“I left her in Margaret’s sitting room,” said Lady Porter. “Mind you, I don’t say for a moment that there is necessarily anything seriously wrong——”
“You leave that to me,” interrupted the old man. “What time does she usually pop out?”
“In about half an hour from now. It is about half-past eight now. It is usually just on nine when she goes.” Lady Porter also rose.
“You leave the matter to me, Lady Porter; I’ll take a little stroll now, I think. Thanks ever so much. You’re a woman in a thousand. I always said that Ned Porter got the pick of the whole basketful when he chose you.” The privileged old lawyer smiled and patted her plump ladyship on the shoulder. She blushed slightly, then said with a smile:
“Well, the basket was certainly full, wasn’t it? And, as you have arranged the marriage settlements for the whole eight of us, I daresay you have told each of us at various times that we are the pick of the basket. It doesn’t matter, though; I know I am, without being told!” she finished complacently. Mr. Benson opened the door for her, and in his old-world manner he bowed as he ushered her out.
Then Mr. Benson moved quickly. He went to his room, put on a heavy overcoat and took from his old black portmanteau a traveling cap. Next he picked out a stout stick; then he returned to the library.
Drawing the curtains closely, he took down a row of books from a shelf. Then, he moved his fingers about at the back of the empty shelf until he found the spring he sought, which he pressed, and immediately the back of the shelf dropped, revealing a cavity.
Mr. Benton struck a match and looked carefully into the hole. Seeing what he wanted, he pulled out two or three rolled up articles which looked like maps. These he carried to the table, examined the first, then the second, and set them to one side; after that he pored over the third, which was evidently the one he sought.
“Let me see,” he muttered, “it must be fifty-six years since I—— Ah! that’s it. Yes, yes! I remember now. But where the devil did the confounded girl get the key—that’s what I want to know?”
He rolled up the plan, replaced them all in the recess in the wall, closed the aperture by pressing another spring, but not before he withdrew a rusty key, which he looked at a little doubtfully.
“Could do with a bit of an oiling, I think. Never mind, perhaps it’ll do,” he muttered. Then he opened the French window of the library and looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. “Just about right, I think,” he muttered as he stepped out upon the lawn.
The huge September moon hung low in a clear sky, while the faintest white mist arose from the water meadows in the distance. In the kennels, a dog barked. But, to none of these things did the old lawyer give the slightest attention. Quickly, keeping in the shadow of the wall, he traversed the whole front of the house, until he came to the point where the main front wall joined the tower called the Prior’s Tower.
There he halted, turned to the wall, which was ivy-covered, and counted four steps. Again he stopped, dropped on one knee, and felt about at the base of the wall for a moment, drew out a square stone, inserted his key into a lock which turned gratingly, and immediately a paving stone beside him dropped silently on a hinge.
Mr. Benson replaced the square stone, descended a flight of stone steps at the bottom of which was an iron lever. He pulled this over, and immediately the stone went back into position.
The underground room into which Mr. Benson now entered was large, covering the whole basis of the tower. The lighted match which he struck revealed two candles on a stone shelf beside him.
“Ah-ha!” grunted the old man. “That proves it. Now where should I hide?” He lit a candle. In the distance was a stone altar—crucifix and candlesticks complete—all covered with green mould, while its tapestries hung in tatters. To the left of the altar an open doorway gave entrance to a small room, an ancient vestry.
Mr. Benson entered—then waited. Presently he heard a step on the flags of the outer room, and heard the rasping noise of the lever replacing the stone. Cautiously, the old man peeped round the doorway, gripping his stout stick. Two figures were revealed by the light of a candle newly fit. One was a man, well-built, and ruddy-complexioned—the other was Jill Kilby.
CHAPTER VIII.
COMEDY BY NIGHT
Cautiously, Mr. Benson, keeping to the shadow of the wall, advanced from his hiding-place to endeavor to hear what the two newcomers were saying, for they talked in whispers, and it was quite impossible from where he was to catch a sound.
“But there is nothing to fear, my dear,” he heard the man say with a little laugh. “I am astonished that you should attach any importance to these old wives’ tales, Jill.”
“If it were only in the daytime,” the girl replied, “it would be a different matter; but at night—ugh, it’s terrible, and in any case I don’t see that we can find out anything more.”
“Some day or, rather, some night the incident will repeat itself. I refuse to believe that what happened that night was the first time the murderer visited the Prior’s Room. Didn’t you see lights before?” said the man.
“But, Wilfred, why not let the police do this horrid investigation. We know enough now practically to clear Frank Gough,” said Jill.
“We know nothing of the sort,” Wilfred replied. “We have formed certain theories, and I found out about these passages through the medium of that old medieval book I found in the antique shop in Ghent. But, because a rather unexpected person uses certain secret passages it doesn’t necessarily follow that they have evil intent, any more than we have.”
“Very well, Wilfred, you must know best,” replied the girl. “Come along and let us get it over.” The girl turned towards the entrance through which they had come, and the man stooped down and moved something, whereupon a large slab of stone bearing the inscription in Latin “R.I.P.,” and a lot of half undecipherable words below, swung around disclosing an opening. Into this opening both the man and the woman entered, and immediately the stone closed again.
“This is a very serious development,” Mr. Benson muttered to himself. “Evidently the young man—equally evidently her fiancé—is doing a bit of amateur detective work. A sort of free-lance. The appalling cheek of it! To say nothing of the indefensibility of it. Here we have a man about to take his trial for murder, and one of them says she knows enough to clear him, or words to that effect, and the other speaks of the recurring visits to the Prior’s Room of ‘an unexpected person.’ Well,” the old man finished with a grim chuckle, “they’ll find another unexpected person there to-night. Wait a bit—let’s do the thing properly.”
He turned and, with lighted candle, went back to the little vestry. There, on the ground, was a huge iron-bound chest, the padlocks long since gone. With an effort Mr. Benson raised the lid, it was metal-lined and terribly heavy. Holding his candle above the box, he began moving the contents. There were copes, chasubles, stoles, maniples, and all manner of richly-embroidered Mass vestments that had remained there secretly ever since the Reformation.
Mr. Benson took out a great heavily-embroidered red cope and a gold miter. The cope probably had been worn on many a high occasion by the last of the priors, John Paseley, and the miter by the lord abbot when he had visited the Priory. Putting the cope over his shoulders and setting the miter on his head, Mr. Benson set off. He walked to the wall, the cope trailing, moved the mechanism, and again the slab moved. Mr. Benson appeared quite familiar with the dark passage he entered; for, he turned and moved something which reclosed the stone, and then set off, up a dark winding staircase. Arrived at the top, he saw light coming through chinks in the opening of what was the door to the passage and at the same time the back of the great wardrobe which was a fixture in the Prior’s Room.
There in the room were Wilfred Barlow and Jill Kilby. Jill was standing still, looking around apprehensively, while Wilfred Barlow was intently examining the bed on which the murdered man had lain. He had the mattress turned back, and was inspecting the wooden laths that formed the base of the bed.
Very quietly, Mr. Benson opened the door of the passage and stood in the wardrobe looking into the room through the open door; for, the wardrobe door was swung open upon its hinges. In silence, he gazed for a minute. Then, as Jill looked in his direction, gave a gasp, and jumped back towards Wilfred, the lawyer spoke.
“How dare you disturb my rest?” he growled in booming accents. Jill gave a shriek and fainted. Wilfred Barlow, his eyes staring at first incredulously, then with genuine fear, grabbed Jill with one hand, his eyes still fixed on the apparition which the old lawyer made in the open wardrobe. Then, stooping quickly he picked Jill up bodily and made for the door. The lawyer still stood there, his stout stick clutched under his cope, and, as Wilfred opened the door and gave a hasty look backwards before he disappeared, Mr. Benson chuckled, stepped out of the wardrobe, and began to make an investigation of the Prior’s Room. He found nothing new, though he examined the bed closely. He was still continuing his examination when the door opened, and Wilfred Barlow’s head appeared around it. For a moment or two, the lawyer did not notice him. Wilfred stared in silence for some time. Then, stepping quietly across the room, he laid his hand upon the little man’s shoulder.
“Well! What the dickens do you think you’re playing at?” he asked. Instantly the lawyer sprang upright and from the folds of his cloak brought out the stick, which Wilfred grabbed.
“Do you know who I am, you young ruffian?” spluttered Mr. Benson, his miter falling off in the struggle. Wilfred paused, then sprang backwards.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Why, you’re Mr. Benson, the family lawyer. I couldn’t see before on account of the ecclesiastical millinery.”
“And who may you be, my violent young friend?” asked Mr. Benson. “And by what right do you intrude into this house and into its secret passages?”
“I can assure you that I have a good explanation of that, Mr. Benson, which I will put forward at the proper time,” Wilfred replied.
“You will put it forward now,” declared Mr. Benson with some truculence. “The very idea! You, a complete stranger to me, tell me calmly that you have a perfectly good reason for wandering about a mansion through its secret passages, and then with equal calmness say that you will state your reason at the proper time. Proper time indeed!” Mr. Benson repeated, looking a comic figure, at which Wilfred could scarce forbear to smile, for, the lawyer’s scarlet and gold cope hung from his small frame at a rakish angle, and his white locks were ruffled by the miter coming off in the struggle. But, for all that, there was something in the old man’s eyes which dispelled very quickly any thoughts of laughter in Wilfred Barlow’s mind.
“I can assure you, sir, that I speak the truth——” he began, but Mr. Benson would have none of it. With an impatient wave of the hand, he interrupted:
“Your name, sir?”
“Wilfred Barlow,” replied the other man. “I am a doctor of medicine, and at present staying at the White Hart, in the village here. I am not unknown to the chief constable of Norwich.”
“And I should think not either,” instantly snapped Mr. Benson. “Most people who prowl about houses of a night are well known to the police!”
“No, I don’t mean that,” Wilfred Barlow replied with a little smile.
Mr. Benson decided his smile was rather disarming. He began to take stock of his new acquaintance. Wilfred had a clean, healthy appearance—a ruddy complexion and a clear brown eye. His hair was naturally curly and fair, while he was of good physical bearing—perhaps a shade stouter than the average man of his size. A likeable man, Mr. Benson decided, and reliable.
“In the name of goodness,” Mr. Benson persisted. “Tell me what you are doing here—and also what was that girl doing here with you?”
“Miss Kilby and I are engaged—secretly,” replied the young man, “and——”
“It seems to me that there is too much confounded secrecy in your manifestations, my lad,” again the old lawyer broke in.
“Well, I can assure you that I cannot help that,” Wilfred replied. “It appears that, although I have only had the honor of meeting her ladyship once, she took a profound dislike to me afterwards and ordered Jill—Miss Kilby—not to see me again.”
“And I’m not surprised to hear that, either,” said the lawyer, “if you are given to prowling round the houses of your acquaintances and friends. Come along now, tell me what you mean by it.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Benson, that, if you were to insist upon my telling you all that I could, you would curse me for the information.”
The old lawyer looked in surprise, and Wilfred continued: “There is a man at present in custody, but I can assure you that, were I to place in your hands the facts that I have at present established, they might possibly clear him, but they would probably place some one else, equally innocent, in his position. I have found out one or two valuable things, and this you can be sure about—that, should it be necessary, then for good or ill, I shall table the facts. I’ll bring them to you first, and with you must rest the responsibility.”
“Well, well, my lad,” said Mr. Benson, wiping his brow. “You rather take my breath away. That is, after all, as it should be—I mean my taking of responsibility. I have carried responsibility all my life. The only thing that I simply cannot bear is to know half a story—to work in the dark. Now, look here, my boy, tell me the full story. I see you know something—now tell me.”
“With great respect—no, sir!” Wilfred replied definitely. “I assure you——”
“Damn you, sir!” Mr. Benson roared. “Do you realize that I can have you locked up?”
“Of course, I do!” Wilfred replied. “Please bear with me a moment, Mr. Benson. I will tell you something—just give you an indication. But, for everybody’s sake, don’t press me further. I honestly think that, in a day or so, I’ll be able to come to you with a complete story. At present some one that you would probably give your life to protect would be really absolutely menaced—I put it as high as that—if I were to tell you all.”
“Are you collaborating with the police?” asked Mr. Benson more quietly.
“No, sir!” Wilfred replied.
“Well, now, what is it you can tell me?” the lawyer asked.
“Do you know a Dr. Laidlaw?” Wilfred asked, and Mr. Benson started. Keenly, he surveyed the serious face of Wilfred Barlow as he replied:
“Yes, what of him?”
“Well, I also have some slight knowledge of that gentleman,” Wilfred replied. “Now, you probably know far more about him than I do—I don’t know—but this much I can tell you: on the night when Sir John Evenden was murdered, Dr. Laidlaw entered the same passage that you entered to-night.”
“By the heavens above!” ejaculated the old man. “Can you prove that?”
“Practically,” the other replied. “But there are certain reasons why I feel sure he will come again. In the present state of affairs, were he to be apprehended there is very little doubt that he could clear himself at someone else’s expense. Do not ask me to say more.”
“Where are you to be found—the White Hart, you say?” asked the old man. “Very well, call openly and see me to-morrow, will you?” asked Mr. Benson. “By the way, how did you get into this?”
“You must not question me on that,” Wilfred replied. “I will tell you this much—Miss Kilby came by certain knowledge which led us to watch this man Laidlaw.”
“You are certain that that girl will keep her counsel?” asked Mr. Benson anxiously.
“Certain,” replied Wilfred.
“Then I presume you know your way out?” Mr. Benson asked with a grim smile, and the other smiled and nodded, then turned towards the cupboard. Mr. Benson remained in the Prior’s Room in absolute silence for ten minutes, then he, too, went down the stairs, through the various secret ways, and ultimately he arrived again in the library.
He then took his brief bag and extracted from it the bundle of papers labeled “Laidlaw,” lit a pipe, and, as he blew clouds of smoke about him, he read over again the strange words written in the handwriting of the late Sir Michael Evenden.
The following day Wilfred Barlow called on Mr. Benson, and by that time the lawyer had decided on a course of action.
First of all he tried again to get Barlow to reveal all he knew. But, finding that policy fruitless, as he expected it would be, he said:
“Now this man Laidlaw. Do you know anything of the relationship existing between Lady Evenden and him? Has the Kilby girl nosed anything out about that?”
Wilfred was inclined to resent the reference to Jill, but he saw that it was only the lawyer’s manner, so he replied:
“I know nothing beyond this: Lady Evenden will see him, at any time he desires an interview, without any condition upon her state of health or mind. I am assured by Miss Kilby that, during her most intense grief following the death of Sir Michael, she saw him in the park and had him admitted. She saw him alone. But, Miss Kilby has not the remotest idea what Lady Evenden can desire with him.”
“I think you said last night that you personally had some knowledge of him?” the lawyer next asked.
Wilfred Barlow then outlined to him all he knew of Dr. Laidlaw. When he had finished, Mr. Benson said:
“He had a certain connection with this family, not with Lady Evenden though, but with the late Sir Michael. Still, I don’t think that has anything to do with his seeing Lady Evenden; in fact I’m pretty sure it hasn’t. Now, look here, I’m having an inquiry set afoot to find Laidlaw. He sold his practice in Leicestershire, I find, several months ago. I expect a message from my detective people presently. Should you see him or hear of him, communicate with me at once, will you?”
Having got his assurance, Mr. Benson dismissed him. He then rang for the butler.
“Convey my compliments to her ladyship, and say that I wish to see her, if it is convenient,” ordered Mr. Benson.
Then he got through on the telephone to the chief constable of Norwich.
“Do you know a young fellow called Barlow, by the way?” he asked; “Wilfred Barlow—doctor, I believe?” He was assured that Wilfred Barlow and the chief constable’s younger brother had been at school together, and that Wilfred was altogether a desirable young man. They then proceeded to discuss the case for some minutes, and the chief constable said that the Scotland Yard inspector would be calling that evening to discuss certain points with Mr. Benson.
“How many more remands will you take to complete?” asked Mr. Benson.
“Well, in the present state of the evidence, I cannot see us requiring more than three,” replied the chief constable, “But it is always impossible to say beforehand what is coming forward in a murder trial.”
“Well, I sincerely hope that you will complete in time for this winter assize,” said Mr. Benson. “I don’t want that unfortunate chap left in jail over Christmas.”
“We’re working for a committal for the winter assize,” promised the chief constable, “and, for my part, I hope things go well for Mr. Frank. I’ve got an instinct that when this murder is solved, it will be something quite outside present calculations. Something that none of us knows anything about.”
“I think so, too,” agreed Mr. Benson, replacing the receiver as the butler entered the room.
“Her ladyship will see you now, sir,” he announced.
Mr. Benson made his way to Lady Evenden’s room and was admitted at once. She looked very pale; but, the solicitor noticed that the eyes were steady. Although they looked infinitely sad, they were perfectly sane.
“How do you do, dear Mr. Benson?” she greeted him.
“I am perfectly well, thanks, and you, my dear lady, how are you?” Mr. Benson asked anxiously.
“A slight headache, but that’s all, thank you,” she replied with a little wan smile. Mr. Benson turned to Jill.
“Girl,” he greeted her unceremoniously, then with a snap of his fingers in the direction of the door—a snap that sounded like steel fingers cracking—he indicated his desire to be left alone with Lady Evenden. Jill flushed a little and withdrew, while Lady Evenden smiled—she knew the ways of the old lawyer.
When the door was closed, he turned to her.
“Now, my dear lady, do you know anyone that you would rather rely upon than me? Anyone with your interests more at heart?”
“Certainly not, Mr. Benson,” she replied wonderingly. “You are my very best friend.”
“That’s right, my dear,” said Mr. Benson taking her hand. “Now, without any reservations—without any qualifications—just tell me everything there is to tell about Dr. Laidlaw. What? Bless my soul!”
The old lawyer got up hurriedly and rang the bell. Lady Evenden had fainted.
CHAPTER IX.
THE APPROACHING HOUR
In response to the bell, Jill and Lady Porter quickly entered the room, accompanied by a maid. They attended to Lady Evenden, and very soon signs of returning consciousness appeared, to the great relief of Mr. Benson who, in truth, had been frightened greatly at the effect of his words. With returning consciousness, memory also returned; and, Lady Evenden had barely opened her eyes when a shadow passed over her face, and she gave a little shudder.
Jill looked at Mr. Benson as if to suggest that the lawyer was to blame for her mistress’s distress. But very quickly Lady Evenden, making a visible effort, spoke:
“How very stupid of me!” she exclaimed. “Forgive me, Millie,” she begged Lady Porter. “You must leave me with Mr. Benson for a few minutes; we have some business to discuss that my absurd attack interrupted.”
“I think perhaps it would be better to leave it over,” began Mr. Benson.
But Lady Evenden said: “No, no! I see the necessity of getting that matter put in order.” To Jill and Lady Porter, she added, “Do you mind?” And, with words of advice to the deathly white Lady Evenden not to overtax her strength, they left the room. As soon as they had gone, Lady Evenden leant forward.
“What do you know of Laidlaw?” she asked.
“Precious little,” said Mr. Benson. “But, my dear lady, I didn’t come here for you to question me about Dr. Laidlaw—I came to question you. If you are well enough, mark you; if not, we will leave the matter over.”
“No, I am quite well enough,” said Lady Evenden, “but I simply cannot discuss Dr. Laidlaw with you, Mr. Benson—I cannot.”
“The time may shortly arise when you will have to discuss him with others, Lady Evenden. I would spare you that; but, you must try to be strong enough to tell me all there is to know about him,” said Mr. Benson gravely.
“Whatever do you mean? Do tell me, Mr. Benson—you—you frighten me.” Lady Evenden again began to show traces of great agitation, and Mr. Benson glanced towards the bell.
“I say, Lady Evenden,” he protested, “I would far rather adjourn this talk until such time as you feel well enough. I must ask you certain questions, and I simply must have replies. But, I will not do that at risk of more of those attacks which, I am convinced, must be most dangerous for you—and distressing.”
“What is to be said will be said now,” the lady returned firmly. “Why is it suddenly important that you want to know all about my friends? What do you mean that I may shortly have to make statements about him?”
“As you will,” said the old lawyer with a lift of his bushy eyebrows. “Well, now, to let you realize that I know a good deal, let me tell you that Frank has informed me of all that Jack told him with relation to the death of John Gough, your first husband. Now wait just a minute”—for Lady Evenden was on the point of interrupting, but she stopped at the old man’s imperative gesture. “Now it doesn’t need me to tell you that neither Frank nor I believe, for a single second, that you were in any sense responsible for that. On the contrary, we both feel as everyone else must feel, that you had a terrible experience, and were in no sense whatever responsible either for the late Mr. Gough’s illness, or his death.
“I must point out here that even Jack, you know, when he was discussing this matter with Frank on the night of his death, made his position perfectly clear. He told Frank that not for a second did he impute any evil to you, but he rather censured you for two things. One was that you had not taken Sir Michael into your confidence, and the other was that you received Dr. Laidlaw here—almost clandestinely received the man with whose name yours could be coupled by scandal-mongers in connection with that affair at Loch Lomond.
“Now then”—the old lawyer vigorously blew his nose—“now then, my dear lady, you know this won’t do. You must have no secrets from me. Now come along and tell me exactly why you allow that little man to have private interviews?”
“I can tell you nothing,” she replied with trembling lips, but with a firm look in her eye. “I thank you for your confidence in me—and oh, Mr. Benson, believe me, it isn’t misplaced; but I can tell you nothing.”
Mr. Benson’s face indicated undisguised exasperation. He was about to speak when Lady Evenden spoke again.
“Jack believed that, did he? What you tell me, I mean—that I was innocent of that awful thing?” And as the lawyer nodded, she continued; “I’m very glad to hear you say so—but I don’t think he did.”
“But, my dear lady,” said Mr. Benson. “I have Frank’s word for it. He tells me that Jack was far more concerned about protecting your honor and preserving your good name from scandal than he was about anything else. He told Frank that he didn’t take second place to anyone in his love and regard for you. He was primarily concerned to collaborate with Frank to stop any scandal and to protect you. The story, coming to him as it did from outside the family, was a shock to him, as was the appearance of Dr. Laidlaw when his mind was distressed beyond description at the loss of his father. It was that which led him to consult Frank.”
As the lawyer talked, Lady Evenden watched him with wide open eyes, then, with apparent irrelevance, she asked:
“Frank will be safe, won’t he? You said he would be safe, you know, Mr. Benson.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Benson. “But I’m coming to that. Now, look here. Supposing Dr. Laidlaw were put into a tight corner, what could he say to your detriment? What could he do to you?”
“Oh, do stop talking about Dr. Laidlaw, Mr. Benson,” she entreated. “I am quite sure that Dr. Laidlaw would never say anything to my detriment.”
“Well, now, look here.” Mr. Benson stood over her, and looked down with severity in his keen eyes as he drew an old chased silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch before he continued. Then, speaking in his gravest tones, he said:
“In order to establish the innocence of your son, it is quite possible that I may have to call Dr. Laidlaw. Now, he was seen to enter the Prior’s Room on the night of the murder, from outside, too, by means of the secret passage. I shall not hesitate to call witnesses to prove that, Lady Evenden, and I personally believe that the establishment of that probably will precede the appearance of Dr. Laidlaw in the dock on charge of murdering Jack.”
If Lady Evenden’s face was pale before, it became positively ghastly as the lawyer proceeded. Fear—stark, unqualified fear—was depicted on her mobile face. She gasped and appeared to be on the point of fainting again; but, with a supreme effort, she rallied. Her voice was a hoarse whisper when she next spoke.
“You—must never do—that,” she declared with tragic earnestness. “Never!” she repeated.
“Not even to save your son?” Mr. Benson asked with uplifted eyebrows.
“Oh, do stop!” she begged. “You said he was safe.”
“I know, I did,” agreed the lawyer with exasperation, “but only so far as I am able to save him. Do you mean to say that you would endanger your son’s life rather than call this doctor? What are you thinking of, my dear lady? Look here, if the man is holding something over you, let me know what it is, and I’ll deal with him. Give me your confidence, my dear lady, give me your confidence.”
“I cannot—I cannot,” she moaned. “Don’t ask me—I cannot.”
“What about if you must?” Mr. Benson looked like a figure of inexorable fate as he stood insisting over her.
“Then I’ll die.” Promptly, defiantly, came the words. And it seemed that the lady gathered courage to defy where she lacked the courage to confide. For several minutes they stood there. Lady Evenden had risen on her last utterance.
“Well, for the moment, we can get no further, my lady,” Mr. Benson declared with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. “And it is useless for me to remain longer distressing you. I will bid you good-day.”
“But you’re not going?” she inquired anxiously.
“No, my place is here. I shall be within call,” he said. “Think over what I have said, my dear lady; think carefully. Secrets are safe with me, and I might be able to help you more than you dream of.”
Lady Evenden stepped impulsively forward and proffered her hand, which the lawyer took, and for a moment it seemed as if she were about to say something. Then she changed her mind, and with a muttered “Thank you” she went back to the couch, and Mr. Benson left the room.
Though the most exhaustive inquiries were made by the private detectives whom Mr. Benson employed, the weeks went by and the trial approached without a trace of Dr. Laidlaw being found.
Almost every day Mr. Benson went to see Frank in his cell, and every week he appeared before the magistrates. At last the police court proceedings ended, and Frank was committed to take his trial at the next Norwich assizes.
The decision was not arrived at automatically; for, a full bench of magistrates sat, and, after hearing the full police case, they asked Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., if he intended to open the case, for the defense, in that court.
Bearing in mind that on a murder charge a committal was almost inevitable, and that there remained little time before the winter assize, Sir Courtney decided to save time by reserving the case for the defense, and said so.
The magistrates adjourned to a room behind the court, and remained there for three hours. As the minutes developed into hours, Sir Courtney turned to Mr. Benson, who sat beside him.
“What’s the betting that they don’t commit?” he asked.
“I was just thinking the same myself,” said Mr. Benson. “He certainly has a lot of sympathy here. But, on a charge of this gravity I don’t think they would take the responsibility of deciding that there was no case for trial, do you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied Sir Courtney thoughtfully. “I’ll tell you this much, if they stay away much longer I’ll begin to think we made a blunder in not opening our defense and giving them a chance to throw the case out.”
Mr. Benson stroked his chin. His keen eyes kept straying to the door through which the magistrates must return. Every now and then he left the court, to telephone to Evenden Priory, to let Lady Evenden know how things progressed. He positively got tired of having to say constantly that the magistrates were still considering the committal.
Ultimately they returned, and the chairman announced the decision of the court that, Frank Gough will be, on the finding of acceptable sureties, committed on bail, to take his trial at the forthcoming winter assize for the murder of the late Sir John Evenden.
Instantly there was a flutter in the court. Sir Courtney turned to Mr. Benson, and Mr. Benson looked back his surprise. Bail! and in a murder case! The Crown prosecutor, Mr. Assidell, K.C., was on his feet in an instant, purple of face.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “Gentlemen, with very great respect, and with due appreciation of the excellent character hitherto borne by the prisoner, I am bound to point out that your proceeding is most irregular. I am not going to say that it is entirely without precedent; but, in an ordinary case of wilful murder, as this is, it certainly is without precedent.
“Magistrates have used discretion in the case of a girl charged with the murder of an infant, but even then they appoint hospital or workhouse authorities the safe custody of the prisoner. I feel it my duty to tell you, gentlemen, that, should you persist in offering bail in this case, I should have to refer the matter to the King’s Bench. I cannot accept—the Public Prosecutor cannot accept—the responsibility of conducting a prosecution on the capital charge if the prisoner, charged with wilful murder, is to be given an opportunity of absconding.”
“Our finding is not a unanimous one.” The interruption came from an old magistrate sitting towards the end of the bench. Sir Robson Tyndal was an old gentlemen of very definite opinions, and not afraid to air them.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Assidell, K.C., misunderstanding. “I am sure there must be amongst you those who take my view of the matter.”
“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Sir Robson, “we don’t take your view of the matter, at all. What I mean to say is that our decision to commit for trial is not a unanimous one. There are some of us here who are bitterly disappointed that the learned counsel for the defense has not thought fit to give us a chance to discharge a young man whom we believe to be innocent—and, when the question of bail arises, well, we intend to exercise our authority, and you can go to the King’s Bench or any other bench. At present you address this bench—and I wish I were chairman this year, that’s all.” Sir Robson finished with a vigorous little nod which gave Mr. Assidell to understand that, had he been chairman, he would have had some one more difficult to deal with. Several other magistrates nodded their approval of their outspoken colleague. But the chairman, Mr. Deerham, of Deerham Grange, was palpably annoyed.
“I am quite sure Sir Robson does not infer——” he began when Sir Robson interrupted again.
“Certainly not, sir, certainly not. I beg your pardon sincerely. I was irritated for the moment that a King’s Counsel should come down from London to dictate to this bench!”
“It is far from being a case of my dictating to you, gentlemen,” said the unhappy Mr. Assidell. “I am merely performing my duty—I cannot do less. It is my duty to protest against the admittance to bail of a man charged with wilful murder. If I had thought that local feeling would prejudice this bench, I would have instituted the proceedings outside your jurisdiction.”
“We will reconsider the position,” announced the chairman, rising.
“I won’t reconsider mine,” snapped the defiant Sir Robson Tyndal, with a dark look at Mr. Assidell. The magistrates filed out again.
“What do you think of that?” asked Mr. Benson triumphantly.
“Wonderful,” replied Sir Courtney with a smile. “If we get the same mentality at the trial we’ll walk home.”
“They’re all members of the Grand Jury,” announced Mr. Benson, with a look round the court. Then, whispering in the great K.C.’s ear, he said, “And I’ve been round the lot, my boy.”
“Sh-sh!” exclaimed the K.C. with a glance at the remarkable old gentleman beside him. “You’ll get us all locked up, Mr. Benson.”
“I’ve been in the practice sixty years, my lad,” truculently replied Mr. Benson. “You can’t tell me anything about winning cases in this county!” There was the suspicion of a wink in the shrewd old eye nearest to the eminent barrister, who in turn contented himself by a sly tap on Mr. Benson’s leg and a chuckle, for the magistrates were returning.
“We have decided to accede to the wishes of the prosecution and with regret we commit the accused to take his trial at the winter assize, and to remain in custody,” said the chairman.
After all, Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., were not disappointed, for they had fully expected a committal, and never had the thought of bail entered their heads. What they were concerned with was what a High Court judge would think of the evidence as it stood. How would he direct a jury? Could they possibly get a grand jury to fling the bill out and save all the agony of a murder trial?
Sir Courtney returned with Mr. Benson to Evenden Priory, and dined with him and Lady Evenden, who was very strongly impressed with the powerful personality of the great advocate. And, when he gave her his assurance that her son would be safe, she seemed content. Mr. Benson half hoped that she might possibly confide in the K.C. the secret of Dr. Laidlaw, to arm him still more in his defense of Frank. But that hope was doomed to disappointment.
So, the days went by, and the greatest crisis in Frank Gough’s life approached.
Mr. Benson was gravely perturbed at the whole position, and his anxiety increased as the trial approached. What he knew, and what he suspected, he kept entirely to himself. And, as he sat alone in the library of Evenden Priory several nights before the trial, he surveyed the whole case again for the hundredth time. Finally, with a sigh, he laid the papers down upon the table.
“Was anyone ever in the plight that I’m in?” he asked himself. “The prosecution’s case is not by any means infallible, but it’s pretty strong. And where are we? We’ve got the mystery of the poison, which discounts the quick quarrel theory, and we’ve got local sympathy. And in my opinion that’s going to be the trump card.
“On the other hand, here’s this young doctor chap and his girl who admit that they know something. What it is I don’t know, but it concerns Laidlaw, and they talk mysteriously about it hurting someone else—obviously Lady Evenden. She, on her part, won’t say a word about Dr. Laidlaw, who helps matters by disappearing.
“What really happened was that Dr. Laidlaw committed that murder, and Lady Evenden knows about it and daren’t say. That’s about the weight of things.
“Well,” said Mr. Benson to himself finally, before he went to bed, “we’ll fight it out as best we can, and if we fail I’ll have an appeal entered and bring the whole lot of them to the appeal court—Lady Evenden, young Barlow, the cunning little companion, and the redoubtable Laidlaw. That’s what I’ll do, and now get to bed, you silly old chap. Much too late for one of your years to be up. What, a little whisky? Yes, you shall have just a tot; you deserve that, Chris Benson!”
So, having complimented himself and treated himself to his usual nightly tot, Mr. Benson went to bed to dream of all sorts of strange things foreign to the curriculum of a lawyer.
He dreamt of an old low-built manor house and a girl in a lilac dress, with a basket of roses on her arm. There was a young man walking beside her, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, riding boots, and spurs. It was himself. A smile played about the old lawyer’s lips as he moved uneasily in his sleep. Then the dream seemed to change. A shadow fell on the lawn upon which the young couple walked, and a man approached. He walked straight up to them, and the girl cried:
“Be careful, Chris! Be careful!” So vivid was the cry that Mr. Benson awoke with a start, perspiration on his brow.
“Phew,” he exclaimed. “What have I been eating? Hello, what’s that?” He waited a second. Then he distinctly heard a creak in the room. With surprising agility, for one of his years, Mr. Benson jumped out of bed on the side farthest from the creaking sound, at the same time switching on the light.
There, on the other side of the bed, surprise and dismay on his face, stood Dr. Laidlaw.
CHAPTER X.
A MIDNIGHT SCUFFLE
For a moment Mr. Benson was paralyzed by the unexpected identity of the intruder. But, his discomfiture was as nothing compared to that of the rat-faced doctor. Mr. Benson was the first to speak:
“Well?” he asked, “It is my turn to-night?”
The doctor moved a step toward the door.
“Come back,” ordered Mr. Benson, “or I’ll shoot you!”
The doctor looked at the quaint little figure opposite him. Mr. Benson stood there, a pointed blue nightcap on his head, one hand hidden in the folds of a voluminous nightshirt. In vain the doctor endeavored to see what the lawyer held in his hand.
“Well?” asked the lawyer again presently. “Are you struck dumb? Or, is it that you object to interruption in your murders?”
The doctor started. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said in cracked tones.
“Oh, yes you do,” Mr. Benson replied. “In fact, the thing is becoming quite a habit with you!”
“What do you mean?” Dr. Laidlaw moistened his lips before he could enunciate the words.
“I mean the little hobby of murder you seem to have adopted,” replied Mr. Benson frankly.
“How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” The sorry attempt of the little doctor to appear outraged and indignant was amusing. Mr. Benson laughed aloud. With a frightened glance towards the door Dr. Laidlaw said:
“Hush-sh! For heaven’s sake be quiet—you’ll waken somebody.” Then the lawyer, still watching the other, laughed louder than ever. Suddenly he stopped, and a fierce light appeared in his eye. He took a step towards the doctor, put out a hand, and rang the bell which hung beside the bed. Instantly Dr. Laidlaw sprang into activity. He dashed for the door, when a glass thrown by Mr. Benson from a bedside table caught him squarely behind the ear. He gave a yelp of pain and stumbled. Meanwhile, with his left hand, the lawyer was ringing the electric bell.
“If you don’t come back quietly, I’ll shoot you down,” Mr. Benson threatened. But Dr. Laidlaw picked himself up and fled along the corridor. Mr. Benson, cursing the dilatory habits of the servants, pursued him. The doctor made for the main staircase, then ran along the great corridor on the first floor, which connected the two wings of the Priory. With surprisingly fleet steps, Mr. Benson pursued. The corridor was dark, but the lawyer knew the geography of the house perfectly, and made for the staircase leading to the Prior’s Room, in case his midnight visitor was intending to use the secret corridors.
The old lawyer had just reached the heavy oak door, which gave entrance to the old stone staircase of the Prior’s Tower, when, without a second’s warning, something struck him a murderous blow on the side of the head. Singularly enough, even before the actual contact, for some extraordinary reason, Mr. Benson flinched, and as the blow fell he was already bending before it, attempting to dodge it.
“Take that, you interfering old hound!” snarled Dr. Laidlaw, and aimed another blow in the dark. But the lawyer was not unconscious, though his head was swimming and he felt something warm trickling down the side of his face. As soon as he reached the floor, he at once began to change his position.
Now he felt the doctor’s legs, and, as Laidlaw aimed another blow in the darkness, Mr. Benson closed his arms around the doctor’s legs and gave a push. The next second the little doctor was sprawled on the floor. He struggled like a cornered rat to get free, but the lawyer maintained his grip, the while he shouted lustily for assistance. At last a light appeared in the corridor, and there arrived the footman Thomason carrying a lighted candle and an old shot gun. The latter, open-mouthed, stood some distance off the combatants who were still struggling.
“If you don’t both surrender,” he announced, “I’ll shoot the pair of you.”
“Can’t you see that I am here, fighting a burglar, you great dolt?” Mr. Benson panted. The footman opened his mouth a shade wider, then seemed to grasp the position, and came forward. He took hold of Laidlaw and, despite the doctor’s struggles, pinned his arms to his sides and held them there.
Meanwhile the house was being roused. The butler, escorted by two frightened housemaids and a giggling parlormaid, arrived. Behind him several other servants were approaching, including Roberto, the valet, who kept well to the rear.
Truly the group presented a weird picture. There stood the lawyer, panting and puffing, his cheeks crimson with his recent efforts, his pointed blue nightcap pulled to one side at a rakish angle in the struggle, and his voluminous nightshirt torn. He stood there, a picture of triumphant indignation as he surveyed his adversary. But, as he turned to meet the butler to give instructions, the parlormaid’s giggles were turned to horror. The side of Mr. Benson’s face which, up to now, had been shaded by the wall, was seen to be covered with blood, and his white locks were stained crimson.
“What is the matter, sir?” exclaimed the butler. “Let me attend to you, sir.” The old butler moved forward solicitously. But Mr. Benson warned him off.
“Wait a bit,” he said. “I’ll attend to that in a minute. Meanwhile, have that man taken to the library, tie his hands, and sit by him until I dress. See to that now. H’m!” he exclaimed as he noticed the blood dripping upon his torn nightshirt. “Has the fellow cut me much?”
Dr. Laidlaw, trembling and disheveled, made a move.
“Mr. Benson, you are making a grave mistake,” he said. “I beg you, before you do something you will forever regret—let me go. Let me go at once.”
“Go?” thundered Mr. Benson. “Go?” He stepped towards the doctor. “Yes, I’ll let you go, you murdering little ruffian—to the scaffold! That’s where I’ll let you go—and soon.”
“I implore you——” but the lawyer roughly interrupted the next attempt of the doctor to plead.
“Silence!” he ordered. “You add insolence to your felony. Do you seriously suppose that, when I only forestalled your two attempts to murder me in cold blood to-night, I am to be appealed to in any way—except beg the county authorities to supply an extra quantity of quicklime to assist nature to get rid of your loathsome little body!”
The doctor turned paler than ever and his teeth rattled. But he made another attempt.
“For the sake—for the sake of the trusts you hold most sacred!” he entreated, with an earnestness that was convincing. And the lawyer knew perfectly well what he was driving at.
“I shall hear all you have to say when I come down to the library,” he said, “before I send for the police.”
“You mustn’t do that! You mustn’t do that!” Frantically, the little doctor called after the retreating form of the lawyer; for already Mr. Benson had begun to walk along the corridor with the butler. Mr. Benson paid no heed to him. The butler and a maid bathed the lawyer’s head, which had been struck by a hand bag the doctor carried. One of the fasteners had cut the temple. The wound was not deep, however, and Mr. Benson’s stoicism was a wonder to behold.
As soon as he was bandaged, Mr. Benson went to his room after giving instructions that, if they were not awakened already, the ladies were not to be disturbed.
Arrived there, he rang up the White Hart Inn, and, after some delay, got through to the landlord. The latter was annoyed at being called from his bed at such an hour. But Mr. Benson soon put an end to his expostulations.
“What the devil are things coming to,” he asked, “that a village pothouse keeper dares to address me in this manner? Do you realize that you are addressing Mr. Christopher Benson, my man?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon—a hundred pardons, Mr. Benson. I wouldn’t have spoken like that if I’d known it was you. You see these here motorists——” The landlord’s apologies and explanations were cut short.
“I know only too well you wouldn’t. But never mind all that now. Listen to me. You’ve got a young man staying there called Wilfred Barlow—doctor—haven’t you? Yes! Quite so! Well, now get him to the ’phone, and get him quick. I want to get my trousers on—I’m shivering here.”
With astonishing alacrity the landlord awakened Wilfred, who at once came to the telephone.
“That you, Barlow?” Mr. Benson asked, and, having got Wilfred’s assurance, continued: “Get dressed and come here as quickly as you can. I’ve got that little devil, Laidlaw—he came to murder me. Jolly nearly did too. Come quickly now.”
With an exclamation of surprise, Wilfred Barlow rushed off to dress. Mr. Benson put on some garments and a dressing-gown; then he poured himself out a stiff whisky-and-soda and waited the arrival of Wilfred Barlow, the while he examined his room for any traces of his nocturnal visitor.
“Now we really are beginning to move,” said the lawyer to himself. “This is eminently satisfactory. I’ve got him delivered into my very hands. To-night I’ll force the whole story from him on pain of charging him with attempted murder. Then Barlow, of course, will have to reveal all that he knows, and the girl, Kilby, will be corroborative evidence. Let me see now, if statements are filed to-morrow and the police accept the new—— H’m—Yes—I think we’ll have Frank off without a trial yet.”
His pleasant ruminations were cut short by the arrival of Dr. Barlow, whom the lawyer had instructed the butler to show to his room at once.
He told Wilfred exactly what had happened and the young doctor listened with amazement, horror, and admiration. Amazement, at the temerity of the sinister figure of Dr. Laidlaw daring to enter the lawyer’s very room; horror, at his manifest attempt at murder; and frank admiration, for the wonderful old man who could show fight, and run through the corridors and grapple with his man, although well-nigh four score years had passed over his head. He begged to be allowed to redress the wound, which he deftly did.
“I must say, sir, that I admire you tremendously,” Wilfred complimented the old man.
Mr. Benson looked up in frank surprise. “Whatever for—having saved my own life?” he asked.
“No—not exactly,” replied Wilfred, “but for the wonderful courage you showed. Your age——”
“Tut-tut-tut! my lad! Do you imply that you thought me decrepit? In senile decay or something? No, no”—he waved a protesting hand; for, Wilfred was about to interrupt. “I know what all you young pups of the present generation think about old stagers like myself. You think a breath of wind will blow us off the earth, and that we’re merely cumbering the ground. Let me tell you this, my lad! The present generation doesn’t know the first things about breeding the men turned out in my day. You live in luxury—we faced the snow and the tempest in open dogcarts, rode to hounds—— Oh, why talk about it? Sufficient to say, my lad, that I’m nearly eighty, but I’m not going to consider retirement from the direction of my firm for another forty years! Understand that!”
The lawyer looked at his companion with such a fierce light in his eyes that Wilfred was for a moment intimidated; then he smiled. He was a very fine old chap, this lawyer, Wilfred thought, and if he did boast a little he had earned the right to do so.
“Now then,” said Mr. Benson, “We’ll go downstairs and see that little vagabond. I’m looking forward to this interview, I must say; come along, come along.”
The lawyer led the way to the library and opened the door. There, standing in the centre of the room, was the butler, and Thomason was just entering through the French windows from the lawn. But of Dr. Laidlaw there was not a sign.
“Where’s that little murderer?” asked Mr. Benson with a quick glance at the butler.
“I’ve just released him,” announced the butler. “I was instructed——”
“What?” yelled Mr. Benson in tones which made the butler tremble. “Have some comprehension of what you are saying, man. Where is that little murderer?”
“I can assure you, sir,” replied the trembling butler, “that what I have said is true. I have released him on the instructions of her ladyship. She said he must be——”
“What the devil has her ladyship to do with it? What did her ladyship know of the man’s presence,” stormed the lawyer. “I told you distinctly to tie his hands and keep him here until I came. Why can’t you do as you’re told? What have you to say?”
Wilfred Barlow was amazed at the startling situation, now developed.
“Her ladyship heard the commotion,” the butler explained, “and sent down for particulars. Miss Kilby came down, sir, and I gave the requisite information, sir, after telling Miss Kilby that it was your wish that her ladyship was not to be disturbed.” Mr. Benson nodded. “Then, sir, her ladyship sent word down that, if it was Dr. Laidlaw, he was to be immediately released without question, and would you be good enough to go to her boudoir where she would explain it properly to you, sir.”
“Explain it properly to me!” muttered Mr. Benson to himself as he walked up and down the room in thought; then, as the footman and the butler still remained there, he turned fiercely upon them:
“Well, do you propose standing there forever gloating upon your stupidity?” he asked. The butler shuffled uncomfortably, pain expressed in every line of his face.
“Get out!” ordered Mr. Benson. “Get out, before you make me quite sick!”
Then he turned to Wilfred Barlow.
“You appreciate what’s happened, of course?” Wilfred nodded. “Do you appreciate this?” pursued Mr. Benson, “that the murderer of Sir John Evenden has been released to-night from this room by the orders of a stupid woman who is afraid to expose the hound?”
“I am inclined to agree with you, at least that Dr. Laidlaw knows as much about the murder as anyone else. But although I simply cannot tell you the whole story, as I made perfectly clear to you before; yet, believe me, there is some one else besides Dr. Laidlaw concerned.”
“Who?” asked the lawyer.
“Another person. You simply mustn’t press me, Mr. Benson,” Wilfred replied.
“Mustn’t press fiddlesticks,” contemptuously scoffed Mr. Benson. Then, with determination on his face, he turned to Wilfred and said:
“Now, look here, young man. We’ve just seen an exhibition of interference of women in affairs they ought to keep clear of and leave to men. That little doctor—the murdering little knave!—came here to-night with the express purpose and full intention of murdering me, because he saw the net closing round him. How did he know that I suspected him? Well, there are several reasons. Never mind—although I’ll give them to you presently if you like. Now, Lady Evenden is terrified of that little scamp for reasons that are unworthy of serious attention. What?” The lawyer interrupted himself as Wilfred appeared on the point of breaking in.
“I was going to ask—are you sure she has no serious need to be afraid?”
“Absolutely,” replied the old man definitely. “The point of contact between them concerns a thing that happened years and years ago, which occasioned a little local scandal. It was in no sense a matter for which Lady Evenden was responsible, and I don’t think Laidlaw was either. Indeed, at the time, he behaved with exemplary discretion I should think; but I am afraid he has used his knowledge of the matter to blackmail Lady Evenden. Possibly he has twisted the implications or what not, but never mind that. The point I want to bring home to you to-night, my lad, is this:
“Women are not fit to handle certain things, and this is one of them. They love intrigue and mystery. They love the sense of power they wield by holding and keeping secrets, and sometimes, and probably primarily, by the delightful thought of the mischief they could make if they divulged their secrets.
“You have seen to-night a woman release a murderer, a murderer who murdered the man for whom her only and greatly loved son is to stand his trial. Now then, come on, my lad.” The lawyer leaned eagerly over the great library table, and his old hand pointed challengingly at Wilfred.
“What have you to say to that? Isn’t it damnable? What?” Wilfred could only nod his agreement.
“Well, now, you are a sensible young fellow. Tell me, are you going to be tied by the apron strings of that little companion? Are you going to keep from me the secret that will help me to release Frank?”
“You absolutely misread the position,” Wilfred said, equally earnestly. “Jill—Miss Kilby—is not putting pressure on me to keep something from you. On the other hand, it was her desire to acquaint you immediately with her discovery, and it was I who said that at the moment it would be ruinous—absolutely ruinous—to give you information which, if it is to be given, should be given by another person.”
“Meaning?” asked the lawyer.
“That I will not say.” For two full minutes the two men gazed at each other—neither budging an inch in his determination. Finally the lawyer stood up and leaned over Wilfred.
“At least tell me this,” he said. “Was there a woman in the Prior’s Room, or Prior’s Tower, on the night of Jack’s murder, besides Dr. Laidlaw?”
Wilfred looked at him in silence for a while, then he said slowly:
“There were three women there!”
CHAPTER XI.
SEALED LIPS
“Three women there?” Mr. Benson repeated incredulously.
“Three women,” repeated Wilfred gravely.
“Who were they?” asked Mr. Benson after a pause, during which both men surveyed each other—Wilfred determined to say no more, wishing that he had not said so much; Mr. Benson, at first astounded then determined to learn the full facts.
“That I certainly shall not say,” said Wilfred definitely.” But I have told you so much because it is true, and also to illustrate how important it is to take no steps that might cause unheard-of trouble to innocent people.”
“But, forgive me, my lad,” said the old lawyer with decision, “you have said much too much to leave matters there. The wisest thing you can do is to tell me the whole of the facts in your possession, and leave it to my discretion to take such steps as are necessary.”
“I will not, Mr. Benson,” replied Wilfred. “I have very carefully weighed all the possible consequences of my divulging the facts and also the possible consequences of my silence. And I can assure you that I am actuated only by a desire to have ultimate justice done, and at the same time to save innocent parties the frightful unpleasantness, to say the least of it, of premature and partial disclosure.”
“But, my dear chap,” Mr. Benson rejoined, “do you realize quite what you are doing? You are arrogating to yourself the functions of police, judge, and jury. Do you realize that a man—in my full conviction an innocent man—is at present lying in jail, about to take his trial on the capital charge, and you remain silent, with possession of facts that must have a very great influence upon the trial that is to open on Tuesday next, if they do not absolutely clear Frank?”
“I agree that they have an important bearing,” said Wilfred, “but they do not point to any definite conclusion. Will it be sufficient if I assure you that, should Frank Gough be endangered, I shall certainly come to you and place the facts in your hands?”
“But, my dear lad”—the lawyer leaned forward in his chair and looked very gravely into Wilfred’s troubled face—“don’t you realize that he is endangered already? Time, in these matters is very precious. I suppose you mean that if he were convicted you would table the facts for his appeal?”
Wilfred nodded silently.
“Quite so,” rejoined the lawyer. “In that event you would have no option; for, it has been my intention for some time to subpœna you, your observant little friend Miss Kilby, Lady Evenden, and the murderous little doctor. Don’t forget also, my friend, that I myself would state that I saw you and the Kilby girl in passages of this Priory in which, to say the least of it, you had no right to be in, or even to have knowledge of.
“I tell you quite frankly that your own position might be most dangerous—everybody’s position is dangerous when the whole atmosphere is clouded in doubt surrounding a murder. The suppression of germane information is a terrible thing in a case of this kind.”
“Only too well do I know that you are right,” replied Wilfred. “I take full responsibility, so far as I am concerned, and I beg you to believe that it is in the interests of those whom you seek to serve that I remain silent, even to you. Believe me, if I were to divulge what I know, another, and probably a perfectly innocent, person might be arrested—a person who might not survive the ordeal.”
There was a deadly earnestness written on Wilfred’s features which the lawyer could not but accept as genuine. He, in turn, looked very grave as he said:
“I cannot resist certain conclusions, my young friend. You have said that three women were in the Prior’s Tower on the night of the murder. Now, one of those women obviously was your little friend, the companion—hence your knowledge. It is equally irresistible to me that another was Lady Evenden, because of her connection with the little murdering doctor, and also because of your hints about my trust and my service to certain interests, and your concluding remark, ‘A person who might not survive the ordeal.’ ”
The lawyer leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and watched his visitor’s face. Wilfred frowned in embarrassment, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He looked from the lawyer to the fire and back again, then, taking a deep breath, he said:
“For good or ill, I cannot help it. I will neither confirm, nor will I deny, your conclusions. I have decided upon a course of action which I am persuaded is honest and right. Indeed, the very best thing, the only thing, under the dreadful circumstances. Please—please, Mr. Benson—trust me, and do not distress me by pressing me further.”
Mr. Benson crossed to a sideboard and poured himself out a whisky-and-soda.
“Have a drink?” he asked Wilfred.
“Thank you, yes,” Wilfred replied.
The lawyer did not speak again until Wilfred had taken a little whisky. Then, reseating himself, he said quietly:
“You ask me to trust you, Dr. Barlow. I do, because I like the look of you—that’s all. Listen to me. Let us take the position as it is, quite devoid of likes and dislikes, impressions and prejudices. You ask me to trust you. The first time I had the pleasure of meeting you, was in the secret passages of a mansion that you had never even been bidden to enter. You admit a certain knowledge of a murder, and that, mark you, when a man lies charged with that murder. You develop that again by speaking of three women being present in the tower, and two of those women are my client, Lady Evenden, and your fiancee, my client’s companion. Tell me now, what is there to base trust upon? Surely, surely, if my client is to be in any sense involved, it is I who must know all—no one else.”
“Mr. Benson,” Wilfred replied, “you have put in a few words the whole position. I fully realize the truth of what you say, and I repeat my readiness to take the full responsibility of my present silence. More than that, I know—I am certain—that in the not distant future you will thank me for adopting the line that I have taken.”
Mr. Benson took another sip of his whisky, gazed thoughtfully into the fire, then looked up sharply.
“Very well,” he said, “so long as you understand. Now tell me who was the other woman?”
“I do not know,” replied Wilfred. The lawyer looked at him incredulously, then, as Wilfred met his gaze, he became persuaded that this remarkable young doctor, who had managed to involve himself in so dangerous a predicament, was telling the truth. Nevertheless, the lawyer determined to press him.
“But surely you would be able to identify her?” he questioned. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
“I saw her—but at a distance, and in a bad light,” Wilfred replied.
“Then how do you know that it wasn’t one of the others?” questioned Mr. Benson.
“Because I saw all three at the same time,” said Wilfred.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed the old man. “You must tell me more. You really must. For everybody’s sake you must tell me all—aye, for your own sake.”
“I shall say no more,” said Wilfred steadfastly.
“Very well,” Mr. Benson rose. “That’s all we can do to-night. Will you come round to see me to-morrow? That’s right, come and lunch with me at one o’clock. Remember now—you mustn’t be surprised if I find it necessary to subpœna you for the trial.”
“You mustn’t do that, Mr. Benson,” Wilfred protested. “You will do untold harm, if you do.”
“That’s what the murdering little doctor said,” replied the lawyer. “None of you give me your confidence—and you must take the consequences. I will use my own judgment. What the devil do you expect? Do you expect me to fold my arms and let my client swing? Not likely! Look here, young man, what would you do in my position?”
“Oh, I know how difficult the whole position is,” replied Wilfred, “and it is with a full realization of that position that I still decide to maintain silence. I quite agree that you have every right to be annoyed, Mr. Benson. But again, I assure you that I am doing what I think is wisest and right. Knowledge that I could give you would only further embarrass you.”
Silently, the lawyer looked at him for a full minute, then he said: “I’m going to see Lady Evenden. If that young lynx-eyed girl Trilby, Kilby, or whatever her name is, is up and awake I’ll send her to you here, and you and she had better talk matters over. Two heads are better than one, you know, and I think she might influence you to use a modicum of sense in this most terrible matter. Dangerous rivers need an experienced pilot, not a smart amateur.”
Wilfred walked restlessly up and down the room after the lawyer had left, and then Jill entered.
“Wilfred,” she said, “Isn’t this awful? Poor old Mr. Benson has been nearly murdered to-night, and I believe it is Dr. Laidlaw who did it.”
“It is, my dear,” Wilfred replied, kissing her. “Did the old chap send you down?”
“Yes,” Jill replied. “He’s really rather wonderful, you know. Fancy him struggling, at his age, and holding the little doctor until some one came.”
“Yes, I agree,” said Wilfred. “What did he say to you before he sent you down?”
“He said, ‘You go down to the library and knock sense into your John Willie’s head,’ ” Jill replied, half-laughing. Then she added seriously, “We must tell him, you know, Wilfred—we must.”