"Shouldn't think you were able to pronounce much of an opinion on the case so far as it has gone, eh?"
"My good sir, the judge will instruct us as to our duty. If we follow his instructions we shan't go wrong."
"You think, then, that we are only so many automata, and that the judge has but to pull the strings."
Mr. Roland looked about him, contempt in his eye.
"It would be fortunate, perhaps, if we were automata."
"Then I can only say that we take diametrically opposite views of our office. I maintain that it is our duty to listen to the evidence, to weigh it carefully, and to record our honest convictions in the face of all the judges whoever sat upon the Bench."
Mr. Roland was silent. He was not disposed to enter into an academical discussion with an individual who evidently had a certain command of language. Others, however, showed themselves to be not so averse. The luncheon interval was enlivened by some observations on the jury system which lawyers—had any been present—would have found instructive. There were no actual quarrels. But some of the arguments were of the nature of repartees. Possibly it was owing to the beef and carrots.
They re-entered the court. The case recommenced. Mr. Roland had a headache. He was cross. His disposition was to return a verdict against everything and everyone, as his neighbour had put it, "in the face of all the judges who ever sat upon the Bench." But this time ho did pay some attention to what was going on.
It appeared, in spite of the necessity which the portly gentleman had been under to use his red silk pocket-handkerchief, that there were objections to the will he represented. It was not easy at that stage to pick up the lost threads, but from what Mr. Roland could gather it seemed it was asserted that a later will had been made, which was still in existence. Evidence was given by persons who had been present at the execution of that will; by the actual witnesses to the testator's signature; by the lawyer who had drawn the will. And then—!
Then there stepped into the witness-box a person whose appearance entirely changed Mr. Roland's attitude towards the proceedings; so that, in the twinkling of an eye, he passed from bored indifference to the keenest and liveliest interest. It was a young woman. She gave her name as Delia Angel. Her address as Barkston Gardens, South Kensington. At sight of her things began to hum inside Mr. Roland's brain. Where had he seen her before? It all came back in a flash. How could he have forgotten her, even for a moment, when from that day to this she had been continually present to his mind's eye?
It was the girl of the train. She had travelled with him from Nice to Dijon in the same carriage, which most of the way they had had to themselves. What a journey it was! And what a girl! During those fast-fleeting hours—on that occasion they had fled fast—they had discussed all subjects from Alpha to Omega. He had approached closer to terms of friendship with a woman than he had ever done in the whole course of his life before—or since. He was so taken aback by the encounter, so wrapped in recollections of those pleasant hours, that for a time he neglected to listen to what she was saying. When he did begin to listen he pricked up his ears still higher.
It was in her favour the latest will had been made—at least, partly. She had just returned from laying the testator in the cemetery in Nice when he met her in the train—actually! He recalled her deep mourning. The impression she had given him was that she had lately lost a friend. She was even carrying the will in question with her at the time. Then she began to make a series of statements which brought Mr. Roland's heart up into his mouth.
"Tell us," suggested counsel, "what happened in the train."
She paused as if to collect her thoughts. Then told a little story which interested at least one of her hearers more than anything he had ever listened to.
"I had originally intended to stop in Paris. On the way, however, I decided not to do so but to go straight through."
Mr. Roland remembered he had told her he was going, and wondered; but he resolved to postpone his wonder till she had finished.
"When we were nearing Dijon I made up my mind to send a telegram to the concierge asking her to address all letters to me in town. When we reached the station I got out of the train to do so. In the compartment in which I had travelled was a gentleman. I asked him to keep an eye on my bag till I returned. He said he would. On the platform I met some friends. I stopped to talk to them. The time must have gone quicker than I supposed, because when I reached the telegraph office I found I had only a minute or two to spare. I scribbled the telegram. As I turned I slipped and fell—I take it because of the haste I was in. As I fell my head struck upon something; because the next thing I realized was that I was lying on a couch in a strange room, feeling very queer indeed. I did ask, I believe what had become of the train. They told me it was gone. I understand that during the remainder of the day, and through the night, I continued more or less unconscious. When next day I came back to myself it was too late. I found my luggage awaiting me at Paris. But of the bag, or of the gentleman with whom I left it in charge, I have heard nothing since. I have advertised, tried every means my solicitor advised; but up to the present without result."
"And the will" observed counsel, "was in that bag?"
"It was."
Mr. Roland had listened to the lady's narrative with increasing amazement. He remembered her getting out at Dijon; that she had left a bag behind. That she had formally intrusted it to his charge he did not remember. He recalled the anxiety with which he watched for her return; his keen disappointment when he still saw nothing of her as the train steamed out of the station. So great was his chagrin that it almost amounted to dismay. He had had such a good time; had taken it for granted that it would continue for at least a few more hours, and perhaps—perhaps all sorts of things. Now, without notice, on the instant, she had gone out of his life as she had come into it. He had seen her talking to her friends. Possibly she had joined herself to them. Well, if she was that sort of person, let her go!
As for the bag, it had escaped his recollection that there was such a thing. And possibly would have continued to do so had it not persisted in staring at him mutely from the opposite seat. So she had left it behind? Serve her right. It was only a rubbishing hand-bag. Pretty old, too. It seemed that feather-headed young women could not be even depended upon to look after their own rubbish. She would come rushing up to the carriage window at one of the stations. Or he would see her at Paris. Then she could have the thing. But he did not see her. To be frank, as they neared Paris, half obliviously he crammed it with his travelling cap into his kit-bag, and to continue on the line of candour—ignored its existence till he found it there in town.
And in it was the will! The document on which so much hinged—especially for her! The bone of contention which all this pother was about. Among all that she said this was the statement which took him most aback. Because, without the slightest desire to impugn in any detail the lady's veracity, he had the best of reasons for knowing that she had—well—made a mistake.
If he had not good reason to know it, who had? He clearly called to mind the sensation, almost of horror, with which he had recognised that the thing was in his kit-bag. Half-a-dozen courses which he ought to have pursued occurred to him—too late. He ought to have handed it over to the guard of the train; to the station-master; to the lost property office. In short, he ought to have done anything except bring it with him in his bag to town. But since he had brought it, the best thing to do seemed to be to ascertain if it contained anything which would be a clue to its owner.
It was a small affair, perhaps eight inches long. Of stamped brown leather. Well worn. Original cost possibly six or seven shillings. Opened by pressing a spring lock. Contents: Four small keys on a piece of ribbon; two pocket-handkerchiefs, each with an embroidered D in the corner; the remains of a packet of chocolate; half a cedar lead-pencil; a pair of shoe-laces. And that was all. He had turned that bag upside down upon his bed, and was prepared to go into the witness-box and swear that ther
e was nothing else left inside. At least he was almost prepared to swear. For since here was Miss Delia Angel—how well the name fitted the owner!—positively affirming that among its contents was the document on which for all he knew all her worldly wealth depended, what was he to think?
The bag had continued in his possession until a week or two ago. Then one afternoon his sister, Mrs. Tranmer, had come to his rooms, and having purchased a packet of hairpins, or something of the kind, had wanted something to put them in. Seeing the bag in the corner of one of his shelves, in spite of his protestations she had snatched it up, and insisted on annexing it to help her carry home her ridiculous purchase. Its contents—as described above—he retained. But the bag! Surely Agatha was not such an idiot, such a dishonest creature, as to allow property which was not hers to pass for a moment out of her hands.
During the remainder of Miss Angel's evidence—so far as it went that day—one juryman, both mentally and physically, was in a state of dire distress. What was he to do? He was torn in a dozen different ways. Would it be etiquette for a person in his position to spring to his feet and volunteer to tell his story? He would probably astonish the Court. But—what would the Court say to him? Who had ever heard of a witness in the jury-box? He could not but suspect that, at the very least, such a situation would be in the highest degree irregular. And, in any case, what could he do? Give the lady the lie? It will have been perceived that his notions of the responsibilities of a juryman were his own, and it is quite within the range of possibility that he had already made up his mind which way his verdict should go; whether the will was in the bag or not—and "in the face of all the judges who ever sat upon the Bench."
The bag! the bag! Where was it? If, for once in a way, Agatha had shown herself to be possessed of a grain of the common sense with which he had never credited her!
At the conclusion of Miss Angel's examination in chief the portly gentleman asked to be allowed to postpone his cross-examination to the morning. On which, by way of showing its entire acquiescence, the Court at once adjourned.
And off pelted one of the jurymen in search of the bag.
Chapter II - Mrs. Tranmer is Startled
Mrs. Tranmer was just going up to dress for dinner when in burst her brother. Mr. Roland was, as a rule, one of the least excitable of men. His obvious agitation therefore surprised her the more. Her feelings took a characteristic form of expression—to her, an attentive eye to the proprieties of costume was the whole duty of a Christian.
"Philip!—what have you done to your tie?"
Mr. Roland mechanically put up his hand towards the article referred to; returning question for question.
"Agatha, where's that bag?"
"Bag? My good man, you're making your tie crookeder!"
"Bother the tie!" Mrs. Tranmer started: Philip was so seldom interjectional. "Do you hear me ask where that bag is?"
"My dear brother, before you knock me down, will you permit me to suggest that your tie is still in a shocking condition?"
He gave her one look—such a look! Then he went to the looking-glass and arranged his tie. Then he turned to her.
"Will that do?"
"It is better."
"Now, will you give me that bag—at once?"
"Bag? What bag?"
"You know very well what bag I mean—the one you took from my room."
"The one I took from your room?"
"I told you not to take it. I warned you it wasn't mine. I informed you that I was its involuntary custodian. And yet, in spite of all I could say—of all I could urge, with a woman's lax sense of the difference between meum and tuum, you insisted on removing it from my custody. The sole reparation you can make is to return it at once—upon the instant."
She observed him with growing amazement—as well she might. She subsided into an armchair.
"May I ask you to inform me from what you're suffering now?"
He was a little disposed towards valetudinarianism, and was apt to imagine himself visited by divers diseases. He winced.
"Agatha, the only thing from which I am suffering at this moment is—is—"
"Yes; is what?"
"A feeling of irritation at my own weakness in allowing myself to be persuaded by you to act in opposition to my better judgment."
"Dear me! You must be ill. That you are ill is shown by the fact that your tie is crooked again. Don't consider my feelings, and pray present yourself in my drawing-room in any condition you choose. But perhaps you will be so good as to let me know if there is any sense in the stuff you have been talking about a bag."
"Agatha, you remember that bag you took from my room?"
"That old brown leather thing?"
"It was made of brown leather—a week or two ago?"
"A week or two? Why, it was months ago."
"My dear Agatha, I do assure you—"
"Please don't let us argue. I tell you it was months ago."
"I told you not to take it—"
"You told me not to take it? Why, you pressed it on me. I didn't care to be seen with such a rubbishing old thing; but you took it off your shelf and said it would do very well. So, to avoid argument, as I generally do, I let you have your way."
"I—I don't want to be rude, but a—a more outrageous series of statements I never heard. I told you distinctly that it wasn't mine."
"You did nothing of the sort. Of course I took it for granted that such a disreputable article, which evidently belonged to a woman, was not your property. But as I had no wish to pry into your private affairs I was careful not to inquire how such a curiosity found its way upon your shelves."
"Agatha, your—your insinuations—"
"I insinuate nothing. I only want to know what this fuss is about. As I wish to dress for dinner, perhaps you'll tell me in a couple of words."
"Agatha, where's that bag?"
"How should I know?"
"Haven't you got it?"
"Got it? Do you suppose I have a museum in which I preserve rubbish of the kind?"
"But—what have you done with it?"
"You might as well ask me what I've done with last year's gloves."
"Agatha—think! More hinges upon this than you have any conception. What did you do with that bag?"
"Since you are so insistent—and I must say, Philip, that your conduct is most peculiar—I will think, or I'll try to. I believe I gave the bag to Jane. Or else to Mrs. Pettigrew's little girl. Or to my needle-woman—to carry home some embroidery she was mending for me; I am most particular about embroidery, especially when its good. Or to the curate's wife, for a jumble sale. Or I might have given it to someone else. Or I might have lost it. Or done something else with it."
"Did you look inside?"
"Of course I did. I must have done. Though I don't remember doing anything of the kind."
"Was there anything in it?"
"Do you mean when you gave it me? If there was I never saw it. Am I going to be accused of felony?"
"Agatha, I believe you have ruined me."
"Ruined you! Philip, what nonsense are you talking? I insist upon your telling me what you mean. What has that wretched old bag, which would have certainly been dear at twopence, to do with either you or me?"
"I will endeavour to explain. I believe that I stood towards that bag in what the law regards as a fiduciary relation. I was responsible for its safety. Its loss will fall on me."
"The loss of a twopenny-halfpenny bag?"
"It is not a question of the bag, but of its contents."
"What were its contents?"
"It contained a will."
"A will?—a real will? Do you mean to say that you gave me that bag without breathing a word about there being a will inside?"
"I didn't know myself until to-day."
By degrees the tale was told. Mrs. Tranmer's amazement grew and grew. She seemed to have forgotten all about its being time to dress for dinner.
"And you are a juryman?"
> "I am."
"And you actually have the bag on which the whole case turns?"
"I wish I had."
"But was the will inside?"
"I never saw it."
"Nor I. It was quite an ordinary bag, and if it had been we must have seen it. A will isn't written on a scrappy piece of paper which could have been overlooked. Philip, the will wasn't in the bag. That young woman's an impostor."
"I don't believe it for a moment—not for a single instant. I am convinced that she supposes herself to be speaking the absolute truth. Even granting that she is mistaken, in what position do I stand? I cannot go and say, 'I have lost your bag, but it doesn't matter, for the will was not inside.' Would she not be entitled to reply, 'Return me the bag in the condition in which I intrusted it to your keeping, and I will show that you are wrong'? It will not be enough for me to repeat that I have not the bag; my sister threw it into her dust-hole."
"Philip!"
"May she not retort, 'Then, for all the misfortunes which the loss of the bag brings on me, you are responsible'? The letter of the law might acquit me. My conscience never would. Agatha, I fear you have done me a serious injury."
"Don't talk like that! Under the circumstances you had no right to give me the bag at all."
"You are wrong; I did not give it you. On the contrary, I implored you not to take it. But you insisted."
"Philip, how can you say such a wicked thing? I remember exactly what happened. I had been buying some veils. I was saying to you how I hated carrying parcels, even small ones—"
"Agatha, don't let us enter into this matter now. You may be called upon to make your statement in another place. I can only hope that our statements will not clash."
For the first time Mrs. Tranmer showed symptoms of genuine anxiety.
"You don't mean to say that I'm to be dragged into a court of law because of that twopenny-halfpenny bag?"
"I think it possible. What else can you expect?
"I must tell this unfortunate young lady how the matter stands. I apprehend that I shall have to repeat my statement in open court, and that you will be called upon to supplement it. I also take it that no stone will be left unturned to induce you to give a clear and satisfactory account of what became of the bag after it passed into your hands."
Between the Dark and the Daylight Page 3
