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CHAPTER LIII
GRACIE RELATES THE STORY OF HER ADVENTURES

"Any news, Gracie," asked Dick.

"Lots," replied Gracie.

"About which one?"

"Both of 'em."

Aunt Rob, with an air of determination, seized Gracie's hand. "Come in, child, and tell us all about it," she said.

Gracie made no resistance, but looked at Dick for instructions.

"The fact is, aunt," he said, "Gracie and I have started on a voyage of discovery, and this is a little matter of business between us."

"The fact is," said Aunt Rob, sternly, "that there's been too many little matters of business between this one and that one, and too many secrets that are kept from them who have the best call to know them, and whose hearts are pretty nigh broken by being kept in the dark. It's time it came to an end. What do you mean by your voyage of discovery? Perhaps you think, because we're quiet and still, and don't break into fits of crying, that we're happy and contented with things as they are. We look like it, don't we?"

"Dear aunt," he expostulated, but was not allowed to proceed.

"No, Dick, I'll not listen to your evasions, and I'm not going to stand this any longer. What is it all about, and what does everybody mean by holding conversations behind our backs, and saying things we mustn't hear, while we're expected to sit mum-chance on our chairs, eating our hearts away? Because we're women, I suppose, and aren't fit to be trusted! Mystery, mystery, mystery, nothing but mystery, and we're to hold our tongues. I wouldn't have believed it of you, Dick. Do you mean to tell me that this little matter of business, and this voyage of discovery, as you call it, doesn't concern us?"

"It does concern you, but I give you my word, aunt, I don't know yet in what way."

"Let us help you. As it concerns us, you've no right to keep it from us. Now, child, tell us your news."

Gracie shook her head, and still looked at Dick for her cue.

"You little brick!" he said, patting her sallow cheek. "Aunt, if you were to beat her black and blue I don't believe she would say one word without my permission.

"I wouldn't," said Gracie.

"That's a nice thing to say to me," said Aunt Rob, sarcastically. "I'm in the habit of beating children black and blue-everybody who knows me knows that."

"Everybody who knows you knows you to be staunch, and brave, and true," said Dick, kissing her, "and to have the kindest heart that ever beat in a woman's breast. You'll bear witness to that, won't you, Gracie?"

"Yes, I will."

"I'm not to be put off with a kiss," said Aunt Rob. "Let us hear what concerns us." The latter part of this conversation took place while they entered the house, and they were now in the sitting-room, with the gas turned up. "Look at that white face." She pointed to Florence, who was standing tearless, with her hand at her heart. Dick's own heart sank at the mute misery in her face. "Do what you can to relieve her anxiety, Dick."

"Let Dick act as he thinks best, mother," said Florence, but she still kept her hand at her heart, and Dick felt that it would be worse than cruel to offer any further opposition to Aunt Rob's wishes.

"You shall hear what Gracie has to tell," he said, "but not a word must pass out of this room. There's a prologue to it."

He spoke of his impressions concerning Dr. Vinsen, and of his conviction that there was a sinister motive to Reginald's prejudice behind that gentleman's unsolicited kindness to Gracie's family; after which he related how he and Gracie had entered into partnership that morning to track Dr. Vinsen and the vindictive juryman down, in the hope of discovering something that would be of service to them.

"It was an odd fancy of mine to call myself the captain and Gracie the first mate of the ship that was going on this voyage of discovery, and it's my opinion there will be high jinks if we succeed in bringing that ship to anchor. Now, mate, for your news. Have you seen Dr. Vinsen?"

"Yes, Dick, I've seen a lot of him," said Gracie, "but his name ain't Vinsen, and he ain't a doctor."

"By Jove!" said Dick, under his breath. "Who and what is he, Gracie?"

"He's a money-lender, and his name is Ezra Lynn."

"That's the first trick to us," said Dick. "Begin at the beginning, mate, and go right through it."

She did, and did not pause till she came to that part of her story where Dr. Vinsen hailed a hansom cab, and drove off at too swift a pace for her to follow.

They listened in breathless interest. Gracie's skill in the weaving of stories of the imagination for the entertainment of her little brothers and sisters served her in good stead in this story of real life, and, quite unconsciously to herself, she imparted a dramatic touch to the narrative which lifted it above the level of its sordid details.

"Talk of your detectives!" exclaimed Dick, in wonder and admiration. "Here's a little girl that can show them the way to go. Why, the man could be prosecuted for practising without a diploma. But, the motive, the motive, the motive? We're getting hold of the ends of loose strings. How to tie them, how to tie them?" He paced the room in his excitement. "Is that all, Gracie?"

"Oh, no, there's ever so much more. When he was gone I went back to the baker's shop, to see if I could find out anything more about him. I did hear a lot! Oh, Dick, he's a regular bad 'un. He's lived there ever so many years, and there ain't a living soul that's got a good word for him. I saw the man again they called a jackal, and I got his name and where he lives. Here it is. I bought a sheet of paper and a bit of pencil for a ha'penny, and I put all the names and addresses down, for fear I might forget 'em. Here's the man's name that's going to be sold up to-morrow, and here's the baker woman's name and address, and here's the trunk shop, and here's the number of the house in Park Street that he looked so long up at the windows of."

"Reginald's lodgings," said Dick, looking at the paper. "What do you think now of my first mate? Anything more, Gracie?"

"When I got all I could out of 'em I thought I'd come and try to find you, Dick, and I took a tram and two busses to Catchpole Square, but you weren't there. Then I came here, and you weren't here. Then I went back to Catchpole Square again, and who should I see but Dr. Vinsen going into a house in Shore Street. It's down on the paper."

"Dr. Pye's house," explained Dick. "We're getting warm."

"He kept there an hour and more, but I never budged, When he came out he didn't look pleased, and he looked worse when he bought some more special editions of the papers, and read what was in 'em."

"Wanted the inquest over," interposed Dick, "and a verdict of wilful murder against Reginald. Go on, partner."

"It was getting night, and I thought I might have a chance of catching the man Dr. Vinsen was talking to last night, so I went to the place where the inquest was held, and there I saw him. I saw you, too, ma'am, and the young lady, and a good many others, all talking together. I didn't see you, Dick."

"I wasn't there."

"But where were you, child?" asked Aunt Rob. "I didn't set eyes on you."

"I took care you shouldn't. When this man went away-oh, what a black face he had, Dick! – I followed him home. He doesn't live fur off, and he keeps an ironmonger's shop. You'll see the name on the paper, Dick; it's the bottom name."

"I see it, Gracie. P. Rawdon, ironmonger, 24, Wellington Street."

"There's a lot of things outside the shop window on the pavement, pots, and pans, and pails, under a verandah, and a boy was taking 'em into the shop. I sneaks up to the boy, and says, 'Is that the master?' 'Yes,' the boy says, 'that's the guv'nor.' 'Mr. Rawdon?' I says. 'Yes,' he says, 'Mr. Rawdon.' And with that he goes inside with his arms full, and I walks away, for I didn't know what else I could do, when up comes Dr. Vinsen again, almost at the top of me. Lucky for me he didn't catch sight of me. I cut across the road, and watched him go into the shop. I waited a little while, but it was past seven o'clock, and you said I was to be here before eight. That's all, Dick."

"And enough," said Dick, "more than enough for one day. There isn't a man or woman in all England who could have done as much in so short a time. I'm proud of you, Gracie. Now, my girl, you mustn't breathe a word of all this to another living soul in the world."

"I won't," said Gracie, her heart swelling with pride at being addressed by Dick as "my girl."

"I begin to see light, aunt. That man, Vinsen, sham doctor and philanthropist, alias Ezra Lynn, real scoundrelly money-lender, and Dr. Pye have been hatching a plot against us, and have drawn the other scoundrel Rawdon into it. Light-yes, light! And there's more behind it that I'll get at before I'm many days older. You don't like secrets, aunt, but this must be kept from Uncle Rob. He might consider it his duty to make a move, and if he does we are done for. You can't see as well as I can what is hanging to this discovery of Gracie's. I pledge you both to secrecy-for Reginald's sake. We must keep this before us. All that we have done, all that we are doing, is for Reginald's sake. Promise, promise!"

They were aglow with excitement, and they replied simultaneously,

"We promise, Dick."

"That's right. We'll draw those ferrets out of their hole, and it will not be long before Reginald is a free man-freely and honourably acquitted, with every one who knows him, and every one who doesn't, ready and eager to shake hands with him, and give him a word of sympathy."

"Dear Dick!" said Florence, giving him both her hands.

"Dear Florence, dear aunt, I would go through fire and water for you." He turned suddenly to Gracie. "What have you had to eat to-day?"

"A penny loaf at the baker shop," replied Gracie, who was fainting with hunger.

"Nothing more?" cried Aunt Rob.

"No, ma'am."

"Florence, lay the tablecloth; and you, Dick, run down to the kitchen, and fetch the bread and butter-and you'll find a cake in the larder. And bring up the kettle-I'll make the tea here. Tell the servant to cook four large rashers and poach half-a-dozen eggs. Draw up to the table child-why, you must be starving!"

"I'm all right, ma'am. It ain't worth while worrying about me."

"You dear little mite!" Aunt Rob's heart was overflowing with pity, and she bent down and kissed her. Dick was back, loaded with a steaming kettle and bread and butter and cake, and though Aunt Rob was no fairy, the tea was made and a cup placed before Gracie, and bread and butter cut, as quickly as any fairy, though she were light as gossamer, could have accomplished it. "Don't wait for us, Gracie, the bacon and eggs will soon be here-why, here they are! Now, my dear, make a good meal, and you sit down, Florence, and eat. It's easier to meet trouble with a full stomach than an empty one. Here's your cup, Dick; you look famished, too. Things look ever so much brighter, don't they?"

And thus she rattled on to put Gracie at her ease, and under the influence of a spirit so buoyant and hopeful a fuller meal was eaten than would otherwise have been the case, and they were all the happier for it. Then Gracie arose, and thanking them quietly said that her mother would be worrying about her, and if they would excuse her she would like to go home. There was a grave look on Aunt Rob's face at mention of Gracie's mother, for she thought of Mrs. Death's conduct an hour or two ago at the Coroner's Court, but she said nothing except that Gracie ought to go home at once. She would have liked to wrap up what was left of the cake, and give it to the child to take to her little brothers and sisters, but she felt that the kindly act might be misconstrued, and might get Gracie into trouble.

"I will walk a little way with you," said Dick. "Aunt Rob, I have a great deal to do, and I sha'n't be able to come back to-night. Get to bed early, you and Florence, and try to sleep. It will brighten Reginald up to-morrow if he sees you with cheerful faces, which you can't show him without proper rest."

So the good nights were exchanged, and the mother and daughter were left alone. Before Florence went to bed she wrote a long and loving letter to Reginald, and Aunt Rob also wrote a letter, which Florence enclosed in hers; and then the young wife, so sorely tried ran out to post it, and kissed it passionately before she dropped it into the box. She and her mother were to sleep together that night, and Aunt Rob sent Florence up to bed first. Household duties had fallen into arrear in consequence of her long attendance at the Coroner's Court, and these must be attended to before she retired; she was not the woman to neglect her domestic affairs, and she knew that her husband would feel the happier for seeing a tidy home when he came from his office. She was occupied nigh upon two hours, and then there was a little note to be written to her husband, and laid open on the table, telling him that she was sleeping with Florence, and that he was to sleep in Dick's room. Aunt Rob was not what would be considered a very religious woman, but she had an underlying and unconscious religion of her own which she steadily practised-the religion that lies in kind thoughts and deeds, in upright conduct and duties conscientiously performed; and she was not in the habit of reading her Bible regularly. But this night, when all her household work was done, she took the Book of Consolation from the shelf, and reverently read therein till nearly midnight.

During these hours of work and prayer she had not been unmindful of her daughter; every now and then she stepped softly up to the bedroom and listened at the door; she would not open it, lest the creaking should disturb the young girl. She stood there in the dark, and listened. "My darling is asleep," she whispered to herself as she went quietly downstairs.

For an hour and more she read in the Holy Book, and when she closed it a deep calm rested on her face and a look of peace in her eyes. The feeling that possessed her was the feeling of a woman in affliction who had heard the voice of God. Balm was in her heart. Truly her house was a house of sorrow, but it was also a house of faith and hope. Who shall say that the spiritual links of love that join heart to heart, though miles of space lie between, did not pulse with a sweet and tender message to the innocent man lying in his cell?

Turning down the gas in the sitting room and the passage, and placing her note to her husband in such a position that it would be sure to meet his eye when he entered, Aunt Rob stole upstairs to bed, carrying the candle with her. She started when she saw a white-robed form kneeling by the bedside. It was Florence, who had been lifting her heart to God, and who had fallen asleep with a prayer on her lips.

CHAPTER LIV
EXTRACTS FROM "THE LITTLE BUSY BEE" OF FRIDAY, THE 15TH OF MARCH, 1896

The intense interest taken by the public in the progress of the mystery of Catchpole Square was markedly shown this morning by the enormous concourse of people assembled in the vicinity of the Bishop Street Police Court, where Mr. Reginald Boyd was brought before the magistrate, charged with the murder of his father, Mr. Samuel Boyd, on the night of Friday, the 1st of March. In these times of fever and unrest, when scarcely a day passes without some new sensation cropping up to overshadow the sensation of yesterday and drive it from the minds of newspaper readers, it is rare indeed that any one startling incident should continue for so long a time to engross public attention. For this reason, if for no other, this extraordinary mystery will be long remembered; but, quite apart from the morbid curiosity which all murder cases bring into play, there are in this case elements of perplexity and bewilderment which entitle it to the first place in the annals of great crimes. It is not our purpose to offer any opinion as to the probable guilt of this or that person; the matter is now in the hands of justice, and it would be manifestly improper to try the case in our editorial room, but this does not prevent our columns being open to the discussion of abstract matters which may or may not have a bearing upon it.

To the disappointment of the sight-seers in the adjoining wider thoroughfares the accused man was driven to Bishop Street through side streets but little frequented, and so skilfully were the police arrangements carried out that he was conducted into the court by the rear entrance before the general public were aware that he had started from the station. The Court was crowded, and among those assembled were the wife and mother-in-law of the prisoner, who it was understood had had an interview with him before the commencement of the proceedings.

Mr. Marlow represented the Public Prosecutor, and Mr. Pallaret appeared for the prisoner.

Mr. Marlow, addressing the magistrate, stated that it was not his intention to do more than formally open the case, after which, without taking any evidence beyond proving the arrest of the prisoner, he should ask for a remand until that day week. The police had not yet concluded their preliminary investigations, and the interests of justice would be best served by the course he proposed to adopt. Having briefly narrated the circumstances which led to the accused being charged with so horrible a crime, he called Mr. Lambert, detective officer in the police service, who gave evidence of the arrest.

Mr. Marlow: "That is as far as I propose to go, your worship. I now ask for a remand till this day week."

Mr. Pallaret: "I do not oppose the remand, but I have a question or two to put to the witness, and a remark to make to the Court." To the witness: "When you arrested the accused did he offer any resistance?"

The Witness: "On the contrary. Suspecting, or having heard, that I had a warrant for his arrest he came up to me voluntarily, and said he was at my disposal."

"He walked quietly with you to the station?"

"Quite quietly."

"Did he make any statement?"

"No. I advised him to say nothing."

"What was his reply to that?"

"He said, 'I am not afraid to speak. Until my innocence is proved I will proclaim it to all the world.'"

"I have no further questions to ask you." To the magistrate: "The observation I desire to make is this. No one can be more anxious than the accused that the fullest light should be thrown upon this sad affair, and that the murderer of his father shall be brought to justice. He himself has offered a reward of £500 for the discovery of the murderer. But we enter a strong protest to any unnecessary delay in the disclosure of the evidence we have to combat. To arrest a man on a charge so serious without sufficient evidence to support it, and merely because the police deem it necessary that some person should be put on his trial, would be monstrous. I make no complaint against the police, but there have been occasions on which they have erred, and have inflicted cruel injustice upon innocent persons. There was the Great Porter Square case, in which a son, accused of the murder of his father, was brought up at the magistrate's court no fewer than seven times. The police had nothing against him, and he was eventually proved to be innocent. I trust similar tactics will not be pursued in the present case. To any unnecessary delay we shall offer the most strenuous opposition. Will bail be allowed?"

The Magistrate: "No. I have no doubt the police will do their duty. The case stands adjourned till this day week, at eleven in the morning."

CHAPTER LV
CONSTABLE APPLEBEE ON THE WATCH

A man may be an easy-going man all his life, and go down to his grave without anything occurring to take him, as it were, out of himself, or to make him, either suddenly or by gradual stages, a different being from that which those most intimate with him believe him to be. We have seen this exemplified in Dick Remington, who, from an easy-going, irresponsible being, with no definite or serious aim in life, and with an apparently conspicuous lack of industry and application, has suddenly become an earnest, strong-minded, strong-willed man, bent upon a task which would tax the most astute intellect.

An experience of this nature, but in a different way, had come to Constable Applebee, in whose mind certain agitating visions had been conjured up by the appearance of the reward bills. The usually calm depths were stirred, and the peaceful current of his daily duties became convulsed. If he could earn only one of the rewards he was a made man, let alone the chances of promotion. The prospect was alluringly disturbing, and it made Constable Applebee restless and watchful. When a dull man gets an idea into his head it becomes a fixture; to argue with him is time thrown away; it is there, and he sticks to it, perhaps because of its novelty; and when that idea carries with it the prospect of a lump of money all the logicians in the world are powerless to remove it until the sterner logic of fact, proves it to be false. And even then he doubts and shakes his head.

Applebee's idea, which had created these visions of fame and a golden future, was that the man who had committed the murder and who had the jewels in his possession, was no other than Mr. Dick Remington. Whether he alone was the culprit, or in collusion with Mr. Reginald Boyd, time would show.

He kept his counsel; not even in the wife of his bosom did he confide. He knew that Detective Lambert had the case in hand, the great detective who had brought so many mysterious crimes to light. What if he, Applebee, could succeed in proving himself Lambert's equal and snatching the prize from him? The prospect of such a triumph was dazzling. Dick met Applebee at the entrance of Deadman's Court, and gave him good evening.

"Good evening," said Constable Applebee.

He was not a man of overpowering intellect, and with this weighty matter in his mind he had not the wit to say good evening in his usual cordial manner. Dick noticed the change of tone, but attached no importance to it.

Now, the duller-wilted a man is, the more suspicious he is, and while Dick noticed a change of manner in Applebee which really existed, and attached no importance to it, Applebee noticed a change of manner in Dick which did not exist, and to which he attached immense importance. "He sees that I suspect him," thought Applebee, "and is afraid. What makes him afraid? Guilty conscience. That proves it." Thus do we jump at conclusions when we have all the argument to ourselves.

He saw nothing more of Dick that night, and great was his chagrin the following day to see pasted on the door of Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square the following notice:

"Absent on business. All communications for Mr. Remington to be addressed to Inspector Robson."

"He's cut and run," was Applebee's first thought. His second thought was that this was a move on Dick's part to put him off the scent. "But I'll be a match for him," he thought.

"He's sure to come back, and the next time I lay hands on him off he goes with me to the station. I'll charge him, and chance it. The thing's as clear as mud. What a fool I was not to have seen it all before! Why did he keep hanging round Catchpole Square night after night while Samuel Boyd was laying dead in bed? Where did he go on the night of the great fog after I parted with him at three in the morning? He didn't keep in the streets all night, I'll take my oath on that. Where was he? Why, where else but in Samuel Boyd's house, packing up the things? He was clerk there once, and knows all the ins and outs of the place. Pond tells me he keeps his room locked, and that his missis is not allowed to go into it even to make the bed. What does he keep it shut up for? Is the property there? A search warrant would settle that, but as things stand there's no chance of my getting one. I shouldn't be surprised if he keeps the jewellery about him. It must be worth a heap of money. I asked Mrs. Pond this morning whether he slept there last night. No, he hadn't, nor the night before. He used to live with Inspector Robson, but he doesn't live there now. Then what has he been doing with himself of a night all this last week? I'll be hanged if I don't go to Mrs. Robson, and ask for him!"

Screwing up his courage he presented himself at Aunt Rob's house, and his knock at the door was answered by that lady herself.

"Is Mr. Dick Remington in?" he asked.

"No, he isn't," replied Aunt Rob.

"Can you tell me where to find him, Mrs. Robson?"

"No, I can't."

"Will he be back soon?"

"I don't know."

Applebee scratched his head; he had come to the end of his resources in that quarter.

"Do you want him for anything particular?" inquired Aunt Rob, anxiously.

"Not for anything very particular."

"Perhaps you'll leave a message."

"No, thank you," said Applebee, feeling as if he was being badgered, and repeated, "It's nothing very particular." Then he walked away.

"They're all in a plot together," he mused. "I don't half like the way she answered me. She never took her eyes off my face. He's gone off to get rid of the jewellery. I'll keep my eye on Catchpole Square. There's a chance of his coming back for something he left behind. If he does, I'll nab him."

The longer he brooded upon it the stronger grew his conviction of Dick's complicity in the crime, and the more firmly was he resolved to make the arrest when he had the chance. Little did he dream of the kind of success that was to attend his zealous efforts and the startling developments which were to follow.