An African Millionaire: Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay

by Grant Allen

  XI

  THE EPISODE OF THE BERTILLON METHOD

  We had a terrible passage home from New York. The Captain told us he"knew every drop of water in the Atlantic personally"; and he hadnever seen them so uniformly obstreperous. The ship rolled in thetrough; Charles rolled in his cabin, and would not be comforted. Aswe approached the Irish coast, I scrambled up on deck in a violentgale, and retired again somewhat precipitately to announce to mybrother-in-law that we had just come in sight of the Fastnet RockLighthouse. Charles merely turned over in his berth and groaned."I don't believe it," he answered. "I expect it is probably ColonelClay in another of his manifold disguises!"

  At Liverpool, however, the Adelphi consoled him. We dinedluxuriously in the Louis Quinze restaurant, as only millionairescan dine, and proceeded next day by Pullman car to London.

  We found Amelia dissolved in tears at a domestic cataclysm. Itseemed that Cesarine had given notice.

  Charles was scarcely home again when he began to bethink him ofthe least among his investments. Like many other wealthy men, myrespected connection is troubled more or less, in the background ofhis consciousness, by a pervading dread that he will die a beggar.To guard against this misfortune--which I am bound to admit nobodyelse fears for him--he invested, several years ago, a sum of twohundred thousand pounds in Consols, to serve as a nest-egg in caseof the collapse of Golcondas and South Africa generally. It ispart of the same amiable mania, too, that he will not allow thedividend-warrants on this sum to be sent to him by post, butinsists, after the fashion of old ladies and country parsons, uponcalling personally at the Bank of England four times a year to claimhis interest. He is well known by sight to not a few of the clerks;and his appearance in Threadneedle Street is looked forward to withgreat regularity within a few weeks of each lawful quarter-day.

  So, on the morning after our arrival in town, Charles observed tome, cheerfully, "Sey, I must run into the City to-day to claim mydividends. There are two quarters owing."

  I accompanied him in to the Bank. Even that mighty official, thebeadle at the door, unfastened the handle of the millionaire'scarriage. The clerk who received us smiled and nodded. "How much?"he asked, after the stereotyped fashion.

  "Two hundred thousand," Charles answered, looking affable.

  The clerk turned up the books. "Paid!" he said, withdecision. "What's your game, sir, if I may ask you?"

  "Paid!" Charles echoed, drawing back.

  The clerk gazed across at him. "Yes, Sir Charles," he answered, ina somewhat severe tone. "You must remember you drew a quarter'sdividend from myself--last week--at this very counter."

  Charles stared at him fixedly. "Show me the signature," he said atlast, in a slow, dazed fashion. I suspected mischief.

  The clerk pushed the book across to him. Charles examined the nameclose.

  "Colonel Clay again!" he cried, turning to me with a despondent air."He must have dressed the part. I shall die in the workhouse, Sey!That man has stolen away even my nest-egg from me."

  I saw it at a glance. "Mrs. Quackenboss!" I put in. "Those portraitson the Etruria! It was to help him in his make-up! You recollect,she sketched your face and figure at all possible angles."

  "And last quarter's?" Charles inquired, staggering.

  The clerk turned up the entry. "Drawn on the 10th of July,"he answered, carelessly, as if it mattered nothing.

  Then I knew why the Colonel had run across to England.

  Charles positively reeled. "Take me home, Sey," he cried. "I amruined, ruined! He will leave me with not half a million in theworld. My poor, poor boys will beg their bread, unheeded, throughthe streets of London!"

  (As Amelia has landed estate settled upon her worth a hundred andfifty thousand pounds, this last contingency affected me less totears than Charles seemed to think necessary.)

  We made all needful inquiries, and put the police upon the quest atonce, as always. But no redress was forthcoming. The money, oncepaid, could not be recovered. It is a playful little privilege ofConsols that the Government declines under any circumstances to paytwice over. Charles drove back to Mayfair a crushed and broken man.I think if Colonel Clay himself could have seen him just then, hewould have pitied that vast intellect in its grief and bewilderment.

  After lunch, however, my brother-in-law's natural buoyancyreasserted itself by degrees. He rallied a little. "Seymour," hesaid to me, "you've heard, of course, of the Bertillon system ofmeasuring and registering criminals."

  "I have," I answered. "And it's excellent as far as it goes. But,like Mrs. Glasse's jugged hare, it all depends upon the initialstep. 'First catch your criminal.' Now, we have never caughtColonel Clay--"

  "Or, rather," Charles interposed unkindly, "when you _did_ catch him,you didn't hold him."

  I ignored the unkindly suggestion, and continued in the same voice,"We have never secured Colonel Clay; and until we secure him, wecannot register him by the Bertillon method. Besides, even if wehad once caught him and duly noted the shape of his nose, his chin,his ears, his forehead, of what use would that be against a man whoturns up with a fresh face each time, and can mould his featuresinto what form he likes, to deceive and foil us?"

  "Never mind, Sey," my brother-in-law said. "I was told in New Yorkthat Dr. Frank Beddersley, of London, was the best exponent of theBertillon system now living in England; and to Beddersley I shallgo. Or, rather, I'll invite him here to lunch to-morrow."

  "Who told you of him?" I inquired. "_Not_ Dr. Quackenboss, I hope;nor yet Mr. Algernon Coleyard?"

  Charles paused and reflected. "No, neither of them," he answered,after a short internal deliberation. "It was that magazine editorchap we met at Wrengold's."

  "_He's_ all right," I said; "or, at least, I think so."

  So we wrote a polite invitation to Dr. Beddersley, who pursuedthe method professionally, asking him to come and lunch with usat Mayfair at two next day.

  Dr. Beddersley came--a dapper little man, with pent-house eyebrows,and keen, small eyes, whom I suspected at sight of being ColonelClay himself in another of his clever polymorphic embodiments. Hewas clear and concise. His manner was scientific. He told us at oncethat though the Bertillon method was of little use till the experthad seen the criminal once, yet if we had consulted him earlierhe might probably have saved us some serious disasters. "A manso ingenious as this," he said, "would no doubt have studiedBertillon's principles himself, and would take every possiblemeans to prevent recognition by them. Therefore, you might almostdisregard the nose, the chin, the moustache, the hair, all of whichare capable of such easy alteration. But there remain some featureswhich are more likely to persist--height, shape of head, neck,build, and fingers; the timbre of the voice, the colour of the iris.Even these, again, may be partially disguised or concealed; the waythe hair is dressed, the amount of padding, a high collar round thethroat, a dark line about the eyelashes, may do more to alter theappearance of a face than you could readily credit."

  "So we know," I answered.

  "The voice, again," Dr. Beddersley continued. "The voice itself maybe most fallacious. The man is no doubt a clever mimic. He could,perhaps, compress or enlarge his larynx. And I judge from what youtell me that he took characters each time which compelled himlargely to alter and modify his tone and accent."

  "Yes," I said. "As the Mexican Seer, he had of course aSpanish intonation. As the little curate, he was a cultivatedNorth-countryman. As David Granton, he spoke gentlemanly Scotch.As Von Lebenstein, naturally, he was a South-German, trying toexpress himself in French. As Professor Schleiermacher, he was aNorth-German speaking broken English. As Elihu Quackenboss, hehad a fine and pronounced Kentucky flavour. And as the poet, hedrawled after the fashion of the clubs, with lingering remnantsof a Devonshire ancestry."

  "Quite so," Dr. Beddersley answered. "That is just what I shouldexpect. Now, the question is, do you know him to be one man, oris he really a gang? Is he a name for a syndicate? Have you anyphotographs of Colonel Clay himself in any of his disguises?"
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  "Not one," Charles answered. "He produced some himself, when he wasMedhurst the detective. But he pocketed them at once; and we neverrecovered them."

  "Could you get any?" the doctor asked. "Did you note the name andaddress of the photographer?"

  "Unfortunately, no," Charles replied. "But the police at Nice showedus two. Perhaps we might borrow them."

  "Until we get them," Dr. Beddersley said, "I don't know that we cando anything. But if you can once give me two distinct photographs ofthe real man, no matter how much disguised, I could tell you whetherthey were taken from one person; and, if so, I think I could pointout certain details in common which might aid us to go upon."

  All this was at lunch. Amelia's niece, Dolly Lingfield, was there,as it happened; and I chanced to note a most guilty look stealingover her face all the while we were talking. Suspicious as I hadlearned to become by this time, however, I did not suspect Dolly ofbeing in league with Colonel Clay; but, I confess, I wondered whather blush could indicate. After lunch, to my surprise, Dolly calledme away from the rest into the library. "Uncle Seymour," she saidto me--the dear child calls me Uncle Seymour, though of course I amnot in any way related to her--"_I_ have some photographs of ColonelClay, if you want them."

  "_You_?" I cried, astonished. "Why, Dolly, how did you get them?"

  For a minute or two she showed some little hesitation in telling me.At last she whispered, "You won't be angry if I confess?" (Dolly isjust nineteen, and remarkably pretty.)

  "My child," I said, "why _should_ I be angry? You may confide in meimplicitly." (With a blush like that, who on earth could be angrywith her?)

  "And you won't tell Aunt Amelia or Aunt Isabel?" she inquiredsomewhat anxiously.

  "Not for worlds," I answered. (As a matter of fact, Amelia andIsabel are the last people in the world to whom I should dreamof confiding anything that Dolly might tell me.)

  "Well, I was stopping at Seldon, you know, when Mr. David Grantonwas there," Dolly went on; "--or, rather, when that scamp pretendedhe was David Granton; and--and--you won't be angry with me, willyou?--one day I took a snap-shot with my kodak at him and AuntAmelia!"

  "Why, what harm was there in that?" I asked, bewildered. The wildeststretch of fancy could hardly conceive that the Honourable David hadbeen _flirting_ with Amelia.

  Dolly coloured still more deeply. "Oh, you know Bertie Winslow?" shesaid. "Well, he's interested in photography--and--and also in _me_.And he's invented a process, which isn't of the slightest practicaluse, he says; but its peculiarity is, that it reveals textures. Atleast, that's what Bertie calls it. It makes things come out so. Andhe gave me some plates of his own for my kodak--half-a-dozen or more,and--I took Aunt Amelia with them."

  "I still fail to see," I murmured, looking at her comically.

  "Oh, Uncle Seymour," Dolly cried. "How blind you men are!If Aunt Amelia knew she would never forgive me. Why, you _must_understand. The--the rouge, you know, and the pearl powder!"

  "Oh, it comes out, then, in the photograph?" I inquired.

  "Comes out! I should _think_ so! It's like little black spots allover auntie's face. _such_ a guy as she looks in it!"

  "And Colonel Clay is in them too?"

  "Yes; I took them when he and auntie were talking together, withouteither of them noticing. And Bertie developed them. I've three ofDavid Granton. Three beauties; _most_ successful."

  "Any other character?" I asked, seeing business ahead.

  Dolly hung back, still redder. "Well, the rest are with AuntIsabel," she answered, after a struggle.

  "My dear child," I replied, hiding my feelings as a husband, "I willbe brave. I will bear up even against that last misfortune!"

  Dolly looked up at me pleadingly. "It was here in London," she wenton; "--when I was last with auntie. Medhurst was stopping in thehouse at the time; and I took him twice, tete-a-tete with AuntIsabel!"

  "Isabel does not paint," I murmured, stoutly.

  Dolly hung back again. "No, but--her hair!" she suggested, in afaint voice.

  "Its colour," I admitted, "is in places assisted by a--well, youknow, a restorer."

  Dolly broke into a mischievous sly smile. "Yes, it is," shecontinued. "And, oh, Uncle Sey, where the restorer has--er--restoredit, you know, it comes out in the photograph with a sort ofbrilliant iridescent metallic sheen on it!"

  "Bring them down, my dear," I said, gently patting her head with myhand. In the interests of justice, I thought it best not to frightenher.

  Dolly brought them down. They seemed to me poor things, yet wellworth trying. We found it possible, on further confabulation, bythe simple aid of a pair of scissors, so to cut each in two thatall trace of Amelia and Isabel was obliterated. Even so, however,I judged it best to call Charles and Dr. Beddersley to a privateconsultation in the library with Dolly, and not to submit themutilated photographs to public inspection by their joint subjects.Here, in fact, we had five patchy portraits of the redoubtableColonel, taken at various angles, and in characteristic unstudiedattitudes. A child had outwitted the cleverest sharper in Europe!

  The moment Beddersley's eye fell upon them, a curious look came overhis face. "Why, these," he said, "are taken on Herbert Winslow'smethod, Miss Lingfield."

  "Yes," Dolly admitted timidly. "They are. He's--a friend of mine,don't you know; and--he gave me some plates that just fitted mycamera."

  Beddersley gazed at them steadily. Then he turned to Charles."And this young lady," he said, "has quite unintentionally andunconsciously succeeded in tracking Colonel Clay to earth at last.They are genuine photographs of the man--as he is--_without_ thedisguises!"

  "They look to me most blotchy," Charles murmured. "Great black linesdown the nose, and such spots on the cheek, too!"

  "Exactly," Beddersley put in. "Those are _differences in texture_.They show just how much of the man's face is human flesh--"

  "And how much wax," I ventured.

  "Not wax," the expert answered, gazing close. "This is some hardermixture. I should guess, a composition of gutta-percha andindia-rubber, which takes colour well, and hardens when applied,so as to lie quite evenly, and resist heat or melting. Look here;that's an artificial scar, filling up a real hollow; and _this_ isan added bit to the tip of the nose; and _those_ are shadows, dueto inserted cheek-pieces, within the mouth, to make the man lookfatter!"

  "Why, of course," Charles cried. "India-rubber it must be. That'swhy in France they call him le Colonel Caoutchouc!"

  "Can you reconstruct the real face from them?" I inquired anxiously.

  Dr. Beddersley gazed hard at them. "Give me an hour or two," hesaid--"and a box of water-colours. I _think_ by that time--puttingtwo and two together--I can eliminate the false and build up for youa tolerably correct idea of what the actual man himself looks like."

  We turned him into the library for a couple of hours, with thematerials he needed; and by tea-time he had completed his firstrough sketch of the elements common to the two faces. He broughtit out to us in the drawing-room. I glanced at it first. It wasa curious countenance, slightly wanting in definiteness, and notunlike those "composite photographs" which Mr. Galton produces byexposing two negatives on the same sensitised paper for ten secondsor so consecutively. Yet it struck me at once as containingsomething of Colonel Clay in every one of his many representations.The little curate, in real life, did not recall the Seer; nordid Elihu Quackenboss suggest Count von Lebenstein or ProfessorSchleiermacher. Yet in this compound face, produced only fromphotographs of David Granton and Medhurst, I could distinctly tracea certain underlying likeness to every one of the forms which theimpostor had assumed for us. In other words, though he could makeup so as to mask the likeness to his other characters, he could notmake up so as to mask the likeness to his own personality. He couldnot wholly get rid of his native build and his genuine features.

  Besides these striking suggestions of the Seer and the curate,however, I felt vaguely conscious of having seen and observed_the man himself_ whom the water-colour represente
d, at some time,somewhere. It was not at Nice; it was not at Seldon; it was not atMeran; it was not in America. I believed I had been in a room withhim somewhere in London.

  Charles was looking over my shoulder. He gave a sudden little start."Why, I know that fellow!" he cried. "You recollect him, Sey; he'sFinglemore's brother--the chap that didn't go out to China!"

  Then I remembered at once where it was that I had seen him--at thebroker's in the city, before we sailed for America.

  "What Christian name?" I asked.

  Charles reflected a moment. "The same as the one in the note we gotwith the dust-coat," he answered, at last. "The man is PaulFinglemore!"

  "You will arrest him?" I asked.

  "Can I, on this evidence?"

  "We might bring it home to him."

  Charles mused for a moment. "We shall have nothing against him,"he said slowly, "except in so far as we can swear to his identity.And that may be difficult."

  Just at that moment the footman brought in tea. Charles wonderedapparently whether the man, who had been with us at Seldon whenColonel Clay was David Granton, would recollect the face orrecognise having seen it. "Look here, Dudley," he said, holdingup the water-colour, "do you know that person?"

  Dudley gazed at it a moment. "Certainly, sir," he answered briskly.

  "Who is it?" Amelia asked. We expected him to answer, "Count vonLebenstein," or "Mr. Granton," or "Medhurst."

  Instead of that, he replied, to our utter surprise, "That'sCesarine's young man, my lady."

  "Cesarine's young man?" Amelia repeated, taken aback. "Oh, Dudley,surely, you _must_ be mistaken!"

  "No, my lady," Dudley replied, in a tone of conviction. "He comesto see her quite reg'lar; he have come to see her, off and on,from time to time, ever since I've been in Sir Charles's service."

  "When will he be coming again?" Charles asked, breathless.

  "He's downstairs now, sir," Dudley answered, unaware of thebombshell he was flinging into the midst of a respectable family.

  Charles rose excitedly, and put his back against the door. "Securethat man," he said to me sharply, pointing with his finger.

  "_What_ man?" I asked, amazed. "Colonel Clay? The young man who'sdownstairs now with Cesarine?"

  "No," Charles answered, with decision; "Dudley!"

  I laid my hand on the footman's shoulder, not understanding whatCharles meant. Dudley, terrified, drew back, and would have rushedfrom the room; but Charles, with his back against the door,prevented him.

  "I--I've done nothing to be arrested, Sir Charles," Dudley cried,in abject terror, looking appealingly at Amelia. "It--it wasn't meas cheated you." And he certainly didn't look it.

  "I daresay not," Charles answered. "But you don't leave this roomtill Colonel Clay is in custody. No, Amelia, no; it's no use yourspeaking to me. What he says is true. I see it all now. This villainand Cesarine have long been accomplices! The man's downstairs withher now. If we let Dudley quit the room he'll go down and tell them;and before we know where we are, that slippery eel will havewriggled through our fingers, as he always wriggles. He _is_ PaulFinglemore; he _is_ Cesarine's young man; and unless we arrest himnow, without one minute's delay, he'll be off to Madrid or St.Petersburg by this evening!"

  "You are right," I answered. "It is now or never!"

  "Dudley," Charles said, in his most authoritative voice, "stop heretill we tell you you may leave the room. Amelia and Dolly, don't letthat man stir from where he's standing. If he does, restrain him.Seymour and Dr. Beddersley, come down with me to the servants' hall.I suppose that's where I shall find this person, Dudley?"

  "N--no, sir," Dudley stammered out, half beside himself with fright."He's in the housekeeper's room, sir!"

  We went down to the lower regions in a solid phalanx of three. Onthe way we met Simpson, Sir Charles's valet, and also the butler,whom we pressed into the service. At the door of the housekeeper'sroom we paused, strategically. Voices came to us from within; onewas Cesarine's, the other had a ring that reminded me at once ofMedhurst and the Seer, of Elihu Quackenboss and Algernon Coleyard.They were talking together in French; and now and then we caughtthe sound of stifled laughter.

  We opened the door. "Est-il drole, donc, ce vieux?" the man'svoice was saying.

  "C'est a mourir de rire," Cesarine's voice responded.

  We burst in upon them, red-handed.

  Cesarine's young man rose, with his hat in his hand, in a respectfulattitude. It reminded me at once of Medhurst, as he stood talkinghis first day at Marvillier's to Charles; and also of the littlecurate, in his humblest moments as the disinterested pastor.

  With a sign to me to do likewise, Charles laid his hand firmly onthe young man's shoulder. I looked in the fellow's face: there couldbe no denying it; Cesarine's young man was Paul Finglemore, ourbroker's brother.

  "Paul Finglemore," Charles said severely, "otherwise Cuthbert Clay,I arrest you on several charges of theft and conspiracy!"

  The young man glanced around him. He was surprised and perturbed;but, even so, his inexhaustible coolness never once deserted him."What, five to one?" he said, counting us over. "Has law and ordercome down to this? Five respectable rascals to arrest one poorbeggar of a chevalier d'industrie! Why, it's worse than New York._There_, it was only you and me, you know, old Ten per Cent!"

  "Hold his hands, Simpson!" Charles cried, trembling lest his enemyshould escape him.

  Paul Finglemore drew back even while we held his shoulders. "No,not _you_, sir," he said to the man, haughtily. "Don't dare to layyour hands upon me! Send for a constable if you wish, Sir CharlesVandrift; but I decline to be taken into custody by a valet!"

  "Go for a policeman," Dr. Beddersley said to Simpson, standingforward.

  The prisoner eyed him up and down. "Oh, Dr. Beddersley!" he said,relieved. It was evident he knew him. "If _you've_ tracked mestrictly in accordance with Bertillon's methods, I don't mind somuch. I will not yield to fools; I yield to science. I didn't thinkthis diamond king had sense enough to apply to you. He's the mostgullible old ass I ever met in my life. But if it's _you_ who havetracked me down, I can only submit to it."

  Charles held to him with a fierce grip. "Mind he doesn't break away,Sey," he cried. "He's playing his old game! Distrust the man'spatter!"

  "Take care," the prisoner put in. "Remember Dr. Polperro! On whatcharge do you arrest me?"

  Charles was bubbling with indignation. "You cheated me at Nice,"he said; "at Meran; at New York; at Paris!"

  Paul Finglemore shook his head. "Won't do," he answered, calmly. "Besure of your ground. Outside the jurisdiction! You can only do thaton an extradition warrant."

  "Well, then, at Seldon, in London, in this house, and elsewhere,"Charles cried out excitedly. "Hold hard to him, Sey; by law orwithout it, blessed if he isn't going even now to wriggle awayfrom us!"

  At that moment Simpson returned with a convenient policeman, whom hehad happened to find loitering about near the area steps, and whom Ihalf suspected from his furtive smile of being a particularacquaintance of the household.

  Charles gave the man in charge formally. Paul Finglemore insistedthat he should specify the nature of the particular accusation.To my great chagrin, Charles selected from his rogueries, as bestwithin the jurisdiction of the English courts, the matter of thepayment for the Castle of Lebenstein--made in London, and througha London banker. "I have a warrant on that ground," he said. Itrembled as he spoke. I felt at once that the episode of thecommission, the exposure of which I dreaded so much, must nowbecome public.

  The policeman took the man in charge. Charles still held to him,grimly. As they were leaving the room the prisoner turned toCesarine, and muttered something rapidly under his breath, inGerman. "Of which tongue," he said, turning to us blandly, "in spiteof my kind present of a dictionary and grammar, you still doubtlessremain in your pristine ignorance!"

  Cesarine flung herself upon him with wild devotion. "Oh, Paul,darling," she cried, in English, "I will not, I will not! Iwill never save mys
elf at _your_ expense. If they send you toprison--Paul, Paul, I will go with you!"

  I remembered as she spoke what Mr. Algernon Coleyard had said to usat the Senator's. "Even the worst of rogues have always some goodin them. I notice they often succeed to the end in retaining theaffection and fidelity of women."

  But the man, his hands still free, unwound her clasping arms withgentle fingers. "My child," he answered, in a soft tone, "I am sorryto say the law of England will not permit you to go with me. If itdid" (his voice was as the voice of the poet we had met), "'stonewalls would not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.'" And bendingforward, he kissed her forehead tenderly.

  We led him out to the door. The policeman, in obedience to Charles'sorders, held him tight with his hand, but steadily refused, as theprisoner was not violent, to handcuff him. We hailed a passinghansom. "To Bow Street!" Charles cried, unceremoniously pushing inpoliceman and prisoner. The driver nodded. We called a four-wheelerourselves, in which my brother-in-law, Dr. Beddersley and myselftook our seats. "Follow the hansom!" Charles cried out. "Don't lethim out of your sight. After him, close, to Bow Street!"

  I looked back, and saw Cesarine, half fainting, on the front doorsteps, while Dolly, bathed in tears, stood supporting thelady's-maid, and trying to comfort her. It was clear she had notanticipated this end to the adventure.

  "Goodness gracious!" Charles screamed out, in a fresh fever ofalarm, as we turned the first corner; "where's that hansom gone to?How do I know the fellow was a policeman at all? We should havetaken the man in here. We ought never to have let him get out ofour sight. For all we can tell to the contrary, the constablehimself--may only be one of Colonel Clay's confederates!"

  And we drove in trepidation all the way to Bow Street.

  XII

  THE EPISODE OF THE OLD BAILEY

  When we reached Bow Street, we were relieved to find that ourprisoner, after all, had _not_ evaded us. It was a false alarm.He was there with the policeman, and he kindly allowed us tomake the first formal charge against him.

  Of course, on Charles's sworn declaration and my own, the man wasat once remanded, bail being refused, owing both to the seriousnature of the charge and the slippery character of the prisoner'santecedents. We went back to Mayfair--Charles, well satisfied thatthe man he dreaded was under lock and key; myself, not too wellpleased to think that the man I dreaded was no longer at large, andthat the trifling little episode of the ten per cent commissionstood so near discovery.

  Next day the police came round in force, and had a long consultationwith Charles and myself. They strongly urged that two other personsat least should be included in the charge--Cesarine and the littlewoman whom we had variously known as Madame Picardet, White Heather,Mrs. David Granton, and Mrs. Elihu Quackenboss. If these accompliceswere arrested, they said, we could include conspiracy as one countin the indictment, which gave us an extra chance of conviction. Nowthey had got Colonel Clay, in fact, they naturally desired to keephim, and also to indict with him as many as possible of his palsand confederates.

  Here, however, a difficulty arose. Charles called me aside with agrave face into the library. "Seymour," he said, fixing me, "thisis a serious business. I will not lightly swear away any woman'scharacter. Colonel Clay himself--or, rather, Paul Finglemore--is anabandoned rogue, whom I do not desire to screen in any degree. Butpoor little Madame Picardet--she may be his lawful wife, and shemay have acted implicitly under his orders. Besides, I don't knowwhether I could swear to her identity. Here's the photograph thepolice bring of the woman they believe to be Colonel Clay's chieffemale accomplice. Now, I ask you, does it in the least degreeresemble that clever and amusing and charming little creature,who has so often deceived us?"

  In spite of Charles's gibes, I flatter myself I do really understandthe whole duty of a secretary. It was clear from his voice he didnot _wish_ me to recognise her; which, as it happened, I did not."Certainly, it doesn't resemble her, Charles," I answered, withconviction in my voice. "I should never have known her." But I didnot add that I should no more have known Colonel Clay himself inhis character of Paul Finglemore, or of Cesarine's young man, as_that_ remark lay clearly outside my secretarial functions.

  Still, it flitted across my mind at the time that the Seer had madesome casual remarks at Nice about a letter in Charles's pocket,presumably from Madame Picardet; and I reflected further that MadamePicardet in turn might possibly hold certain answers of Charles's,couched in such terms as he might reasonably desire to conceal fromAmelia. Indeed, I must allow that under whatever disguise WhiteHeather appeared to us, Charles was always that disguise's devotedslave from the first moment he met it. It occurred to me, therefore,that the clever little woman--call her what you will--might be theholder of more than one indiscreet communication.

  "Under these circumstances," Charles went on, in his austerestvoice, "I cannot consent to be a party to the arrest of WhiteHeather. I--I decline to identify her. In point of fact"--he grewmore emphatic as he went on--"I don't think there is an atom ofevidence of any sort against her. Not," he continued, after apause, "that I wish in any degree to screen the guilty. Cesarine,now--Cesarine we have liked and trusted. She has betrayed our trust.She has sold us to this fellow. I have no doubt at all that shegave him the diamonds from Amelia's riviere; that she took us byarrangement to meet him at Schloss Lebenstein; that she opened andsent to him my letter to Lord Craig-Ellachie. Therefore, I say, we_ought_ to arrest Cesarine. But not White Heather--not Jessie; notthat pretty Mrs. Quackenboss. Let the guilty suffer; why strike atthe innocent--or, at worst, the misguided?"

  "Charles," I exclaimed, with warmth, "your sentiments do you honour.You are a man of feeling. And White Heather, I allow, is prettyenough and clever enough to be forgiven anything. You may rely uponmy discretion. I will swear through thick and thin that I do notrecognise this woman as Madame Picardet."

  Charles clasped my hand in silence. "Seymour," he said, aftera pause, with marked emotion, "I felt sure I could rely uponyour--er--honour and integrity. I have been rough upon yousometimes. But I ask your forgiveness. I see you understand thewhole duties of your position."

  We went out again, better friends than we had been for months.I hoped, indeed, this pleasant little incident might help toneutralise the possible ill-effects of the ten per cent disclosure,should Finglemore take it into his head to betray me to my employer.As we emerged into the drawing-room, Amelia beckoned me asidetowards her boudoir for a moment.

  "Seymour," she said to me, in a distinctly frightened tone, "I havetreated you harshly at times, I know, and I am very sorry for it.But I want you to help me in a most painful difficulty. The policeare quite right as to the charge of conspiracy; that designinglittle minx, White Heather, or Mrs. David Granton, or whatever elsewe're to call her, ought certainly to be prosecuted--and sent toprison, too--and have her absurd head of hair cut short and combedstraight for her. But--and you will help me here, I'm sure, dearSeymour--I _cannot_ allow them to arrest my Cesarine. I don't pretendto say Cesarine isn't guilty; the girl has behaved most ungratefullyto me. She has robbed me right and left, and deceived me withoutcompunction. Still--I put it to you as a married man--_can_ any womanafford to go into the witness-box, to be cross-examined and teasedby her own maid, or by a brute of a barrister on her maid'sinformation? I assure you, Seymour, the thing's not to be dreamt of.There are details of a lady's life--known only to her maid--which_cannot_ be made public. Explain as much of this as you think well toCharles, and _make_ him understand that _if_ he insists upon arrestingCesarine, I shall go into the box--and swear my head off to preventany one of the gang from being convicted. I have told Cesarine asmuch; I have promised to help her: I have explained that I am herfriend, and that if _she'll_ stand by _me_, _I'll_ stand by _her_,and by this hateful young man of hers."

  I saw in a moment how things went. Neither Charles nor Amelia couldface cross-examination on the subject of one of Colonel Clay'saccomplices. No doubt, in Amelia's case, it was merely a questionof rouge and ha
ir-dye; but what woman would not sooner confess toa forgery or a murder than to those toilet secrets?

  I returned to Charles, therefore, and spent half an hour incomposing, as well as I might, these little domestic difficulties.In the end, it was arranged that if Charles did his best to protectCesarine from arrest, Amelia would consent to do her best in returnon behalf of Madame Picardet.

  We had next the police to tackle--a more difficult business. Still,even _they_ were reasonable. They had caught Colonel Clay, theybelieved, but their chance of convicting him depended entirely uponCharles's identification, with mine to back it. The more they urgedthe necessity of arresting the female confederates, however, themore stoutly did Charles declare that for his part he could by nomeans make sure of Colonel Clay himself, while he utterly declinedto give evidence of any sort against either of the women. It was adifficult case, he said, and he felt far from confident even aboutthe man. If _his_ decision faltered, and he failed to identify, thecase was closed; no jury could convict with nothing to convict upon.

  At last the police gave way. No other course was open to them. Theyhad made an important capture; but they saw that everything dependedupon securing their witnesses, and the witnesses, if interferedwith, were likely to swear to absolutely nothing.

  Indeed, as it turned out, before the preliminary investigation atBow Street was completed (with the usual remands), Charles had beenthrown into such a state of agitation that he wished he had nevercaught the Colonel at all.

  "I wonder, Sey," he said to me, "why I didn't offer the rascal twothousand a year to go right off to Australia, and be rid of him forever! It would have been cheaper for my reputation than keeping himabout in courts of law in England. The worst of it is, when once thebest of men gets into a witness-box, there's no saying with whatshreds and tatters of a character he may at last come out of it!"

  "In _your_ case, Charles," I answered, dutifully, "there can beno such doubt; except, perhaps, as regards the Craig-EllachieConsolidated."

  Then came the endless bother of "getting up the case" with thepolice and the lawyers. Charles would have retired from italtogether by that time, but, most unfortunately, he was boundover to prosecute. "You couldn't take a lump sum to let me off?"he said, jokingly, to the inspector. But I knew in my heart it wasone of the "true words spoken in jest" that the proverb tells of.

  Of course we could see now the whole building-up of the greatintrigue. It had been worked out as carefully as the Tichborneswindle. Young Finglemore, as the brother of Charles's broker,knew from the outset all about his affairs; and, after a gentlecourse of preliminary roguery, he laid his plans deep for a campaignagainst my brother-in-law. Everything had been deliberatelydesigned beforehand. A place had been found for Cesarine as Amelia'smaid--needless to say, by means of forged testimonials. Through heraid the swindler had succeeded in learning still more of the familyways and habits, and had acquired a knowledge of certain facts whichhe proceeded forthwith to use against us. His first attack, as theSeer, had been cleverly designed so as to give us the idea that wewere a mere casual prey; and it did not escape Charles's notice nowthat the detail of getting Madame Picardet to inquire at the CreditMarseillais about his bank had been solemnly gone through on purposeto blind us to the obvious truth that Colonel Clay was already infull possession of all such facts about us. It was by Cesarine'said, again, that he became possessed of Amelia's diamonds, thathe received the letter addressed to Lord Craig-Ellachie, andthat he managed to dupe us over the Schloss Lebenstein business.Nevertheless, all these things Charles determined to conceal incourt; he did not give the police a single fact that would turnagainst either Cesarine or Madame Picardet.

  As for Cesarine, of course, she left the house immediately after thearrest of the Colonel, and we heard of her no more till the day ofthe trial.

  When that great day came, I never saw a more striking sight than theOld Bailey presented. It was crammed to overflowing. Charles arrivedearly, accompanied by his solicitor. He was so white and troubledthat he looked much more like prisoner than prosecutor. Outside thecourt a pretty little woman stood, pale and anxious. A respectfulcrowd stared at her silently. "Who is that?" Charles asked. Thoughwe could both of us guess, rather than see, it was White Heather.

  "That's the prisoner's wife," the inspector on duty replied. "She'swaiting to see him enter. I'm sorry for her, poor thing. She's aperfect lady."

  "So she seems," Charles answered, scarcely daring to face her.

  At that moment she turned. Her eyes fell upon his. Charles pausedfor a second and looked faltering. There was in those eyes just thefaintest gleam of pleading recognition, but not a trace of the oldsaucy, defiant vivacity. Charles framed his lips to words, butwithout uttering a sound. Unless I greatly mistake, the words heframed on his lips were these: "I will do my best for him."

  We pushed our way in, assisted by the police. Inside the court wesaw a lady seated, in a quiet black dress, with a becoming bonnet.A moment passed before I knew--it was Cesarine. "Who is--thatperson?" Charles asked once more of the nearest inspector, desiringto see in what way he would describe her.

  And once more the answer came, "That's the prisoner's wife, sir."

  Charles started back, surprised. "But--I was told--a lady outsidewas Mrs. Paul Finglemore," he broke in, much puzzled.

  "Very likely," the inspector replied, unmoved. "We have plenty thatway. _When_ a gentleman has as many aliases as Colonel Clay, you canhardly expect him to be over particular about having only _one_ wifebetween them, can you?"

  "Ah, I see," Charles muttered, in a shocked voice. "Bigamy!"

  The inspector looked stony. "Well, not exactly that," he replied,"occasional marriage."

  Mr. Justice Rhadamanth tried the case. "I'm sorry it's him, Sey,"my brother-in-law whispered in my ear. (He said _him_, not _he_,because, whatever else Charles is, he is _not_ a pedant; the Englishlanguage as it is spoken by most educated men is quite good enoughfor his purpose.) "I only wish it had been Sir Edward Easy. Easy's aman of the world, and a man of society; he would feel for a personin _my_ position. He wouldn't allow these beasts of lawyers tobadger and pester me. He would back his order. But Rhadamanth is oneof your modern sort of judges, who make a merit of being what theycall 'conscientious,' and won't hush up anything. I admit I'm afraidof him. I shall be glad when it's over."

  "Oh, _you'll_ pull through all right," I said in my capacity ofsecretary. But I didn't think it.

  The judge took his seat. The prisoner was brought in. Every eyeseemed bent upon him. He was neatly and plainly dressed, and,rogue though he was, I must honestly confess he looked at least agentleman. His manner was defiant, not abject like Charles's. Heknew he was at bay, and he turned like a man to face his accusers.

  We had two or three counts on the charge, and, after some formalbusiness, Sir Charles Vandrift was put into the box to bear witnessagainst Finglemore.

  Prisoner was unrepresented. Counsel had been offered him, but herefused their aid. The judge even advised him to accept their help;but Colonel Clay, as we all called him mentally still, declined toavail himself of the judge's suggestion.

  "I am a barrister myself, my lord," he said--"called some nine yearsago. I can conduct my own defence, I venture to think, better thanany of these my learned brethren."

  Charles went through his examination-in-chief quite swimmingly.He answered with promptitude. He identified the prisoner withoutthe slightest hesitation as the man who had swindled him underthe various disguises of the Reverend Richard Peploe Brabazon,the Honourable David Granton, Count von Lebenstein, ProfessorSchleiermacher, Dr. Quackenboss, and others. He had not theslightest doubt of the man's identity. He could swear to himanywhere. I thought, for my own part, he was a trifle too cocksure.A certain amount of hesitation would have been better policy. Asto the various swindles, he detailed them in full, his evidence tobe supplemented by that of bank officials and other subordinates.In short, he left Finglemore not a leg to stand upon.

  When it came to the cross-ex
amination, however, matters beganto assume quite a different complexion. The prisoner set out byquestioning Sir Charles's identifications. Was he sure of his man?He handed Charles a photograph. "Is that the person who representedhimself as the Reverend Richard Peploe Brabazon?" he askedpersuasively.

  Charles admitted it without a moment's delay.

  Just at that moment, a little parson, whom I had not noticed tillthen, rose up, unobtrusively, near the middle of the court, wherehe was seated beside Cesarine.

  "Look at that gentleman!" the prisoner said, waving one hand, andpouncing upon the prosecutor.

  Charles turned and looked at the person indicated. His face grewstill whiter. It was--to all outer appearance--the Reverend RichardBrabazon in propria persona.

  Of course I saw the trick. This was the real parson upon whose outerman Colonel Clay had modelled his little curate. But the jury wasshaken. And so was Charles for a moment.

  "Let the jurors see the photograph," the judge said, authoritatively.It was passed round the jury-box, and the judge also examined it.We could see at once, by their faces and attitudes, they allrecognised it as the portrait of the clergyman before them--notof the prisoner in the dock, who stood there smiling blandly atCharles's discomfiture.

  The clergyman sat down. At the same moment the prisoner produced asecond photograph.

  "Now, can you tell me who _that_ is?" he asked Charles, in the regularbrow-beating Old Bailey voice.

  With somewhat more hesitation, Charles answered, after a pause:"That is yourself as you appeared in London when you came in thedisguise of the Graf von Lebenstein."

  This was a crucial point, for the Lebenstein fraud was the one counton which our lawyers relied to prove their case most fully, withinthe jurisdiction.

  Even while Charles spoke, a gentleman whom I had noticed before,sitting beside White Heather, with a handkerchief to his face,rose as abruptly as the parson. Colonel Clay indicated him witha graceful movement of his hand. "And _this_ gentleman?" he askedcalmly.

  Charles was fairly staggered. It was the obvious original of thefalse Von Lebenstein.

  The photograph went round the box once more. The jury smiledincredulously. Charles had given himself away. His overweeningconfidence and certainty had ruined him.

  Then Colonel Clay, leaning forward, and looking quite engaging,began a new line of cross-examination. "We have seen, Sir Charles,"he said, "that we cannot implicitly trust your identifications. Nowlet us see how far we can trust your other evidence. First, then,about those diamonds. You tried to buy them, did you not, from aperson who represented himself as the Reverend Richard Brabazon,because you believed he thought they were paste; and if you could,you would have given him 10 pounds or so for them. _Do_ you thinkthat was honest?"

  "I object to this line of cross-examination," our leading counselinterposed. "It does not bear on the prosecutor's evidence. It ispurely recriminatory."

  Colonel Clay was all bland deference. "I wish, my lord," he said,turning round, "to show that the prosecutor is a person unworthy ofcredence in any way. I desire to proceed upon the well-known legalmaxim of falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus. I believe I am permittedto shake the witness's credit?"

  "The prisoner is entirely within his rights," Rhadamanth answered,looking severely at Charles. "And I was wrong in suggesting thathe needed the advice or assistance of counsel."

  Charles wriggled visibly. Colonel Clay perked up. Bit by bit, withdexterous questions, Charles was made to acknowledge that he wantedto buy diamonds at the price of paste, knowing them to be real; and,a millionaire himself, would gladly have diddled a poor curate outof a couple of thousand.

  "I was entitled to take advantage of my special knowledge," Charlesmurmured feebly.

  "Oh, certainly," the prisoner answered. "But, while professingfriendship and affection for a clergyman and his wife, in straitenedcircumstances, you were prepared, it seems, to take three thousandpounds' worth of goods off their hands for ten pounds, if you couldhave got them at that price. Is not that so?"

  Charles was compelled to admit it.

  The prisoner went onto the David Granton incident. "When you offeredto amalgamate with Lord Craig-Ellachie," he asked, "had you orhad you not heard that a gold-bearing reef ran straight from yourconcession into Lord Craig-Ellachie's, and that his portion of thereef was by far the larger and more important?"

  Charles wriggled again, and our counsel interposed; but Rhadamanthwas adamant. Charles had to allow it.

  And so, too, with the incident of the Slump in Golcondas.Unwillingly, shamefacedly, by torturing steps, Charles was compelledto confess that he had sold out Golcondas--he, the Chairman of thecompany, after repeated declarations to shareholders and othersthat he would do no such thing--because he thought ProfessorSchleiermacher had made diamonds worthless. He had endeavoured tosave himself by ruining his company. Charles tried to brazen it outwith remarks to the effect that business was business. "And fraud isfraud," Rhadamanth added, in his pungent way.

  "A man must protect himself," Charles burst out.

  "At the expense of those who have put their trust in his honour andintegrity," the judge commented coldly.

  After four mortal hours of it, all to the same effect, my respectedbrother-in-law left the witness-box at last, wiping his brow andbiting his lip, with the very air of a culprit. His character hadreceived a most serious blow. While he stood in the witness-box allthe world had felt it was _he_ who was the accused and Colonel Claywho was the prosecutor. He was convicted on his own evidence ofhaving tried to induce the supposed David Granton to sell hisfather's interests into an enemy's hands, and of every other shadytrick into which his well-known business acuteness had unfortunatelyhurried him during the course of his adventures. I had but oneconsolation in my brother-in-law's misfortunes--and that was thethought that a due sense of his own shortcomings might possibly makehim more lenient in the end to the trivial misdemeanours of a poorbeggar of a secretary!

  _I_ was the next in the box. I do not desire to enlarge upon my ownachievements. I will draw a decent veil, indeed, over the painfulscene that ensued when I finished my evidence. I can only say I wasmore cautious than Charles in my recognition of the photographs;but I found myself particularly worried and harried over otherparts of my cross-examination. Especially was I shaken about thatmisguided step I took in the matter of the cheque for the Lebensteincommission--a cheque which Colonel Clay handed to me with the utmostpoliteness, requesting to know whether or not it bore my signature.I caught Charles's eye at the end of the episode, and I venture tosay the expression it wore was one of relief that I too had trippedover a trifling question of ten per cent on the purchase money ofthe castle.

  Altogether, I must admit, if it had not been for the policeevidence, we would have failed to make a case against our manat all. But the police, I confess, had got up their part of theprosecution admirably. Now that they knew Colonel Clay to bereally Paul Finglemore, they showed with great cleverness how PaulFinglemore's disappearances and reappearances in London exactlytallied with Colonel Clay's appearances and disappearanceselsewhere, under the guise of the little curate, the Seer,David Granton, and the rest of them. Furthermore, they showedexperimentally how the prisoner at the bar might have got himselfup in the various characters; and, by means of a wax bust, modelledby Dr. Beddersley from observations at Bow Street, and aided byadditions in the gutta-percha composition after Dolly Lingfield'sphotographs, they succeeded in proving that the face as it stoodcould be readily transformed into the faces of Medhurst and DavidGranton. Altogether, their cleverness and trained acumen made upon the whole for Charles's over-certainty, and they succeeded inputting before the jury a strong case of their own against PaulFinglemore.

  The trial occupied three days. After the first of the three, myrespected brother-in-law preferred, as he said, not to prejudice thecase against the prisoner by appearing in court again. He did noteven allude to the little matter of the ten per cent commissionfurther than to say at dinner that evening th
at all men were boundto protect their own interests--as secretaries or as principals.This I took for forgiveness; and I continued diligently to attendthe trial, and watch the case in my employer's interest.

  The defence was ingenious, even if somewhat halting. It consistedsimply of an attempt to prove throughout that Charles and I had madeour prisoner the victim of a mistaken identity. Finglemore put intothe box the ingenuous original of the little curate--the ReverendSeptimus Porkington, as it turned out, a friend of his family; andhe showed that it was the Reverend Septimus himself who had sat toa photographer in Baker Street for the portrait which Charles toohastily identified as that of Colonel Clay in his personification ofMr. Richard Brabazon. He further elicited the fact that the portraitof the Count von Lebenstein was really taken from Dr. Julius Keppel,a Tyrolese music-master, residing at Balham, whom he put into thebox, and who was well known, as it chanced, to the foreman of thejury. Gradually he made it clear to us that no portraits existed ofColonel Clay at all, except Dolly Lingfield's--so it dawned uponme by degrees that even Dr. Beddersley could only have been misledif we had succeeded in finding for him the alleged photographs ofColonel Clay as the count and the curate, which had been shown usby Medhurst. Altogether, the prisoner based his defence upon thefact that no more than two witnesses directly identified him; whileone of those two had positively sworn that he recognised as theprisoner's two portraits which turned out, by independent evidence,to be taken from other people!

  The judge summed up in a caustic way which was pleasant to neitherparty. He asked the jury to dismiss from their minds entirely theimpression created by what he frankly described as "Sir CharlesVandrift's obvious dishonesty." They must not allow the fact that hewas a millionaire--and a particularly shady one--to prejudice theirfeelings in favour of the prisoner. Even the richest--and vilest--ofmen must be protected. Besides, this was a public question. If arogue cheated a rogue, he must still be punished. If a murdererstabbed or shot a murderer, he must still be hung for it. Societymust see that the worst of thieves were not preyed upon by others.Therefore, the proved facts that Sir Charles Vandrift, with all hismillions, had meanly tried to cheat the prisoner, or some other poorperson, out of valuable diamonds--had basely tried to juggle LordCraig-Ellachie's mines into his own hands--had vilely tried to bribea son to betray his father--had directly tried, by underhand means,to save his own money, at the risk of destroying the wealth ofothers who trusted to his probity--these proved facts must notblind them to the truth that the prisoner at the bar (if he werereally Colonel Clay) was an abandoned swindler. To that point alonethey must confine their attention; and _if_ they were convinced thatthe prisoner was shown to be the self-same man who appeared onvarious occasions as David Granton, as Von Lebenstein, as Medhurst,as Schleiermacher, they must find him guilty.

  As to that point, also, the judge commented on the obvious strengthof the police case, and the fact that the prisoner had not attemptedin any one out of so many instances to prove an alibi. Surely, ifhe were _not_ Colonel Clay, the jury should ask themselves, must itnot have been simple and easy for him to do so? Finally, the judgesummed up all the elements of doubt in the identification--and allthe elements of probability; and left it to the jury to draw theirown conclusions.

  They retired at the end to consider their verdict. While they wereabsent every eye in court was fixed on the prisoner. But PaulFinglemore himself looked steadily towards the further end of thehall, where two pale-faced women sat together, with handkerchiefsin their hands, and eyes red with weeping.

  Only then, as he stood there, awaiting the verdict, with a fixedwhite face, prepared for everything, did I begin to realise withwhat courage and pluck that one lone man had sustained so long anunequal contest against wealth, authority, and all the Governmentsof Europe, aided but by his own skill and two feeble women! Onlythen did I feel he had played his reckless game through all thoseyears with _this_ ever before him! I found it hard to picture.

  The jury filed slowly back. There was dead silence in court as theclerk put the question, "Do you find the prisoner at the bar guiltyor not guilty?"

  "We find him guilty."

  "On all the counts?"

  "On all the counts of the indictment."

  The women at the back burst into tears, unanimously.

  Mr. Justice Rhadamanth addressed the prisoner. "Have you anythingto urge," he asked in a very stern tone, "in mitigation of whateversentence the Court may see fit to pass upon you?"

  "Nothing," the prisoner answered, just faltering slightly. "I havebrought it upon myself--but--I have protected the lives of thosenearest and dearest to me. I have fought hard for my own hand. Iadmit my crime, and will face my punishment. I only regret that,since we were both of us rogues--myself and the prosecutor--thelesser rogue should have stood here in the dock, and the greater inthe witness-box. Our country takes care to decorate each accordingto his deserts--to him, the Grand Cross of St. Michael and St.George; to me, the Broad Arrow!"

  The judge gazed at him severely. "Paul Finglemore," he said, passingsentence in his sardonic way, "you have chosen to dedicate to theservice of fraud abilities and attainments which, if turned from theoutset into a legitimate channel, would no doubt have sufficed tosecure you without excessive effort a subsistence one degree abovestarvation--possibly even, with good luck, a sordid and squalidcompetence. You have preferred to embark them on a lawless life ofvice and crime--and I will not deny that you seem to have had a goodrun for your money. Society, however, whose mouthpiece I am, cannotallow you any longer to mock it with impunity. You have broken itslaws openly, and you have been found out." He assumed the tone ofbland condescension which always heralds his severest moments. "Isentence you to Fourteen Years' Imprisonment, with Hard Labour."

  The prisoner bowed, without losing his apparent composure. But hiseyes strayed away again to the far end of the hall, where the twoweeping women, with a sudden sharp cry, fell at once in a faint onone another's shoulders, and were with difficulty removed from courtby the ushers.

  As we left the room, I heard but one comment all round, thus voicedby a school-boy: "I'd a jolly sight rather it had been old Vandrift.This Clay chap's too clever by half to waste on a prison!"

  But he went there, none the less--in that "cool sequestered valeof life" to recover equilibrium; though I myself half regretted it.

  I will add but one more little parting episode.

  When all was over, Charles rushed off to Cannes, to get away fromthe impertinent stare of London. Amelia and Isabel and I went withhim. We were driving one afternoon on the hills beyond the town,among the myrtle and lentisk scrub, when we noticed in front of usa nice victoria, containing two ladies in very deep mourning. Wefollowed it, unintentionally, as far as Le Grand Pin--that big pinetree that looks across the bay towards Antibes. There, the ladiesdescended and sat down on a knoll, gazing out disconsolately towardsthe sea and the islands. It was evident they were suffering verydeep grief. Their faces were pale and their eyes bloodshot. "Poorthings!" Amelia said. Then her tone altered suddenly.

  "Why, good gracious," she cried, "if it isn't Cesarine!"

  So it was--with White Heather!

  Charles got down and drew near them. "I beg your pardon," he said,raising his hat, and addressing Madame Picardet: "I believe I havehad the pleasure of meeting you. And since I have doubtless paid inthe end for your victoria, _may_ I venture to inquire for whom youare in mourning?"

  White Heather drew back, sobbing; but Cesarine turned to him, fieryred, with the mien of a lady. "For _him_!" she answered; "for Paul!for our king, whom _you_ have imprisoned! As long as _he_ remainsthere, we have both of us decided to wear mourning for ever!"

  Charles raised his hat again, and drew back without one word.He waved his hand to Amelia and walked home with me to Cannes.He seemed deeply dejected.

  "A penny for your thoughts!" I exclaimed, at last, in a joculartone, trying feebly to rouse him.

  He turned to me, and sighed. "I was wondering," he answered, "if_I_ h
ad gone to prison, would Amelia and Isabel have done as muchfor me?"

  For myself, I did _not_ wonder. I knew pretty well. For Charles, youwill admit, though the bigger rogue of the two, is scarcely the kindof rogue to inspire a woman with profound affection.

  THE END