In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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"He is innocent--his story is true!" she cried, feebly. "I will never
believe him guilty! Oh, if I could only go to him and comfort him in his
great trouble!"

Stephen Foster came home at seven o'clock, but he dined alone. Madge was
in her room, and would not come out or touch food. Her eyes were red and
swollen, and she had wept until the fountain of her tears was dried up.

At four o'clock that same afternoon Mr. Tenby, the famous criminal
solicitor, was sitting in his private office in Bedford street, Strand,
when two prospective clients were announced simultaneously, and, by a
mistake on the part of the office-boy, shown in together. The visitors
were Jimmie Drexell and Sir Lucius Chesney, and, greatly to their mutual
amazement and the surprise of the solicitor, it appeared that they had
come on the same errand--to engage Mr. Tenby to look after the interests
of Jack Vernon. They were soon on the best of terms.

"Mr. Vernon is an old friend of mine," Jimmie explained, "and I am going
to see him through this thing. I will stake my life on his innocence!"

"I am glad to hear you say that," replied Sir Lucius. "I am convinced
myself that he is guiltless--that his story is true in every
particular. His face is a warranty of that. I am deeply interested in
the young man, Mr. Drexell. I have taken a fancy to him--and I insist on
aiding in his defense. Don't refuse, sir. Expense is no object to me!"

"Nor to me," said Jimmie. "But it shall be as you wish."

This understanding being reached, the matter was further gone into.
The solicitor, by adroit questioning, drew from Jimmie various bits of
information relating to the accused man's past life. His own opinion--he
had read all the papers--Mr. Tenby held in reserve behind a sphinx-like
countenance, nor did he vouchsafe it when it was finally settled that he
should defend the case.

"The circumstantial evidence appears strong--very strong," he said
drily. "The situation looks black for Mr. Vernon. But I trust that the
police will find the foreign-looking individual whom the accused met
coming out of the house, if it is certain that--" He broke off sharply.

"At all events, gentlemen," he added, "be assured that I shall do my
best."

This promise from the great Mr. Tenby meant everything. He dismissed his
visitors, and they walked as far as Morley's Hotel together, discussing
the situation as hopefully as they could. It was evident to both,
however, that the solicitor was not disposed to credit Jack's innocence
or the truth of his statement.

"I'll spend every dollar I have to get him free," Jimmie vowed, as he
went sadly on to the Albany. And much the same thing was in the mind of
Sir Lucius, though he wondered why it should be. He was the creature of
a whim that dominated him.

The next day was Sunday, and on Monday the coroner held his inquest.
The accused was not present, but he was represented by Mr. Tenby, who
posed mainly as a listener, however, and asked very few questions.
Nothing fresh was solicited. Mrs. Rickett repeated her story, and the
letter from the murdered woman, which the prisoner admitted having lost,
was put in evidence. The proceedings being merely a prelude to a higher
court, the jurors rendered an undecisive verdict. They found that the
deceased had been murdered by a person or persons unknown, but that
suspicion strongly pointed to her husband, John Vernon. They advised,
moreover, that the police should try to find the stranger whom the
accused alleged to have seen coming from the house.

On Tuesday the unfortunate woman was decently buried, at Jimmie
Drexell's expense, and on the following day a more formal inquiry was
held at Great Marlborough street. Jack was there, and he had a brief and
affecting interview with Sir Lucius and Jimmie; he had previously seen
his solicitor at Holloway. He repeated to the magistrate the story he
had told before, and he was compelled to admit, by the Crown lawyers,
that the murdered woman had been his wife, that they had lived apart for
nearly six years, and that she had recently prevented him from marrying
another woman. What prompted these damaging questions, or how the
prosecution got hold of the lost letter, did not appear. Mrs. Rickett
positively identified the prisoner, and medical evidence was taken. The
police stated that they had been unable as yet to find the missing man,
concerning whose existence they suggested some doubt, and that they had
discovered nothing bearing on the case in the apartments occupied by
either the accused or Diane Merode. Mr. Tenby, who was suffering from
a headache, did little but watch the proceedings. The inquiry was
adjourned, and John Vernon was remanded in custody for a week.

But much was destined to occur in the interval. The solicitor had a
formidable rival in the person of Jimmie Drexell. The shrewd American,
keeping eyes and ears open, had formed suspicions in regard to the
principal witness for the Crown. And he lost no time in making the most
of his clew, wild and improbable as it seemed.

CHAPTER XXVII.

AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE.

On the day of the inquiry at Great Marlborough street, about five
o'clock in the afternoon, Jimmie Drexell walked slowly and thoughtfully
up the Quadrant. The weather had turned cold, and his top hat and
fur-lined coat gave him the appearance of an actor in luck. He was bound
on a peculiar errand, and though he hoped to succeed, he was not blind
to the fact that the odds were very much against him.

"I shall probably put my foot in it somehow," he reflected dolefully,
"and make a mess of the thing. But if I fail, it won't convince me that
I am wrong. I had my eye on that woman in court, and she was certainly
keeping something back. She seemed confused--in dread of some question
that was never asked. And once or twice I thought she was on the point
of making some startling revelation. I must play a cunning game, for
poor old Jack's sake. If Mrs. Rickett can't save him, and the police
don't find the mysterious stranger, I'm afraid he will be in a devilish
bad way."

Jimmie turned into Beak street, and pulled the bell of Number 324. He
waited several minutes before the landlady came, and then she opened
the door but a couple of inches, and peered distrustfully out. Jimmie
craftily thrust a foot in, so that the door could not be closed.

"You do not know me, madam," he said, "but I come as a friend. I wish to
have a short conversation with you."

Mrs. Rickett's distrust turned to alarm. In her agitation she retreated
a little, and Jimmie carried the first outworks and entered the hall.

"I must talk to you privately," he added. "We may be overheard here."

In a tremulous voice the landlady invited him to follow her, and she led
the way to a cozy apartment on the ground floor that was half kitchen
and half sitting-room. A kettle was steaming merrily on the fire, and
overhead an ominous red stain was visible on the ceiling.

Mrs. Rickett sank limply into a chair, and Jimmie, after closing the
door and removing his hat, seated himself opposite. He assumed an air
of grave importance.

"My good woman, perhaps you can guess why I am here," he began. "I was
present to-day at Great Marlborough street police-court. I watched the
proceedings closely, and my experience in such cases, and my infallible
sense of discrimination, enabled me to make a discovery." He paused for
breath, and to note the effect of his peroration; he wondered if the
words were right. "I am satisfied," he went on, "that the evidence you
gave--"

"Oh, Lor', it's come! it's come!" interrupted Mrs. Rickett. "I knew it
would! I've been in fear and tremblin'! Why didn't I speak at the right
time? Indeed, I tried to, but I sorter got choked up! Oh, sir, have pity
on a lone widow!"

Her face grew white, and she gasped for breath; she threatened to go
into a fit of hysterics.

"Come, come; there is nothing to be alarmed about," said Jimmie, who
could scarcely hide his delight. "Take comfort, my good woman. You may
have been foolish and thoughtless, but I am sure you have done nothing
criminal. I am here as a friend, and you can trust me. I wish to learn
the truth--that is all. From motives which I can understand, you kept
back some important evidence in connection with this sad tragedy--"

"I did, sir--I don't deny it. I didn't tell what I should, though I
nearly got the words out a 'eap of times. Please don't carry me off to
prison, sir. I knowed you was a police officer in disguise the minute
I clapped eyes on you--"

"I have nothing to do with the police," Jimmie assured her.

"Really? Then perhaps you're a detective--a private one?"

"Yes, it is something like that. I am making inquiries privately, in
behalf of my unfortunate friend."

"Meaning Mr. Vernon."

"That's right. I am convinced of his innocence, and I want to prove it.
You need have no fear. On the contrary, if you tell me freely all that
you know, you shall be well rewarded."

Mrs. Rickett took comfort, and fervently declared that her visitor
was a real gentleman. She offered him a cup of tea, which he tactfully
accepted, and then fortified her inner self with one, preliminary to
making her statement.

"I'm that flustered I 'ardly know what I'm doing," she began, wiping her
lips with a corner of her apron. "As to why I didn't speak before, it's
just this, sir. I liked that young man's face, 'im I met comin' out of
my 'ouse that night, and I thought afterward the woman might 'ave done
'im a bitter wrong, which, of course, ain't excusin' 'im for the
dreadful crime of murder, and I wouldn't 'ave you think it--"

"Then you know something that might be harmful to Mr. Vernon?" Jimmie
interrupted. He began to suspect the situation.

"That's it, sir!"

"But, my good woman, Mr. Vernon is absolutely innocent. Take my word
for it. The other man, who left the house just before my friend, is the
guilty person."

"I didn't believe in that other man at first," Mrs. Rickett replied;
"but it looks like the story might be true, after all. And if it is--"

"Well?"

"Then I can tell something about _him_; leastwise I think so."

"Go on!" Jimmie said, eagerly.

"I 'eard it from that French woman, Dinah Mer--I never _can_ pernounce
the name," continued Mrs. Rickett. "Pore creature, what a 'orrible end;
though it's a mercy it was so sudden like. But, as I was saying, sir,
she lodged in my 'ouse last spring, and she come back only three days
before the murder. She never 'ad much to say for 'erself, an' I judged
she was stiff and proud. You'll believe I was taken all aback, then,
when she walked into this 'ere very room one evening--it was last
Thursday, the day before the murder--an' takes off her cloak as cool as
you please. 'Mrs. Rickett,' she says, 'I'm feelin' badly. Can you give
me a cup of tea?' Of course I says yes. I was 'aving my own tea at the
time, and I asked 'er to join me, sociable like. By an' by she got to
tellin' me about 'erself. It appears she wasn't really French, but was
born at Dunwold, a village in Sussex, an' lived there till she was grown
up, after which she went abroad. Then she says to me, of a sudden: 'I
met a man to-day--'"

"One moment!" Jimmie interrupted. He took a note-book and pencil from
his pocket, and jotted down a few lines. "Please resume now," he added.
"What did the deceased tell you?"

"She told me that she'd met a man on Regent street from her native
English village, meaning Dunwold," Mrs. Rickett went on, "and that he
give her a bad fright. 'Is he an enemy of yours?' I asked. 'Yes, a
bitter one,' she says, 'an' I'm mortal afraid of him. An' the worst of
it is I'm sure he saw me, though I give 'im the slip by going into Swan
and Edgar's at one door and out at another. If he finds me, Mrs. Rickett,
'e'll kill me.' I told 'er not to worrit 'erself, an' I clean furgot the
matter till the next night, when the pore dear creature was stabbed to
the 'eart. I thought I should 'ave lost my 'ead, what with the crowds
that gathered, an' the police in the 'ouse, an' the doctors a viewin'
the departed corpse, an'--"

Jimmie checked her by a gesture.

"Are you sure you have told me everything?" he asked.

"Every blessed word, sir. It's the first and only time the woman spoke
to me of 'erself."

Jimmie jotted down a few more notes, and his hand shook like a leaf, so
greatly was he thrilled by the value of his discovery. Then he put Mrs.
Rickett through a cross-examination, in what he flattered himself was a
strictly legal style. Certainly Mr. Tenby could not have done it better,
for the landlady had nothing more to tell.

"I 'ope you're satisfied," she said. "And you won't forget what you
promised--that I shouldn't get into trouble?"

"I'll see to that," Jimmie replied. "It can be easily managed. I trust
that what you have told me will lead to the acquittal of my friend. Here
are ten pounds for you, and, if all goes well, I shall probably add to
it at another time."

The landlady thrust the bank notes into her broad bosom. She was
overpowered by the munificence of the gift, and poured out her
gratitude copiously.

"I've just recollected something," she went on. "There's a secret closet
in the room where the pore woman lodged, an' last spring I 'appened to
show it to 'er. It sort of took 'er fancy, and--"

"Did the police find it or examine it?" cried Jimmie.

"No, sir. I forgot to speak of it."

"Let me see it, please! It may lead to something of importance."

Mrs. Rickett willingly conducted her visitor through the hall and up the
staircase. A sense of the recent tragedy seemed to haunt the room, with
its drawn curtains and tawdry furnishings, and the dark stain on the
floor. The landlady shuddered, and glanced fearfully around. She made
haste to open a narrow closet, and to slide open a disguised panel at
the back of it, which disclosed a small recess. Jimmie, who was at her
shoulder, uttered a cry of surprise. He saw a gleam of white, and
reached for it quickly. He drew out an envelope, unaddressed and sealed,
with contents of a bulky nature.

"Bless me! She _did_ 'ide something!" gasped Mrs. Rickett. "What can it
be?"

"Writing, perhaps," replied Jimmie. "Will you permit me to have this,
Mrs. Rickett? I will examine it at my leisure, and tell you about it
later."

"I've no objections, sir," the landlady replied, as another five-pound
note was slipped into her hand. "Take it and welcome!"

Jimmie thanked her, and pocketed the envelope.

"I will see you again," he said, "and tell you whether I succeed
or fail. And, meanwhile, I must ask you to keep my visit a strict
secret--to inform no one of what you have told me. And don't breathe a
whisper in regard to anything being found in the murdered woman's room.
Keep your own counsel."

"I'll do that, sir, never fear. I'm a close-mouthed woman, and know how
to hold my tongue, which there ain't many females can say the same. And
I'm sure you'll do the right thing by me."

"I will, indeed," Jimmie promised. "You shan't have cause to regret your
confidence. And if I can clear my friend through the assistance you have
given me, I will be more liberal than I have been on this occasion."

"Thank you, sir, and I 'ope with all my 'eart you'll find the guilty
man," Mrs. Rickett declared, vehemently. "I never _did_ think Mr. Vernon
murdered that pore creature. Ah, but it's a wicked world!"

She accompanied her visitor to the door, showered further effusive
gratitude upon him, and gazed after him till he had turned the corner.
Overjoyed by his unexpected success, hopeful of achieving great results,
Jimmie strode down Regent street, amid the lights and the crowds. The
crisp, cold air had dried the pavements, and the stars shone from a
clear sky.

"What luck!" he thought, exultantly. "It was a happy inspiration to go
there to-night! Gad, I ought to be in Scotland Yard! There is no doubt
that the man who killed Diane was the same fellow she met the day
before. He hailed from her native village, and of course he was a
discarded lover. It is even possible that he was her husband, in the
days before she went to Paris, became a dancer, and married Jack. I must
utilize the information to the best advantage. The first thing is to run
down to Dunwold, find out all I can, and then put the police on the
track. For the present I will dispense with their services, though it
seems a bit risky to take matters into my own hands. But I rather fancy
the idea of playing detective, and I'll have a go at the business. I
won't tell the solicitor what I have discovered, but I think it will be
wise to confide in Sir Lucius Chesney. By the bye, he lives somewhere in
Sussex. He may be able to help me at the start."

Jimmie remembered the mysterious envelope in his pocket, and it occurred
to him that the contents might alter the whole situation, and make a
trip to Dunwold unnecessary. He walked faster, impatient to reach the
Albany and investigate his prize in safety.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A DISCOVERY.

Jimmie's first move, on entering his chambers, was to lock the door
behind him and turn up the gas. Then he produced the envelope, and tore
it open, wondering as he did so what penalty the law would exact for
such an offense. The enclosure consisted of a dozen closely-written
pages of note-paper, dated two days before the murder. It was in the
nature of a statement, or confession, which some whim had prompted Diane
to put down in writing. Her motive became clearer to Jimmie as he read
on. She had meant no treachery to Jack in her letter. She had come to
London, a repentant woman, to do him a real service--to open his eyes to
various things--and for that purpose she had made the appointment at
Beak street on the fatal night. In all likelihood the document hidden in
the closet was due to a premonition of impending evil--a haunting dread
of the danger that was creeping upon the unfortunate woman.

The statement was in the form of a letter, addressed to Jack Vernon on
the first page, and signed "Diane Merode" on the last. It ended quite
abruptly, and did not refer directly to the mysterious stranger or to
Diane's early life, though it hinted at certain things of importance
which she was resolved to tell. But what she disclosed was astounding
in itself, and when Jimmie threw down the pages, after reading them
attentively, his face showed how deeply he was agitated. It took much to
rouse his placid nature to anger, but now his eyes blazed with rage and
indignation.

"By heavens, this is awful!" he said, hoarsely. "It is far worse than I
dreamed of! The consummate scoundrel! The treacherous blackguard! There
is no need to keep further watch on Victor Nevill. His record is
exposed. How true were my suspicions about that money-lending business!
He dropped some letters in Diane's room last spring, which she declares
proved him to be a partner in the firm of Benjamin and Company. I believe
her--I don't doubt it. The cursed tout! For how many years has he made
use of his social advantages to ruin young men--to decoy them into the
clutches of the Jews? It makes my blood boil! And the worst of it all is
the part he has played toward poor Jack--a false, black-hearted friend
from beginning to end; from the early days in Paris up to the present
time. If I had him here now--"

He finished the sentence by banging his clenched fist on the table with
a force that made it quiver.

Little wonder that Jimmie was indignant and wrathful! For Diane, weary
of being made a cat's-paw for an unscrupulous villain, remorseful for
the misery she had brought on one who once loved her, had confessed in
writing all of Victor Nevill's dark deeds. She had not known at first,
she said, that his sole aim had been to injure his trusting friend, else
she would have refused to help him. She had learned the truth since, and
she did not spare her knowledge of Nevill's dark deeds and cunning
tricks. She told how he had tempted her to desert her husband and flee
from Paris with him; how he had met her five years later in London, and
planned the infamous scheme which brought Jack and Diane together on
Richmond Terrace; and she declared that it was Victor Nevill also who
sent the anonymous letters to Madge Foster, the second of which had led
to the painful _denouement_ in the Ravenscourt Park studio. It was all
there in black and white--a story bearing the unmistakable evidence of
truth and sincerity.

"This is a private matter," thought Jimmie, when he had calmed down a
little, "and I'm bound to regard it as such. The statement can't affect
the case against Jack--it is useless to Mr. Tenby--and it would be
unwise to make it public for the purposes of denouncing Nevill--at least
at present. I will put it away carefully, and give it to Jack when his
innocence is proved, which I trust will be very soon. As for Nevill,
I'll reckon with the scoundrel at the proper time. I'll expose him in
every club in London, and drive him from the country. He shall not marry
Miss Foster--I'll nip that scheme in the bud and open her eyes--and I'll
let Sir Lucius Chesney know what sort of a man his nephew is. He'll cut
him off with a penny, I'll bet. But all these things must wait until I
find Diane's murderer, and meanwhile I will lock up the confession and
keep my own counsel."

Taking the letter, he reread the closing lines, studying the
curiously-worded phrases.

"I am not writing this to send to you," Diane concluded, "but to hide in
a secret place where it will be found if anything happens to me; life is
always uncertain. I have much more to tell, but I am too weary to put it
on paper. You will know all when me meet, and when you learn my secret,
happiness will come into your life again."

"It's a pretty clear case," reflected Jimmie. "The secret refers,
without doubt, to the man who murdered her. And the motive for it must
be traced back to her early life at Dunwold. She left a discarded lover
behind when she went to Paris. Ah, but why not a husband? Suppose she
was never really Jack's wife! In that case it is easy to see what she
meant by saying that she would make him happy again. By Jove, I'm
anxious to ferret the thing out!"

Jimmie looked at his watch; it was just seven o'clock. He put the letter
in his desk, safe under lock and key, and went straight to Morley's
Hotel. He dined with Sir Lucius Chesney, and told him what he had
learned from his visit to Mrs. Rickett. He made no mention of what he
had found in the secret closet, nor did he refer to Victor Nevill.

Sir Lucius was amazed and delighted, hopeful of success. He thoroughly
approved Jimmie's plan, and gave him a brief note of introduction to the
Vicar of Dunwold.

"I wish I could go with you," he said; "but, unfortunately, I have two
important engagements in town to-morrow."

The interview was a long one, and it was eleven o'clock when Jimmie left
the hotel. He went straight home to bed, and an early hour the next
morning found him gliding out of Victoria station in a South Coast
train.

* * * * *

On the previous night, while Jimmie and Sir Lucius were dining at
Morley's, Victor Nevill emerged from his rooms in Jermyn street, and
walked briskly to Piccadilly Circus. He looked quite unlike the spruce
young man of fashion who was wont to disport himself in the West End at
this hour, for he wore tweeds, a soft hat, and a rather shabby overcoat.
He took a cab in Coventry street, and gave the driver a northern
address. As he rode through the Soho district he occasionally pressed
one hand to his breast, and a bundle of bank notes, tucked snugly away
there, gave forth a rustling sound. The thought of them aggravated him
sorely.

"A thousand pounds to that black-mailing scoundrel!" he muttered. "It's
a steep price, and yet it means much more than that to me. There was no
other way out of it, and I can't blame the fellow for making a hard
bargain and sticking to it. If all goes smoothly, and I get possession
of the papers, it's ten to one I will be secure, with nothing more to
fear. It was fortunate that Timmins picked _me_ out. It would have meant
ruin to my prospects had he sold his knowledge elsewhere. He is a clever
rascal, and he knows that it will be to his interest to keep his mouth
shut hereafter. What risk there may be from other quarters is so slight
that I needn't worry about it."

It had not been an easy matter to find the thousand pounds, and in the
interval he had twice seen Mr. Timmins, and vainly tried to beat down
his price. The money was finally squeezed out of Stephen Foster, with
extreme reluctance on his part, and by means which he resented bitterly
but was powerless to combat. He had angrily upbraided his unscrupulous
young confederate, who would not even tell him for what purpose he
wanted the sum. Nevill was indifferent to Stephen Foster's wrath and
reproaches. He had accomplished his object, and he was too hardened by
this time to feel any twinges of conscience. He was now going to meet
the man Timmins by appointment, and buy from him the valuable papers in
his possession.

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