by Mike Ashley
“You did very wrong not to return at once. Did you by any chance happen to see the person the child ran to?”
“I saw no one, sir; only the cry of the child still rings in my ears and the delight in his voice. ‘Pitty lady,’ he said, and off he went like a flash.”
“You should have followed him.”
“I know it, sir, and I’m fit to kill myself; but the gentleman was that nice and civil, and I’ll own I forgot everything else in the pleasure of having a chat with him.”
“The man who spoke to you called himself Ivanhoe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I should like you to give me some particulars with regard to this man’s appearance,” I said, interrupting the conversation for the first time.
The woman stared at me. I doubt if she had ever seen me before.
“He was a dark, handsome man,” she said; then, slowly, “but with something peculiar about him, and he spoke like a foreigner.”
I glanced at Durham. His eyes met mine in the most hopeless perplexity. I looked away. A thousand wild fears were rushing through my brain.
“There is no good in wasting time over unimportant matters,” said the poor father impatiently. “The thing to do is to find baby at once. Control yourself, please, Jane; you do not make matters any better by giving way to undue emotion. Did you mention the child’s loss to the police?”
“Yes, sir, two hours back.”
“Durham,” I said suddenly, “you and I had better go at once to Dufrayer. He will advise us exactly what is to be done.”
Durham glanced at me, then without a word went into the hall and put on his hat. We both left the house.
“What do you think of it, Head?” He said presently, as we were bowling away in a hansom to Dufrayer’s flat.
“I cannot help telling you that I fear there is grave danger ahead,” I replied; “but do not ask me any more until we have consulted Dufrayer.”
The lawyer was in, and the whole story of the child’s disappearance was told to him. He listened gravely. When Durham had finished speaking, Dufrayer said slowly:
“There is little doubt what has happened.”
“What do you mean?” Cried Durham. “Is it possible that you have got a solution already?”
“I have, my poor fellow, and a grave one. I fear that you are one of the many victims of the greatest criminal in London. I allude to Mme. Koluchy.”
“Mme. Koluchy!” Said Durham, glancing from one of us to the other. “What can you mean? Are you dreaming? Mme. Koluchy! What can she have to do with my little boy? Is it possible that you allude to the great lady doctor?”
“The same,” cried Dufrayer. “The fact is Durham, Head and I have been watching this woman for months past. We have learned some grave things about her. I will not take up your time now relating them, but you must take our word for it that she is not to be trusted — that to know her is to be in danger — to be her friend is to be in touch with some monstrous and terrible crime. For some reason she has made a friend of Lady Faulkner. Head saw them standing together under your picture. Head, will you tell Durham the exact words you overheard Lady Faulkner say?”
I repeated them.
Durham, who had been listening attentively, now shook his head.
“We are only wasting time following a clue of that sort,” he said. “Nothing would induce me to doubt Lady Faulkner. What object could she possibly have in stealing my child? She has a child of her own exactly like Robin. Head, you are on a wrong track — you waste time by these conjectures. Someone has stolen the child hoping to reap a large reward. We must go to the police immediately, and have wires sent to every station round London.”
“I will accompany you, Durham, if you like, to Scotland Yard,” said Dufrayer.
“And I will go back to Regent’s Park to find out if the keepers have learned anything,” I said.
We went our separate ways.
The next few days were spent in fruitless endeavours to recover the missing child. No stone was left unturned; the police were active in the search — large rewards were freely offered. Durham, accompanied by a private detective; spent his entire time rushing from place to place. His face grew drawn and anxious, his work was altogether neglected. He slept badly, and morning after morning awoke feeling so ill that his friends became alarmed about him.
“If this fearful strain continues much longer I shall fear for his life,” said Dufrayer, one evening, to me. This was at the end of the first week.
On the next morning there was a fresh development in the unaccountable mystery. The nurse, Jane Cleaver, who had been unfeignedly grieving for the child ever since his disappearance, had gone out and had not returned. Inquiries were immediately set on foot with regard to what had become of her, but not a clue could be obtained as to her whereabouts.
On the evening of that day I called to see Durham, and found the poor fellow absolutely distracted.
“If this suspense continues much longer, I believe I shall lose my reason,” he said. “I cannot think what has come to me. It is not only the absence of the child. I feel as if I were under the weight of some terrible illness. I cannot explain to you what my nights are. I have horrible nightmares. I suffer from a sensation as if I were being scorched by fire. In the morning I awake more dead than alive. During the day I get a little better, but the following night the same thing is repeated. The image of the child is always before my eyes. I see him everywhere. I hear his voice crying to me to come and rescue him.”
He turned aside, so overcome by emotion that he could scarcely speak.
“Durham,” I said suddenly, “I have come here this evening to tell you that I have made up my mind.”
“To do what?” He asked.
“I am going to Scotland tomorrow. I mean to visit Lady Faulkner at Bram Castle. It is quite possible that she knows something of the fate of the child. One thing, at least, is certain, that a person who had a strong likeness to her beguiled the little fellow round the rhododendron clump.”
Durham smiled faintly.
“I cannot agree with you,” he said. “I would stake my life on the honour of Lady Faulkner.”
“At least you must allow me to make inquiries,” I replied. “I shall be away for a few days. I may return with tidings. Keep up your heart until you see me again.”
On the following evening I found myself in Inverness-shire. I put up at a small village just outside the estate of Bram. The castle towering on its beetling cliffs hung over the rushing waters of the River Bramley. I slept at the little inn, and early on the following morning made my way to the castle. Lady Faulkner was at home, and showed considerable surprise at seeing me. I noticed that her colour changed, and a look of consternation visited her large, beautiful eyes.
“You startled me, Mr. Head,” she said; “is anything wrong?”
“Wrong? Yes,” I answered. “Is it possible you have not heard the news?”
“What news?” She inquired. She immediately regained her self-control, sat down on the nearest chair, and looked me full in the face.
“I have news which will cause you sorrow, Lady Faulkner. You were fond of Durham’s boy, were you not?”
“Mr. Durham’s boy — sweet little Robin?” She cried. “Of course. Has anything happened to him?”
“Is it possible that you have not heard? The child is lost.”
I then related all that had occurred. Lady Faulkner looked at me gravely, with just the right expression of distress coming and going on her face. When I had finished my narrative there were tears in her eyes.
“This will almost send Mr. Durham to his grave,” she cried; “but surely — surely the child will be found?”
“The child must be found,” I said. As I spoke I looked at her steadily. Immediately my suspicions were strengthened. She gazed at me with that wonderful calm which I do not believe any man could adopt. It occurred to me that she was overdoing it. The slight hardening which I had noticed before round her love
ly lips became again perceptible. In spite of all her efforts, an expression the reverse of beautiful filled her eyes.
“Oh, this is terrible!” She said, suddenly springing to her feet. “I can feel for Mr. Durham from my very heart. My own little Keith is so like Robin. You would like to see my boy, would you not, Mr. Head?”
“I shall be glad to see him,” I answered. “You have spoken before of the extraordinary likeness between the children.”
“It is marvellous,” she cried; “you would scarcely know one from the other.”
She rang the bell. A servant appeared.
“Tell nurse to bring baby here,” said I Faulkner.
A moment later the door was opened — the nurse herself did not appear, but a little boy, dressed in white, rushed into the room. He ran up to Lady Faulkner, clasping his arms ecstatically round her knees.
“Mother’s own little boy,” she said. She lifted him into her arms. Her fingers were loaded with rings, and I noticed as she held the child against her heart that they were trembling. Was all this excessive emotion for Durham’s miserable fate?”
“Lady Faulkner,” I said, jumping to my feet and speaking sternly, “I will tell you the truth. I have come here in a vain hope. The loss of the child is killing the poor father — can you do anything for his relief?”
“I?” She said. “What do you mean?”
My words were unexpected, and they startled her.
“Can you do anything for his relief?” I repeated. “Let me look at that boy. He is exactly like the child who is lost.”
“I always told you there was an extraordinary likeness,” she answered. “Look round, baby, look at that gentleman — tell him you are mother’s own little boy.”
“Mummy’s boy,” lisped the baby. He looked full up into my face. The blue eyes, the mass of golden hair, the slow, lovely smile — surely I had seen them before.
Lady Faulkner unfastened her locket, opened it and gave it to me.
“Feature for feature,” she said. “Feature for feature the same. Mr. Head, this is my child. Is it possible — ” She let the child drop from her arms and stood up confronting me. Her attitude reminded me of Ellen Douglas. “Is it possible that you suspect me?” She cried.
“I will be frank with you, Lady Faulkner,” I answered. “I do suspect you.”
She seated herself with a perceptible effort.
“This is too grave a matter to be merely angry about,” she said; “but do you realize what you are saying? You suspect me — me of having stolen Robin Durham from his father?”
“God help me, I do,” I answered.
“Your reasons?”
She took the child again on her knee. He turned towards her and caught hold of her heavy gold chain. As he did so I remembered that I had seen Durham’s boy playing with that chain in the studio at Lanchester Gardens.
I briefly repeated the reasons for my fears. I told Lady Faulkner what I had overheard at the Academy. I said a few strong words with regard to Mme. Koluchy.
“To be the friend of that woman is to condemn you,” I said, at last. “Do you know what she really is?”
Lady Faulkner made no answer. During the entire narrative she had not uttered a syllable.
“When my husband returns home,” she said at last, faintly, “he will protect me from this cruel charge.”
“Are you prepared to swear that the boy sitting on your knee is your own boy?” I asked.
She hesitated, then said boldly, “I am.”
“Will you take an oath on the Bible that he is your child?”
Her face grew white.
“Surely that is not necessary,” she said.
“But will you do it?” I repeated.
She looked down again at the boy. The boy looked up at her.
“Pitty lady,�� he said, all of a sudden.
The moment he uttered the words I noticed a queer change on her face. She got up and rang the bell. A grave-looking, middle-aged woman entered the room.
“Take baby, nurse,” said Lady Faulkner.
The woman lifted the boy in her arms and conveyed him from the room.
“I will swear, Mr. Head,” said Lady Faulkner. “There is a Bible on that table — I will swear on the Bible.”
She took the Book in her hands, repeated the usual words of the oath, and kissed the Book.
“I declare that that boy is my own son, born of my body,” she said, slowly and distinctly.
“Thank you,” I answered. I laid the Bible down on the table.
“What else do you want me to do?” She said.
“There is one test,” I replied, “which, in my opinion, will settle the matter finally. The test is this. If the boy I have just seen is indeed your son, he will not recognize Durham, for he has never seen him. If, on the other hand, he is Durham’s boy, he cannot fail to know his father, and to show that he knows him when he is taken into his presence. Will you return with me to town to-morrow, bringing the child with you? If little Robin’s father appears as a stranger to the boy, I will believe that you have spoken the truth.”
Before Lady Faulkner could reply, a servant entered the room bearing a letter on a salver. She took it eagerly and tore it open, glanced at the contents, and a look of relief crossed her face as her eyes met mine. They were bright now and full of a curious defiance.
“I am willing to stand the test,” she said. “I will come with you to-morrow.”
“With the boy?”
“Yes, I will bring the boy.”
“You must allow him to enter Durham’s presence without you.”
“He shall do so.”
“Good,” I answered. “We can leave here by the earliest train in the morning.”
I left the castle a few minutes later, and wired to Dufrayer, telling him that Lady Faulkner and I would come up to town early on the following day, bringing Lady Faulkner’s supposed boy with us. I asked Dufrayer not to prepare Durham in any way.
Late in the evening I received a reply to my telegram.
“Come by first possible train,” were its contents. “Durham is seriously ill.”
I thought it best to say nothing of the illness to Lady Faulkner, and at an early hour on the following day we started on our journey. No nurse accompanied the child. He slept a good part of the day — Lady Faulkner herself was almost silent. She scarcely addressed me. Now and then I saw her eyes light upon the child with a curious expression. Once, as I was attending to her comfort, she looked me full in the face.
“You doubt me, Mr. Head,” she said. “It is impossible for me to feel friendly towards you until your doubts are removed.”
“I am more grieved than I can say,” I answered; “but I must, God helping me, at any cost see justice done.”
She shivered.
At 7 p.m. we steamed into King’s Cross. Dufrayer was on the platform, and at the carriage door in a second. From the grave expression on his face I saw that there was bad news. Was it possible that the worst had happened to Durham, and that now there would never be any means of proving whether the child were Lady Faulkner’s child or not?
“Be quick,” he exclaimed, when he saw me. “Durham is sinking fast; I am afraid we shall be too late as it is.”
“What is the matter with him?” I asked.
“That is what no one can make out. Langley Chaston, the great nerve specialist, has been to see him this afternoon. Chaston is completely nonplussed, but he attributes the illness to the shock and strain caused by the loss of the child.”
Dufrayer said these words eagerly, and as he imagined into my ear alone. A hand touched me on the shoulder. I turned and confronted Lady Faulkner.
“What are you saying?” She exclaimed. “Is it possible that Mr. Durham is in danger, in danger of his life?”
“He is dying,” said Dufrayer brusquely.
Lady Faulkner stepped back as though some one had shot her. She quivered all over.
“Take the child,” she said to me, in a
faint voice.
I lifted the boy in my arms. A brougham awaited us; we got in. The child, weary with the journey, lay fast asleep.
In another moment we were rattling along the Marylebone Road towards Lanchester Gardens.
As we entered the house, Dr. Curzon, Durham’s own physician, received us in the hall.
“You are too late,” he said, “the poor fellow is unconscious. It is the beginning of the end. I doubt if he will live through the night.”
The doctor’s words were interrupted by a low cry. Looking round, I saw that Lady Faulkner had flung off her cloak, had lifted her veil, and was staring at Dr. Curzon as though she were about to take leave of her senses.
“Say those words again,” she cried.
“My dear madam, I am sorry to startle you. Durham is very ill; quite unconscious; sinking fast.”
“I must see him,” she said eagerly; “which is his room?”
“The bedroom facing you on the first landing,” was the doctor’s reply.
She rushed upstairs, not waiting for any one. We followed her slowly. As we were about to enter the room, the child being still in my arms, Lady Faulkner came out, and confronted me.
“I have seen him,” she said. “One glance at his face was sufficient. Mr. Head, I must speak to you, and alone, at once — at once! Take me where I can see you all alone.”
I opened the door of another room on the same landing, and switched on the electric light.
“Put the child down,” she said, “or take him away. This is too horrible; it is past bearing. I never meant things to go as far as this.”
“Lady Faulkner, do you quite realize what you are saying?”
“I realize everything. Oh, Mr. Head, you were right. Madame is the most terrible woman in all the world. She told me that I might bring the boy to London in safety — that she had arranged matters so that his father should not recognize him — so that he would not recognize his father. I was to bring him straight here, and trust to her to put things right. I never knew she meant this. I have just looked at his face, and he is changed; he is horrible to look at now. Oh, my God this will kill me.”
“You must tell me all, Lady Faulkner,” I said. “You have committed yourself now — you have as good as confessed the truth. Then the child — this child — is indeed Durham’s son?”
