When Godfrey woke on the morning of his trial he lay for some moments thinking over the strangeness of his position. He had been definitely assured by Codey that nothing could prevent his being proved innocent, yet how difficult it was to believe this when he was lying on a prison bed in a prison cell with all the grim appurtenances of a convict's life before him. The very books upon the shelf, the spy-hole in the door, even his bed-clothes, reminded him that he was shut off from his fellow men. At the usual signal he rose and dressed, and, having done so, tidied his cell in the customary fashion. After this his breakfast was served to him, and then he was permitted a short period of exercise in the prison yard. He had not long returned to his cell before he was informed that it was time for him to set off to the Court.

Never, if he lives to be a hundred, will Godfrey Henderson forget the scene that met his eyes when he entered the Court—the judge and the sheriffs upon the Bench, the jurymen seated in their box, the rows of counsel, and the line upon line of eager-eyed spectators. When Godfrey made his appearance in the dock a sudden silence fell upon the Court. The Clerk of Arraigns rose and read over the charge preferred against him, namely, of murdering one Teresina Cardi, and this done he was called upon in the usual manner to plead. Advancing to the front of the dock Godfrey looked straight before him and said, in a calm, strong voice: "Not guilty, my lord." The jury were then sworn, and as soon as this important business had been completed the counsel for the prosecution rose and told the story of the crime. He described the engagement of the dead woman by the prisoner, his employment of her for some considerable time, and then his hasty departure for the Continent. It would be shown that he had received a letter from her while in Egypt, and that almost immediately afterward he had returned to Naples. In the latter city he had invited her to dine with him, and had taken her to the Opera afterward. He commented upon the fact that the prisoner had voluntarily admitted to the police authorities that he had endeavoured to induce her to return to England. At that time, however, it must be borne in mind that he had not met the lady he now desired to make his wife. Whether he had seen anything of the deceased, prior to their meeting in the Strand, it was as yet impossible to say. The fact, however, remained that his engagement to the lady in the country was ultimately announced. Despite that fact, only ten days before the wedding was to take place, he was known to have met the deceased woman at midnight, and had taken her to her home in Burford Street, leading out of the Tottenham Court Road. By the medical evidence he would presently call, he would prove that less than half-an-hour afterward she was brutally murdered. Before half-past twelve, that is to say, within an hour of the cabman picking them up in the Strand, he would prove that the prisoner returned to his Hotel in Piccadilly, very white and agitated, and had called for brandy. Since his arrest, an exhaustive search had been made at his residence, with the result that a blood-stained knife, which had been identified as having been purchased by the prisoner in Cairo, had been discovered hidden behind a bookcase in his studio. As for the motive of the crime he would point out that the deceased woman wore a wedding ring, that she was known to entertain a great affection for the prisoner, and that the latter was about to be married to another lady. What was more probable than that he should wish to have the other woman out of the way before he could do so? That was certainly only a conjecture, but it was one that carried a large amount of probability with it. He would now proceed to call his witnesses.

The first witness called was the proprietor of the lodging-house, who had identified the body. He was followed by the German cabinet-maker, who had made the first and most important discovery. The police officer, who had been called in when the door had been opened, followed next, succeeded by the doctor who had made the post-mortem examination. The question of identity and discovery having been settled, what the counsel next proposed to do was to connect the prisoner with the crime. The cabman who had picked them up in the Strand and had driven them to Burford Street, was called, and the policeman who had seen them talking together on the pavement there. Victor Fensden next deposed as to the affection the deceased had entertained for the prisoner, and the efforts he had made to induce the latter to give her up. He described Godfrey's receipt of the letter from Teresina when on the Nile, and stated that the prisoner had said nothing to him concerning his intention to visit the woman in Naples. His next meeting with the prisoner was at the Mahl Stick Club, where he had noticed a reluctance on his part to refer to his association with the woman in the past. This was accentuated on the following Saturday at the prisoner's residence in Midlandshire. He recognised the knife produced, and recollected the circumstances under which it had been purchased by the prisoner. This concluded Fensden's evidence, and he accordingly sat down. Various other unimportant witnesses followed, and then the case was adjourned for the day.

Wrapped in suspense, Godfrey was driven back to the jail to turn the evidence over and over in his mind all night long. Whatever trust he might place in Burrell and his discoveries, it was quite certain that another twenty-four hours would elapse before his deliverance could be expected. Once more he scarcely slept. The various events connected with the trial thronged his brain with merciless reiteration. With phonographic distinctness he could recall almost every word that was said. He could see the judge upon the Bench making his notes with pitiless exactness, the various counsel in the well of the Court whispering together, the importance of the jury, and the self-sufficiency of the Court servants. Yet he had Codey's assurance that all was to be put right in the end, and with this knowledge he was perforce compelled to be content.

At the same hour as on the previous day he was ordered to prepare himself for his journey to the Court. The evidence already given against him was so incriminating that the officials of the jail felt sure that his condemnation was assured. They already looked upon him as a dead man, and marvelled among themselves that he could carry himself with so much assurance.

Once more the Court was crowded. Fashionable London felt that the end of one of the most interesting cases of late years was drawing near, and it was anxious not to lose an opportunity of witnessing the dÉnouement of the tragedy.

"The Court is ready," said the warder, and once more Godfrey ascended the stairs that had constituted the link between life and death for so many hundreds of miserable beings before him. He found the judge, stern and implacable as before, upon the Bench, the various counsel in their places, and everyone eagerly awaiting his appearance. He bowed to the judge and took up his position at the rails. He determined that, whatever else they might think, they should not imagine that he was afraid. Then, with the customary ceremonial, the case was commenced.

The counsel for the prosecution having finished his case, Mr. Rolland, having addressed the Court, prepared to call his witnesses. They were few in number. The landlord of Godfrey's old studio in London deposed that his rent had always been paid to the moment, and that he had heard the deceased talk of the kindness she had received at the prisoner's hands. "It was always in the language of a dependent," he said, "and in no way that of a girl who believed her patron to be in love with her."

When the prosecution had declined to cross-examine this witness, the counsel for the defence arranged his gown and assumed an even more important air. It was evident that something was about to happen. A moment later Victor Fensden was recalled.

"I am anxious, Mr. Fensden," said the counsel, "to ask you a question regarding your return from the Continent. You have already told the jury that you returned on the morning of the murder. Am I to understand that that was really so?"

"I arrived on Thursday, the 15th," said Victor, and a close observer would have noticed that he shifted uneasily on his feet as he gave the answer.

"I should be glad also to have your repeated assurance that, from the moment you saw the prisoner purchase that knife in Cairo, you did not behold it again until it was handed you at the Magistrate's Court?"

"That also is quite true," said Victor, who by this time was more at his ease.

"That is all I want to ask you. You may sit down," said the counsel. "Call Simon Updale."

In response to the summons, a short, stout man, who was the possessor of a fiery beard and the reddest hair ever seen on a human being, made his appearance and took up his position in the box. He deposed that his name was Simon Updale, and that he was an able seaman on a steamer plying between Dover and Calais. On a certain day, a month before the murder, he had been made the subject of a complaint to the captain by the previous witness, Mr. Fensden. He was quite certain of the date and of the passenger's identity, for the reason that one of his mates had broken his arm before reaching Dover and he wanted to accompany him to the hospital. On account of the complaint, however, he was not permitted to go.

George Perran, steward on the same boat, was next called. He corroborated what the previous witness had said, and recognised the witness Fensden as being the gentleman who had made the complaint.

"That," said Mr. Rolland, "proves conclusively that the witness in question has committed wilful and corrupt perjury, inasmuch as that he was in England a month before he stated in his evidence."

Every eye in Court was riveted on Victor Fensden, whose face turned as pale as the paper upon which I am writing.

"I shall now call James Tidmarsh," said Mr. Rolland, and in response to the summons a small boy climbed into the witness-box.

His name, he stated, was James Tidmarsh, and he called himself an errand boy, though as a rule he spent his time hanging about the vicinity of Euston Station. He remembered distinctly on the night of Friday, the 16th, meeting a gentleman about eight o'clock outside the station who carried a small wooden box in his hand. That gentleman stopped him and asked him if he would care to earn half a sovereign. Upon his eagerly answering in the affirmative, the stranger gave him the box in question with the sum of fifteen shillings. "Take it to the station," he said, "and hand it in at the parcel-office to be despatched to the address written on the label. It won't cost more than a couple of shillings or half-a-crown, and you can keep the change for yourself. I'll wait here until you return to tell me it's all right."

The boy then declared that he started off, handed the box in at the parcel-office and paid the money. In taking the money the clerk had sauced him and he had retaliated to the best of his ability. The result was that the policeman on the platform gave him a good shaking and turned him out of the building. He informed the gentleman that he had sent the parcel off, and he had not seen him since that moment until he came into Court and had heard the witness Fensden give his evidence. He, the witness to whom he alluded, was, without a shadow of doubt, the gentleman who had handed him the box to send to Detwich Hall.

The excitement in Court by this time may be better imagined than described. The colour of Fensden's face was a dirty gray, and he seemed to gasp for breath. The counsel for the prosecution seemed uneasy, and even the judge leaned farther forward than usual, as if he were afraid of losing a word of what was said.

The clerk in the parcel-office was next called, and stated that he remembered the incident in question. The box was a foreign one, and as he had placed it on the floor he had remarked, "Another made in Germany."

The policeman who had turned the boy out of the station followed him. He had seen the boy deposit a small box upon the counter and heard him say something cheeky to the clerk. He thereupon bundled him out of the station.

When this witness had finished his tale Mr. Rolland said: "Call Jacob Burrell."

On hearing this a stir ran through the Court. The famous detective was well known to all the officials within the building, and they, in the light of this new discovery and the knowledge that this individual had taken up the prisoner's case, began to regard the matter in a somewhat different light. There was a slight flicker of a smile upon the austere countenance of the judge when the counsel asked the detective his name.

"Jacob Burrell," was the reply.

"I understand," went on the counsel, "that you were instructed by my friend, the solicitor for the defence, to make an investigation into this case. In the course of that investigation did you visit Naples?"

"I did," the other replied.

"And what did you discover there?"

"I found that the witness Fensden, although he has denied the matter on oath, was in Naples three weeks after the prisoner passed through on his way to England."

The counsel here informed the jury that five affidavits to this effect would be produced and read. Addressing the witness once more he said:

"Are you aware that the witness Fensden spent the greater part of his time in Naples in the company of the deceased woman?"

"I found that to be the case. On February 3rd they left Naples together for Vienna, stayed together at the Hotel National, in the KÄarntner Strasse, and were married on the 26th of that month at the Church at Funfhaus, in the Gurtel Strasse. The wedding-ring, which was still upon the left hand when it was sent to the prisoner, was purchased at the shop of Messrs. Radler & Hass, in the Kohlmarkt."

"The head of that firm is now in Court," said Mr. Rolland, "and will give his evidence. Call Herr Radler."

Herr Radler thereupon entered the box which Burrell had vacated, and stated that he well remembered selling the ring in question to an Englishman who was accompanied by a beautiful Italian lady. The gentleman he recognised as the witness Fensden, and from the photograph, that had been shown to him of the dead woman, he was able to swear that it was for her the ring was purchased.

Victor Fensden, at this point, sprang to his feet as if to speak, but his voice failed him, and he sat down again.

A sworn copy of the marriage certificate having been produced and read, and handed up for the inspection of the jury, Jacob Burrell was recalled.

"When you had traced the witness and the deceased to Vienna, what did you do?"

"I returned to England, vi Paris and Calais," he answered. "On reaching London I followed up certain clews I had received, and found that the witness and the deceased lived for a short time together in the country."

"At what place?"

"At the village of Laleham on the River Thames."

Here the counsel for the prosecution rose to protest.

"Your lordship," he said, "I must respectfully submit that the question as to whether Mr. Fensden cohabited with the deceased is not relevant to the case. We are trying the prisoner at the Bar and not Mr. Fensden."

His opponent took up the challenge.

"I respectfully submit that I am in the right," said Rolland. "In eliciting this information I am leading up to the question of motive, and I am sure my learned friend will admit that that is an all-important point.

"I am afraid I must rule against you," said the judge, addressing the Prosecuting counsel. "Anything that tends to throw a light upon the proceedings of the deceased so short a time prior to the murder can scarcely fail to be relevant."

Once more readjusting his gown, Mr. Rolland invited Burrell to proceed.

"How long did witness and the deceased occupy the house at Laleham?"

"For more than a fortnight. Then Fensden left her in a strange place without a penny in the world." (Here a murmur of indignation ran through the Court, which, by the judge's orders, was instantly suppressed.)

"That will do," said Mr. Rolland. "Call Elizabeth Raikes."

The owner of Laburnum Cottage next entered the box, and, though much flurried by the novel position in which she found herself, gave evidence to the effect that the deceased and Fensden had occupied apartments at her house for the period mentioned by the previous witness. She was quite sure, from things she had overheard, that they were not happy together, and she knew that the man treated the woman cruelly. Sometimes he was away for a couple of days, and one day he disappeared altogether without paying for anything they had had while in the house, and leaving his wife totally unprovided for. She had heard the present case talked about, but had not associated the victim with the Mrs. Onslow who had occupied rooms at her cottage.

"I have two more witnesses to call," said Mr. Rolland, when Mrs. Raikes had stepped down. "Then, my lord, I shall have completed my case. Call Mrs. Wilhelmina Montgomery."

A tall, handsome woman, fashionably attired, stepped into the witness-box and took the oath. In response to the question put her by the counsel for the defence, she stated that her name was Wilhelmina Montgomery, and that she was the widow of George Montgomery, late of Sheffield. "I live at No. 13, Bridgeworth Road, Richmond," she continued. "I first met the witness, Victor Fensden, at Baden, while travelling with some friends, in December last. We became very intimate, and, when he returned to England early in March, he called upon me at my house. Eventually he asked me to marry him, and after some hesitation I consented to do so. I have three thousand a year invested in Consols, and a considerable amount of ready money lying idle at the bank. This may or may not have been his motive, but I have no knowledge of that. Mr. Fensden was anxious for an immediate marriage, but to this I would not consent. I knew that he was in the hands of the Jews, but I would have paid off his indebtedness after marriage. He stayed at my house on several occasions, as did others of my friends. One day I went out to do some shopping, and on my return discovered him in my boudoir. He held a piece of yellow soap in his hand and a large number of door-keys were spread out on the table before him. I asked him what he was doing, and he answered that he was endeavouring to find a key similar to the one he had lost. My housekeeper had furnished him with several, and he had at last found one that fitted the imprint in the soap. On the night of the murder he informed me that it would be necessary for him to attend an important meeting, and that it was just possible he would not be back until late. As a matter of fact, it was considerably after one o'clock, perhaps half-past one, when he returned. On the Saturday following he left me to go down to Midlandshire to pay a visit to an old friend, he said, who was about to be married. Before he went he once more pressed me for an early marriage, suggesting, knowing that I am fond of travelling, that we should immediately set off for a long trip round the world."

The box which had contained the hands was then handed to her, and she was asked if she recognised it.

"Yes," she answered immediately. "If you look underneath I think you will find a large inkstain. (This proved to be the case.) I brought some things in it from Vienna. How Mr. Fensden obtained possession of it, however, I do not know."

The counsel for the prosecution having no questions to ask, the witness was allowed to stand down.

"Call Joseph Hodder," said Mr. Rolland, and, to Godfrey's amazement, one of his own under-gardeners entered the box. Having taken the oath, he stated, in reply to the counsel's question, that, on the Sunday following the murder, it was his duty to attend to the stoking of the fires of the various conservatories at the Hall. He knew that his master and the ladies had gone to Church, because he had passed them in the park, and that the strange gentleman had remained at home, because, when he had passed the drawing-room window on his way to his work, he saw him sitting before the fire reading. Having attended to the fires in the vineries and other garden-houses, he returned to the Hall itself to look after the heat in the new winter garden that Mr. Henderson had built. From this house in question it is quite possible to see into the studio, and, to his surprise, he discovered the gentleman visitor was no longer in the drawing-room, but was kneeling beside the big bookcase near the fireplace in the studio. It looked as if he were feeling for something behind it, but what that something was he had no idea. When he was asked why he had not given information on this matter before, he replied that he had not attached any importance to it until he had talked it over with the head gardener on the day following the search by the police. Then he had gone to Miss Henderson, and had told her. She had written at once to his master's lawyer, and that was all he knew about it.

"The evidence of this man," said Mr. Rolland, "completes my case."

The words had scarcely left his lips before Victor Fensden was seen to spring to his feet. Once more he opened his mouth as if to speak, and once more he failed to utter a word. Then, with a loud cry, he fell forward in a swoon. Two of the policemen near at hand ran forward to pick him up. Between them, they carried him out of the Court to an adjoining room. In the Court itself at that moment, it would have been possible to have heard a pin drop. Then the judge found his voice.

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing the jury, "after the astounding evidence you have just heard, I am thankful to say that, in my opinion, there is not the least shadow of a reason for continuing the case against the prisoner at the bar. In this I feel sure you will concur with me."

The foreman of the jury entirely agreed with his lordship, and at the same time desired to express, on behalf of himself and his brother jurymen, their great regret that a gentleman of Mr. Henderson's position should, by another man's action, have been placed in such an unhappy predicament.

"With that I quite agree," said the counsel for the prosecution.

This was the signal for general applause in Court, which, somehow, was not checked by the judge as quickly as is customary in such cases.

When silence had been restored, the latter addressed Godfrey.

"Godfrey Henderson," he said, and his voice was very impressive, "by reason of the false evidence that has been given against you, by a cruel and vindictive man, you have been brought to the dock of this Court, and charged with the perpetration of a most cruel and bloodthirsty crime. Of that crime twelve of your countrymen have declared you to be innocent, and to their testimony I emphatically add my own. While it is not in my power to offer you the hope of receiving any return for the anxiety you have suffered, I can say something that I know you will value much more; that is, that you leave this Court a free man, and without the shadow of a stain upon your character."

"I thank you, my lord," said Godfrey, quietly, and at that moment one of the ushers of the Court entered and approached the judge.

"Gentlemen," said the latter, again addressing the Court, "I think it only right to make it known to you that a Higher Power than that I represent has intervened, and the wretched man, who has caused all this misery and suffering, has been suddenly called to appear before a greater Tribunal. May God have mercy upon his soul!"

Then the Court was cleared, and Godfrey found himself shaking hands with Sir Vivian and the men who had worked so hard to prove his innocence. When he had thanked them from the very bottom of his heart, Sir Vivian took his arm.

"Come away now, come away," said the old gentleman. "There are other people waiting to welcome you."

Seizing Godfrey by the arm, he hurried him out into the street to a cab which was waiting there. Ten minutes later he was locked in his mother's arms.

"O Godfrey," said Molly, as he embraced her in her turn, "I knew that God would send you back to me!"

A week later Godfrey and Molly were married by special license, and left England the same day for the South of France. They are now back again at the Hall, and as happy as two young people could well expect to be. The clouds that shadowed their lives at one time are now completely dispersed, but, if Godfrey lives to be a hundred, he will never forget the agony he suffered in connection with what the newspapers called "The Mystery of the Clasped Hands."

THE END