Second Series (continued 3)

"I'm so glad you've come," she said. "You can help me in the Broome case."

"I shall be delighted. I have been expecting to hear something about it from you every day."

"There has been nothing really satisfactory to report," exclaimed Dorcas, "but I think we shall get on the right track to-day. I have been rather hindered by the illness of Lady Broome."

"How is she?—not worse, I hope."

"No, she is better. Her husband has been able to convince her that he has the most absolute faith in her innocence, and he has told a little white story which under the circumstances is pardonable. He has assured her that the blackmailers, finding no money has been sent, are reducing their terms, which is practically a confession that they dare not put their threat into execution."

"But what has really happened? Have they shifted their ground?"

"Not an inch. This morning, Sir Joshua received a letter informing him that 'One Who Knows' would give him only one more day's grace. Unless the money was sent to the address given by ten o'clock this evening the particulars of Lady Broome's trial and conviction would be sent to the Lord Chamberlain's office without fail."

"And have you discovered who the person is who 'knows,' and who is willing to have a thousand pounds in bank-notes entrusted to this man Winter?"

"Yes, I have been keeping observation on No. 17, Wellborough Street, and my assistant, the sergeant, has been helping me. I don't think there is the slightest doubt that the writer of the letter is Winter's wife—or at least the woman who passes as Mrs. Winter. She is a good-looking woman of about two or three and thirty, well educated, and in every way I should say the man's superior. But she is a heavy drinker. The people in the neighbourhood through whom inquiries have been made for me say that Mrs. Winter, when sober, is a well-mannered, lady-like person. She speaks like a woman of education, but with a slight American accent."

"That doesn't tell you much about her."

"Is there nothing that strikes you as peculiar in the description I have given?" said Dorcas quietly.

"No," I replied, "except that it is peculiar that a lady-like woman of education should be living with a man who, if your suspicions are correct, must be a very disreputable person."

"That has no bearing on the case," replied Dorcas. "What I think is peculiar is that she has a slight American accent."

"Why should that be peculiar in connection with this case?"

"The reason that I think so is this. Mr. John Garrod, who gave evidence in favour of Margaret Grey, and at the expiration of Margaret Grey's sentence, recommended a Margaret Grey to Sir Joshua Broome, was an American."

"Yes, of course—that is so. But there are thousands of American women in London."

"Yes—but there is still a coincidence which may be the first finger-post on the high road to the Truth. If my suspicion that this woman is the writer of the letter is correct—and I can't conceive anybody else allowing a thousand pounds to be entrusted to Winter—then we have these two facts to consider side by side. The only person who appeared to know anything about Margaret Grey in court was an American. The person who is now using the knowledge of the trial of Margaret Grey for the purpose of blackmailing Margaret Grey's husband speaks with an American accent."

"But one was a man and the other is a woman."

"Exactly," said Dorcas, "and so my next step must be to see if the man knows the woman."

"You have found Mr. Garrod?"

"Yes—late last night—that is why I telegraphed to you this morning. I cabled to New York a week ago for information. Yesterday my correspondent cabled that a John Garrod, a well-known citizen of New York, had left for London a month previously. Last night I succeeded, through the kindness of the New York Herald's London agency, in tracing Mr. John Garrod to the Hotel Métropole. We are going to call on him now."

"But how do you know that it is the same John Garrod?"

"I gave my correspondent a full description of the gentleman I wanted from the information Sir Joshua furnished me with. You forget, Sir Joshua saw him at the Langham Hotel."

We had been talking as we walked and I had been too interested in the conversation to notice which way we were going. It was therefore with something like a start that I heard Dorcas exclaim, "Here we are at the Métropole. Now for Mr. John Garrod."

"But will he see us?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," said Dorcas, "I think so. I made an appointment last night with an introduction from the London correspondent of the Herald, who is a friend of mine."

"Does he know you are a private detective?"

"No, he only knows that my name is Mrs. Dene, and that I am calling upon him with an introduction from the Herald. That is a pass-word with all good Americans."

"And why have you brought me?"

"Because I want a witness to our conversation. When you are cross-examining anyone the presence of a third party is invaluable. It is the presence of an audience that worries a witness in a cross-examination in a court of law. If the witness and the counsel were fighting their duel alone in a room, half the counsel's advantage would be gone."

Dorcas went to the Inquiry Office and sent up her name to Mr. Garrod, and in a few minutes the page returned with a request that we would follow him.

We were shown into a sitting-room on the second floor, and found Mr. John Garrod, a tall, grey-haired, military-looking American of the best type.

He received us courteously, but I thought somewhat suspiciously, and at once asked Dorcas to what he was indebted for the pleasure of the interview.

"I will tell you in a few words, Mr. Garrod," said Dorcas, shifting her chair a little, so that her back was to the window, the light from which fell full on the American's face.

"This gentleman, Mr. Saxon, and myself are interested in a will, of which Mr. Saxon is one of the executors. Among those to whom money is left is a Miss Margaret Grey, formerly a governess in your employ."

Mr. Garrod's face flushed at the mention of the name of Margaret Grey, and then became deathly pale.

"I—I certainly at one time had a person of that name in my house," he said, after a pause. "But it is a good many years since we parted. Why do you come to me about her?"

"Because she is described in the will as residing with you."

"And how did you know that I was in London?"

"The New York Herald people, to whom I went to inquire if you were known in America, kindly informed me that you were here. I came to you with their introduction."

"Yes, I remember—of course. Well, I am sorry that I am unable to give you any information as to my former governess's present whereabouts."

He rose to emphasise the fact that the interview was at an end, but Dorcas was by no means anxious to terminate it.

"I am sorry," she said, "because our inquiries in other quarters led us to believe that you would know something. After her release from prison she returned to you."

The American stared at Dorcas open-mouthed for a moment, and then in a trembling voice he exclaimed, "You know that! You know that she was convicted!"

"Yes, we found that out. We got the details of the case from the Central Criminal Court's Sessions Reports, which are published regularly in book form. I suppose there was no doubt of the poor girl's guilt?"

Mr. Garrod hesitated. "I—I don't wish to say anything. I did my best to procure her acquittal."

"Oh, yes, you behaved most generously. And after her release——"

"She went away. I can tell you nothing. I have never seen her since. It was a most painful affair to me then—it is most painful to me to talk about now. I can give you no information as to Miss Grey's present whereabouts, and must beg you to excuse me—I have a business appointment in the City."

Dorcas rose from her chair, but did not move towards the door.

"Well, then, I must be frank with you, Mr. Garrod, although you won't be frank with me. I am determined to trace Margaret Grey's subsequent movements. I am a private detective, acting in the interests of Sir Joshua Broome, to whom you recommended Miss Grey. Why did you not tell us that she left you to go to Sir Joshua?"

Mr. Garrod bit his lip, and his brow clouded.

"Why should I?" he said, defiantly.

"Because Sir Joshua Broome has a right to know how you justify your conduct in recommending to him as a governess to his children a woman whom you knew to be a convicted thief."

"I don't know how you have found all this out, or why after all these years you have come here to charge me with it," exclaimed the American, "but I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that when I recommended Miss Grey to Mr. Broome—I didn't know he was Sir Joshua—I recommended a young lady whom I believed to be an honest woman."

"But she had just served a sentence of six months' imprisonment for stealing rings from a jeweller's shop. Innocent or guilty, you had no right to conceal that fact from a gentleman who came to you for Miss Grey's character."

"I had not—but I did. I was in a terrible predicament, and I did the best I could. I am quite sure that Miss Grey has done nothing to disgrace the strong recommendation I gave her to Mr. Broome."

"Nothing—on the contrary, her employer found her such an amiable and estimable woman that he married her. Your former governess is now Lady Broome."

"Then, in Heaven's name, madam, why do you come to me with this made-up story of a will? Why have you been cross-examining me as to Miss Grey's past when you are well acquainted with it, and she is now in an excellent position and beyond the reach of calumny?"

"That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Garrod. At the present moment Lady Broome is being blackmailed by a person who has a knowledge of the Old Bailey conviction."

"Blackmailed!"

"Yes. About a fortnight ago Lady Broome was presented at a Drawing Room. A day or two afterwards her husband received this." Dorcas handed him the anonymous letter.

Directly he glanced at it, he exclaimed: "My God!—it is too horrible!"

"What is horrible?" exclaimed Dorcas, starting forward and gazing steadily in his face. "You have not read the letter. Is it the handwriting you recognise?"

There was no answer.

"I know who wrote this letter," exclaimed Dorcas, "so probably do you."

"You know?—who is it then?" asked the American in a hoarse voice.

"A woman who calls herself Mrs. Winter—a woman who lives at 17, Wellborough Street, Borough, and speaks with an American accent."

For a moment John Garrod stood silent. He was evidently a prey to strong emotion.

"Madam," he said, "if you will leave this letter with me for six hours I will undertake that no more shall be heard of this infamous threat."

Dorcas shook her head.

"That may be," she said, "but that will not clear the matter up. There can be no going back now. I must either prove that Lady Broome is innocent of this foul charge, or I must repeat to Sir Joshua your acknowledgement that you were present in court when she was convicted and sentenced."

"If you will trust me with this letter I will give you my word of honour that I will call upon Sir Joshua Broome this evening and tell him all I know. Will you trust me?"

"No," said Dorcas. "I must keep the letter, but you may have this telegram which contains the name and address of the sender. Here is the telegram and here is Sir Joshua's address."

She scribbled the Wimbledon address on a card and handed it to him.

"I shall be there at nine this evening," he said.

"And I shall be waiting for you," replied Dorcas.

Directly we were outside in Northumberland Avenue Dorcas turned to me and said, "I have brought the American man and the woman with the American accent together, you see."

"Do you think Mr. Garrod is going to see Mrs. Winter?"

"Of course he is. He recognised the handwriting. I was certain of it the minute his eyes fell upon the letter."

"Am I to come to Wimbledon to-night?"

"Certainly. Sir Joshua told the beginning of the story in your presence—there is no reason you should not hear the end of it in his."

"And you think that Lady Broome is innocent—that she was wrongfully convicted?"

"On the contrary, I don't believe she was ever convicted at all. But to-night will clear up the mystery one way or the other. Good-bye till then."

"Are you going to Wellborough Street?"

"No," said Dorcas, "what's the good? If anybody has to pay that thousand pounds now it won't be Sir Joshua Broome, but Mr. John Garrod."

"But if it is a conspiracy, the conspirators may be warned by Garrod's visit and escape."

"If they run away," said Dorcas, "I shall know where to find them if I want them. The sergeant is running up Sir Joshua's bill to an enormous extent. He is going into Winter's place and putting a sovereign on almost every horse in every race, and Winter thinks he has found what I believe is known in the language of the fraternity as 'a first-class mug.'"

* * * * * *

At nine o'clock that evening Sir Joshua sat in the big library of his house at Wimbledon, anxiously waiting to renew his acquaintance with Mr. John Garrod. Dorcas, who had told the fine old fellow the result of her day's work, was in the boudoir with Lady Broome, who was now sufficiently recovered to be up, but much too unwell to risk an interview with her old employer.

Sir Joshua had given me a cigar, and I had made myself comfortable in a big easy chair. We were neither of us talking. We were both too anxious and excited to do more than think.

At a few minutes past nine Mr. Garrod was announced and shown into the library. Sir Joshua received him courteously and begged him to be seated, and sent the servant for Mrs. Dene.

"Now, sir," said Sir Joshua, when our little party was complete "Mrs. Dene informs me that she showed you the letter containing the infamous charge against my wife, and that you promised to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and to put me in possession of the facts to-night. Is that the position?"

"It is, Sir Joshua," said Mr. Garrod, speaking slowly and with evident emotion, "and I am here to fulfil my promise. I am going to place the whole facts before you, and then leave you to decide how you will deal with me. I shall place myself absolutely in your hands.

"In the first place, let me at once ease your mind on one point. When I sent Miss Grey to you I gave her the character she thoroughly deserved."

"Then," said Dorcas, interrupting, "Miss Margaret Grey, who is at present Lady Broome, could never have been a convicted thief."

"She never was. This is how it happened. I came to Europe with my two children and my second wife for a stay of two or three years. I had lost my first wife some years previously and had married again. My second wife was a young lady of good birth, but, at the time I met her, was, owing to family reverses, earning her living as a female clerk in a big New York hotel.

"It was a marriage that made a good deal of talk among my friends and acquaintances, and so I came to Europe with her, bringing my children with me. In London I went to a scholastic agency and engaged a governess. Miss Margaret Grey was sent to me and proved in every way an acquisition.

"Soon after I came to Europe I made a terrible discovery. One day to my horror, while out shopping with my wife, I noticed her pick up something from the counter and conceal it in her muff. I instantly exclaimed out loud, 'Wait a moment—let me ask the price,' and when the shopman came back I pointed to the article and paid for it.

"My wife was a kleptomaniac!

"I spoke to her seriously when we got home. I flung myself on my knees and begged her to think of what this would mean to me if it were discovered. I pointed out to her that if she were arrested and imprisoned the story would go to America, and that she would put a lasting shame upon me and mine.

"She promised me with tears in her eyes that she would not do anything of the sort again, and I believed her. I gave her all the money she could want. I gratified her every wish that there might be no temptation for her to steal again.

"After travelling about the Continent we came to London, and eventually I took a furnished house at Richmond, where I lived with my wife and children, with Miss Grey as their governess.

"One day my wife went to town alone in the morning. In the evening I received a telegram from Bow Street. I hurried there and found that my wife had been arrested for stealing a couple of rings from a jeweller's tray. In her terror when asked for her name and address she had at first refused it, but presently a diabolical idea entered her head. She gave her name as Margaret Grey, said she was a governess, and begged that I, her employer, might be telegraphed for."

"Then it was your wife who was convicted as Margaret Grey!" exclaimed Sir Joshua, springing up in his excitement.

"Yes. Ah, you must not blame me too much for what happened afterwards—think of the terrible position I was in. I was called to give evidence on behalf of Margaret Grey, my governess. If I had said, 'This woman has given a false name—she is my wife,' my one hope of getting her off would have been lost, and the case, which was now an ordinary one of theft, and one briefly reported in the papers, would have been written up and headlined all over the country, and would have been cabled to America. I clutched at a straw, and let the deception go on. After all, I might succeed in getting her acquitted if I contended it was kleptomania. I know I ought to have told the truth, but think what it would have meant to me. I still hoped that even if the worst happened to my wife I might, when she was released, reclaim her, and take her back to America without her shame ever being known.

"My first care when I found what had happened was to send my children abroad with Miss Grey. I knew that Miss Grey never read the papers, and would not see the case, but at Richmond one or two people would know her name, and she might be questioned as to the similarity. Abroad, even if the case were fully reported—and I intended to do my best to keep it out—Miss Grey would not be likely to hear of it.

"My wife was convicted, and sentenced at the Sessions to six months' imprisonment. Then I joined Miss Grey and my children abroad. When the sentence was nearly served, and the time was coming for my unhappy wife to be liberated, I returned. I saw Mr. Broome's advertisement in the Times, and answered it on behalf of Miss Grey, who had declined to go with us to America. I told her that my wife had gone home to see a relative who was ill. It was in that way I accounted for her long absence.

"I hoped—and my hope was justified—that very few people would have seen the case. The report was only a few lines, and recorded the fact that Margaret Grey, aged twenty-five, had been convicted of theft. In only one paper did the reporter give my name as having been called as a witness to character. Mr. Broome had evidently not seen it, for when I mentioned that the lady's name was Margaret Grey he made no remark.

"I was obliged to give her real name. How could I have asked her to take another? It would have aroused her suspicions at once, and possibly all would have been discovered.

"Mr. Broome was satisfied with my recommendation, and when I left for America with my wife and children I had the satisfaction of knowing that Miss Grey had found a comfortable home, and that she had not suffered in any way from my unhappy wife's appropriation of her name at the police-court.

"Unfortunately, after my wife's release, she gave way to habits of intemperance. Our life was a most unhappy one. After two years of misery she left me with a man who was coming to England, and from that day I heard no more of her—until—until——"

"Until this morning," said Dorcas.

"Yes," replied Mr. Garrod, with a deep sigh. "Your conjecture is correct. I recognised the handwriting, though it was disguised. I went to the address you gave me, and there I found the wretched woman whom I had married, and from whom after her flight I had obtained a divorce.

"I insisted upon seeing her. I told the man Winter who I was, that I knew the infamous conspiracy they had hatched between them, and that unless my wife saw me I would go to the police and bring the facts before them.

"Winter yielded to my threats, and I had an interview with my wife. I insisted on a confession, telling her that if she refused it I would go to Scotland Yard and tell the whole story, no matter what the consequences might be to myself.

"I insisted on her telling me how she had discovered Lady Broome—I wanted to know for your sake, Sir Joshua, and for your wife's, if the wretched woman had any accomplice beyond the man who passes for her husband.

"Her story was a simple one, and is probably true. On the occasion of the last Drawing Room she was in the crowd watching the carriages drive into the gates of the Palace. Your wife was pointed out by someone in the crowd. 'That's Lady Broome, Sir Joshua Broome's wife,' said a bystander. My wife looked, and instantly recognised our former governess, Margaret Grey.

"She told the man Winter, and between them they hit upon the idea of blackmailing you. They calculated that the facts they would refer you to would be so strong that no denial on Lady Broome's part would allay your terror, and that rather than have the matter gone into by the Lord Chamberlain, and the scandal discussed far and near in the Press and in Society, you would send the money.

"Now that you know the truth, Sir Joshua, there is no more to be feared from her. But I am responsible to you for my share in the transaction, and I will make any public acknowledgement you wish."

"There is no necessity," said Sir Joshua, rising. "We shall never hear any more of the matter from these people, and if we ever hear of it from any other quarter, we can prove at once how the mistake has arisen."

Mr. Garrod rose, and Sir Joshua put out his hand.

"You have my hearty sympathy in your misfortune, sir," he said, "and I quite understand the terrible position you were in when you found your wife had given her name to the police as Margaret Grey."

* * * * * *

We spent the rest of the evening with Lady Broome, now happily relieved from all anxiety, and when we took our departure Sir Joshua handed Dorcas a little envelope. She put it in her pocket, and invited me to return to Oak Tree Road and have supper with Paul.

It was in Paul's presence that she opened the letter, and read it aloud:

"My dear Mrs. Dene,—I and my wife owe you more than we canever repay. But for you I should probably have paid £1,000 to two infamous wretches and have been a miserable man for the rest of my days. The £1,000 belongs to you. Enclosed is a cheque for the amount, which by no means represents our indebtedness to you for the splendid service you have rendered us.—Believe me, dear Mrs. Dene, Yours most sincerely,

"Joshua Broome."

"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Dorcas. "Isn't that a princely fee?"

Then she put her arm round her blind husband's neck, and drew his face lovingly to hers.

"Ah, Paul, dear," she said, with a happy sigh, "now we can go away together and have a long, long holiday."

THE END