In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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Mr. Timmins was not averse to answering the questions. He pulled his
chair closer, and in low tones spoke for some minutes, revealing all
that Nevill wished to know, and much besides that was of interest.

"You'll find me a square-dealing customer," he concluded, "and I expect
the same of a gent like you."

Nevill shrank from him with ill-concealed disgust and repulsion; contact
with the lower depths of crime affected his aristocratic sensibilities.

"You swear that you have all the papers?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And they are in a safe place?"

"If I was to drop over dead, sir, they wouldn't be found in a hundred
years."

"We'll proceed to the next question," Nevill said, abruptly. "To speak
with brutal frankness, Mr. Timmins, what is your price?"

"One thousand pounds in cash, when the papers are handed over," was the
prompt reply, "and a signed agreement to pay me as much more when you
come into--"

"Do you take me for a millionaire?" cried Nevill. "It's all right about
the agreement, but a thousand pounds is utterly beyond my means. Say two
hundred."

Mr. Timmins shook his head, and glanced significantly about the room.

"I can't take a shilling less," he firmly replied. "I know a good thing
when I have it, sir."

Nevill temporized. He argued and entreated, but without avail. He had an
inflexible customer to deal with, who would not be put off with anything
but his pound of flesh. A decision that night was impossible, and
arrangements were made for another meeting within a few days. Then Mr.
Timmins filled his pocket with cigars and took his leave.

Nevill let him out into Jermyn street, locked the door, and returned
to his sitting-room. His face was distorted with evil passions, and he
spilled the brandy on the table as he poured some into a glass.

"Curse him!" he said, hoarsely. "_He_ again! Is he destined to blast my
life and ruin my prospects?"

* * * * *

The "do" at Joubert Mansions, Chelsea, by no means fell short of Jack's
forecast; on the contrary, it exceeded it. His memory failed him as to
what transpired after three in the morning; he woke at noon in a strange
bed, with a sense of overmastering languor, and a head that felt too big
for his body. Vance Dickens, with a palette on his thumb, was standing
over him. He laughed till the roof threatened to come off.

"I wish you could see yourself," he howled. "It's not exactly the
awakening of Venus. You _wouldn't_ be undressed, so we had to tuck you
away as you were--some chaps helped to bring you here."

"You beggar!" growled Jack. "You look as fresh as a new penny."

"Two whiskies is my limit, old boy--I don't go beyond it. And I had
a page black-and-white to do to-day. Stir yourself, and we'll have
breakfast. The kettle is boiling. Wait--I'll bring you a pick-me-up."

The pick-me-up, compounded on the principle that like cures like, did
not belie its name. It got Jack to his feet and soothed his head. The
two men were about of a size, and Dickens loaned his friend a shirt and
collar and a tweed suit, promising to send his dress clothes home by a
trusty messenger.

"No; I'll attend to that," demurred Jack, who did not care to tell where
he lived.

He nibbled at his breakfast, drank four cups of strong tea, and then
sauntered to the window. It was drizzling rain, and the streets between
the river and the King's road were wrapped in a white mist.

"This sort of thing won't do," he reflected. "I must pull up short, or
I'll be a complete wreck." He remembered the brief, sad note--with more
love than bitterness in it--which he had received from Madge in reply to
his letter of explanation. "I owe something to her," he thought. "She
forgave me, and begged me to face the future bravely. And, by heavens,
I'll do it! I hope she doesn't know the life I've been leading since I
came back. Work is the thing, and I'll buckle down to it again."

Fired by his new resolve, Jack settled himself in a cozy corner and
lighted a pipe. With a stimulating interest he watched Dickens, who had
finished his black-and-white, and was doing a water color from a sketch
made that summer at Walberswick, a quaint fishing village on the Suffolk
coast. He blobbed on the paint, working spasmodically, and occasionally
he refreshed himself at the piano with a verse of the latest popular
song.

"By Jove, this is Friday!" he said suddenly; "and I'm due at the London
Sketch Club to-night. Will you come there and have supper with me at
nine?"

"Sorry, but I can't," Jack replied, remembering his promise to Sir
Lucius Chesney. "I'm off now. I'll drop in to-morrow and get my
dress-suit--don't trouble to send it."

Dickens vainly urged a change of mind. Jack was not to be coerced, and,
putting on a borrowed cap and overcoat, he left the studio. He walked to
Sloane square, and took a train to the Temple; but he was so absorbed
in a paper that he was carried past his station. He got out at
Blackfriars, and lingered doubtfully on the greasy pavement, staring at
the sea of traffic surging in the thick, yellow fog. He had reached
another turning-point in his life, but he did not know it.

"I'll go to the 'Cheese,'" he decided, "and have some supper."

CHAPTER XXV.

A FRUITLESS ERRAND.

The merest trifles often have far-reaching results, and Jack's careless
decision, prompted by a hungry stomach, made him the puppet of fate. The
crossing at Blackfriars station is the most dangerous in London, and he
did not reach the other side without much delay and several narrow
escapes. It was a shoulder-and-elbow fight to the mouth of the dingy
little court in which is the noted hostelry he sought, and then
compensation and a haven of rest--the dining-room of the "Cheshire
Cheese!" Here there was no trace of the fog, and the rumble of wheels
was hushed to a soothing murmur. An old-world air pervaded the place,
with its low ceiling and sawdust-sprinkled floor, its well-worn benches
and tables and paneling. The engravings on the walls added to the charm,
and the head waiter might have stepped from a page of Dickens. Savory
smells abounded, and the kettle rested on the hob over the big
fireplace, to the right of which Doctor Johnson's favorite seat spoke
eloquently of the great lexicographer, who in time past was wont to
foregather here with his friends.

Jack was too hungry to be sentimental. He sat down in one of the
high-backed compartments, and, glancing indifferently at a man sitting
opposite to him, he recognized the editor of the _Illustrated Universe_.

"By Jove!" Hunston cried, in surprise, "you're the very chap I want to
see. Where have you been hiding yourself, Vernon? I searched for you
high and low."

"I've not been out of town," said Jack. "I intended to look you up, or
to send my address, but one thing and another interfered--"

"Yes, I understand," Hunston interrupted. "London is fresh to a man who
has just come back from India. I hope you've had your fling, and are
ready to do some work."

"As soon as you like," Jack replied.

"I'm glad to hear it--I was afraid you had given me the slip altogether.
I want some of your sketches enlarged to double-page drawings, and I am
thinking of issuing a photographic album of the snap-shots you took on
the frontier."

"That's not a bad idea. I'll come in to-morrow."

"I'll expect you, then. You haven't a studio at present?"

"No."

"Well, I can give you a room on the premises to work in. By the bye,
there is a letter for you at the office. It came this morning."

"I'll get it to-morrow. I don't suppose it's important."

"It is in a woman's handwriting," said Hunston, with a smile.

"A woman?" exclaimed Jack. "Where does it come from--England or abroad?"

"London postmark," was the reply.

Jack changed color, and a lump seemed to rise in his throat.

"It must be from Madge," he thought. "But why would she write to me?"

"If you would like the letter to-night--" Hunston went on.

"If it's no trouble," Jack replied, eagerly.

"None whatever. I must go back to the office, anyway."

Jack was impatient to start, and he no longer felt hungry. He ordered
a light supper, however, and ate it hurriedly. He finished at the same
time as Hunston, and they left the "Cheese" and plunged into the outer
fog and crowds. A short walk brought them to the _Universe_ building,
which was just closing its doors to the public. Hunston turned up the
gas in his office.

"Here you are," he said, taking a letter from a pigeon-hole over the
desk.

Jack looked at it sharply, and disappointment banished hope. He scowled
savagely, and an half-audible oath slipped from his lips. He had
recognized Diane's peculiar penmanship. She was in London, contrary
to promise, and had dared to write to him.

"Sit down," said Hunston. "Have a cigar?"

"No; I'm off," Jack answered dully, as he thrust the letter into his
pocket unopened.

Hunston regarded him anxiously.

"Ill see you to-morrow?" he asked. "You know it's rather important, and
I'll want one of the double pages by next Wednesday."

"I'll turn up," Jack promised, in an absent tone.

With that he hastened away, and as he trod the Strand his brain was in a
confused whirl, and he was oblivious of the frothing life about him. He
groped across Waterloo Bridge in the fog, and looked wistfully toward
the black river. He did not care to read the letter yet. It was enough
for the present to know that his wife had broken her word and returned
to London, doubtless with the intention of demanding more money. He
vowed that she should not have a penny. Fierce anger and resentment rose
in his heart as he remembered, with anguish as keen as it had ever been,
the blow Diane had dealt him.

"I will show her no mercy," he resolved.

In the privacy of his room, when he had locked the door and lighted the
gas, he took out the letter. His face was dark and scowling as he tore
it open, and read the few lines that it contained:

"DEAR JACK:--You will fly into a passion when you find that I am in
London, but you won't blame me when you learn the reasons that have
brought me back. I knew that you had returned from India, and I want
to see you. Not having your address, I am sending the letter to the
_Universe_ office, and I hope it will be delivered to you promptly. Will
you come to 324 Beak street, at half-past eight to-morrow night? The
street door will be open. Go to the top of the stairs, and knock at the
first door on the left. Do not fear that I shall ask for money, or make
other demands. I have much to tell you, of the greatest importance to
your future happiness. If you do not come you will regret it all your
life. I will expect you. DIANE."

With a bitter laugh Jack flung the letter on a table. It was not written
in French, for Diane was herself of English birth, though of her history
before she came to Paris her husband was ignorant; she had never spoken
to him of her earlier years, nor had he questioned her about them.

"Does she think I am a fool, to be taken in so easily?" he said to
himself. "It is a lie--a trick! Money is her game, of course. She wants
to decoy me to her lodgings, and hopes to make me yield by threats of
exposure. And yet she writes with a ring of sincerity--something like
her old self in the first days of our marriage. Bah! it is only her
cunning."

He read the letter again, and pondered it.

"It was written yesterday," he muttered. "The appointment is for
to-night. What could she possibly have to tell me that concerns my
future happiness? Nothing! And yet, if she should really be
remorseful--By Jove! I _will_ go! It can do no harm. But if I find that
she has deceived me, and is playing the old game, by heavens! I'll--"

Passion choked his utterance, and he concluded the sentence with a
mental threat. He suddenly remembered that he had promised to meet Sir
Lucius Chesney at eight o'clock that night.

"I can't do it," he thought. "I'm not fit to talk to any man in this
mood. And he would probably detain me more than half an hour. No, I'll
write a short note to Sir Lucius, putting off the engagement, and leave
it at Morley's."

Whether his decision was a wise one or not, was a question that Jack did
not attempt to analyze. He proceeded to carry his plans into effect. It
was then seven o'clock, and it took him twenty minutes to write the note
to Sir Lucius and exchange his borrowed clothes for a dark suit of his
own. He put Diane's letter into a side pocket, so that he might be sure
of the address, and then left the house. He did not take a cab,
preferring to walk.

He handed the note in at Morley's Hotel, and steered across Trafalgar
square. At the top of the Haymarket, to his chagrin, he encountered
Jimmie Drexell, who urged him to have a drink at Scott's; he could not
well refuse, as it was nearly a fortnight since they had met.

A quarter of an hour slipped by. Jimmie asked a great many questions,
but Jack was preoccupied and uneasy, and scarcely answered them. He
finally tore himself away on the plea of an urgent engagement, and
promised to call at the Albany the next day; he was reluctant to confide
in his friend. A distant clock was striking eight-thirty as he turned up
the Quadrant.

Regent street was noisy and crowded, but Beak street was gloomy and
misty, depressing and lonely, in contrast. Jack found the right number,
and as he hesitated before the house--the door of which was partly
open--a man came abruptly out. He was tall and slim, dressed in dark
clothes, and with a soft hat that concealed all of his features except
an aquiline nose and a black beard and mustache. He stared hard at Jack
for an instant, then strode rapidly off to the eastward and was lost in
the fog.

"A foreigner, from his actions," thought Jack.

He pushed the door open, and mounted a steep and narrow staircase.
Reaching the first landing, he saw a door on his left. At the bottom
a faint streak of light was visible, but his low rapping brought no
response. He rapped again--three times, and each louder--but with the
same result.

"No use to keep this up," he concluded, vexatiously. "I am a few minutes
late, and she has gone out, thinking that I would not come. There is no
mistake about the room. I won't wait--I'll write to her to-morrow, and
give her twenty-four hours to get out of London."

He went slowly down the dark stairs, and as he stepped into the street
he brushed against a stout, elderly woman. With a muttered apology, he
moved aside. The woman turned and looked after him sharply for an
instant, then entered the house and closed the door.

Jack thought nothing of the incident. How to put in the evening was
the question that concerned him. He was walking undecidedly down the
Quadrant when he saw approaching an artist friend whom he did not care
to meet. On the impulse of the moment he darted across the street,
narrowly missing the wheels of a hansom, and in front of the Cafe Royal
he ran into the arms of Victor Nevill.

"Hello, old chap; you _are_ in a hurry!" cried Nevill. "What's up now?
Seen my uncle?"

Jack was flushed and breathless.

"No; I couldn't manage it," he panted. "I left a note at Morley's for
him. I had to make a call--party wasn't at home."

"Where are you bound for? Morley's?"

"No; it's too late. Shall we have some refreshment?"

"Sorry, but I can't," replied Nevill. "I'm going to a reception. Will
you come to my rooms at eleven?"

"Yes, if I'm not too far away. But don't count on me. Good-night, in
case I don't see you again."

"Good-night," echoed Nevill.

As he looked after Jack, the latter pulled out his handkerchief,
and a white object fluttered from it to the pavement. He walked on,
unconscious of its loss. Nevill hurried to the spot, and picked up
a letter.

"A woman's!" he muttered, as he thrust it quickly into his pocket. "And
the writing seems familiar. I'll examine this when I get a chance.
Everything is fair in the game I am playing."

Jack wandered irresolutely to Piccadilly Circus, seeking distraction.
In the American bar at the St. James' he met a man named Ingram, who
suggested that they should go to see a mutual friend--an artist--who
lived in Bedford Park. Jack agreed, and they drove in a cab. They found
a lot of other men they knew at the studio, and whisky and tobacco made
the hours fly. They left at two o'clock in the morning--a convivial
party of five--and they had to walk to Hammersmith before they picked up
a hansom. They dropped off one by one, and Jack was the only occupant
when he reached Sloane street. It was long past four when the cab put
him down at his lodgings on the Surrey side.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE.

Another day dawned, as wet and gloomy as the preceding ones. It was the
middle of the morning when Jack got out of bed, and as he dressed he
heard the penetrating voices of newsboys ringing through the Waterloo
Bridge road. He could not distinguish what they were saying, though
he judged that the papers must contain some intelligence of unusual
importance. He rang for his breakfast, and his landlady, Mrs. Jones,
appeared in person, bringing coffee, rolls and bacon on a tray. Her face
was flushed with excitement.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon, 'ave you 'eard?" she exclaimed. "There was a 'orrible
murder last night! I do pity the poor, dear creature--"

"I don't want to be shocked," Jack curtly interrupted. "Murders are
common enough. But you might send me up a paper."

"And you won't 'ear--"

"Not now, my good woman."

Mrs. Jones put down the tray, tossed her head, and departed in a huff.
The paper arrived five minutes later, and Jack glanced over it while he
sipped his coffee. One of the inside pages suddenly confronted him with
huge headlines: "The Beak Street Murder!" He read further down the
column, and his face turned as pale as ashes; he swayed in his chair.

"My God!" he cried. "It is Diane!"

The report of the affair was enlarged from a briefer account that had
appeared in a late edition on the previous night. It seemed that Mrs.
Rickett, the landlady and proprietress of 324 Beak street, had
discovered the crime at a quarter to ten in the evening. A red stain,
coming through the ceiling of her sitting-room, attracted her attention.
She went to the room overhead, which was occupied by a female lodger
calling herself Diane Merode. The door was locked, and her demands for
admittance brought no response. She promptly summoned the police, who
broke in the door and found the unfortunate woman, Merode, lying dead in
a pool of blood. She had been stabbed to the heart by a powerful blow
dealt from behind.

"The murderer left no traces," the _Globe_ continued. "He carried off
the weapon, and, after locking the door, he took the key. According to
medical opinion, the deed was committed about half-past eight o'clock.
At that time there were several other lodgers in the top part of the
house, but they heard no noise whatever. Fortunately, however, there
is a clew. Mrs. Ricketts, who was out making purchases for breakfast,
returned about a quarter to nine. As she entered the doorway a man
slipped by her and hastened in the direction of Regent street. She had
a good look at him, and declares that she would be able to recognize him
again. The police are searching for the suspected person."

Jack's breakfast was untasted and forgotten. His trembling hand had
upset the coffee, spilling it over the paper. He felt cold in every
vein, and his thoughts were in a state of wild chaos. It was hard to
grasp the truth--difficult to realize the import of those staring
headlines of black type!

"Diane murdered! Diane dead!" he repeated, vacantly. "I can't believe
it!"

After the first shock, when his brain began to throw off the numbing
stupor, he comprehended the terrible fact. The crime gave him no
satisfaction; it never occurred to him that he was a free man now. On
the contrary, a dull remorse stirred within him. He remembered his wife
as she had been five years before, when she had loved him with as much
sincerity as her shallow nature would permit, and her charms and beauty
had bound him captive by golden chains. There were tears in his eyes as
he paced the floor unsteadily.

"Poor Diane!" he muttered. "She has paid a frightful penalty for the
sins of her wayward life--more than she deserved. She must have been
lying dead when I rapped on her door last night. Yes, and the fatal blow
had been struck but a short time before! The assassin was the
foreign-looking man who came down the stairs as I went up! There can be
no doubt of it! But who was he? And what was his motive? A discarded
lover, perhaps! What else could have prompted the deed?"

He suddenly paused, and reeled against the wall; he clenched his hands,
and a look of sharp horror distorted his face.

"By heavens, this is awful!" he gasped. "I never thought of it before!
The police are looking for me--I remember now that I met the landlady
when I left the house. I brushed against her and apologized, and she
stared straight at me! And the real murderer--the foreigner--appears to
have been seen by nobody except myself. What shall I do? It is on me
that suspicion has fallen!"

The realization of his danger unnerved and stupefied Jack for an
instant. Dread phantoms of arrest and imprisonment, of trial and
sentence, rose before his eyes. One moment he determined to flee the
country; the next he resolved to surrender to the police and tell all
that he knew, so that the real murderer might be sought for without
loss of time. But the latter course was risky, fraught with terrible
possibilities. The evidence would be strong against him. He remembered
Diane's letter. He must destroy it! He hurriedly searched the pockets of
the clothing he had worn on the previous night, but in vain.

"The letter is gone--I have lost it!" he concluded, with a sinking
heart. "But where and how? And if it is found--"

There was a sharp rap at the door, and as quickly it opened, without
invitation. Two stern-looking men, dressed in plain clothes, stepped
into the room. Jack knew at once what the visit meant, and with a
supreme effort he braced himself to meet the ordeal. It was hard work
to stand erect and to keep his face from twitching.

"You are John Vernon?" demanded one of the men.

"Yes."

"I will be very brief, sir. I am a Scotland Yard officer, and I am here
to arrest you on suspicion of having murdered your wife, known as Diane
Merode, at Number 324 Beak street, last night."

"I expected this," Jack replied. "I have just seen the paper--I knew
nothing of the crime before. I am entirely innocent, though I admit that
the circumstances--"

"I warn you not to say anything that may incriminate yourself. You must
come with me, sir!"

"I understand that, and I will go quietly. I am quite ready. And at the
proper time I will speak."

There was no delay. One of the officers remained to search the
apartments, and Jack accompanied the other downstairs. They got into
a cab and drove off, while Mrs. Jones shook her fist at them from the
doorway, loudly protesting that she was a disgraced and ruined woman
forever.

The magistrate was sitting in the court at Great Marlborough street, and
Jack was taken there to undergo a brief preliminary formality. Contrary
to advice, he persisted in making a statement, after which he was
removed to the Holloway prison of detention to await the result of the
coroner's inquest.

About the time that the cell-door closed on the unfortunate artist,
shutting him in to bitter reflections, Victor Nevill was in his rooms on
Jermyn street. Several of the latest papers were spread out before him,
and he brushed them savagely aside as he reached for a cigar-box. He
looked paler than usual--even haggard.

"They have taken him by this time," he thought. "I was lucky to pick up
the letter, and it was a stroke of inspiration to send it to the police.
He is guilty, without doubt. I vowed to have a further revenge, my fine
fellow, if I ever got the chance, and I have kept my word. But there are
other troubles to meet. The clouds are gathering--I wonder if I shall
weather the storm!"

* * * * *

Enterprising reporters, aided by official leaking somewhere, obtained
possession of considerable facts, including the prisoner's arrest and
statement, before two o'clock, and the afternoon journals promptly
published them, not scrupling to add various imaginary embellishments.
The simple truth was enough to cause a wide-spread and profound
sensation, and it did so; for John Vernon's reputation as an artist, and
his Academy successes, were known alike to society and to the masses. It
was a rare morsel of scandal!

Madge Foster's first knowledge of the murder was gleaned from a morning
paper, which, delayed for some reason, was not delivered until her
father had gone up to town. Toward evening she bought a late edition
from a newsboy who had penetrated to the isolated regions of Grove Park
and Strand-on-the-Green, and she saw Jack's name in big letters. When
she had read the whole account, the room seemed to swim around her, and
she dropped, half fainting, into a chair.

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