In Friendship's Guise by Wm. Murray Graydon

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It was nine o'clock when the cab put him down in one of the noisy
thoroughfares of Kentish Town. He paid the driver, and entered a public
house on the corner. He ordered a light stimulant, and on the strength
of it he re-examined the rather vague written directions Mr. Timmins had
given him. He came out five minutes later, and turned eastward into a
gloomy and squalid neighborhood. He lost his bearings twice, and then
found himself at one end of Peckwater street. He took the first turn to
the left, and began to count the houses and scan their numbers.

While Nevill was speeding along the Kentish Town road in a cab, Mr.
Timmins, _alias_ Noah Hawker, was at home in the dingy little room which
he had selected for his residence in London. With a short pipe between
his teeth, he reclined in a wooden chair, which was tipped back against
the wall. On a table, within easy reach of him, were a packet of tobacco
and a bottle of stout. A candle furnished light.

"I wonder if the bloke'll turn up," he reflected, as he puffed rank
smoke from his mouth. "If he don't he knows what to expect--I ain't a
man to go back on my word. But I needn't fear. He'll come all right, and
he'll have the dust with him. Is it likely he'd throw away a fortune,
such as I'm offerin' him? Not a bit of it! I'll be glad when the thing
is done and over with. A thousand pounds ain't to be laughed at. I'll go
abroad and spend it, where the sun shines in winter and--"

At this point Mr. Hawker's soliloquies were interrupted by footsteps
just outside the room.

"That's my swell," he thought, "and he's a bit early. He must be in a
hurry to get hold of the documents."

The door opened quickly and sharply, and two sinewy, plainly-dressed men
stepped into the room. Hawker knew his visitors to be detectives.

His jaw dropped, his face turned livid with rage and fear, and he tried
to thrust one hand behind him. But the move was anticipated, and he
abandoned all thought of resistance when the muzzle of a revolver stared
him in the eyes.

"None of that, Hawker," said the detective who held the weapon. "You'd
best come quietly. Didn't expect to catch us napping, did you?"

"I ain't done nothin'," panted Hawker, who was breathing like a winded
beast.

"I didn't say you had," was the reply, "but you've been missing for a
few months. Last spring you stopped reporting yourself and went abroad.
We want you for that--nothing else _at present_."

The two final words were spoken with an emphasis and significance that
did not escape the prisoner, and brought a desperate look to his face.
He seemed about to show fight, but the next instant a pair of irons were
clapped on his wrists, and he was helpless.

A brief time was required to search the room, but nothing was found,
for all that Hawker owned was on his person. The bedding was pulled
apart, and the strip of ragged carpet was lifted up. Then the detectives
went downstairs with their prisoner, followed by the indignant and
scandalized Mrs. Miggs. She angrily upbraided Mr. Hawker, who received
her reproaches in sullen silence. Her breath was spent when she slammed
the door shut.

The affair had been managed quietly, without attracting public
attention, and the street was as lonely and dark as usual. One of the
detectives whistled for a cab, which he had in waiting around the
corner, and just then a man walked quickly by the house, glancing keenly
at the little group as he passed. He slouched carelessly on into the
gloom, but not until he had been recognized by Noah Hawker.

The cab came up, and the prisoner was bundled into it. He was apparently
very submissive and unconcerned as he sat with manacled hands between
his captors, but when the vehicle rolled into a more populous
neighborhood, the street lamps revealed the expression of burning,
implacable hatred that distorted his face.

"It was that swell who betrayed me to the police," he thought bitterly.
"I was a fool to trust him. I know his little game, but he'll be badly
mistaken if he expects to find the papers. They'll be safe enough till I
want them again. I'll get square in a way he don't dream of, curse him!
Yes, I'll do it! I'd rather have revenge than money. A few days yet, and
then--"

"What's that?" asked one of the detectives.

"Nothing," Mr. Hawker replied, in a tone of sarcasm. "I was thinkin' of
a friend of mine, what'll be sorry I was took."

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE VICAR OF DUNWOLD.

At a safe distance Victor Nevill stopped and turned around. When the cab
rolled away, he walked slowly back, looking keenly at the house as he
passed it. His demeanor was calm, but it was only skin deep. He felt
like swearing loudly at everybody and everything. His brain was in a
whirl of rage and fear, sharp anxiety and keen disappointment. He had
recognized Noah Hawker and seen the gleam of steel at his wrists, which
explained the situation as clearly as words could have done.

"The poor chap has been tracked and arrested," he thought; "possibly for
some past burglary. Our negotiations are ended for the present, confound
the luck! But the papers! By Jove, suppose Hawker had them on his
person! If so, they will be found when he is searched. They will be
opened and examined, and the whole truth will come out. I can't be
sure that Hawker won't give away my part in the affair. I shall be
ruined--nothing short of it! What a luckless devil I am!"

The iron hand of Nemesis seemed reaching out to grasp Nevill, and he
shuddered as he realized his danger. The rustle of the bank notes in his
breast pocket afforded him a momentary relief as he remembered that they
would give him a fresh start in case he had to flee from England. Then a
sudden thought lightened the gloom still more, and he clutched eagerly
at the ray of hope thus thrown out.

"Hawker was too shrewd a man to be caught unawares," he reasoned. "He
kept the papers in a secure hiding-place, and he certainly would not
have taken them from it until I came and he saw the color of the money.
Nor is it likely that the police found them, though they must have
searched the place. If they are still in the room, why should I not try
to get possession of them? I could square up with Hawker afterward, when
he recovers his liberty. By Jove, it's worth risking!"

Nevill walked as far as Peckwater street, debating the question. He did
not hesitate long, for there was too much at stake. He quickly made up
his mind, and retraced his steps to the dingy house from which the
detectives had taken their prisoner. He had planned his course of
procedure when the door opened to his knock, and Mrs. Miggs revealed her
distrustful countenance. Nevill tendered her half a sovereign on the
spot, and asked to see the room lately occupied by Mr. Noah Hawker.

"It's a private matter," he explained. "Yes, I know that Mr. Hawker has
just been arrested and taken away. District detectives did that--they
were onto him for some breach of the law. I was after him myself, with
a Scotland Yard warrant, but I arrived too late, unfortunately."

"Then what do you want?" grumbled the woman.

"I want to search Hawker's room for some papers which I believe he hid
there. If I find them you shall be rewarded."

Mrs. Miggs relaxed visibly. She had a wholesome respect for the police,
and she did not doubt that Nevill was other than he purported to be--a
Scotland Yard officer. She let him into the hall and closed the door.

"You can come up," she said ungraciously, "but I don't think there's
anything there."

She lighted a candle and guided Nevill upstairs. He could scarcely
restrain his excitement as he entered the little room. He glanced keenly
about, noting the half-empty bottle of stout and the dirty glass.

"Did the police search here?" he inquired.

"Of course they did, but they didn't find nothin', 'cause there wasn't
anything to find. 'Awker was as poor as Job!"

"They examined his person?--his clothes, I mean?"

"Yes, an' all they got was a knife, and a pistol, and some loose silver
and coppers."

"They didn't discover any papers?"

"No; I'm sure o' that," asserted Mrs. Miggs. "I can't stand 'ere all
night," she impatiently added.

Nevill took the hint, and set to work in good spirits. The landlady
watched him scornfully while he hauled the carpet and bedding about, and
examined all the joints of the few articles of furniture. He then
proceeded--there was no fireplace in the room--to tap every part of the
walls, and to try the flooring to see if any boards were loose. But the
walls were solid and untampered with, and the nails in the floor had
clearly not been disturbed for many years. He spent half an hour at his
task, and the result was a barren failure. He realized that it would be
useless to search further. He looked sharply at the landlady, and said,
on a sudden impulse:

"You knew Mr. Hawker pretty well, I think. Perhaps he asked you to
oblige him by taking care of the papers I am looking for; they could not
possibly be of any advantage to you in the future, and if you have them
I should be glad to buy them from you. I would give as much as--"

"I only wish I _did_ 'ave them!" interrupted Mrs. Miggs. "I wouldn't
'esitate a minute to turn 'em into money. But I don't know nothin' of
them, sir, an' you see yourself they ain't 'id in this room, an' Mr.
'Awker never put foot in any other part of the 'ouse."

The woman's expression of disappointment, her manner, satisfied Nevill
that his suspicion was baseless. There was nothing more to be done, so
he gave Mrs. Miggs an additional half-sovereign, cautioned her not to
speak of his visit, and left the house. His last state of mind was worse
than his first, and dread of exposure, tormenting visions of a dreary
and perpetual exile from England, not to speak of more bitter things,
haunted him as he strode moodily toward the lights of the Kentish Town
road.

"The papers may be in that room, hidden so securely as to baffle any
search," he said to himself, "and if that is the case there is still
hope. But it is more likely that Hawker had them concealed under his
clothing or in his boots. I will know in a day or two--if the police
find them, they will make the matter public. All I can do is to wait.
But the suspense is awful, and I wish it was over."

The next day was cold, sunny and bracing--more like the end of February
than the end of November. At nine o'clock in the morning Victor Nevill
crawled out of bed after a troubled night; with haggard face and dull
eyes he looked down into Jermyn street, wondering, as he recalled the
events of the previous night, what another day would bring forth.

At the same hour, or a little later, Jimmie Drexell was at Hastings.
Having to wait some time for another train, he walked through the pretty
town to the sea, and the sight of its glorious beauty--the embodiment of
untrammeled freedom--made him think sadly of poor Jack in a prison cell.

"Never mind, I'll have him out soon!" he vowed.

He returned to the station, and was whirled on through the flat, green
country to the charming Sussex village of Pevensey, with its ruined old
castle and rambling street, and the blue line of the Channel flashing in
the distance. His journey did not end here, and he was impatient to
continue it. He procured a horse and trap at the Railway Arms, gleaned
careful instructions from the landlord, and drove back a few miles along
the hedge-lined roads, while the sea faded behind him.

It was eleven o'clock when he reached the retired little hamlet of
Dunwold. He put up his vehicle at a quaint old inn, and refreshed
himself with a simple lunch. Then he sought the vicarage, hard by the
ancient church with its Norman tower, and, on inquiring for Mr.
Chalfont, he was shown into a sunny library full of books and
Chippendale furniture, with flowers on the deep window-seats and
a litter of papers on the carved oak writing-desk.

The vicar entered shortly--an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect and
snowy beard, but sturdy and lithe-limbed for his years, clearly one of
those persons who seemed predestined for the placidity of clerical life.
After a penetrating glance he greeted his visitor most graciously, and
expressed pleasure at seeing him.

"I am sure that you are a stranger to the neighborhood," he continued.
"Our fine old church draws many such hither. If you wish to go over it,
I can show you many things of interest--"

"At another time," Jimmie interrupted, "I should be only too delighted.
I regret to say that it is quite a different matter that brings me
here--hardly a pleasant one. This will partly explain, Mr. Chalfont."

He presented the letter Sir Lucius had given him, and when it had been
opened and read he poured out the whole story of Diane's life and end,
of the charge against Jack Vernon, and the clew that the murdered woman
had revealed to her landlady.

The vicar rose from his chair, showing traces of deep agitation and
distress.

"A friend of Sir Lucius Chesney is a friend of mine," he said, hoarsely.
"I shall be glad to help you--to do anything in my power to clear your
friend. I believe that he is innocent. Your sad story has awakened old
memories, Mr. Drexell. And it is a great shock to me, as you will
understand when I tell you all. I seldom read the London papers, and
it comes as a blow and a surprise to me that Diane Merode has been
murdered."

"Then you know her by that name?" exclaimed Jimmie. "This is indeed
fortunate, Mr. Chalfont. I feared that you would find it difficult to
identify the woman--to recall her. And the man whom she proclaimed as
her enemy--do you know _him_?"

"Judge for yourself," replied the vicar, as he sat down and settled back
in his chair. "I will state the facts, distinctly and briefly. That will
not be hard to do. To begin, I have been in this parish for thirty
years, and I am familiar with its history. I remember when Diane
Merode's father came home with his young bride. He was a doctor, with
some small means of his own, and he lived in the second house beyond the
church. His wife was a French girl, well educated and beautiful, and he
met and married her while on a visit to France; his name was George
Hammersley. They settled here in the village, but I do not think that
they lived very happily together. Their one child, christened Diane,
was born two years after the marriage. She inherited her mother's
vivacious disposition and love of the world, and I always felt
misgivings about her future. She spent five years at a school in Paris,
and returned at the age of sixteen. Within less than two years her
parents died within a week of each other, of a malignant fever that
attacked our village. A friend of George Hammersley's took Diane to his
home--it appeared that she had no relatives--and nine months later she
married a man, nearly twenty years her senior, who had fallen
passionately in love with her."

"By Jove, so she was really married before!" cried Jimmie. "But I beg
your pardon, Mr. Chalfont, for interrupting you."

"This man, Gilbert Morris, was comparatively well-to-do," resumed the
vicar. "He owned a couple of ships, and when at home he lived in
Dunwold; but he was away the greater part of his time, sailing one or
the other of his vessels to foreign ports. Six months after the marriage
he started on such a voyage, leaving his youthful bride with an old
housekeeper, and just three weeks later Diane disappeared. Every effort
was made to trace her, but in vain, and it was believed that she had
gone to London. Before the end of the winter our village squire returned
from abroad, and declared that he had recognized Diane in Paris, and
that she was a popular dancer under the name of Merode. About the same
time it was reported in the papers that the vessel on which Gilbert
Morris had set sail, the _Nautilus_, had been lost in a storm, with all
hands on board. There was every reason to credit the report--"

"But it was not true," exclaimed Jimmie. "I can read as much in your
eyes, Mr. Chalfont. What became of Gilbert Morris?"

CHAPTER XXX.

RUN TO EARTH.

The vicar hesitated for a moment, and then looked his companion straight
in the face.

"That unhappy man, Gilbert Morris, was spared by the sea," he answered
in a low voice. "The ship was lost, as reported, but he and two of the
crew were picked up by a sailing vessel and carried to South America.
Months elapsed before they were heard of, and Diane had been gone for
a year when Gilbert Morris returned to Dunwold. The news was a terrible
shock to him, for he had loved his wife with all the depth of a fierce
and fiery nature. His affection seemed to turn to rage, and it was
thought best to keep him in ignorance of the fact that Diane had been
seen in Paris. Brain fever prostrated him, and when he recovered
physically from that his mind was affected--in other words, he was
a homicidal lunatic, with a fixed determination to find and kill his
wife."

"By heavens!" exclaimed Jimmie. "The scent is getting warm! What was
done with the man?"

"He was sent to a private madhouse in Surrey."

"And is he there still?"

"No, he is not," the vicar replied agitatedly. "He succeeded in making
his escape more than a week ago. The matter was hushed up, because it
was hoped that he would come back to Dunwold, and that he could be
quietly captured here. But, in spite of the utmost vigilance, he was
not found or traced; and this very morning I received a letter from
Doctor Bent, the proprietor of the madhouse, stating that he had
furnished the London police with a description of his missing patient."

"That settles it!" cried Jimmie, jumping up in excitement. "Gilbert
Morris is the man!"

"Yes, I fear he is the murderer," assented the vicar. "But, pray sit
down, Mr. Drexell, and we will talk further of the sad affair. Lunch
will be ready in a few minutes, and I shall be glad to have you--"

"Thanks, but I can't stop," Jimmie interrupted, as he put on his hat.
"I'm off to town to help the police to find the guilty man."

"But surely, my dear sir, this is a very hasty conclusion--"

"Can you doubt for one moment, in your heart, that Gilbert Morris killed
that unfortunate woman?"

"The circumstances all point that way," admitted Mr. Chalfont. "Yes, it
is a pretty clear case. It is distressing to think that the crime might
have been prevented, had the police been promptly informed of the
madman's escape. But only Doctor Bent and myself were aware of the
fact--excepting the attendants of the institution. As I told you, I knew
nothing of the murder until you informed me, and it was unlikely that
the doctor--though he must have read the papers--should have associated
the deed with Morris; he took charge of the place quite recently, and
could not have been well posted regarding the history of his patient."

"He ought to be arrested for criminal neglect," Jimmie said,
indignantly. "He is in a measure responsible for the murder. Gilbert
Morris might have been retaken almost at once had the police been
informed at the time of the escape."

"Just so!" the vicar agreed.

"I'm off now," continued Jimmie. "I can't thank you enough, Mr.
Chalfont, for the information you have given me. I shall never forget
it, nor will my friend."

"It was Providence that guided you here," replied the vicar. "His ways
are indeed marvelous. I wish you every success, Mr. Drexell. I trust
that your friend will speedily be at liberty, and if I can be of any
further service, count upon me."

"I'll do that, sir," Jimmie assured him.

The next minute he was striding away from the vicarage, and it was a
very perspiring and foam-flecked horse that pulled up outside the
Railway Arms at Pevensey half an hour later. Jimmie jumped out of the
trap, paid the account, and dashed over to the station. His arrival
was timely, for he learned that a through London train was due in ten
minutes. During the interval he found some vent for his impatience in
sending a wire to Sir Lucius Chesney, as follows:

"Success! Back in town at three o'clock."

Never had a railway journey seemed so long and tiresome to Jimmie as
that comparatively short one, in a fast train, from Pevensey to London.
He had a book and a newspaper, but he could not read; he smoked like a
furnace, and glared from the window at the flying landscape. He reached
Victoria station at five minutes past three, and just outside the gates
he met Sir Lucius.

"I barely got here--I was afraid I'd miss you," the latter exclaimed
breathlessly; his face was a more ruddy color than usual. "I have
something to tell you," he went on; "something that happened--"

"It's a jolly good thing, sir, that I went down to Pevensey," Jimmie
interrupted, as he drew his companion aside to a quieter spot. "You'll
scarcely believe what I have found out. The vicar told me a most amazing
story, and we spotted the murderer at once. He is Diane's real
husband--Jack was never legally married to her--and his name is Gilbert
Morris. He is an escaped lunatic--"

"Gad, sir, the man is arrested!" gasped Sir Lucius. "He is in custody!"

"Arrested?" cried Jimmie.

"Yes; the afternoon papers are full of it. The police, furnished with
a description of the man and other information, apprehended him this
morning early in a Lambeth lodging-house. There were blood-spots on his
clothing, and in his pocket they found a bloodstained knife. He became
violent the moment he was arrested, and raved about his wife Diane, who
had deserted him, and how he had killed her to avenge his honor."

"That's the man!" said Jimmie. "He's as mad as a March hare. Thank God,
they have got him!"

"We'll soon have Mr. Vernon out," Sir Lucius replied, cheerfully.

Jimmie told the rest of the story in the privacy of a cab, which drove
the two rapidly from Victoria station to Bedford street, Strand. They
found Mr. Tenby in his office, and had a long interview with him. The
solicitor had read the papers, and when he was put in possession of
the further important facts bearing on the case, he promised to secure
Jack's release as soon as the necessary legal formalities could be
complied with. Moreover, he promised to go to Holloway within the course
of an hour or two, and communicate the good news to the prisoner. Jimmie
was anxious to go with him, but he reluctantly abandoned the project
when the solicitor assured him that it would be most difficult to
arrange.

"Be patient, gentlemen, and leave the matter in my hands," said Mr.
Tenby. "I think we shall have Mr. Vernon out of Holloway to-morrow, and
without a stain on his character."

Sir Lucius and Jimmie walked to Morley's and separated. The former went
into the hotel, half resolved to pack up his luggage and take an early
train in the morning to Priory Court; he was tired of London and the
recent excitement he had passed through, and longed for his country
home. But, on second thought, he altered his mind, and concluded to wait
until Jack Vernon was a free man again; he was strangely interested in
the unfortunate young artist, and was as anxious as ever to have a talk
with him on matters of a private nature.

Jimmie went to his chambers in the Albany, where he removed the dust of
travel and changed his clothes. He did not at once go out to dinner,
though he was exceedingly hungry. He was impulsive and impatient, and he
had conceived a plan whereby he might punish Victor Nevill's perfidy
without a public exposure, and at the same time, he fondly hoped, do
Jack a good turn.

"It will hardly be safe to wait longer," he reflected, "for all I know
to the contrary, the girl may be married to-morrow. She will be glad to
have her eyes opened--I can't believe that she is in love with that
blackguard. As for Sir Lucius, I would rather face a battery of guns
than tell the dear old chap the shameful story to his face. But it must
be told somehow."

Jimmie proceeded to carry out his plans. He took Diane's last letter
from its hiding-place, and sitting down to his desk he made two copies
of it, prefacing each with a brief explanation of how the statement had
come into his hands. It was a laborious task, and it kept him busy for
two hours. At nine o'clock he went out to dinner, and on the way to the
Cafe Royal he dropped two bulky letters into a street-box. One was
addressed to "Miss Madge Foster, Strand-on-the-Green, Chiswick, W." The
other to "Sir Lucius Chesney, Morley's Hotel."

* * * * *

It was ten o'clock in the morning, and the phenomenal November weather
showed no signs of breaking up. The sun shone brightly in Trafalgar
Square, and the people and busses, the hoary old Nelson Column and its
guardian lions, made a picture more Continental than English in its
coloring.

But to Sir Lucius Chesney the world looked as black as midnight. He
paced the floor of his room, purple of countenance and savage of eye,
letting slip an occasional oath as he glanced at the sheets of Jimmie's
letter scattered over the table. The blow had hit him hard; it had
wounded him in his most tender spot--his family honor. His first
paroxysm of rage had passed, but he could not think calmly. His brain
was on fire with pent-up emotions--shame and indignation, bitter grief
and despair, a sense of everlasting disgrace. One moment he doubted;
the next the damning truth overwhelmed him and defied denial.

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