 
Transcriber's Notes:
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.A Novel.
IN THREE VOLUMES.VOL. II.
LONDON: | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. | |
| CHAPTER | |
| I. | THE EVE OF THE TRIAL. |
| II. | THE TRIAL. |
| III. | A BOTTLE OF BURGUNDY. |
| IV. | DR. DRAYTON'S SUSPICIONS. |
| V. | HIDE AND SEEK. |
| VI. | FLOWN. |
| VII. | GENERAL ST. GEORGE. |
| VIII. | CUPID AT PINCOTE. |
| IX. | AT THE VILLA PAMPHILI. |
| X. | BACK AGAIN AT PARK NEWTON. |
| XI. | MRS. MCDERMOTT WANTS HER MONEY. |
| XII. | FOOTSTEPS IN THE ROOM. |
| XIII. | THE SQUIRE'S TRIBULATION. |
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
THE EVE OF THE TRIAL.
Within a week of Tom Bristow's first visit to Pincote, and his introduction to the Copes, father and son, Mr. Cope, junior, found himself, much to his disgust, fairly on his way to New York. He would gladly have rebelled against the parental dictum in this matter, if he had dared to do so; but he knew of old how worse than useless it would be for him to offer the slightest opposition to his father's wishes.
"You will go and say goodbye to Miss Culpepper as a matter of course," said Mr. Cope to him. "But don't grow too sentimental over the parting. Do it in an easy, smiling way, as if you were merely going out of town for a few days. Don't make any promises--don't talk about the future--and, above all, don't say a word about marriage. Of course, you will have to write to her occasionally while you are away. Just a few lines, you know, to say how you are, and all that. No mawkish silly love-nonsense, but a sensible, manly letter; and be wisely reticent as to the date of your return. Very sorry, but you don't know how much longer your business may detain you--you know the sort of thing I mean."
When the idea had first entered Mr. Cope's mind that it would be an excellent thing if he could only succeed in getting his son engaged to Squire Culpepper's only child, it had not been without an ulterior eye to the fortune which that young lady would one day call her own that he had been induced to press forward the scheme to a successful issue. By marrying Miss Culpepper, his son would be enabled to take up a position in county society such as he could never hope to attain either by his own merits, which were of the most moderate kind, or from his father's money bags alone. But dearly as Mr. Cope loved position, he loved money still better; and it was no part of his programme that his son should marry a pauper, even though that pauper could trace back her pedigree to the Conqueror. And yet, if the squire went on speculating as madly as he was evidently doing now, it seemed only too probable that pauperism, or something very much like it, would be the result, as far as Miss Culpepper was concerned. Instead of having a fortune of at least twenty thousand pounds, as she ought to have, would she come in for as many pence when the old man died? Mr. Cope groaned in spirit as he asked himself the question, and he became more determined than ever to carry out his policy of waiting and watching, before allowing the engagement of the young people to reach a point that would render a subsequent rupture impossible without open scandal--and scandal was a bugbear of which the banker stood in extreme dread.
Fortunately, perhaps, for Mr. Cope's view, the feelings of neither of the people chiefly concerned were very deeply interested. Edward had obeyed his father in this as in everything else. He had known Jane from a child, and he liked her because she was clever and good-tempered. But she by no means realized his ideal of feminine beauty. She was too slender, too slightly formed to meet with his approval. "There's not enough of her," was the way he put it to himself. Miss Moggs, the confectioner's daughter, with her ample proportions and beaming smile, was far more to his taste. Equally to his taste was the pastry dispensed by Miss Moggs's plump fingers, of which he used to devour enormous quantities, seated on a three-legged stool in front of the counter, while chatting in a free and easy way about his horses and dogs, and the number of pigeons he had slaughtered of late. And then it was so much easier to talk to Miss Moggs than it was to talk to Jane. Miss Moggs looked up to him as to a young magnifico, and listened to his oracular utterances with becoming reverence and attention; but Jane, somehow, didn't seem to appreciate him as he wished to be appreciated, and he never felt, quite sure that she was not laughing at him in her sleeve.
"So you are going to leave us by the eight o'clock train to-morrow, are you?" asked Jane, when he went to Pincote to say a few last words of farewell. He had sat down by her side on the sofa, and had taken her unresisting hand in his; a somewhat thin, cold little hand, that returned his pressure very faintly. How different, as he could not help saying to himself, from the warm, plump fingers of Matilda Moggs.
"Yes, I'm going by the morning train. Perhaps I shall never come back. Perhaps I shall be drowned," he said, somewhat dolorously.
"Not you, Edward, dear. You will live to plague us all for many a year to come. I wish I could do your business, and go instead of you."
"You don't mean to say that you would like to cross the Atlantic, Jane?"
"I mean to say that there are few things in the world would please me better. What a fresh and glorious experience it must be to one who has never been far from home!"
"But think of the sea-sickness."
"Think of being out of sight of commonplace land for days and days together. Think how delightful it must be to be rocked on the great Atlantic rollers, and what a new and pleasant sensation it must be to know that there is only a plank between yourself and the fishes, and yet not to feel the least bit afraid."
Edward shuddered. "When you wake up in the middle of the night, and hear the wind blowing hard, you will think of me, won't you?" he said.
"Of course I shall. And I shall wish I were by your side to enjoy it. To be out in a gale on the Atlantic--that must indeed be glorious!"
Edward's fat cheeks became a shade paler, "Don't talk in that way, Jane," he said. "One never can tell what may happen. I shall write to you, of course, and all that; and you won't forget me while I'm away, will you?"
"No, I shall not forget you, Edward; of that you may be quite sure."
Then he drew her towards him, and kissed her; and then, after a few more words, he went away.
It was just the sort of parting that his father would have approved of, he said to himself, as he drove down the avenue. No tears, no sentimental nonsense, no fuss of any kind. Privately he felt somewhat aggrieved that she had not taken the parting more to heart. "There wasn't even a single tear in her eye," he said to himself. "She doesn't half know how to appreciate a fellow."
He would perhaps have altered his opinion in some measure could he have seen Jane half an hour later. She had locked herself in her bedroom, and was crying bitterly. Why she was crying thus she would have found it difficult to explain: in fact, she hardly knew herself. It is possible that her tears were not altogether tears of bitterness--that some other feeling than sorrow for her temporary separation from Edward Cope was stirring the fountains of her heart. She kept on upbraiding herself for her coldness and want of feeling, and trying to persuade herself that she was deeply sorry, rather than secretly--very secretly--glad to be relieved of the tedium of his presence for several weeks to come. She knew how wrong it was of her--it was almost wicked, she thought--to feel thus: but, underlying all her tears, was a gleam of precious sunshine, of which she was dimly conscious, although she would not acknowledge its presence even to herself.
After a time her tears ceased to flow. She got up and bathed her eyes. While thus occupied her maid knocked at the door.
Mr. Bristow was downstairs. He had brought some photographs for Miss Culpepper to look at.
"Tell Mr. Bristow how sorry I am that I cannot see him to-day," said Jane. "But my head aches so badly that I cannot possibly go down." Then when the girl was gone, "I won't see him to-day," she added to herself. "When Edward and I are married he will come and see us sometimes, perhaps. Edward will always be glad to see him."
Hearing the front-door clash, she ran to the window and pulled aside a corner of the blind. In a minute or two she saw Tom walking leisurely down the avenue. Presently he paused, and turned, and began to scan the house as if he knew that Jane were watching him. It was quite impossible that he should see her, but for all that she shrank back, with a blush and a shy little smile. But she did not loose her hold of the blind; and presently she peeped again, and never moved her eyes till Tom was lost to view.
Then she went downstairs into the drawing-room, and found there the photographs which Tom had left for her inspection. There, too, lying close by, was a glove which he had dropped and had omitted to pick up again. "I will give it to him next time he comes," she said softly to herself. Strange to relate, her next action was to press the glove to her lips, after which she hid it away in the bosom of her dress. But young ladies' memories are proverbially treacherous, and Jane's was no exception to the rule. Tom Bristow's glove never found its way back into his possession.
Jane Culpepper had drifted into her engagement with Edward Cope almost without knowing how such a state of affairs had been brought about. When her father first mentioned the matter to her, and told her that Edward was fond of her, she laughed at the idea of Edward being fond of anything but his horses and his gun. When, later on, the young banker, in obedience to parental instructions, blundered through a sort of declaration of love, she laughed again, but neither repulsed nor encouraged him. She was quite heart-whole and fancy-free; but certainly Mr. Cope, junior, bore only the faintest resemblance to the vague hero of her girlish dreams--who would come riding one day out of the enchanted Kingdom of Love, and, falling on his knees before her, implore her to share his heart and fortune for evermore. To speak the truth, there was no romance of any kind about Edward. He was hopelessly prosaic: he was irredeemably commonplace; but they had known each other from childhood, and she had a kindly regard for him, arising from that very fact. So, pending the arrival of Prince Charming, she did not altogether repulse him, but went on treating his suit as a piece of pleasant absurdity which could never work itself out to a serious issue either for herself or him. She took the alarm a little when some whispers reached her that she would be asked, before long, to fix a day for the wedding; but, latterly, even those whispers had died away. Nobody seemed in a hurry to press the affair forward to its legitimate conclusion: even Edward himself showed no impatience on the point. So long as he could come and go at Pincote as he liked, and hover about Jane, and squeeze her hand occasionally, and drive her out once or twice a week behind his high-stepping bays, he seemed to want nothing more. They were just the same to each other as they had been when they were children, Jane said to herself--and why should they not remain so?
But, of late, a slight change had come o'er the spirit of Miss Culpepper's dream. New hopes, and thoughts, and fears, to which she had hitherto been a stranger, began to nestle and flutter round her heart, like love-birds building in spring. The thought of becoming the wife of Edward Cope was fast becoming--nay, had already become, utterly distasteful to her. She began to realize the fact that it is impossible to keep on playing with fire without getting burnt. She had allowed herself to drift into an engagement with a man for whom she really cared nothing, thinking, probably, at the time that for her no Prince Charming would ever come riding out of the woods; and that, if it would please her father, she might as well marry Edward Cope as any one else. But behold! all at once Prince Charming had come, and although, as yet, he had not gone down on his knees and offered his hand and heart for evermore, she felt that she could never love but him alone. She felt, too, with a sort of dumb despair, that she had already given herself away beyond recall--or, at least, had led the world to think that she had so given herself away; and that she could not, with any show of maidenly honour, reclaim a gift which she had let slip from her so lightly and easily that she hardly knew herself when it was gone.
The eve of Lionel Dering's trial came at last. The Duxley assizes had opened on the previous Thursday. All the minor cases had been got through by Saturday night, and one of the two judges had already gone forward to the next town. The Park Newton murder case had been left purposely till Monday, and by those who were supposed to know best, it was considered not unlikely that trial, verdict, and sentence would all be got through in the course of one sitting.
The celebrated Mr. Tressil, who had been specially engaged for the defence, found it impossible to get down to Duxley before the five o'clock train on Sunday afternoon. He was met on the platform by Mr. Hoskyns and Mr. Bristow. His junior in the case, Mr. Little, was to meet him by appointment at his rooms later on. Tom was introduced to Mr. Tressil by Hoskyns as a particular friend of Mr. Dering's, and the three gentlemen at once drove to the prison. Mr. Tressil had gone carefully through his brief as he came down in the train. The information conveyed therein was so ample and complete that it was more as a matter of form than to serve any real purpose that he went to see his client. The interview was a very brief one. The few questions Mr. Tressil had to ask were readily answered, but it was quite evident that there was no fresh point to be elicited. Then Mr. Tressil went away, accompanied by Mr. Hoskyns; and Tom was left alone with his friend.
Edith had taken leave of her husband an hour before. They would see each other no more till after the trial was over. What the result of the trial might possibly be they neither of them dared so much as whisper. Each of them put on a make-believe gaiety and cheerfulness of manner, hoping thereby to deceive the other--as if such a thing were possible.
"In two days' time you will be back again at Park Newton," Edith had said, "and will find yourself saddled with a wife, whom, while a prisoner, you were compelled to marry against your will. Surely, in so extreme a case, the Divorce Court would take pity on you, and grant you some relief."
"An excellent suggestion," said Lionel, with a laugh. "I must have some talk with Hoskyns about it. Meanwhile, suppose you get your trunks packed, and prepare for an early start on our wedding tour. Oh! to get outside these four walls again--to have 'the sky above my head, and the grass beneath my feet'--what happiness--what ecstasy--that will be! A week from this time, Edith, we shall be at Chamounix. Think of that, sweet one! In place of this grim cell--the Alps and Freedom! Ah me! what a world of meaning there is in those few words!"
The clock struck four. It was time to go. Only by a supreme effort could Edith keep back her tears--but she did keep them back.
"Goodbye--my husband!" she whispered, as she kissed him on the lips--the eyes--the forehead. "May He who knows all our sorrows, and can lighten all our burdens, grant you strength for the morrow!"
Lionel's lips formed the words, "Goodbye," but no sound came from them. One last clasp of the hand--one last yearning, heartfelt look straight into each other's eyes, and then Edith was gone. Lionel fell back on his seat with a groan as the door shut behind her; and there, with bowed head and clasped fingers, he sat without moving till the coming of Mr. Tressil and the others warned him that he was no longer alone.
As soon as Mr. Tressil and Hoskyns were gone, Lionel lighted up his biggest meerschaum, and Tom was persuaded, for once, into trying a very mild cigarette. Neither of them spoke much--in fact, neither of them seemed to have much to say. They were Englishmen, and to-day they did not belie the taciturnity of their race. They made a few disjointed remarks about the weather, and they both agreed that there was every prospect of an excellent harvest. Lionel inquired after the Culpeppers, and was sorry to hear that the squire was confined to his room with gout. After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say, but they understood each other so well that there was no need of words to interpret between them. Simply to have Tom sitting there, was to Lionel a comfort and a consolation such as nothing else, except the presence of his wife, could have afforded him; and for Tom to have gone to his lodgings without spending that last hour with his friend, would have been a sheer impossibility.
"I shall see you to-morrow?" asked Lionel, as Tom rose to go.
"Certainly you will."
"Good-night, old fellow."
"Good-night, Dering. Take my advice, and don't sit up reading or anything to-night, but get off to bed as early as you can."
Lionel nodded and smiled, and so they parted.
Tom had called at Alder Cottage earlier in the day, and had seen Edith and Mrs. Garside, and had given them their final instructions. He had one other person still to see--Mr. Sprague, the chemist, and him he went in search of as soon as he had bidden Lionel good-night.
Mr. Sprague himself came in answer to Tom's ring at the bell, and ushered his visitor into a stuffy little parlour behind the shop, where he had been lounging on the sofa in his shirt-sleeves, reading Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy." And a very melancholy, careworn-looking man was this chemist whom Tom had come to see. He looked as if the perpetual battle for daily bread, which had been going on with him from year's end to year's end ever since he was old enough to handle a pestle, was at last beginning to daunt him. He had a cowed, wobegone expression as he passed his fingers wearily through his thin grizzled locks: although he did his best to put on an air of cheerfulness at the tardy prospect of a customer.
Tom and the chemist were old acquaintances. Sprague's shop was one of the institutions of Duxley, and had been known to Tom from his early boyhood. Once or twice during his present visit to the town he had called there and made a few purchases, and chatted over old times, and old friends long dead and gone, with the melancholy chemist.
"You still stick to the old place, Mr. Sprague," said Tom, as he sat down on the ancient sofa.
"Yes, Mr. Bristow--yes. I don't know that I could do better. My father kept the shop before me, and everybody in Duxley knows it."
"I suppose you will be retiring on your fortune before long?"
The chemist laughed a hollow laugh. "With thirteen youthful and voracious mouths to feed, it looks like making a fortune, don't it, sir?"
"A baker's dozen of youngsters! Fie, Mr. Sprague, fie!"
"Talking about the baker, sir, I give you my word of honour that he and the butcher take nearly every farthing of profit I get out of my business. It has come to this: that I can no longer make ends meet, as I used to do years ago. For the first time in my life, sir, I am behindhand with my rent, and goodness only knows when and how I shall get it made up." Mr. Sprague's voice was very pitiable as he finished.
"But, surely, some of your children are old enough to help themselves," said Tom.
"The eldest are all girls," answered poor Mr. Sprague, "and they have to stay at home and help their mother with the little ones. My eldest boy, Alex, is only nine years old."
"Just the age to get him off your hands--just the age to get him into the Downham Foundation School."
"Oh, sir, what a relief that would be, both to his poor mother and me! The same thought has struck me, sir, many a time, but I have no influence--none whatever."
"But it is possible that I may have a little," said Tom, kindly.
"Oh, Mr. Bristow!" gasped the chemist, and then could say no more.
"Supposing--merely supposing, you know," said Tom, "that I were to get your eldest boy into the Downham Foundation School, and were, in addition, to put a hundred-pound note into your hands with which to pay off your arrears of rent, you would be willing to do a trifling service for me in return?"
"I should be the most ungrateful wretch in the world were I to refuse to do so," replied the chemist, earnestly.
"Then listen," said Tom. "You are summoned to serve as one of the jury in the great murder case to-morrow."
Mr. Sprague nodded.
"You will serve, as a matter of course," continued Tom. "I shall be in the court, and in such a position that you can see me without difficulty. As soon as the clock strikes three, you will look at me, and you will keep on looking at me every two or three minutes, waiting for a signal from me. Perhaps it will not be requisite for me to give the signal at all--in that case I shall not need your services; but whether they are needed or no, your remuneration will in every respect be the same."
"And what is the signal, Mr. Bristow, for which I am to look out?"
"The scratching, with my little finger--thus--of the left-hand side of my nose."
"And what am I to do when I see the signal?"
"You are to pretend that you are taken suddenly ill, and you are to keep up that pretence long enough to render it impossible for the trial to be finished on Monday--long enough, in fact, to make its postponement to Tuesday morning an inevitable necessity."
"I understand, sir. You want the trial to extend into the second day; instead of being finished, as it might be, on the first?"
"That is exactly what I want. Can you counterfeit a sudden attack of illness, so as to give it an air of reality?"
"I ought to be able to do so, sir. I see plenty of the symptoms every day of my life."
"They will send for a doctor to examine you, you know."
"I suppose so, sir. But my plan will be this: not merely to pretend to be ill, but to be ill in reality. To swallow something, in fact--say a pill concocted by myself--which will really make me very sick and ill for two or three hours, without doing me any permanent injury."
"Not a bad idea by any means. But you understand that you are to take no action whatever in the matter until you see my signal."
"I understand that clearly."
After a little more conversation, Tom went, carrying with him in his waistcoat pocket a tiny phial, filled with some dark-coloured fluid which the chemist had mixed expressly for him.
On the point of leaving, Tom produced three or four rustling pieces of paper. "Here are thirty pounds on account, Mr. Sprague," said he. "I think we understand one another, eh?"
The chemist's fingers closed like a vice on the notes. His heart gave a great sigh of relief. "I am your humble servant to command, Mr. Bristow," he returned. "You have saved my credit and my good name, and you may depend upon me in every way."
As Tom was walking soberly towards his lodging, he passed the open door of the Royal Hotel. Under the portico stood a man smoking a cigar. Their eyes met for an instant in the lamplight, but they were strangers to each other, and Tom passed on his way. Next moment he started, and turned to look again. He had heard a voice say: "Mr. St. George, your dinner is served."
He had come at last, then, this cousin, who had not been seen in Duxley since the day of the inquest--on whose evidence to-morrow so much would depend.
"Is that the man, I wonder," said Tom to himself, "in whose breast lies hidden the black secret of the murder? If not in his--then in whose?"
CHAPTER II.
THE TRIAL
"How say you, prisoner at the bar: Guilty or Not Guilty?"
"Not Guilty."
There was a moment's pause. A slight murmur passed like a ripple through the dense crowd. Each individual item, male and female, tried to wriggle itself into a more comfortable position, knowing that it was fixed in that particular spot for some hours to come. The crier of the court called silence where silence was already, and next moment Mr. Purcell, the counsel for the prosecution, rose to his feet. He glanced up at the prisoner for one brief moment, bowed slightly to the judge, hitched his gown well forward, fixed one foot firmly on a spindle of the nearest chair, and turned over the first page of his brief.
Mr. Purcell possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of clear and lucid exposition. His manner was passionless, his style frigid. He aimed at nothing more than giving a cold, unvarnished statement of the facts. But then the way in which he marshalled his facts--going, step by step, through the evidence as taken before the magistrates, bringing out with fatal clearness point after point against the prisoner, gradually wrapping him round, as it were, in an inextricable network of evidence from which it seemed impossible for any human agency to free him--was, to such of his hearers as could appreciate his efforts, an intellectual treat of a very rare order indeed: Even Lionel had to ask himself, in a sort of maze: "Am I guilty, or am I not?" when Mr. Purcell came to the end of his exposition, and took breath for a moment while the first witness for the prosecution was being sworn by the clerk of the court.
That first witness was Kester St. George.
Mr. St. George looked very pale--his recent illness might account for that--but he showed not the slightest trace of nervousness as he stepped into the witness-box. It was noticed by several people that he kept his eyes fixed straight before him, and never once turned them on the prisoner in the dock.
The evidence elicited from Mr. St. George was--epitomized--to the following effect:--Was own cousin to the prisoner at the bar, but had not seen him since they were boys together till prisoner called on him in London a few weeks before the murder. Met prisoner in the street shortly afterwards. Introduced him to Mr. Osmond, the murdered man, who happened to be in his (witness's) company at the time. Prisoner, on the spot, invited both witness and Osmond to visit him at Park Newton. The invitation was accepted. Witness and Osmond went down to Park Newton, and up to the night of the murder everything passed off in the most amicable and friendly spirit. On that evening they all three dined by invitation with Mr. Culpepper, of Pincote. They got back to Park Newton about eleven o'clock. Osmond then proposed to finish up the evening with a game at billiards. Prisoner objected for a time, but ultimately yielded the point, and they all went into the billiard-room. The game was to be a hundred up, and everything went on satisfactorily till Osmond accused prisoner of having played with the wrong ball. This prisoner denied. An altercation followed. After some words on both sides, Osmond threw part of a glass of seltzer-and-brandy into prisoner's face. Prisoner sprang at Osmond and seized him by the throat. Osmond drew a small revolver and fired at prisoner, but fortunately missed him. Witness then interposed, dragged Osmond from the room, and put him into the hands of his (witness's) valet, with instructions not to leave him till he was safely in bed. Then went back to prisoner, whom he found still in the billiard-room, but depressed in spirits, and complaining of one of those violent head aches that were constitutional with him. Witness himself being subject to similar headaches, recommended to prisoner's notice a certain mixture from which he had himself derived much benefit. Prisoner agreed to take a dose of the mixture. Witness went to his own bedroom to obtain it, and then took it to the prisoner, whom he found partially undressed, preparing for bed. Prisoner took the mixture. Then he and witness bade each other good-night, and separated. Next morning, at eight o'clock, witness's valet brought a telegram to his bedroom summoning him to London on important business. He dressed immediately, and left Park Newton at once--an hour and a half before the discovery of the murder.
Cross-examined by Mr. Tressil:
The only one of the three who was at all the worse for wine on their return from Pincote was Mr. Osmond. Had several times seen him in a similar condition. On such occasions he was very talkative, and rather inclined to be quarrelsome. Osmond was in error in saying that prisoner played with the wrong ball. Witness, in his position as marker, was watching the game very carefully, and was certain that no such mistake was made. Osmond was grossly insulting; and prisoner, all through the quarrel, acted with the greatest forbearance. It was not till after Osmond had thrown the brandy-and-seltzer in his face that prisoner laid hands on him at all. The instant after, Osmond drew his revolver and fired. The bullet just missed prisoner's head and lodged in the wall behind him. After Osmond left the room no animosity or ill-feeling was evinced by prisoner towards him. On the contrary, prisoner expressed his deep regret that such a fracas should have taken place under his roof. Had not the slightest fear that there would be any renewal of the quarrel afterwards, or would not have left for London next morning. Certainly thought that an ample apology was due from Osmond, and never doubted that such an apology would be forthcoming when he had slept off the effects of the wine. Was never more surprised or shocked in his life than when he heard of the murder, and that his cousin was accused of the crime. It seemed to him too horrible for belief. Could not conceive of any possible motive that the prisoner could have for committing such a crime.
"Would you not almost as soon expect to have been the author of such a crime yourself?" asked Mr. Tressil.
Mr. St. George turned a shade paler than he was before, and for the first time he seemed to hesitate a little before answering the question. "Yes," he said at last, "I should almost as soon expect such a thing. In fact, I cannot, even now, believe that my cousin, Lionel Dering, is the murderer of Percy Osmond."
Mr. Tressil sat down, and Mr. Little rose to his feet.
"On the night of the quarrel prisoner complained to you of having a very violent headache?"
"He did."
"And you proffered to administer to him a dose of a certain narcotic which you had found to be efficacious in such cases yourself?"
"I did."
"How many drops of the narcotic did you administer to the prisoner?"
"Fifteen, in water."
"You saw him drink it?"
"I did."
"You yourself are troubled with violent headaches at times?"
"I am."
"At such times you administer to yourself a dose of the same narcotic that you administered to the prisoner?"
"I do."
"And you derive great benefit from it?"
"Invariably."
"How many drops of the narcotic do you take yourself on such occasions?"
"Fifteen, in water."
"Is that your invariable dose?"
"It is."
"Speaking for yourself, what is the effect it has upon you on such occasions?"
"It induces languor and drowsiness, and seems to deaden the pain. Its chief object is to insure a good night's rest--nothing more."
"How many years have you been in the habit of taking this narcotic?"
"At intervals, for a dozen years."
"You have therefore become habituated to the use of it?"
"To a certain extent, yes."
"But if you, after twelve years' practice, are in the habit of taking only fifteen drops, does it not strike you that that quantity was somewhat of an overdose for a man who had never taken anything of the kind before?"
"It did not strike me as being so at the time. The prisoner is a strong and healthy man, and his headache was a very violent one."
"But, in any case, the general effect would be to induce a sense of extreme drowsiness, which, in a little while, would result in a dull, heavy sleep--a sleep so heavy and so dull that the sense of violent pain would be deadened, and even lost for the time being?"
"Those are precisely the effects which might be expected."
"How soon, after a dose has been taken, does the feeling of drowsiness come on?"
"In about a quarter of an hour."
"Suppose now, that after you had taken a dose of the narcotic, you wished, for some particular reason, to keep broad awake; suppose that you had some important business to transact--say, if you like, that you had a murder to commit--how would that be?"
"I should find it utterly impossible to keep awake. The feeling of drowsiness induced is so intense that your whole and sole desire is to sleep: you feel as if you wanted to sleep for a month without waking."
Mr. Little, having scored a point, sat down, and Mr. St. George left the witness-box. As he was stepping down into the body of the court his eyes met the eyes of Lionel Dering for the first time that day. It was but for a moment, and then Kester's head was turned deliberately away. But in that moment Lionel saw, or fancied that he saw, the self-same expression flash from his cousin's eyes that he had seen in them that night, now many months ago, when they recognized each other across the crowd on Westminster Bridge--a look of cold, deadly, unquenchable hate, that nothing but death could cancel, with which, to-day, was mingled a look of scornful triumph that seemed to say, "My turn has come at last." For one brief instant Lionel seemed to see his cousin's soul stand unveiled and naked before him.
As before, it was a look that chilled his heart and troubled him strangely. Kester had given his evidence in a perfectly fair and straightforward manner, without betraying the slightest animus against his cousin: indeed, he had distinctly stated more than once that he could not and would not believe that Lionel was guilty of the terrible crime for which he was arraigned, and the little sympathetic thrill which he threw into his soft musical voice at such times could hardly pass unnoticed by any one. But how reconcile such tokens of goodwill and cousinly affection with the fact that he had never once spoken a word to Lionel since they parted in the latter's bedroom on the night of the murder? Even at the inquest, and during the few days that elapsed after the murder before Lionel was committed for trial, his cousin had never come near him, or made any effort whatever to see him. Afterwards there had been vague news of his serious illness in London; but, even then, he might surely have written, or have dictated half a dozen lines, had it been only to say that he was too ill to come in person. But during all those weary days of waiting in prison there had come no word, no message, no token to tell Lionel that there was any such person as Kester St. George in existence.
And now, to-day, what did that look mean? To a man of Lionel's frank and unsuspicious disposition it seemed difficult, nay next to impossible, to believe that he must count his cousin, not as a friend, but as an enemy; and yet the conviction was beginning to dawn slowly upon him that such was indeed the case. But with the dawning of that conviction there was growing up in his mind a dim, vague suspicion, shapeless as yet, but hideous in its shapelessness, to which neither name nor speech had yet been given, but which began to haunt him day and night like some weird nightmare which it was impossible to shake off.
The next witness that was called was Martin Rooke.
Was in prisoner's employ as under-footman at Park Newton. Had been appointed specially to wait on Mr. Osmond, that gentleman having brought no servant with him. One of his duties was to call Mr. Osmond about nine o'clock every morning. Remembered the morning of the ninth of May very well: in fact, should never forget it as long as he lived. Went as usual about nine o'clock--it might be a few minutes before or a few minutes after the hour--to call Mr. Osmond. Found the door unlocked, as usual, and went in after knocking once. Did not notice any signs of disturbance in the room. Went up to the bed with the intention of calling Mr. Osmond. Saw at once what had happened. Mr. Osmond was lying on his back across the bed. After the first shock of the surprise was over, rushed downstairs and summoned assistance. All the servants who were about at once went upstairs with him into the room. Mr. Pearce, the butler, sent off post-haste for the nearest doctor. Then the rest of the servants, except witness, and Janvard, Mr. St. George's valet, went in a body to rouse Mr. Dering, who was sleeping in the room next to that of Mr. Osmond. One of Mr. Osmond's hands was open, the other was shut as if it were clasping something. Janvard took hold of the shut hand, and tried to open the fingers, when something fell from them to the floor. Janvard picked up the fallen article, when witness saw that it was a shirt-stud made of jet, set in filigree gold. "This stud is Mr. Dering's property," said Janvard. "I saw it in his shirt last night." Then witness and Janvard looked about the room and under the bed, to see whether they could find a weapon of any kind, but could not. Then they left Mr. Osmond's room together, and went along the corridor to Mr. Dering's room. The door was wide open, and Pearce and the other servants were clustered round it. Witness peeped over the shoulders of the others, and saw prisoner standing in the middle of the room, looking like a man half dazed. There were red stains on his shirt-front, and there was a red-stained pocket-handkerchief lying at his feet. Janvard then showed prisoner the stud, and asked him whether it was his property. Prisoner said that it was, and asked him where he had found it. Janvard answered that he had found it in the hand of the murdered man. Prisoner sat down in the nearest chair, and witness thought he was going to faint. Then Pearce ordered everybody away, and went into the room and shut the door. Witness went back to Mr. Osmond's room, locked the door, and kept the key till the doctor came--with whom came also the superintendent of police.
The cross-examination of this witness elicited nothing of any importance in favour of the prisoner.
The next witness was Pierre Janvard.
Witness deposed that on the night of the eighth of May he was sitting up for his master, Mr. St. George, who, after his return from Pincote, where he had been dining, had joined prisoner and Mr. Osmond in the billiard-room. About midnight the bell rang, and on answering it he found Mr. Osmond seated on the bottom stair of the flight that led to the bedrooms, and his master standing near him. Mr. St. George motioned to witness to get Mr. Osmond upstairs, and whispered to him that he was not to leave him till he had seen him safely in bed. Mr. St. George then went back to the billiard-room, and witness, after a little persuasion, managed to get Mr. Osmond as far as his own room. Mr. Osmond was half drunk, and was evidently much excited. He kept shaking his head, and talking to himself under his breath, but witness could not make out what he said. Had seen Mr. Osmond the worse for wine several times before. It was the duty of Rooke, the previous witness, to attend to him at such times; but Rooke was in bed, and he (witness) did not care to disturb him. After a little while Mr. Osmond was induced to get into bed. Witness lingered in the room for a few minutes till he seemed fast asleep, then left him, and neither knew nor heard anything more about him till Rooke rushed into the servants' hall, about nine o'clock next morning, with the news of the murder.
The rest of the evidence given by Janvard was little more than a recapitulation of that already given by Rooke. The evidence of the latter was confirmed with regard to the finding of the jet stud, and its recognition by the prisoner as his property. The stud itself was produced in court, and handed up to the jury for inspection.
The next witness was James Mackerith, M.D.
Dr. Mackerith began by stating that between nine and ten o'clock on the morning of May ninth, a servant from Park Newton rode up to his house, and told him he was wanted, without a moment's delay, to look to a gentleman who had been murdered during the night. Witness got out his gig and started at once, and, meeting the superintendent of police on the way, that gentleman joined him on hearing his errand. Witness then went on to describe the finding and appearance of the body. Mr. Osmond had been stabbed through the heart with a knife or dagger. Death, which must have been almost instantaneous, had taken place at least five or six hours before the arrival of witness. There were no traces of any struggle. In all probability Mr. Osmond had been murdered in his sleep, or at the moment when he first opened his eyes, and before he had time to raise any alarm.
This witness was severely cross-examined by Mr. Tressil as to the possibility or otherwise of deceased having committed suicide, but nothing could shake him in his positive conviction that, in the present case, such a theory was utterly untenable. After the cross-examination of Dr. Mackerith was brought to an end the court adjourned for luncheon.
It was now two o'clock, and although there were three or four minor witnesses still to be examined, the general impression seemed to be that, if the jury were not long in making up their minds, the whole unhappy business would be brought to an end by six o'clock at the latest.
The prisoner, who, by the judge's instructions, had quite early in the day been accommodated with a chair, had listened with quiet attention to the progress of the case, but had not otherwise seemed to take more interest in it than any ordinary spectator might have done. He had a thorough comprehension from the first that the trial must go dead against him, but he never abated by one jot the quiet, resolute calmness of his manner. He was the same to-day as he had been on the first day of his imprisonment; only, to-day, he was the focus of a thousand inquisitive eyes; but he seemed as utterly unconscious of the fact as though he were sitting in the silence and solitude of his cell.
Hour by hour, as the trial went on, Tom sent brief notes by a messenger to Edith. In these notes all that he could say was that such and such a witness was under examination, and that everything was going on as favourably as could be expected. He knew how miserably ineffective such messages would be to allay the dreadful anxiety of her to whom they were addressed; but, as he asked himself, what more could he write? He took advantage of the few minutes allowed for luncheon to run up in person to Alder Cottage. Edith, that day, looked to him a dozen years older than he had ever seen her look before. Very pale and worn, but very calm also. But there was something in her eyes--the wild, yearning, terrified look of some poor hunted creature, as it were, who sees that for it there is no possible door of escape--which revealed to Tom something of the terrible struggle going on within. It was but scant comfort that he could give her, but even for that she was grateful.
Tom found that he had still five minutes to spare when he got back to the court, so he hunted up Jabez Creede, whom he found haunting the purlieus of a neighbouring tavern, but apparently lacking either the money or the courage to venture inside. Tom supplied him with both, and, after two steaming glasses of rum and water, Jabez, with a sort of moist gratitude in his voice, declared that he felt better--"Very much better indeed, thank you, Mr. Bristow, sir."
Tom; before going up to Alder Cottage, had contrived to have a brief note passed to Mr. Sprague. "I hope you are prepared, as I expect that I shall require your services."
On the reassembling of the court, Pearce, the butler at Park Newton, was the first witness called. He deposed to no material facts with which the reader is not already acquainted.
Next came Mr. Drayton, the Duxley superintendent of police, who told the story of his arrest of the prisoner, and how he had searched the house and grounds of Park Newton, but could find no trace of the weapon by which the deed had been done.
Next came a Mr. Whitstone, uncle to the murdered man, to whom, as the nearest relative in England, had been handed over the effects of the deceased. Mr. Whitstone deposed that, after a careful examination of the said effects, he had come to the conclusion that nothing had been stolen. So far as he could judge, no article of value was missing; and consequently, whatever other motive might have been at the bottom of the crime, it could not have been done for the sake of robbery.
With the examination of one or two minor witnesses the case for the prosecution came to an end.
There were no witnesses to call for the defence, and Mr. Tressil at once arose to address the court.
Tom Bristow was sitting close behind three or four junior counsel, and in full view of the jury. Whispered one of these fledglings to another, so that Tom could not help overhearing him: "That jet stud will hang him."
Answered the other: "Bet you a new hat old Tressil won't be on his legs more than thirty minutes."
"If the jury agree--and I don't see how they can disagree--the whole thing will be over by five thirty."
"Hope so, I'm sure. Meet you at eight for a game of pool?"
"I'm your man."
It was now twenty minutes to four o'clock. Mr. Tressil began his speech for the defence. He had only got through the three or four opening sentences when one of the jury fell forward in the box, and, on being lifted up by two of his colleagues, it was found that he had been suddenly seized with illness. The juryman in question was Mr. Sprague, the chemist. He was carried at once into the open air. A buzz of curiosity and excitement ran round the court. Mr. Tressil sat down. The judge yawned politely behind his hand, and the junior barristers passed a snuff-box surreptitiously from one to another. In the course of three or four minutes Dr. Mackerith, who had followed Mr. Sprague into the side room, came back into court. Addressing the judge, said he: "My lord, I regret to inform you that Mr. Sprague, the juryman, is very ill indeed, and that there seems little or no probability that he will be able to resume his duties for at least three or four hours to come."
His lordship looked very much discomposed, and blew his nose violently. "I never, in the whole course of my experience, recollect such a circumstance before," he remarked. "It is very annoying, and very unfortunate. It leaves me without any option in the matter. The court must stand adjourned till ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
CHAPTER III.
A BOTTLE OF BURGUNDY
"There goes ten of 'em. Old Hoskyns can never want me at this time of night. At all events, if he don't come soon he won't find me here. If a man can't call the time his own after ten o'clock at night, he's no better than a slave."
The speaker was Jabez Creede, and he was sitting, with a short black pipe in his mouth, over a handful of fire--although the evening was a summer one--in the meanly furnished room which he called his home. In one hand he held a crumpled scrap of paper, the writing on which he now proceeded to read over again for the twentieth time.
"Please not to be out of the way this evening, as I may possibly want you on important business.--T. Hoskyns."
"Ugh!" growled Creede in disgust, as he flung the paper into the fire. "One might work one's heartstrings out for old Hoskyns, and there would never be an extra half quid for a poor devil on pay-day. I wish Mr. Bristow would take to the business. He's one of the right sort, he is. I wish----"
Here he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Presently his landlady entered. "Mr. Hoskyns is waiting below," said the woman. "He wants you to put on your hat and coat, and go with him."
Creede growled, put down his pipe, rose, yawned, stretched himself, inducted himself into a shabby grease-stained brown overcoat, pulled his battered hat over his gloomy brows, and stumbled downstairs. He had been drinking heavily during the day--indeed, the days when he did not drink heavily were few and far between--and both his gait and his tongue were in some measure affected by his potations.
Mr. Hoskyns was standing at the door, carrying in one hand the old blue bag with which Creede had been familiar for years.
"Make haste, man alive," said the lawyer, impatiently. "I want you to go with me to the prison. Some most important evidence in our favour has just turned up, and I must see Mr. Dering at once. Here, catch hold of this."
"It's precious heavy," grumbled Creede, as he took the bag.
"I dare say it is," answered Hoskyns, dryly.
"A good many clever brains have been at work on the contents of that bag. It's weighty with wisdom and common sense--two commodities, Jabez Creede, with which you have never been overburdened."
Not a word more passed between them till they reached the prison. The distance they had to walk was not great, and Mr. Hoskyns seemed anxious to get over the ground as quickly as possible, turning his face neither to right hand nor left, but going straight on till they halted at the gates. The great prison looked as black, silent, and deserted as some City of the Dead. Hoskyns gave a tug at the bell-pull, and was just refreshing himself with a pinch of his favourite mixture, when a little wicket in the door was opened, and through the bars two keen eyes peered out into the semi-darkness.
"Ha, Warde, is that you?" he said, nodding cheerfully to the pair of eyes. "Rather late to look in upon you, eh? But it's a matter of life and death--nothing less--that has brought us. Some most important evidence in our favour has turned up at the last moment, and it is imperative that I should see my client without a moment's delay."
"It's long past the hour for visitors, Mr. Hoskyns, as you know; and it would be as much as my place is worth to----"
"Where's the governor? where's my friend, Mr. Dux?" interrupted Hoskyns, impatiently. "Fetch him. He'll put the matter right in a moment."
"Mr. Dux, sir, is somewhere in the town, and has not yet got home. But I'll fetch Mr. Jackson, sir; perhaps he may be able to do something for you."
Jackson, the chief night-warder, was quickly on the spot, and the case explained to him in a few words.
"It's against the regulations, of course, Mr. Hoskyns," said Jackson; "but considering the emergency of the case, and in the absence of Mr. Dux, I will take upon myself the responsibility of allowing you to see Mr. Dering."
"Thank you very much, Jackson--very much indeed," said the lawyer, with a flourish of his huge yellow silk pocket-handkerchief. "I give you my word of honour that it's nothing less than a case of life and death."
The little low-browed side-door had been opened by this time, and Mr. Hoskyns went in, followed by Jabez Creede carrying the bag of papers. Creede had accompanied his employer to the gaol several times before, and his face was well known to the warders.
"I can only ask that, under the circumstances, you will make your visit as short a one as possible; and I hope, with all my heart, that you will be able to extricate Mr. Dering from his difficulty."
"Jackson, you may take my word for it," said Hoskyns, seriously, "that, before to-morrow night at this time, Mr. Dering will be a free man."
"I am heartily glad to hear it, sir, and I wish you a very good-night."
"Great heaven! Hoskyns, what has brought you here at this uncanny hour?" exclaimed Lionel, starting up from his pallet, on which he had thrown himself without undressing, as the lawyer and Creede were ushered into his cell and the door locked behind them.
"I have got great tidings for you, Mr. Dering. Splendid tidings!" said Hoskyns, as he took the bag from Creede. "But sit down, sir, and don't excite yourself, because I shall require your very best care and attention during the next few minutes." Speaking thus, he took off his broad-brimmed hat and deposited it tenderly on Lionel's bed; then he drew a chair up to the little deal table, motioned Lionel to take the opposite chair, and Creede to take the third and only remaining one. The latter gentleman, either from innate modesty, or because he was afraid that his breath might smell too strongly of rum, took care to plant himself a yard or two away from the table.
"Yes, sir, some splendid news--something that will astonish the world to-morrow," continued the lawyer, as he dived into his bag, and fished therefrom a carefully folded sheet of foolscap. "Read that, Mr. Dering--read that carefully through," he said, as he handed the paper in question to Lionel. "But, above all things, control your feelings."
Lionel took the paper, opened it, and read. Mr. Hoskyns, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, took a pinch of snuff slowly and artistically, staring across, meanwhile, very hard at Lionel.
The paper ran as under:--
"Be careful not to betray me by word or look. I am here to effect your escape. Follow my lead in everything, and show no surprise at anything that I may say or do.
"T. B."
Despite all his efforts to the contrary, Lionel could not keep his face from changing colour during the reading of these words.
"Very extraordinary, is it not," said the lawyer, as he took back the paper, "that this evidence should not have been forthcoming till the very last moment?"
"Very extraordinary, indeed," said Lionel, gravely.
He could hardly believe the evidence of his senses. The voice, the features, the hair, the whiskers, the dress, the snuff-box, and the pocket-handkerchief, were all part and parcel of the genuine Hoskyns; but when he looked intently through the gold-rimmed spectacles, he saw there the eyes--not to be mistaken for the eyes of any other man--of his faithful friend, Tom Bristow.
"I have shown the paper to Tressil," said Tom, still keeping up his assumed character, for it is hardly necessary to observe that Creede was not in the secret, "and he is quite agreed with me as to its vital importance. In fact it is at his request that I have come here to-night. There will be two or three telegrams to send off, and at least a couple of witnesses to hunt up, and all before the court opens in the morning. But before going into these details, I mean to drink your health--yes, sir, to drink your very good health, and to the happy acquittal which is sure to be yours in a few hours from the present time."
"I am much obliged to you, my dear Hoskyns," said Lionel, "but I'm afraid that my means of hospitality at present are limited to a copious supply of cold water."
"I've provided for that contingency, my dear sir, by bringing with me a bottle of prime old Burgundy from my own cellar," and he produced from his bag a tempting-looking black bottle with the cork already half-drawn. "And now for a wineglass."
"I've nothing better to offer you than a tea-cup."
"Under the circumstances we will make shift with the tea-cup."
It was handed to him by Lionel. "The tea-cup turns out to be a coffee-cup," said Tom. With that, he went down on one knee, drew the cork, half filled the cup with wine, and then offered it to Lionel.
"Not till you and Creede have both drunk to my health and acquittal," said the latter.
Tom took back the cup, gave utterance to an appropriate sentence or two, and tossed off the wine. Then going down again on one knee, he proceeded to refill the cup. The table was between him and Creede, and the latter, who had not failed to prick up his ears at the mention of something to drink, could not see clearly how Tom was engaged. He could hear the wine gurgle from the bottle into the cup, and that as enough for him. He did not see Tom's nimble fingers extract a tiny phial from his waistcoat pocket, and pour the contents into the wine.
"Creede grumbled because my bag was so heavy," said Tom, with a chuckle. "He wouldn't have said a word had he known what was inside it. Here, man, drink this off to Mr. Dering's very good health, and tell me whether you ever tasted anything better in your life."
He handed the cup to Creede, who rose somewhat unsteadily from his chair to take it. "I drink to your very good health, Mr. Dering," he said, in a loutish sort of way, "and may you have a good deliverance." And carrying the cup to his mouth with a shaking hand, he drank off the contents at a draught.
Both Tom and Lionel were watching him keenly. He crossed the cell and put the cup down on the window-ledge, making a wry face as he did so. Then he sat down again on his chair.
"I am afraid, Creede, that you have vitiated your palate by accustoming it to inferior drinks," said Tom, "and that you don't know a good wine when you taste it."
"I'd sooner have one quartern of real old Jamaica than a gallon of that rubbish," growled Creede, with ill-disguised contempt.
"Now for business," said Tom. "There's not a minute to lose." And with that he fished a formidable-looking heap of documents from the depths of his bag. "Of course, the first thing to do," he went on, "is to get hold of our two new witnesses, Robinson and Davis. I think I can lay hands on them without much difficulty." And with that he went off into a long rigmarole respecting the supposed steps which it would be needful to take in the new state of affairs, but keeping a careful watch on Creede, meanwhile, out of the corners of his eyes.
Presently Creede's eyes began to glaze a little. Then they closed. Then they opened and closed again. Then his head sank forward on his breast, and his arms fell limply by his sides. Both the men were watching him intently. Suddenly Tom sprang from his seat and was just in time to catch the inanimate body in his arms, as it was sliding from the chair to the floor.
Tom held up a warning finger to Lionel, who had also started from his chair. For full two minutes he rested on one knee without moving, supporting Creede in his arms. "He is fast now, I think," he said at last. "Help me to lift him on to the bed."
When the unconscious law-clerk had been laid on Lionel's bed, said Tom: "Now help me off with his coat, waistcoat, necktie, collar, and boots." It was a work of some little difficulty to accomplish all this, but it was done at last. Then, by Tom's instructions, Creede was stretched on the bed with his face to the wall, in the natural position of a sleeping man, and the bedclothes pulled over him.
Up to the present time Lionel had not asked a single question, but he could contain himself no longer. "In heaven's name, Bristow, what do all these strange proceedings mean?"
"They mean, Lionel Dering," said Tom, turning on him gravely, almost sternly, "that I am here to-night for the purpose of effecting your escape."
"Of effecting my escape!"
"What other purpose do you think would have brought me here in this disguise?"
"But--but----" stammered Lionel, and then he broke down utterly.
"Every minute is precious," said Tom. "There is no time to argue the case. Put yourself into my hands, and it will go hard but you will be a free man in an hour's time. Refuse my aid, and in less than three weeks from now 'you will be lying, a strangled corpse, in a murderer's grave."
Lionel shuddered and stared at Tom, but spoke not a single word.
"The trial is going against you, and to-morrow morning will see you condemned to death. Are you prepared to die by the hangman's hand for a crime of which you know nothing? Are you prepared to leave your young wife to the tender mercies of a world which will not fail to remember that her husband was a murderer? Live, man, live, if it be only for vengeance--if it be only to track out and hunt down the real murderer--if it be only to wipe the foul stain of blood from the name you bear--from the name which was borne by your father before you!"
"But why to-night?--why try to escape to-night?" pleaded Lionel. "The verdict has not yet been given. Who says that there is no chance of my acquittal?"
"I say it. Hoskyns says it. Tressil thinks it. You will be condemned to death to-morrow morning. After that, all chance of escape will be gone for ever. From that moment you will never be left alone till that most awful moment of all when you stand on the drop, pinioned, sightless, waiting for the bolt to fall. Dering, it must be to-night or never!"
"Bristow, I am in your hands--do with me as you will!" cried Lionel with emotion; and suiting the action to the word, he rose from the edge of the bed, and placed both his Lands in those of his friend.
"That's all I ask, old boy," said Tom warmly. "Now sit down here, and obey my instructions, and don't bother me with any questions."
Lionel did as he was told, and sat down close under the gas light.
"There's no help for it," said Tom. "Both beard and moustache must be sacrificed."
"So be it," said Lionel philosophically. "They will grow again if need be."
Next moment a pair of glittering scissors were playing round Lionel's mouth and chin, and in two minutes the entire mass of yellow beard and moustache was swept clean away. This, of itself, was almost enough to disguise Lionel beyond ordinary recognition. The chin and upper lip were left stubbly on purpose. Creede's face was nearly always stubbly--he rarely shaved more than once a week--and Lionel was now going to personate Creede. But Creede was very dark complexioned, while Lionel was just the opposite; so Tom's next operation was to produce from his wonderful bag a small bottle of some kind of liquid, with which he proceeded to stain the hands, face, and neck of his friend. Next came a wig, which he had had specially made in London, and which was a very clever copy of the head of hair it was intended to simulate. It proved to be an excellent fit. With the fixing, by means of gum, of a scrap of ragged black hair under Lionel's chin--which was Creede's notion of a beard--the first part of Lionel's disguise was completed.
"Take off your coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and induct yourself into Mr. Creede's duplicates of those articles. You shudder at the thought. I do not wonder at it; but, for the time being, you must put all your finer feelings into your pocket. But first," added Tom, diving again into his bag, "pull on this pair of old black trousers over your own, after which you can go on with the remainder of your dressing while I finish with Silenus here."
Once more the bag came into requisition, and from it Tom brought forth a light-coloured wig, with which was combined a beard and moustache precisely the same in colour and appearance as those of which Lionel had been so recently despoiled. With these he proceeded to decorate the head and face of the unconscious Creede. It was necessary to do this, because the bed was exactly opposite the cell door, and once or twice in the course of the night the warder on duty was instructed to open the little wicket, and see that everything was right with his prisoner. As Lionel lay in bed he was in full view of the warder, and it thus became requisite to "make up" Creede into some semblance of the real prisoner, it not being at all unlikely that the warder might come round and take his usual look within a few minutes of the departure of Tom and Lionel.
When the wig, beard, and moustache had been duly arranged, and the bedclothes pulled close up round Creede's neck, Tom stepped back as far as the door in order to study the general effect. It was highly satisfactory. When the gas was turned down to the minimum point at which it was allowed to burn during the night, no one, without close examination, could have told that the man lying on the bed was other than Lionel Dering.
Satisfied so far, Tom next turned to Lionel, who by this time had duly inducted himself into Creede's garments. Here, also, the general effect was satisfactory. One reason why Tom's choice had fallen on Creede was because he and Lionel were both about the same height and build.
Tom gave a few final artistic touches to the tout ensemble--arranging the frayed old black necktie, and the limp, dirty collar, after Creede's own slovenly fashion--and finishing by putting into Lionel's reluctant hands the law-clerk's greasy and much-worn hat.
"Years ago," said Tom, "when I amused myself with private theatricals, I little thought that my talent for 'making up' would ever be brought into such valuable requisition. You would almost deceive Hoskyns himself if you were to walk into his office, especially by gaslight."
"And you would quite deceive him," said Lionel. "He would take you for his 'double,' and think his time was nearly come."
"There is one thing still to do," said Tom. "Creede's walk is rather a peculiar one. Now watch me, and try whether you can imitate it."
In about three minutes Lionel was tolerably perfect. "You know what kind of a voice Creede has," said Tom. "Should you be accosted by any of the warders as we go out, you must do your best to imitate it. And now I think we are ready for a start."
He crossed over to the bed, to take another look at the unconscious Creede. He felt his pulse carefully, and then lifted up one of his eyelids and examined the pupil underneath.
"Let us hope that you have not given him an overdose of the narcotic," said Lionel.
"No fear of that," answered Tom. "Remember that my father was a doctor, and that I have some knowledge of drugs. I have made this man my study for weeks. If my calculations are correct, he will sleep for about three hours, not longer--and won't there be a hullabaloo when he awakes!"
"But assuming that we get safely out of the prison--what then? Where am I to go? How am I to get rid of this cursed disguise?" said Lionel.