CHAPTER XXXVI
PEOPLE DON'T DO THAT SORT OF THING
Lady Ryder was out of town. She was staying at a country house in theMidlands, chaperoning her nieces--Louisa's twin-sisters--but SirThomas Ryder was at home.
It was for him that Louisa had asked when the butler opened the doorin answer to her ring.
"Sir Thomas is in the library, miss," said the man. "Will you comeinto the drawing room? and I'll tell Sir Thomas you are here, miss."
"No!" she said, "don't announce me. I'll go to the library."
Sir Thomas put down the paper which he had been reading, when hisniece entered. He did not seem at all astonished to see her. No doubtthe exercise of his profession had taught him never to be surprised atanything in life. He rose when he recognized who it was, and carefullyfolded his eyeglasses and slipped them into their case and into hiswaistcoat pocket. Then he said:
"My dear Louisa, this is quite unexpected! Is your father with you?"
"No," she replied, "I came alone. May I sit down?"
"Certainly, my dear child," he said genially, and himself wheeled acapacious arm-chair round to the fire.
"I am not disturbing you, Uncle Ryder?"
"No! no! Take off your cloak, won't you? I was only at the eveningpaper, preparatory to turning in early."
She glanced at the paper on the table: that page was uppermost thatbore the startling headline, in unusually large type: "The Murder inthe Taxicab. Sensational Developments." The chief of the CriminalInvestigation Department studied the accounts in the newspapers, theopinion of pressmen and reporters. Everything interested him: heweighed everything in his mind; no silly advice, no emptytittle-tattle, was ever dismissed by him without its due meed ofconsideration.
Uncle and niece now sat opposite each other, facing the hearth. Helooked straight into the fire, knowing that she would not wish him tosee the misery in her face.
"Will you have something, Lou?" he asked kindly. "A cup of tea orsomething?"
"No, thank you, uncle. We had dinner, and father has gone to the club.I came to see you about Luke."
"Yes?" he said.
"All along," she continued, "ever since father saw you yesterday, Iwanted to speak to you. Silly conventionality kept me back."
"It certainly is not usual----" he began.
"No," she broke in quickly, "I know it is not. But this is an unusualcase, far too serious for silly ideas of tact or convention to creepin. The man whom I love best in all the world is falsely accused of amost abominable crime. He was arrested--by your orders Isuppose--about an hour ago."
He put up his hand in gentle deprecation.
"Stop a moment, my dear," he said quite kindly, but very decisively."If you have any idea at the back of your head, that I, personally,have any influence at my command with regard to Luke de Mountford'sfate, then the sooner you get that idea out of your head the better.If you came here to-night with the notion that by pleading with me youcould save Luke from the consequences of his crime, then get thatnotion out of your head, my dear, and save us both from a very painfulinterview. Luke de Mountford was not arrested by my orders: I am onlyan automaton of the law, which takes its own course, without anypersonal interference on my part. Officially I--as an automaton--didjust as duty and the law of this country directs. Personally, I sentthrough your father some sound advice to Luke de Mountford."
She listened, impassive and silent, to his reproof, and then saidsimply:
"I beg your pardon, Uncle Ryder: I must have expressed myself badly. Iknew quite well that you, personally, bear no animosity against Luke:why, indeed, should you? I had no intention whatever, in coming to seeyou to-night, of making a scene of lamentation and supplication. Onthe contrary I knew quite well that--acting from the best ofmotives--you advised Luke to fly from justice, since in your opinionhis condemnation is a foregone conclusion. Father hadn't the chance ofpassing your advice on to Luke, because when we got to FairfaxMansions, Edie told us that he was packing up his things, meaning tocatch the night boat to Calais."
"Then why the dickens did he miss his train?" exclaimed Sir Thomasgruffly.
"It was not altogether his fault," she replied. "Our arrival delayedhim a little, but he would have had plenty of time even then, only thepolice came, you see, and it was too late."
"I know. It was silly, officious blundering on the part of one of mysubs. I meant de Mountford to have plenty of time to get away, and Icould have managed it somehow to leave him unmolested if he kept somedistance away from England. The whole thing has been mostunfortunate."
"I don't think so, uncle," she said quietly, "I am glad, very glad,that Luke has been arrested."
"Are you?" he retorted dryly. "The outlook for him is not pleasant."
"I know that. But at any rate now there is a chance that he can provehis innocence."
Sir Thomas Ryder gave a quick sigh of impatience.
"My dear child," he said gently, "do try and be reasonable about that.You only lay up for yourself further stores of misery and ofdisappointment. De Mountford is guilty, I tell you. He practicallyconfessed at the inquest, and he practically confessed to our fellowsafter his arrest."
"Practically," she said with strong emphasis, "but not really. Lukehas never confessed that he committed a murder."
"Well, he admits that the stick with which the murder was done was hisstick; that he had it in his hand the night that the murder wascommitted; that he went out, with it in his hand, five minutes beforethe other man was murdered."
"I know all that," she rejoined, "but let me tell you this, UncleRyder. Luke has admitted all that, as you say; but he has neveradmitted that he killed Philip de Mountford--or Paul Baker--whoever hemay be. Luke, Uncle Ryder, is allowing the awful accusation to restupon him, because he wishes to shield the real perpetrator of thecrime."
"Nonsense!" broke in Sir Thomas curtly.
"Why nonsense?"
"Because, my dear Lou," he said slowly and firmly, "people don't dothat sort of thing. The consequences of having taken another person'slife--otherwise a murder--are so terrible that no one will bear themfor the sake of any one else on earth."
"Yet I tell you, uncle," she reiterated with firmness at least equalto his own, "that Luke never killed that man, and that he pleadsguilty to the crime in order to shield some one else."
"Whom?" he retorted.
"That I do not know--as yet. But that is the reason why I came hereto-night, uncle: because you must help me to find out."
Sir Thomas abruptly rose from his chair, and took his stand on thehearth rug, with legs apart, and slender hands buried in the pocketsof his trousers, in the attitude dear to every Englishman.
His eyes in their framework of innumerable wrinkles looked down, notunkindly, at the pale, serious face of the girl before him.
He, who was accustomed to give every scrap of advice, every senselesspiece of title-tattle its just meed of attention, was not likely toleave unheeded the calm assertions of a woman for whom he had greatregard, and who was the daughter of a brother officer and one of hisbest friends. Of course the girl was in love with de Mountford, so herjudgment on him was not likely to be wholly unbiassed: at the sametime Sir Thomas--like all men who have knocked about the world a greatdeal, and seen much of its seamy side--had a great belief in woman'sinstinct, as apart from her judgment, and he was the last man in theworld to hold the sex in contempt.
"Look here, my dear," he said after a little while, during which hehad tried to read the lines in the interesting face turned up towardhim, "I honour you for your sense of loyalty to de Mountford, just thesame as I honour your father for the like reason. And in order toprove to you that I, individually, would be only too happy to see theman's innocence established beyond a doubt, I am going to argue thatsoberly and sensibly with you. You hold the theory that Luke deMountford is shielding some one from the consequences of an awfulcrime by taking the burden on himself. Now, my dear, as I told youbefore, people don't do that sort of thing nowadays. In
olden times,the consequences of a crime--especially where the aristocracy wasconcerned--were quite picturesque: the Tower, the block, and all thatsort of thing. But to-day the paraphernalia of vengeful justice isvery sordid, very mean, and anything but glorious. It means thelengthy inquiry before a police magistrate, then the trial, the pastdragged up to the light, the most private secrets thrown to the morbidcuriosity of the million. In order to face that sort of thing, mydear, a man must be either guilty--then he cannot help it; orwrongfully accused--then he hopes for the establishment of hisinnocence. But a man does not prepare himself to face all that out ofQuixotic motives alone, knowing himself to be innocent and because hedesires that another should be spared those awful humiliations and thechance of a disgusting and shameful death."
"What do you mean by all that, Uncle Ryder," she asked.
"I mean that if we are going to admit this Quixotic motive in deMountford's attitude now, there can only be one mainspring for it."
"What is that?"
"It is perhaps a little difficult----" he said somewhat hesitatingly.
"You mean," she interposed quietly, "that if Luke is taking this awfulcrime upon himself for the sake of another, that other can only be awoman whom he loves."
"Well," retorted Sir Thomas, "it is not you, my dear, I presume, whokilled this bricklayer from Clapham."
She did not reply immediately: but her lips almost framed themselvesinto a smile. Luke and another woman! To Sir Thomas Ryder that seemedindeed a very simple explanation. Men have been known to do strangethings, to endure much and to sacrifice everything for the sake ofwoman! But then Sir Thomas knew nothing of Luke, nothing more thanwhat the latter chose to show of his inward self to the world. Thememory of those few moments in the room in Fairfax Mansions laughedthe other man's suggestion to scorn. Louisa shook her head and saidsimply:
"No, Uncle Ryder, I did not kill the Clapham bricklayer in the cab."
"And you won't admit that Luke may be shielding another woman?" saidSir Thomas, with just the faintest semblance of a sneer.
"I won't say that," she replied gravely. "You see, I don't reallyknow. I would take a dying oath at this moment--if I were on the pointof death--that Luke never committed that abominable crime. I won'teven say that he is incapable of it. I'll only swear that he did notdo it. And yet he is silent when he is accused. Then, to me, the onlypossible, the only logical conclusion is that he is shielding some oneelse."
"Have you questioned him?"
"Yes."
"Put the question directly to him, I mean?"
"Yes."
"And what did he say?"
"That his own stick condemns him, and that he would plead guilty athis trial."
"He never told you directly or indirectly that he killed the man?"
For the space of one second only did Louisa hesitate. She had askedLuke the direct question: "Was it you who killed that man?" and he hadreplied: "It was I." She had asked it then, determined to know thetruth, convinced that she would know the truth when he gave reply. Andshe did learn the truth then and there, not as Luke hoped that shewould interpret it, but as it really was. He had never really lied toher, for she had never been deceived. Now, she did not wish to hideanything from Sir Thomas Ryder, the only man in the whole world whocould help her to prove Luke's innocence in spite of himself:therefore, when her uncle reiterated his question somewhat sharply,she replied quite frankly, looking straight up at him:
"He told me directly that it was he who had killed the man."
"And even then you did not believe him?"
"I knew that he tried to lie."
"You firmly believe that de Mountford knows who killed that PaulBaker--or whoever he was?"
"I do."
"And that he means to go through his trial, and to plead guilty to acharge of murder, so that the real criminal should escape."
"Yes!"
"And that he is prepared to hang--to hang, mind you!" reiterated SirThomas with almost cruel bluntness, "if he is condemned in order toallow the real criminal to escape?"
"Yes."
"And you yourself have no notion as to who this person maybe?"
"No."
"Is there anybody, do you think, who is likely to know more about Lukede Mountford's past and present life than you do yourself?"
"Yes," she said, "Lord Radclyffe."
"Old Radclyffe?" he ejaculated.
"Why, yes. Lord Radclyffe adored Luke before this awful man camebetween them. He had him with him ever since Luke was a tiny boy.There's no one in the world for whom he cared as he cared for Luke,and the affection was fully reciprocated. My belief is that LordRadclyffe knows more about Luke than any one else in the world."
"But old Rad is very ill just now, unfortunately."
"It would kill him," she retorted, "if anything happened to Luke,whilst he was being coddled up as an invalid, almost as a prisoner,and no news allowed to reach him."
Sir Thomas was silent for a moment, obviously buried in thought. Thathe was still incredulous was certainly apparent to Louisa'ssuper-sensitive perceptions, but that he meant to be of help to her,in spite of this incredulity was equally certain. Therefore she waitedpatiently until he had collected his thoughts.
"Well, my dear," he said at last, "I'll tell you what I will do.To-morrow morning I'll go and see if I can have a talk with oldRad----"
"To-morrow morning," she broke in gravely, "Luke will be draggedbefore the magistrate--the first stage of that awful series ofhumiliations which you yourself say, Uncle Ryder, that no man who isinnocent can possibly endure!"
"I know, my dear," he said almost apologetically, "but I don't see nowhow that can be avoided."
"We could see Lord Radclyffe to-night!"
"To-night?" he exclaimed. "Why, it's nearly ten o'clock."
"In matters of this sort, time does not count."
"But old Rad is an invalid!"
"He may be a dead man to-morrow, if he hears that Luke--Luke, who wasthe apple of his eye, who is the heir to his name and title, is beingdragged in open court before a police-magistrate, charged with anabominable crime."
"But the doctor, I understand, has forbidden him to see any one."
"I think that the matter has passed the bounds of a doctor's orders.I would go and force my way into his presence without the slightestscruple. I know that any news that he may glean about Luke, within thenext few days, will be far more fatal to him, than the few questionswhich I want to ask him to-night."
"That may be, my dear," rejoined Sir Thomas dryly, "but this does notapply to me. Old Rad is a very old friend of mine, but if I went withyou on this errand to-night, I should be going not as a friend, but inan official capacity, and as such I cannot do it without the doctor'spermission."
"Very well then," she said quietly, "we'll ask Doctor Newington'spermission."
For a little while yet Sir Thomas Ryder seemed to hesitate. Clearlythe girl's arguments, her simple conviction, and her latent energy hadmade a marked impression upon him. He was no longer the scepticalhide-bound official: the man, the gentleman, was tearing away at thefetters of red tape. All the old instincts of chivalry, which at timesmight be dormant in the heart of an English gentleman--but which arealways there nevertheless, hidden away by the mantle ofconvention--had been aroused by Louisa's attitude toward the man sheloved, and also by the remembrance of Luke's bearing throughout thismiserable business.
After all what the girl asked was not so very difficult of execution.There are undoubtedly cases where the usual conventional formulas ofetiquette must give way to serious exigencies. And there wasunanswerable logic in Louisa's arguments: at any time in the nearfuture that old Rad--either through his own obstinacy, or thestupidity or ill-will of a servant--got hold of a newspaper, thesuddenness of the blow which he would receive by learning the terriblenews without due preparation, would inevitably prove fatal to him. SirThomas Ryder prided himself on being a diplomatist of the first water:he did believe that he could so put the necess
ary questions to LordRadclyffe, with regard to Luke, that the old man would not suspect thetruth for a moment. The latter had, of course, known of the murderbefore he had been stricken with illness; he had at the time answeredthe questions put to him by the police officer, without seeming to begreatly shocked at the awful occurrence; and it was not likely that hewould be greatly upset at a professional visit from an old friend, whoat the same time had the unravelling of the murder mystery at heart.
All these thoughts mirrored themselves on Sir Thomas's wrinkled face.He was taking no trouble to conceal them from Louisa. Soon she sawthat she had won her first victory, for her uncle now said with suddendetermination:
"Well, my dear! you have certainly got on the right side of me. Youraunt always said you had a very persuasive way with you. I'll tell youwhat we will do. It is now a quarter to ten--late enough, by Jingo!We'll get into one of those confounded taxis, and drive to DoctorNewington's. I'll see him. You shall stay in the cab; and if I can gethis permission, we'll go and have a talk with old Rad--or rather I'lltalk first and you shall pretend that our joint visit is only acoincidence. As a matter of fact he knew all about the murder beforehe got ill, and he won't think it at all unnatural that I haveobtained special medical permission to question him myself on thesubject. Then you must work in your questions about Luke as best youcan afterward. Is that agreed now?"
"Indeed it is, Uncle Ryder," said Louisa, as she rose from her chair,with a deep sigh of infinite contentment. "Thank you," she addedgently, and placed her neatly gloved hand upon his arm.
With a kind, fatherly gesture, he gave that little hand an encouragingpat. Then he rang the bell.
"A taxi--quickly!" he said to his man. "My fur coat and my hat. I amgoing out."
Louisa had gained her first victory. She had put forward neitherviolence nor passion in support of her arguments. Yet she hadconquered because she believed.
A few moments later she and Sir Thomas Ryder were on their way toDoctor Newington's in Hertford Street.