The King of Diamonds: A Tale of Mystery and Adventure

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER VI.

  _A Game of Hazard._

  Philip knew that a fresh ordeal was at hand. How could he preserve hissecret--how hope to prevail against the majesty of British law aspersonified by the serene authority of the man whose penetrating glancenow rested on him? His was a dour and stubborn nature, though hardlymolded as yet in rigid lines. He threw back his head and tightened hislips. He would cling to his anonymity to the bitter end, no matter whatthe cost. But he would not lie. Never again would he condescend to adopta subterfuge.

  "Philip Morland," began the magistrate.

  "My name is not Philip Morland," interrupted the boy.

  "Then what is your name?"

  "I will not tell you, sir. I mean no disrespect, but the fact that I amtreated as a criminal merely because I wish to dispose of my propertywarns me of what I may expect if I state publicly who I am and where Ilive."

  For the first time the magistrate heard the correct and well-modulatedflow of Philip's speech. If anything, it made more dense the mistthrough which he was trying to grope his way.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "I mean that if I state who I am, I will be robbed and swindled by allwith whom I come in contact. I have starved, I have been beaten, fortrying to earn a living. I was struck last night for saving a girl'slife. I was arrested and dragged through the streets, handcuffed, thismorning, because I went openly to a dealer to sell a portion--to sellsome of my diamonds. I will take no more risks. You may imprison me, butyou cannot force me to speak. If you are a fair man, you will give meback my diamonds and let me go free."

  This outburst fairly electrified the court. Philip could not haveadopted a more domineering tone were he the Governor of the Bank ofEngland charged with passing a counterfeit half-crown. The magistratewas as surprised as any.

  "I do not wish to argue with you," he said, quietly; "nor do I expectyou to commit yourself in any way. But you must surely see that for apoverty-stricken boy to be found in possession of gems of greatmarketable value is a circumstance that demands inquiry, however honestand--er--well bred you may be."

  "The only witness against me has said that the diamonds could not havebeen stolen," cried Philip, now thoroughly aroused, and ready for anywar of wits.

  "Quite true. The inference is that you have discovered a meteoricdeposit of diamonds."

  "I have. Some--not all--are before you."

  A tremor shook the court. Isaacstein swallowed something, and his headsank more deeply below his shoulders.

  "Then I take it that you will not inform me of the locality of thisdeposit?"

  "Yes."

  "And you think that by disclosing your name and address you will revealthat locality?"

  Philip grew red.

  "Is it fair," he said, with a curious iciness in his tone, "that a manof your age should use his position and knowledge to try and trip a boywho is brought before you on a false charge?"

  It was the magistrate's turn to look slightly confused. There was someasperity in his reply.

  "I am not endeavoring to trip you, but rather to help you to freeyourself from a difficult position. However, do I understand that yourefuse to answer any questions?"

  "I do." The young voice rang through the building with an amazingfierceness.

  Mr. Abingdon bent over the big book in front of him and scribbledsomething.

  "Remanded for a week," he muttered.

  "Downstairs," growled the court jailer, and Philip disappeared fromsight. The magistrate was left gazing at the packet of diamonds, and hecalled Isaacstein, the clerk of the court, and two police inspectorsinto his private office for a consultation.

  Meanwhile London was placarded with Philip's adventures that Saturdayevening. Contents bills howled in their blackest and biggest type,newsvenders bawled themselves hoarse over this latest sensation,journalistic ferrets combined theory and imagination in the effort tospin out more "copy," Scotland Yard set its keenest detectives at workto reveal the secret of Philip's identity, while Isaacstein, acting onthe magistrate's instructions, wrote to every possible source ofinformation in the effort to obtain some clew as to recent meteoricshowers.

  No one thought of connecting the great storm with the "Diamond Mystery."Meteors usually fall from a clear sky, and are in no way affected byatmospheric disturbances, their normal habitat being far beyond theinfluence of the earth's envelope of air.

  And so the "hunt for the meteor" commenced, and was kept up with zestfor many days. "Have you found it?" became the stock question of thehumorist, and might be addressed with impunity to any stranger,particularly if the stranger were a nice-looking girl. No one answered"What?" because of the weird replies that were forthcoming.

  The police failed utterly in their efforts to discover Philip's identityor residence. Johnson's Mews, Mile End Road, might as well be inTimbuctoo for all the relation it bore to Ludgate Hill or Hatton Garden.An East End policeman might have recognized Philip had he seen him, butthe official description of his clothing and personal appearance appliedto thousands of hobbledehoys in every district of London.

  Two persons among the six millions of the metropolis alone possessed theknowledge that would have led the inquirers along the right track. Thedoctor who attended Mrs. Anson in her last illness, had he read thenewspaper comments on the boy's speech and mannerisms, might have seenthe coincidence supplied by the Christian name, and thus been led tomake some further investigation. But his hands were full of trouble onhis own account. A dispenser mixed a prescription wrongly, and dosed apatient with half an ounce of arsenic instead of half an ounce of creamof tartar. The subsequent inquest gave the doctor enough to do, and thefirst paper he had leisure to peruse contained a bare reference to the"Diamond Mystery" as revealing no further developments. He passed theparagraph unread.

  The remaining uncertain element centered in old O'Brien, the pensioner.Now it chanced that the treasury had discovered that by a clericalmistake in a warrant, the old man had been drawing twopence a day inexcess of his rightful pension for thirty-three years. Some humorist inWhitehall thereupon sent him a demand for one hundred and three poundsand fifteen shillings, and the member of the Whitechapel Division wascompelled to adopt stern tactics in the House before the matter wasadjusted, and O'Brien was allowed to receive the reduced quarterlystipend then due. During that awful crisis the poor, old fellow hardlyate or slept. Even when it had ended, the notion remained firmly fixedin his mind that the "murdherin' government had robbed him of a hundredgowlden sovereigns, an' more."

  As for newspapers, the only item he read during many days was thequestion addressed by his "mimber" to the Chancellor of the Exchequerand the brief reply thereto, both of which were fixed beforehand bymutual arrangement.

  In one instance the name given and afterward repudiated by the boy didattract some attention. On the Monday following the remand, a lady satat breakfast in a select West End Hotel, and languidly perused therecord of the case until her eye caught the words "Philip Morland." Thenher air of delicate hauteur vanished, and she left her breakfastuntouched until, with hawklike curving of neck and nervous clutching ofhands, she had read every line of the police court romance. She was atall, thin, aristocratic-looking woman, with eyes set too closelytogether, a curved nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, and handscovered with a leathery skin suggesting talons. Her attire and posewere elegant, but she did not seem to be a pleasant sort of person. Herlips parted in a vinegary smile as she read. She evidently did notbelieve one word of the newspaper report in so far as the diamonds wereconcerned.

  "A vulgar swindle!" she murmured to herself. "How is it possible for apolice magistrate to be taken in in such manner! I suppose the Jewperson knows more about it than appears on the surface. But how came theboy to give that name? It is sufficiently uncommon to be remarkable. Howstupid it was of Julie to mislay my dressing case. It would be reallyinteresting to know what has become of those people, and now I may haveto leave town before I can find out."

  How much
further her disjointed comments might have gone it isimpossible to say, but at that moment a French maid entered the room andgazed inquiringly around the various small tables with which it wasfilled. At last she found the lady, who was breakfasting alone, and spedswiftly toward her.

  "I am so glad, milady," she said, speaking in French. "The bag has founditself at the police station. The cabman brought it there, and, if youplease, milady, as the value was given as eight pounds, he claimed areward of one pound."

  "Which you will pay yourself. You lost the bag," was the curt reply."Where is it?"

  The maid's voice was somewhat tearful as she answered:

  "In milady's room. I paid the sovereign."

  Her ladyship rose and glided gracefully toward the door, followed by themaid, who whispered to a French waiter--bowing most deferentially tothe guest as he held the door open--that her mistress was a cat. Heconfided his own opinion that her ladyship was a holy pig, and the twopassed along a corridor.

  Lady Morland hastily tore open the recovered dressing case, andconsulted an address book.

  "Oh! here it is," she cried, triumphantly. "Number three, Johnson'sMews, Mile End Road, E. What a horrid-smelling place. However, Messrs.Sharpe & Smith will now be able to obtain some definite intelligence forme. Julie! My carriage in ten minutes."

  Thus it happened that during the afternoon, a dapper little clerkdescended from an omnibus in the neighborhood of Johnson's Mews, andbegan his inquiries, as all Londoners do, by consulting a policeman.Certain facts were forthcoming.

  "A Mrs. Anson, a widow, who lived in Johnson's Mews? Yes, I think awoman of that name died a few weeks ago. I remember seeing a funeralleave the mews. I don't know anything about the boy. Sometimes, when Ipass through there at night, I have seen a light in the house. However,here it is. Let's have a look at it."

  The pair entered the mews and approached the deserted house. Thesolicitor's clerk knocked and then tried the door; it was locked. Theyboth went to the window and looked in. Had Philip hanged himself, as heintended, they would have been somewhat surprised by the spectacle thatwould have met their eyes. As it was, they only saw a small room ofutmost wretchedness, with a mattress lying on the floor in front of thefireplace. An empty tin and a bundle of old letters rested on a ricketychair, and a piece of sacking was thrust through two broken panes inthe small window opposite.

  "Not much there, eh?" laughed the policeman.

  "Not much, indeed. The floor is all covered with dirt, and if it werenot for the bed, one would imagine that the house was entirely deserted.Are you sure Mrs. Anson is dead?"

  "Oh, quite sure. Hers was rather a hard case, some one told me. Iremember now; it was the undertaker. He lives near here."

  "And the boy. Has he gone away?"

  "I don't know. I haven't seen him lately."

  Each of these men had read all the reports concerning Philip and hisdiamonds. Large numbers of tiny, white pebbles were lying on the floorbeneath their eyes, but the window was not clean, and the light was farfrom good, as the sky was clouded. Yet they were visible enough. Theclerk noticed them at once, but neither he nor the policeman paid moreheed to the treasures almost at their feet than was given by generationsof men to the outcrop of the main reef at Johannesburg. At last theyturned away. The clerk gave the policeman a cigar with the remark:

  "I will just ask the undertaker to give me a letter, stating the factsabout Mrs. Anson's death. I suppose the boy is in the workhouse?"

  "Who knows! It often beats me to tell what becomes of the kids who areleft alone in London. Poor, little devils, they mostly go to the bad.There should be some means of looking after them, I think."

  Thus did Philip, bravely sustaining his heart in the solitude of aprison, escape the greatest danger that threatened the preservation ofhis secret, and all because a scheming woman was too clever to tell hersolicitors the exact reason for her anxiety concerning the whereaboutsof Mrs. Anson and her son.

  The boy passed a dolorous Saturday night and Sunday. Nevertheless, theorder, the cleanliness, the comparative comfort of a prison, were notwholly ungrateful to him. His meals, though crude, were wholesome,luxurious, even, compared with the privations he had endured during theprevious fortnight. The enforced rest, too, did him good, and, beingunder remand, he had nothing to do but eat, take exercise, read a fewbooks provided for him, and sleep.

  With Monday came a remarkable change in his fare. A pint of first-ratecocoa and some excellent bread and butter for breakfast evoked nocomment on his part, but a dinner of roast beef, potatoes, cabbage andrice pudding was so extremely unlike prison diet that he questioned theturnkey.

  "It's all right, kid," came the brief answer. "It's paid for. Eat whileyou can, and ask no questions."

  "But----"

  The door slammed, and at the next meal Philip received in silence a cupof tea and a nice tea cake. This went on during three days. The goodfood and rest had already worked a marvelous change in his appearance.He entered the prison looking like a starved dog. When he rose on theThursday morning and washed himself, no one would have recognized him asthe same boy were it not for his clothes.

  After dinner, he was tidying his cell and replacing the plates and therest on a tin tray, when the door was suddenly flung open and a wardercried:

  "Come along, Morland. You're wanted at the court."

  "At the court!" he could not help saying. "This is only Thursday."

  "What a boy you are for arguing. Pick up your hat and come. Yourcarriage waits, my lord. I hope you will like your quarters as well whenyou come back. A pretty stir you have made in the papers the last fivedays."

  Philip glanced at the man, who seemed to be in a good humor.

  "I will not come back," he said, quietly, "but I wish you would tell mewho supplied me with food while I have been here."

  They were passing along a lofty corridor, and there was no superiorofficer in sight. The warder laughed.

  "I don't know, my lord," he said, "but the menoo came from the RoyalStar Hotel, opposite."

  Philip obtained no further news. He passed through an office, a voucherwas signed for him, and he emerged into the prison yard, where the hugeprison van awaited him. He was the only occupant, just as on the firstmemorable ride in that conveyance. When he came to the prison from thepolice court he had several companions in misery. But they were"stretched." His case was the only "remand."

  During the long drive Philip endeavored to guess the cause of thisunexpected demand for his presence. Naturally, he assumed that Johnson'sMews no longer held safe the secret of his meteor. Such few sensationalromances as he had read credited detectives with superhuman sagacity. Inhis mind, Johnson's Mews was the center of the world. It enshrined themarvelous--how could it escape the thousands of prying eyes that passeddaily through the great thoroughfare of the East End, but a few yardsaway? Judging from the remark dropped by the warder, all London wastalking about him. A puzzling feature was the abundant supply of goodfood sent to him in the prison. Who was his unknown friend--and whatexplanation was attached to the incident?

  Philip's emotions were no more capable of analysis than a display ofrockets. Immured in this cage, rattling over the pavements, he seemed tobe advancing through a tunnel into an unknown world.

  At last the van stopped, and he was led forth into the yard of thepolice court. He followed the same route as on the previous Saturday,but when he ascended into the court itself he discovered a change. Themagistrate, a couple of clerks, and some policemen alone were present.The general public and the representatives of the press were notvisible.

  He had scarcely faced the bench when the magistrate said:

  "You are set at liberty. The police withdraw the charge against you."

  Philip's eyes sparkled and his breast heaved tumultuously. For the lifeof him he could utter no word, but Mr. Abingdon helped him by quietlydirecting the usher to permit the lad to leave the dock and take a seatat the solicitors' table.

  Then, speaking slowly and with some
gravity, he said:

  "Philip Morland--that is the only name by which I know you--theauthorities have come to the conclusion that your story is right. Youhave unquestionably found a deposit of diamonds, and although thisnecessarily exists on some person's property, there is no evidence toshow whose property it is. It may be your own. It may be situated beyondthe confines of this kingdom. There are many hypotheses, each of whichmay be true; but, in any event, if others lay claim to this treasuretrove--and I warn you that the Crown has a right in such a matter--theissue is a civil and not a criminal one. Therefore, you are discharged,and your property is now handed back to you intact."

  A clerk placed before Philip his parcel of diamonds, his key, the rustyknife, the pieces of string, and the two buttons--truly a motleycollection. The boy was pale, and his voice somewhat tremulous as heasked:

  "May I go now, sir?"

  Mr. Abingdon leaned back in his chair and passed his hand over his faceto conceal a smile.

  "I have something more to say to you," he answered. "It is an offenseagainst the law to withhold your name and address. I admit the powerfulmotives which actuated you, so I make the very great concession thatyour earlier refusal will be overlooked if you privately tell me thatwhich you were unwilling to state publicly."

  Philip instantly decided that it would be foolish in the extreme torefuse this offer. He pocketed his diamonds, looked the magistratestraight in the face, and said:

  "I will do that, sir. As the information is to be given to you alone,may I write it?"

  The policemen and other officials sniggered at this display of caution,but the magistrate nodded, and Philip wrote his name and address on asheet of foolscap, which he folded before handing it to the usher.

  To his great surprise, Mr. Abingdon placed the paper in a pocketbookwithout opening it.

  "I will make no use of this document unless the matter comes before meagain officially. I wish to point out to you that I have brought youfrom prison at the earliest possible moment, and have spared you thepublicity which your movements would attract were your case settled inopen court. You are not aware, perhaps, that you figure largely in theeyes of the public at this moment. There are newspapers which would givea hundred pounds to get hold of you. There are thieves who would shadowyour every movement, waiting for a chance to waylay and rob you--murderyou, if necessary. I have taken precautions, therefore, to safeguardyou, at least within the precincts of this court, but I cannot beresponsible beyond its limits. May I ask what you intend to do?"

  Philip, proud in the knowledge that he was cleared of all dishonor, wasat no loss for words now.

  "First, I wish to thank you, sir," he said. "You have acted most kindlytoward me, and, when I am older, I hope to be permitted to acknowledgeyour thoughtfulness better than is possible to-day. I will endeavor totake care of myself. I am going now to see Mr. Isaacstein. I do notexpect that he will send for a policeman again. If he does, I will bringhim before you."

  The magistrate himself laughed at this sally.

  "You are a strange boy," he said. "I think you are acting wisely.But--er--you have no money--that is, in a sense. Hatton Garden is somedistance from here. Let me--er--lend you a cab fare."

  "Thank you, sir," said Philip, and Mr. Abingdon, unable to account forthe interest he felt in the boy, quite apart from his inexplicablestory, gave him five shillings and shook hands with him.