyn Thew asked, looking past Crawshay to Katharine.
“I am afraid that it is,” she assented.
“The person who placed them there,” Crawshay proceeded, the anger gathering in his tone, “may believe for the present that he has been able to escape from his dangerous position by this dastardly attempt to incriminate a woman. He may, on the other hand, find that his immunity will last but a very short time.”
Jocelyn Thew nodded in calm acquiescence.
“I am at a loss,” he said, “to account for your somewhat melodramatic tone, but I really do not think that Miss Beverley has very much to fear.”
“There I agree with you,” Crawshay declared. “She has not so much to fear as the criminal who is responsible for what has happened. He may think that he has escaped by saddling his crime upon a woman’s shoulders. On the other hand, he may discover that this attempt, which only aggravates his position, will turn out to be futile.”
Jocelyn Thew held out his hand towards Katharine.
“Really,” he said, “the tone of this conversation takes one back to the atmosphere of the dear old Drury Lane melodrama. I feel, somehow or other,” he went on, looking into Katharine’s eyes, “that our friend here has cast me for the part of the villain and you for the injured heroine. I am wondering whether I dare ask you for a farewell greeting?”
Katharine did not hesitate for a moment. Her shapely, ringless hand was grasped firmly by his brown, lean fingers. She felt the pressure of a signet ring, the slight tightening of his grip as he leaned a little towards her. Again she was conscious of that feeling of exuberant life and complete confidence which had transformed her whole and humiliating situation so short a time ago.
“The injured heroine is always forgiving,” she declared,—“even though she may have nothing to forgive. Good-by, Mr. Thew, and good fortune to you!”
CHAPTER XV
Table of Contents
The morning—grey, slightly wet—broke upon Liverpool docks, the ugliest place in the ugliest city of Europe. A thin stream of people descended at irregular intervals down the gangway from the City of Boston to the dock, and disappeared in various directions. Amongst the first came a melancholy little procession—a coffin carried by two ship’s stewards, with Doctor Gant in solitary attendance behind. After the passengers came a sprinkling of the ship’s officers, all very smart and in a great hurry. Then there was a pause of several hours. About midday, two men—Brightman and a stranger—came down the covered way into the dock and boarded the steamer. They were shown at once into the captain’s room, where Crawshay and Captain Jones were awaiting them.
“This,” Brightman said, introducing his companion, “is Mr. Andelsen. I was fortunate enough to find him on the point of leaving for London.”
Mr. Andelsen shook hands and accepted a chair. Upon the table in front of the captain was the sealed dispatch box. Crawshay had a suggestion to make.
“I think,” he said, “that Miss Beverley should be here herself when this is opened.”
“I have no objection,” Brightman assented.
The captain rang for his steward and sent down a message. Mr. Andelsen—a tall, thin man, dressed in a sombre grey suit—handled the seals for a moment, looked at the address of the box, and shook his head.
“I could not take upon myself the responsibility of opening this,” he declared. “It is certainly the seal of the Embassy of my country, but the box is addressed specifically to our Foreign Secretary at the Capital.”
“We quite appreciate that,” Crawshay admitted. “The captain, I believe, is not asking you to break it. We simply wish you to be present while we do so, in order to prove that no disrespect is intended to your country, and in order that you yourself may have an opportunity of taking a note of the contents.”
“So long as it is understood that I am only here as a witness,” the consul acquiesced, a little doubtfully, “I am quite willing to remain.”
Katharine was presently ushered in. She was dressed for landing in a smart tailor-made suit, and her appearance was entirely cheerful. Crawshay stepped forward and handed her a chair.
“Dear me,” she said, “this all seems very formidable! Am I under arrest or anything?”
“The captain is about to open the dispatch box found in your trunk, Miss Beverley,” Crawshay explained, “in the presence of Mr. Andelsen here, who represents the country whose seals are attached. I have already expressed my opinion that this box has been surreptitiously placed amongst your belongings, and although, of course, our chief object was to gain possession of it, I regret very much the position in which you are placed.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Crawshay,” she rejoined, without much feeling. “It is certainly a fact that I never saw the box before it was dragged out of my trunk yesterday.”
The captain broke the seals, untied the tape, and with a chisel and hammer knocked the top off the box. They all, with the exception of Katharine, gathered around him breathlessly as he shook out the contents on to the table. They were all sharers in the same shock of surprise as the neatly folded packets of ordinary writing
paper were one by one disclosed. Crawshay seized one and dragged it to the light. The captain kept on picking them up and throwing them down again. Brightman mechanically followed his example.
“The whole thing’s a bluff!” Crawshay exclaimed. “These sheets of paper are all blank! There isn’t any trace even of invisible ink.”
The consul rose to his feet with a heavy frown.
“This is a very obvious practical joke,” he said angrily. “It seems a pity that I should have been compelled to miss my train to town.”
“A practical joke!” the captain repeated. “If it is I’m damned if I understand the point of it!”
“Give me the envelope which held the notes,” Crawshay demanded.
The captain unlocked his safe and produced it. Crawshay glanced through some of the documents hastily.
“These are all bogus, too!” he exclaimed. “There are no such streets as this in New York—no such names. The whole thing’s a sell!”
“But what the—what in thunder does it all mean?” the captain demanded, pulling himself up as he glanced towards Katharine.
Brightman, who had scarcely spoken a word, leaned across the table.
“Probably,” he said drily, “it means that some one a little cleverer than us has got away with the real stuff whilst we played around with this rubbish.”
“But how?” Crawshay expostulated. “Not a soul has left this ship who hasn’t been searched to the skin. The luggage in the hold is going out trunk by trunk, after every cubic foot has been ransacked. We have had a guard at every gangway since we were docked.”
There was a knock at the door. The ship’s doctor entered. He glanced at the little company and hesitated.
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” he said, “could I have a word with you?”
The captain moved towards the threshold.
“Ship’s business, Doctor?”
“It’s just a queer idea of mine about these papers,” the doctor confessed. “It’s perhaps scarcely worth mentioning—”
“You’d better come in and tell us about it,” the captain insisted. “That’s what we’re all talking about at the present moment.”
Crawshay closed the door behind the newcomer, whose manner was still to some extent apologetic.
“It’s really rather a mad idea,” the latter began, “and I understand you found a part of what you were searching for, at any rate. But you know the man Phillips, who’d been operated upon for appendicitis—your patient, Miss Beverley, who died during the voyage?”
“What about him?” the captain demanded.
“Just one thing,” the Doctor continued. “There was no doubt whatever that he had been operated upon for appendicitis, there was no doubt about the complications, there was no doubt about his death. I helped Doctor Gant—who seemed a very reasonable person, and who is known to me as one of the physicians at Miss Beverley’s hospital—in various small details, and at his request I went over the clothing of the dead man and even knocked the coffin to see that it hadn’t a double bottom. Doctor Gant appeared to welcome investigation in every shape and form, and yet, now that it’s all over, there is one curious thing which rather bothers me.”
“Get on with it, man,” the captain admonished. “Can’t you see that we’re all in a fever about this business?”
The doctor produced from his pocket a small strip of very fine quality bandaging.
“It’s just this,” he explained. “They left this fragment of bandaging in the stateroom. Phillips was bound up with it around the wound, as was quite natural, but it isn’t ordinary stuff, you see. It’s made double like a tube, with silk inside. He must have had a dozen yards of this around his leg and side, which of course was not disturbed. It’s a horrible idea to a layman, I know,” he went on, turning apologetically to Katharine,—
“Captain, will you send at once for the steward,” Crawshay interrupted, “who carried the coffin out?”
The captain sent a message to the lower deck. Katharine was leaning a little forward, intensely interested.
“Perhaps, Miss Beverley, you can throw some light upon this?” the former enquired—“in your capacity as nurse, I mean.”
She shook her head.
“I am sorry that I cannot,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I was never allowed to touch the bandages. Doctor Gant did all that himself.”
“Have you ever seen any bandaging of this sort?” Brightman asked, showing her the fragment which he had taken from the doctor’s fingers.
“Never.”
Crawshay drew a little breath between his teeth. He was on the point of speech when a steward knocked at the door. The captain called him in.
“Harrison,” he asked, “were you one of the stewards who was looking after Doctor Gant?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied.
“You helped to carry the coffin out, didn’t you?”
“That’s so, sir. We were off at six o’clock this morning.”
“Was there a hearse waiting?”
The steward shook his head.
“There was a big motor car outside, sir. We put the coffin in that and the doctor drove off with it—said he was to take it down to the place where the man had lived, for burial.”
“Do you know where that was?”
“No idea, sir.”
The captain glanced towards Brightman.
“Do you want to ask the man any questions?”
“Questions? No, sir!” the detective replied bitterly. “We’ve been done—that’s all there is about it. Never mind, they’ve only got six hours’ start. We’ll have that car traced, and—”
“Does any one know what time Mr. Jocelyn Thew left the steamer?” Crawshay interrupted.
“He got away last night,” the steward replied. “There were three or four of them went up to the Adelphi to sleep. Some of them came back for their baggage this morning, but I haven’t seen Mr. Jocelyn Thew.”
Katharine rose to her feet. Her tone and expression were impenetrable.
“Am I still suspect?” she asked.
Crawshay glanced at Brightman, who shook his head.
“There is no charge against you. Miss Beverley,” he admitted stiffly. “So far as I am concerned, you are at liberty to leave the ship whenever you please.”
She held out her hand to the captain.
“I can’t make up my mind, Captain,” she said, smiling at him delightfully, “as to what sort of a voyage I have had on this steamer, but I do congratulate you on that escape from the raider. Good-by!”
Crawshay walked with her along the deserted deck as far as the gangway.
“I am afraid I cannot offer my escort any further, Miss Beverley,” he regretted. “I must have a little conversation with Brightman here.”
“Of course,” she answered. “I quite understand. Perhaps we may meet in London. It seems a pity, doesn’t it,” she went on sympathetically, “that that wonderful voyage of yours was taken for nothing? Some one on this ship has been very clever indeed.”
“Some one has,” Crawshay replied bitterly, “and you and I both know who it is, Miss Beverley. But,” he went on, holding the gangway railing as she turned to descend, “it’s only the first part of the game that’s over. Our friend has won on the sea, but I have an idea that we shall have him on land. We shall have him yet, and we’ll catch him red-handed if I have anything to do with it. Will you wish us luck?”
She turned and looked at him. Her lips parted as though she were about to speak. Instead she broke into a little laugh, and, turning away, descended the gangway. From the dock she looked up again at Crawshay.
“Do come and look me up if you are in town,” she begged. “I shall stay at Claridge’s, and I shall be interested to hear how you get on.”
CHAPTER XVI
Table of Contents
The City of Boston docked in Liverpool on Sunday night. On Tuesday, at five o’clock in the afternoon, Crawshay, who had been waiting at Euston Station for a q
uarter of an hour or so, almost dragged Brightman out of the long train which drew slowly into the station.
“We’ll take a taxi somewhere,” the former said. “It’s the safest place to talk in. Any other luggage?”
“Only the bag I’m carrying,” the detective replied. “I have got some more stuff coming up, if you want me to keep on this job.”
“I think I shall,” Crawshay told him. “I want to hear how you got on. I gathered from your first telegram that you were on the track. Where did you mean to stay?”
“I’ve no choice.”
“The Savoy, then,” Crawshay decided. “Jocelyn Thew is staying there, and you may be able to keep an eye on him. Here we are. Taxi?—Savoy!—Now, Brightman.”
“You don’t want me to make a long story of it, sir,” Brightman observed, as they drove off.
“Just the things that count, that’s all.”
“Well, we got on the track of the car all right,” the detective began, “and traced it to a small village called Frisby, the other side of Chester, and to the house of a Mrs. Phillips, a woman in poor circumstances who had just removed from Liverpool. She was the widow, all right. She showed us letters, and plenty of them, from her husband in New York. It appears that Gant alone had brought the coffin, which was left at the cemetery, and the funeral will have taken place t his afternoon. Mrs. Phillips was full of his praises, and it seems that he had paid her over the whole of the money you spoke about—five thousand dollars.”
“There was no chicanery so far, then,” Crawshay observed. “The man was dead, of course?”
“Absolutely,” Brightman declared, “and his death seems to have taken place exactly according to the certificate. Here comes the point, however. With the aid of the local police and the doctor whom we called in, the bandage around the wound was removed. We found in its place a perfectly fresh one, bought in Liverpool, not in the least resembling the silk-lined fragment which the ship’s doctor brought into the cabin.”
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