IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

The next afternoon, I landed at Southampton; and having left my luggage with Raynor’s at the railway station, and exchanged my twenty-five sovereigns for their equivalent in Bank of England notes, I started off to see some relatives living a short way out of the town. After a few pleasant hours at Hambledon Hall, I drove back to Southampton, took an evening train to London, and by half-past nine was comfortably installed in my old quarters, No. 91 Savile Street, W.

In the morning arrived a telegram from Raynor: ‘Heard of a good thing in Dublin. Going there at once. May be a long business. Better countermand my rooms. Will write.’ Here without doubt was an end, at least for the present, of our partnership. Whether Paul intended me to gather that the ‘good thing’ was to involve my presence in Ireland, I knew not; but having already come to a very distinct understanding with him that the venue of any future operations must, as far as I was concerned, be laid in or near London, I was able to decide at once that even the claims of friendship did not demand my expatriation to the other side of the Irish Channel.

London was hot, airless, and uninviting this 21st of July. Two days had elapsed, during which I had heard nothing more from Raynor; and as I loitered down to my club, there came into my mind the recollection of Keymer, a breezy little homestead among the Sussex downs, where lived a middle-aged bachelor cousin of mine, and of his cordial invitation to repeat a visit I had paid him the previous summer. Half an hour later I had posted my letter to Henry Rodd, whose reply by return post was all I could wish: On and after the 24th, he would be delighted to see me for as long as I cared to stay.

On the morning of the 26th, the day upon which I was to leave for Keymer, my landlady presented herself in my sitting-room, and with an expression as of one who has intelligence to convey, opened upon me with: ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, but there was a gentleman called yesterday, askin’ whether we had any one lodgin’ here as was jest back from furrin parts, because he’d got a friend who he thought was goin’ to some lodgin’s in this street, and he couldn’t find him out—not the gentleman, couldn’t, that is, sir. I’m sure he knew you, sir, because he said, when I called you Mr Rodd, “Ah! is that Mr P. Rodd?” says he. “Yes,” says I to the gent; “it’s Mr Peter Rodd.” “O yes,” says he, careless-like, “I know Mr Peter Rodd by name.” Then he give me five shillin’s, sir, and told me be sure and not trouble you about his ’avin’ been, seein’ as ’ow you wouldn’t know who he was—he didn’t give no name, sir—but I thought I’d best tell you, sir, because it didn’t seem right-like his givin’ me five shillin’s to say nothin’ about it. Excuse me for mentionin’ it, sir; but it’s what I call ’ush-money, and it’s burnin’ ’oles in my pocket ever since.’

Here the worthy woman paused for breath; and wondering much who this lavish unknown might be, and how he came to know so obscure an individual as myself by name, I, perhaps indiscreetly, asked for a description of his appearance, being then unaware of the curious fact, that people in good Mrs Morton’s station of life are wholly incapable of conveying to a third person the faintest impression of a stranger’s exterior. Thus she could not say whether he was dark or fair, tall or short, young or old, stout or thin. Upon one point only did her memory serve her: ‘His necktie was a speckly, twisted up in a sailorses’ knot.’ Having triumphantly furnished me with this useful clue to the visitor’s identity, Mrs Morton took herself down-stairs.

A sudden thought struck me, and I ran to the window. No; there was not a soul to be seen in the quiet little street save a very ordinary looking person in a gray dustcoat, sunning himself against the pillar-box at the corner some fifty yards away; evidently a groom waiting for orders, I thought. An hour later, I went out to make some purchases, lunched at Blanchard’s, and drove back to Savile Street to prepare for my journey to Sussex. There, in friendly converse with a policeman at the same corner, was Citizen Gray-coat. I looked sharply at him as my cab passed. His tie was not ‘speckly,’ nor had he any outward pretensions to the title of ‘gentleman.’

I reached Keymer without adventure late in the afternoon, my cousin himself driving over in his trap to meet me. Turning round on the platform, after our first hand-shaking, to look for my travelling-bag, I saw stooping in the act of reading the card attached to the handle—the man in the gray dustcoat.

It could not be a chance! No; look at it which way I would, there scowled at me the unpleasant but undeniable fact that I was being ‘watched.’ For what purpose, it was of course impossible to tell, though I had no difficulty in connecting the visitor of the day before with the apparition in gray at the little Sussex junction. I waited till the evening to mention the matter to my cousin Henry, who, after a ringing laugh and many small jokes at my expense, suddenly became serious, and remarked: ‘But I say, Peter, it is an excessively disagreeable thing to be followed about in that sort of way. Can’t you account for the mistake in any way, so as to be able to get rid of the fellow to-morrow?’

At that moment the suspicion against which I had fought so hard was borne in with irresistible force upon my mind, and almost dizzy with the physical effort to conceal its effect, I muttered my concurrence with Rodd, that for his sake no less than my own, steps should at once be taken to come to an understanding with the man and relieve him of his duty. Looking forward with interest to learning the nature of the mistake next day, we parted for the night.

That circumstances were so shaping themselves as to do away with the necessity of any action from our side, did not, and could not enter into my calculations, as, bitterly wondering when and how this miserable suspicion would become a sickening certainty, I fell into a dream-haunted and unquiet sleep.

We had breakfasted, and were leaving the house towards eleven o’clock the next morning, intending, if we could sight him, to interview the gray-coated sentry, when a station fly drove up to the door and deposited a well-built and gentlemanly looking person, who, slightly raising his hat, said: ‘May I ask if either of you gentlemen is Mr Peter Rodd?’

Casually noticing that the speaker wore a speckled tie, I replied: ‘That is my name.’

‘Then it is my duty to inform you, sir, that I have a warrant for your arrest on a criminal charge, and at the same time to caution you against saying anything which may hereafter be used in your disfavour.’

‘What is the charge?’ I asked, ‘with the air,’ as Henry afterwards observed, ‘of a man who is in the habit of being arrested every morning after breakfast.’

‘Suspicion of having stolen on or about the 23d June a sum of one thousand five hundred and fifty pounds in gold from the Alliance Bank, Cape Town, in which you were an employee under the name of Percival Royston.’

‘And what evidence have you that this gentleman is the person for whose arrest you have a warrant?’ interposed my cousin.

‘Strictly speaking, I have told you all I am permitted to do,’ was the courteous answer. ‘But it will not be a very grave breach of duty if I say that my prisoner is known to have reached England in the Balbriggan Castle, to have exchanged gold for notes at Southampton, and to be in possession of a quantity of luggage marked P. R., some of which has been found upon examination to contain clothes, books, and letters bearing the name Percival Royston, Alliance Bank, Cape Town; while in other boxes were found similar articles with the name Peter Rodd, showing the adoption of the alias.’

‘Would it be within your province to release your prisoner upon undoubted proof that he is not the person wanted?’

The officer thought for a moment, and replied: ‘If such proof could be confirmed by a magistrate—and after communicating with headquarters—yes.’

‘Then,’ said my cousin, ‘will you be good enough to bring your prisoner to the manor-house, and ask the squire—who is a magistrate—three simple questions?—The name of your prisoner—How long it is since they last met—What is to his knowledge the total duration of the prisoner’s recent absence from England?’

This my captor readily consented to do; and after the three questions had been answered by the squire—at whose house I had dined just a year before—telegraphed to Scotland Yard, asking whether it was known how long Royston had been continuously in the service of the bank. The answer came speedily: ‘Five or six years;’ followed half an hour later by a second message: ‘A mistake has occurred. Do not arrest Rodd. If already done, express regret, and return at once.’ There was just time for him to catch an up-train; and after carrying out his last instructions with great politeness, the detective drove off, stopping, as I observed, at the end of the drive to pick up a man who was leaning against the gate-post, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a gray dustcoat.

The next post from London brought a very ample explanation and apology for ‘the painful position in which I had been placed through an exceedingly regrettable mistake. This had arisen through the imperfect information furnished to the authorities in the first instance as to the movements of the real culprit, who, they had unfortunately no room whatever to doubt, was the passenger going under the name of Paul Raynor. This person, it was now ascertained, had taken passage on board a sailing-ship for South America. The similarity of initials, with other facts of which I was aware, had combined to mislead those engaged in the case; while the discovery of Royston’s luggage in my possession had of course confirmed their suspicions.

‘They were directed to add that the alias under which I knew him had of course been assumed only after the Balbriggan Castle had actually sailed, as the message brought by the next homeward-bound steamer to Madeira, and thence telegraphed to England, did not contain this important item of information.’

Opening the newspaper two or three days later, I read at the head of a column, in conspicuous type: ‘Arrival of the Cape Mail. Audacious Robbery from a Cape Town Bank’—then in smaller print: ‘A considerable sensation has been caused at Cape Town by the discovery of a robbery planned and carried out with an audacity which it is not too much to describe as unique in the annals of crime. The circumstances are briefly these. On the morning of Wednesday the 16th June, the mail-steamer Turcoman arrived in Table Bay from England, having on board some five thousand pounds in gold for the Alliance Bank, to whose care it was duly delivered on the same day. A portion of this amount, namely, fifteen hundred pounds, was destined for the use of the bank’s Diamond Fields branch at De Vriespan, where it was required with all expedition. The overland service between Cape Town and the Diamond Fields is a bi-weekly one, leaving the former place at six A.M. on Monday and Thursday, and covering the whole distance of seven hundred miles in about five days nine hours. In order, therefore, to insure the despatch of the case containing the specie by the mail-cart on the following day, Mr Percival Royston, the assistant-cashier, was requested to undertake, in conjunction with the senior clerk, Mr Albertus Jager, the duty of counting and repacking the gold, after the completion of their ordinary work at six or seven o’clock. According to the latter gentleman’s statement, the task was not commenced till after dinner at about eight o’clock. They had made some considerable progress when Royston remarked how pale and tired his companion was looking. Upon Mr Jager’s admitting that he was feeling far from well, the other asked him if he would not give up the work and go home to bed, saying that he (Royston) would finish the counting himself and have everything ready in plenty of time for to-morrow. Knowing how thoroughly the assistant-cashier was trusted by the bank, Mr Jager allowed himself to be persuaded, and left at once for his own quarters. The case was duly despatched in the morning, in charge of a clerk proceeding to the De Vriespan office on promotion, the fact being reported by Royston to the head-cashier.

‘Nothing further appears to have transpired until Tuesday the 21st June, when the head-cashier addressing Royston, asked: “By the way, when is that gold due at De Vriespan? To-day?”

“Yes, sir,” was the answer; “we ought to get the telegram announcing its arrival in half an hour or so.”

‘It is the custom of the bank to send a junior clerk to the home-going mail-steamer with late letters for England, which may be posted on board upon payment of an extra fee. This duty Royston asked to be allowed to perform on the present occasion, stating that he would be glad of the opportunity of seeing some friends off who were leaving by the steamer that day. He left the bank at three forty-five, was seen to go on board with a travelling-bag ten minutes later, and has not since been heard of. His other luggage, consisting of two portmanteaus, had been removed from his lodgings before daybreak, Royston having somehow obtained the services of a coolie, who states that, following his instructions, he first carried the luggage to an inn near the docks, subsequently transferring it thence by hand-truck to the ship as soon as the dock gates were opened. It should be remarked that Royston occupied rooms on the ground-floor, the landlord and his wife and the other lodgers sleeping on the first and second floors. But for this fact, it would probably have been impossible to effect the removal of the luggage without disturbing the other occupants of the house.

‘At five o’clock a telegram was received at the Alliance Bank: “De Vriespan, four thirty. Case just arrived. On being opened, found to contain nothing but lead-sheeting to exact weight of gold expected. Clerk in charge denies all knowledge. Wire any instructions.” A cab dashed furiously to the docks, its occupant the head-cashier, who, as he turned the corner towards the quay, was just able to descry the smoke of the vanishing steamer now four or five miles on her way. “Too late!” shouted the Steam Company’s agent as he passed on foot. “Ship sailed sharp at four thirty!”

‘The above incident will most probably give a sharp impetus to the movement, already initiated in Cape commercial circles, for the establishment of ocean cable communication with Great Britain direct, the importance of which, from an imperial as well as a colonial point of view, has long been recognised.’

A keen east wind was blowing in my teeth as I hurried along the Strand towards Temple Bar one morning in March, and as I bent my head to meet a more than usually piercing gust, I came against a passer-by, who answered my apology with a smile of recognition. ‘Mr Rodd, I think?’

It was no other than the polite detective, more polite than ever, because of the whirling dust and biting wind, against which the best of good-humour is so rarely proof.

‘Ah, sir,’ he went on, as we drew into a low archway for a moment’s talk, ‘you would be astonished to hear the story of the wildgoose chase we had after Mr Percival Royston last summer and autumn. If you would care to call in at my quarters any day after four o’clock, I should be very pleased to tell you about it.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied; ‘I will see. Meanwhile, how did it end?’

‘All wrong for us, I am sorry to say. He got clean away from us; and I don’t suppose we shall ever hear of him again.’

The sun shone out for a moment, and the wind seemed to have lost something of its bitter chill as I wished Detective Elms good-morning and passed on my way eastward.