"Was I looking solemn? I expect it was only foolishness. Most fools are solemn animals."
"Don't be a guffin, Jim," she commanded, reprovingly.
"What is a guffin?" he asked.
"It is a thing with a big, Roman nose and most abnormal amount of obstinacy, which makes disparaging comments on my Captain Jim."
"A horrid sort of beast it must be. Well, I won't, then. Is that Quittah, where all those canoes are?"
"I suppose it is, but I've never been there. Yes, it must be. I can see Fort Firminger—that thing like a Martello tower out in the lagoon opposite the landing-place. Mr. Cockeram says it is an awfully strong fort. You couldn't knock it down with a croquet mallet."
Osmond looked about him with the interest of a traveller arriving at a place which he has heard of but never seen. Behind and on both sides, the waste of water extended as far as the eye could see. Before them was a line of low land with occasional clumps of coco-nut palms that marked the position of beach villages. Ahead was a larger mass of palms, before which was a wide "hard" or landing-place, already thronged with market people, towards which numbers of trading canoes were converging from all parts of the lagoon.
As they drew nearer, an opening in the palms revealed a whitewashed fort above which a flag was just being hoisted; and now, over the sandy shore, the masts of two vessels came into view.
"There is the Widgeon," said Betty, pointing to the masts of a barquentine, "and there is another vessel, a schooner. I wonder who she is."
Osmond had observed and was also wondering who she was; for he had a suspicion that he had seen her before. Something in the appearance of the tall, slim masts seemed to recall the mysterious yacht-like craft that he had seen one night at Adaffia revealed for a moment in "the glimpses of the moon."
They were now rapidly approaching the landing-place. The other canoe had already arrived, and its disembarked crew could be seen on the hard surrounded by a crowd of natives.
"That looks like a naval officer waiting on the beach," said Osmond, looking at a white-clad figure which had separated itself from the crowd and appeared to be awaiting their arrival.
"It is," replied Betty. "I believe it is Captain Darley. And there is a constabulary officer coming down, too. I expect they have heard the news. You'll get a great reception when they hear Mr. Stockbridge's story—and mine. But they will be awfully upset about poor Mr. Westall. You are coming up to the fort with me, of course?"
Osmond had intended to go straight on to Adaffia, hut he now saw that this would be impossible. Besides, there was the schooner. "Yes," he replied, "I will see you to your destination."
"It isn't my destination," said she. "I shall rest here for a day—the German deaconesses will give me a bed, I expect—and then I am coming on with you to Adaffia to put a wreath on Captain Hartup's grave. You can put up either at the fort or with one of the German traders or missionaries. There are no English people here excepting the two officers at the fort."
Osmond made no comment on this, for they were now close inshore. The canoe slid into the shallows and in a few moments more was hauled up by a crowd of willing natives until her bows were high and dry on the hard.
The officer who had joined Darley turned out to be the doctor, under whose superintendence Stockbridge's hammock was carefully landed and the rest of the wounded brought ashore. Then the litter containing the body of the dead officer was lifted out and slowly borne away, while Darley and the native soldiers stood at the salute, and the doctor, having mustered the wounded, led the way towards the little hospital. As the melancholy procession moved off, Darley turned to greet Betty and Osmond, who had stepped ashore last.
"How do you do, Miss Burleigh? None the worse for your adventures, I hope. Been having rather a strenuous time, haven't you?"
"We have rather," she replied. "Isn't it a dreadful thing to have lost poor Mr. Westall?"
"Yes," he replied, as they turned away from the lagoon and began to walk towards the fort. "Shocking affair. Still, fortune of war, you know. Can't make omelettes without breaking eggs. And here is Mr. Cook, in the thick of the bobbery, as usual. What a fellow you are, Cook! Always in hot water."
As he shook Osmond's hand heartily, the latter replied: "Well, the bobbery wasn't of my making, this time. I found it ready made and just bore a hand. By the way, what schooner is that out in the roads?"
"That," replied Darley, "is an ancient yacht named the Primula—a lovely old craft—sails like a witch. But she has come down in the world now. We met her coming up from the leeward coast and brought her in here."
"Brought her in? Is she in custody, then?"
"Well, we brought her in to overhaul her and make some inquiries. There is just a suspicion that she has been concerned in the gun-running that has been going on. But we haven't found anything up to the present. She seems to be full up with ordinary, legitimate cargo."
"Ha!" exclaimed Osmond.
"Why 'ha'?" demanded Darley with a quick look at Osmond. "Do you know anything about her?"
"Let us hear some more," said Osmond. "Is there a Welshman named Jones on board?"
"There is. He's the skipper, purser, and super cargo all combined."
"Have you looked through her manifest?"
"I have; and I've jotted down some notes of the items of her lading."
"Is there any ivory on board?"
"Yes," replied Darley, with growing excitement.
"Three large crates and a big canvas bag?"
"Yes!"
"Containing in all, thirty-nine large tusks and fifty-one scribellos?"
Darley dragged a pocket-book out of his pocket and feverishly turned over the leaves. "Yes, by Jove!" he fairly shouted. "The very numbers. Now, what have you got to tell us?"
"I think you can take it that the ivory and probably the rest of the lading, too, is stolen property."
"Why," exclaimed Betty, "that must be your ivory, Jim."
Darley flashed an astonished glance at her and then looked inquiringly at Osmond. "Is that so?" he asked.
"I have no doubt that it is," the latter replied. "But if it should happen that there is a man on board named Sam Winter—"
"There is," interrupted Darley.
"And another named Simmons and others named Foat, Bradley, and Darker, I think, if you introduce me to them, that we shall get the whole story. And as to the gun-running, I can't make a voluntary statement, but if you were to put me in the witness-box, I should have to tell you all that I know; and I may say that I know a good deal. Will that do, for the present?
Darley smiled complacently. "It seems like a pretty straight tip," said he. "I will just skip on board, now, and take possession of the manifest; and if you will give me that list of names again, I will see if those men are on board, and bring them ashore, if they are. You will be staying at the fort, I suppose? There are only Cockeram and the doctor there."
"Yes," said Betty, "I shall ask Mr. Cockeram to put him up, for to-night, at any rate."
"Very well," said Darley, "then I shall see you again later. And now I will be off and lay the train."
He touched his cap, and as they emerged into an open space before the gateway of the fort, he turned and walked away briskly down a long, shady avenue of wild fig-trees that led towards the shore.
Quittah fort was a shabby-looking, antique structure adapted to the conditions of primitive warfare. It was entered by an arched gateway graced by two ancient cannon set up as posts and guarded by a Hausa sentry in a blue serge uniform and a scarlet fez. Towards the gateway Osmond and Betty directed their steps, and as they approached, the sentry sprang smartly to attention and presented arms; whereupon Betty marched in with impressive dignity and two tiny fingers raised to the peak of her helmet.
"This seems to be the way up," she said, turning towards a mouldering wooden staircase, as a supercilious-looking pelican waddled towards them and a fish-eagle on a perch in a corner uttered a loud yell. "What a queer place it is! It look
s like a menagerie. I wonder if there is anyone at home."
She tripped up the stairs, followed by Osmond and watched suspiciously by an assemblage of storks, coots, rails, and other birds which were strolling about at large in the quadrangle, and came out on an open space at the top of a corner bastion. Just as they reached this spot a man came hurrying out of a shabby building which occupied one side of the square; and at the first glance Osmond recognized him as the officer who had come to Adaffia to execute the warrant on the day when he had buried poor Larkom. The recognition was mutual, for as soon as he had saluted Betty, the officer turned to him and held out his hand.
"Larkom, by Jove!" said he.
"My name is Cook," Osmond corrected.
"Oh," said the other; "glad you set me right, because I have been going to send you a note. You remember me—Cockeram. I came down to Adaffia, you know, about that poor chap, Osmond."
"I remember. You said you had been going to write to me."
"Yes. I was going to send you something that I thought would interest you. I may as well give it to you now." He began to rummage in his pockets and eventually brought forth a bulging letter-case, the very miscellaneous contents of which he proceeded to sort out. "It's about poor Osmond," he continued, disjointedly, and still turning over a litter of papers. "I felt that you would like to see it. Poor chap! It was such awfully rough luck."
"What was?" asked Osmond.
"Why, you remember," replied Cockeram, suspending his search to look up, "that I had a warrant to arrest him. It seemed that he was wanted for some sort of jewel robbery and there had been a regular hue-and-cry after him. Then he managed to slip away to sea and had just contrived to get into hiding at Adaffia when the fever got him. Frightful hard lines!"
"Why hard lines?" demanded Osmond.
"Why? Because he was innocent."
"Innocent!" exclaimed Osmond, staring at the officer in amazement.
"Yes, innocent. Had nothing whatever to do with the robbery. No one can make out why on earth he scooted."
As Cockeram made his astounding statement, Betty turned deathly pale. "Is it quite certain that he was innocent?" she asked in a low, eager tone.
"Perfectly," he replied, turning an astonished blue eye on the white-faced girl and then hastily averting it. "Where is that confounded paper—newspaper cutting? I cut it out to send to Lark—Cook. There is no doubt whatever. It seems that they employed a criminal lawyer chap—a certain Dr. Thorndyke—to work up the case against Osmond. So this lawyer fellow got to work. And the upshot of it was that he proved conclusively that Osmond couldn't possibly be the guilty party."
"How did he prove that?" Osmond demanded.
"In the simplest and most satisfactory way possible," replied Cockeram. "He followed up the tracks until he had spotted the actual robber and held all the clues in his hand. Then he gave the police the tip; and they swooped down on my nabs—caught him fairly on the hop with all the stolen property in his possession. There isn't the shadow of a doubt about it."
"What was the name of the man who stole the gems?" Osmond asked anxiously.
"I don't remember," Cockeram replied. "What interested me was the name of the man who didn't steal them."
Betty, still white-faced and trembling, stood gazing rather wildly at Osmond. For his face bore a very singular expression—an expression that made her feel sick at heart. He did not look relieved or joyful. Surprised he certainly was. But it was not joyous surprise. Rather was it suggestive of alarm and dismay. And meanwhile Cockeram continued to turn over the accumulations in his letter-case. Suddenly he drew forth a crumpled and much-worn envelope from which he triumphantly extracted a long newspaper cutting.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, as he handed it to Osmond, "here we are. You will find full particulars in this. You needn't send it back to me. I have done with it. And now I must hook off to the court-house. You will take possession of the mess-room, Miss Burleigh, won't you? and order whatever you want. Of course, Mr. Cook is my guest." With a formal salute he turned, ran down the rickety stairs and out at the gate, pursued closely as far as the wicket by the pelican.
But Betty's whole attention was focussed on Osmond; and as he fastened hungrily on the newspaper cutting, she took his arm and drew him gently through a ramshackle lattice porch into the shabby little white washed mess-room, where she stood watching with mingled hope and terror the strange, enigmatical expression on his face as he devoured the printed lines.
Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—that expression changed. Anxiety, even consternation, gave place to the wildest astonishment; his jaw fell, and the hand which held the newspaper cutting dropped to his side. And then he laughed aloud; a weird, sardonic laugh that made poor Betty's flesh creep.
"What is it, Jim, dear?" she asked nervously.
He looked in her face and laughed again.
"My name," said he, "is not Jim. It is John. John Osmond."
"Very well, John," she replied, meekly. "But why did you laugh?"
He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her with a smile.
"Betty, darling," said he, "do I understand that you are willing to marry me?"
"Willing indeed!" she exclaimed. "I am going to marry you."
"Then, my darling," said he, "you are going to marry a fool."
BOOK II — THE INVESTIGATOR
XII. THE INDICTMENT
Mr. Joseph Penfield sat behind his writing-table in a posture of calm attention, allowing his keen grey eyes to travel back and forth from the silver snuff box which lay on the note-pad before him to the two visitors who confronted him from their respective chairs. One of these, an elderly hard-faced man, square of jaw and truculent of eye, was delivering some sort of statement, while the other, a considerably younger man, listened critically, with his eyes cast down, but stealing, from time to time, a quick, furtive glance either at the speaker or at Mr. Penfield. He was evidently following the statement closely; and to an observer there might have appeared in his concentrated attention something more than mere interest; something inscrutable, with, perhaps, the faintest suggestion of irony.
As the speaker came, somewhat abruptly, to an end, Mr. Penfield opened his snuff-box and took a pinch delicately between finger and thumb.
"It is not quite clear to me, Mr. Woodstock," said he, "why you are consulting me in this matter. You are an experienced practitioner, and the issue is a fairly simple one. What is there against your dealing with the case according to your own judgment?"
"A good deal," Mr. Woodstock replied. "In the first place, I am one of the interested parties—the principal one, in fact. In the second, I practise in a country town, whereas you are here in the very heart of the legal world; and in the third, I have no experience whatever of criminal practice; I am a conveyancer pure and simple."
"But," objected Mr. Penfield, "this is not a matter of criminal practice. It is just a question of your liability as a bailee."
"Yes, true. But that question is closely connected with the robbery. Since no charge was made for depositing this property in my strong-room, obviously, I am not liable unless it can be shown that the loss was due to negligence. But the question of negligence turns on the robbery."
"Which I understand was committed by one of your own staff?"
"Yes, the man Osmond, whom I mentioned; one of my confidential clerks—Hepburn, here, is the other—who had access to the strong-room and who absconded as soon as the robbery was discovered."
"When you say he had access," said Mr. Penfield, "you mean—"
"That he had access to the key during office hours. As a matter of fact, it hangs on the wall beside my desk, and when I am there the strong-room is usually kept open—the door is in my private office and opposite to my desk. Of course, when I leave at the end of the day, I lock up the strong-room and take the key away with me."
"Yes. But in the interval—hm? It almost looks as if a claim might be—hm? But you have given me only an outline of the affair. P
erhaps a more detailed account might enable us better to form an opinion on the position. Would it be troubling you too much?"
Not at all," replied Mr. Woodstock; "but it is rather a long story. However, I will cut it as short as I can. We will take the events in the order in which they occurred; and you must pull me up, Hepburn, if I overlook anything.
"The missing valuables are the property of a client of mine named Hollis; a retired soap manufacturer, as rich as Croesus, and like most of these over-rich men, having made a fortune was at his wit's end what to do with it. Eventually, he adopted the usual plan. He became a collector. And having decided to burden himself with a lot of things that he didn't want, he put the lid on it by specializing in goldsmith's work, jewellery and precious stones. Wanted a valuable collection, he said, that could be kept in an ordinary dwelling-house.
"Well, of course, the acquisitive mania, once started, grew by what it fed on. The desire to possess this stuff became an obsession. He was constantly planning expeditions in search of new rarities, scouring the Continent for fresh loot, flitting from town to town and from dealer to dealer like an idiotic bee. And whenever he went off on one of these expeditions he would bring the pick of his confounded collection to me to have it deposited in my strong-room. I urged him to take it to the bank; but he doesn't keep an account with any of the local branches and didn't want to take the stuff to London. Moreover, he had inspected my strong-room and was a good deal impressed by it."
"It is really strong, is it?" asked Mr. Penfield.
"Very. Thick reinforced concrete lined with steel. Very large, too. Not that the strength is material as it was not broken into. Well, eventually I agreed to deposit the things in the strong-room—couldn't refuse an important client—but I resolutely declined to make any charge or accept any sort of consideration for the service. I wasn't going to make myself responsible for the safety of things of that value. And I explained my position to Hollis; but he said that a strong-room that was good enough for my valuable documents was good enough for his jewels. Which was talking like a fool. Burglars don't break into safes to steal leases.
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