CHAPTER XXII
THE DARKEST HOUR
The amateur detective walked slowly up to Piccadilly, and climbed on topof a Chelsea omnibus, a dejected figure even to the casual eye. He wasmore than disappointed at the upshot of his wild speculations, and inhimself for the false start that he had made. His feeling was one ofpositive shame. It was so easy now to see the glaring improbability ofthe conclusion to which he had jumped in his haste, at the firstpromptings of a too facile fancy. And what an obvious idea it had beenat last! As if his were the only brain to which it could have occurred!
Langholm could have laughed at his late theory if it had only entailedthe loss of one day, but it had also cost him that self-confidence whichwas the more valuable in his case through not being a commoncharacteristic of the man. He now realized the difficulties of hisquest, and the absolutely wrong way in which he had set about it. Hisimagination had run away with him. It was no case for the imagination.It was a case for patient investigation, close reasoning, logicaldeduction, all arts in which the imaginative man is almost inevitablydeficient.
Langholm, however, had enough lightness of temperament to abandon anidea as readily as he formed one, and his late suspicion was alreadydriven to the four winds. He only hoped he had not shown what was in hismind at the club. Langholm was a just man, and he honestly regretted theinjustice that he had done, even in his own heart, and for ever so fewhours, to a thoroughly innocent man.
And all up Piccadilly this man was sitting within a few inches of him,watching his face with a passionate envy, and plucking up courage tospeak; he only did so at Hyde Park Corner, where an interveningpassenger got down.
Langholm was sufficiently startled at the sound of his own name,breaking in upon the reflections indicated, but to find at his elbow thevery face which was in his mind was to lose all power of immediatereply.
"My name is Severino," explained the other. "I was introduced to you anhour or two ago at the club."
"Ah, to be sure!" cried Langholm, recovering. "Odd thing, though, for wemust have left about the same time, and I never saw you till thismoment."
Severino took the vacant place by Langholm's side. "Mr. Langholm," saidhe, a tremor in his soft voice, "I have a confession to make to you. Ifollowed you from the club!"
"_You_ followed _me_?"
Langholm could not help the double emphasis; to him it seemed agrotesque turning of the tables, a too poetically just ending to thatmisspent day. It was all he could do to repress a smile.
"Yes, I followed you," the young Italian repeated, with his takingaccent, in his touching voice; "and I beg your pardon for doingso--though I would do the same again--I will tell you why. I thoughtthat you were talking about me while I was strumming to them at theclub. It is possible, of course, that I was quite mistaken; but when youwent out I stopped at once and asked questions. And they told me youwere a friend of--a great friend of mine--of Mrs. Minchin!"
"It is true enough," said Langholm, after a pause. "Well?"
"She was a very great friend of mine," repeated Severino. "That wasall."
And he sighed.
"So I have heard," said Langholm, with sympathy. "I can well believeit, for I might almost say the same of her myself."
The 'bus toiled on beside the park. The two long lines of lights rosegently ahead until they almost met, and the two men watched them as theyspoke.
"Until to-day," continued Severino, "I did not know whether she was deador alive."
"She is both alive and well."
"And married again?"
"And married again."
There was a long pause. The park ended first.
"I want you to do me a great favor," said Severino in Knightsbridge."She was so good to me! I shall never forget it, and yet I have neverbeen able to thank her. I nearly died--it was at that time--and when Iremembered, she had disappeared. I beg and beseech you, Mr. Langholm, totell me her name, and where she is living now!"
Langholm looked at his companion in the confluence of lights at theSloane Street corner. The pale face was alight with passion, the sunkeneyes ablaze. "I cannot tell you," he answered, shortly.
"Is it your own name?"
"Good God, no!"
And Langholm laughed harshly.
"Will you not even tell me where she lives?"
"I cannot, without her leave; but if you like I will tell her aboutyou."
There was no answer as they drove on. Then of a sudden Langholm's armwas seized and crushed by bony fingers.
"I am dying," the low voice whispered hoarsely in his ear. "Can't yousee it for yourself? I shall never get better; it might be a year ortwo, it may be weeks. But I want to see her again and make sure. Yes, Ilove her! There is no sense in denying it. But it is all on my side, andI am dying, and she has married again! What harm can it do anybody if Isee her once more?"
The sunken eyes were filled with tears. There were more tears in thehollow voice. Langholm was deeply touched.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I will let her know. No, no, not that, ofcourse! But I will write to her at once--to-night! Will that not do?"
Severino thanked him, with a heavy sigh. "Oh, don't get down," he added,as Langholm rose. "I won't talk about her any more."
"I am staying in this street," explained Langholm, guardedly.
"And these are my lodgings," rejoined the other, pulling a letter fromhis pocket, and handing the envelope to Langholm. "Let me hear fromyou, for pity's sake, as soon as you hear from her!"
Langholm sauntered on the pavement until the omnibus which he had leftwas no longer distinguishable from the general traffic of thethoroughfare. The address on the envelope was that of the lodging-houseat which he was to have called that night. He was glad now that his luckhad not left him to find Severino for himself; the sense of fatuitywould have been even keener than it was. In a way he now felt drawn tothe poor, frank boy who had so lately been the object of his unjust andunfounded suspicions. There was a new light in which to think of him, anew bond between them, a new spring of sympathy or jealousy, if not ofboth. But Langholm was not in London to show sympathy or friendship forany man. He was in London simply and solely upon his own great quest, inwhich no man must interrupt him. That was why he had been so guardedabout his whereabouts--though not guarded enough--and why he watched theomnibus out of sight before entering his hotel. The old Londoner hadforgotten how few places there are at which one can stay in SloaneStreet.
A bad twenty-four hours was in store for him.
They began well enough with the unexpected discovery that an eminentauthority on crime and criminals, who had been a good friend to Langholmin his London days, was still in town. The novelist went round to hishouse that night, chiefly because it was not ten minutes' walk from theCadogan Hotel, and with little hope of finding anybody at home. Yetthere was his friend, with the midnight lamp just lighted, and so kind awelcome that Langholm confided in him on the spot. And the man who knewall the detectives in London did not laugh at the latest recruit totheir ranks; but smile he did.
"I'll tell you what I might do," he said at length. "I might give you acard that should get you into the Black Museum at New Scotland Yard,where they would show you any relics they may have kept of the Minchinmurder; only don't say why you want to see them. Every man you see therewill be a detective; you may come across the very fellows who got up thecase; if so, they may tell you what they think of it, and you should beable to find out whether they're trying again. Here you are, Langholm,and I wish you luck. Doing anything to-morrow night?"
Langholm could safely say that he was not.
"Then dine with me at the Rag at seven, and tell me how you get on. Itmust be seven, because I'm off to Scotland by the night mail. And Idon't want to be discouraging, my dear fellow, but it is only honest tosay that I think more of your chivalry than of your chances of success!"
At the Black Museum they had all the trophies which had been produced incourt; but the officer who acted as showman to Langholm adm
itted thatthey had no right to retain any of them. They were Mrs. Minchin'sproperty, and if they knew where she was they would of course restoreeverything.
"But the papers say she isn't Mrs. Minchin any longer," the officeradded. "Well, well! There's no accounting for taste."
"But Mrs. Minchin was acquitted," remarked Langholm, in tone asimpersonal as he could make it.
"Ye-es," drawled his guide, dryly. "Well, it's not for us to sayanything about that."
"But you think all the more, I suppose?"
"There's only one opinion about it in the Yard."
"But surely you haven't given up trying to find out who really didmurder Mr. Minchin?"
"We think we did find out, sir," was the reply to that.
So they had given it up! For a single second the thought wasstimulating; if the humble author could succeed where the police hadfailed! But the odds against such success were probably a million toone, and Langholm sighed as he handled the weapon with which the crimehad been committed, in the opinion of the police.
"What makes you so certain that this was the revolver?" he inquired,more to satisfy his conscience by leaving no question unasked than tovoice any doubt upon the point.
The other smiled as he explained the peculiarity of the pistol; it hadbeen made in Melbourne, and it carried the bullet of peculiar size whichhad been extracted from Alexander Minchin's body.
"But London is full of old Australians," objected Langholm, forobjection's sake.
"Well, sir," laughed the officer, "you find one who carries a revolverlike this, and prove that he was in Chelsea on the night of the murder,with a motive for committing it, and we shall be glad of his name andaddress. Only don't forget the motive; it wasn't robbery, you know,though her ladyship was so sure it was robbers! There's the maker's nameon the barrel. I should take a note of it, sir, if I was you!"
That name and that note were all that Langholm had to show when he dinedwith the criminologist at his service club the same evening. Theamateur detective looked a beaten man already, but he talked throughhis teeth of inspecting the revolvers in every pawnbroker's shop inLondon.
"It will take you a year," said the old soldier, cheerfully.
"It seems the only chance," replied the despondent novelist. "It is acase of doing that or nothing."
"Then take the advice of an older fogey than yourself, and do nothing!You are quite right to believe in the lady's innocence; there is noexcuse for entertaining any other belief, still less for expressing it.But when you come to putting salt on the real culprit, that's anothermatter. My dear fellow, it's not the sort of thing that you or I couldhope to do on our own, even were the case far simpler than it is. It wasvery sporting of you to offer for a moment to try your hand; but if Iwere you I should confess without delay that the task is far beyond you,for that's the honest truth."
Langholm walked back to his hotel, revolving this advice. Its soundnesswas undeniable, while the source from which it came gave it exceptionalweight and value. It was an expert opinion which no man in his sensescould afford to ignore, and Langholm felt that Mrs. Steel also ought atleast to hear it before building on his efforts. The letter wouldprepare her for his ultimate failure, as it was only fair that sheshould be prepared, and yet would leave him free to strain every nervein any fresh direction in which a chance ray lit the path. But it wouldbe a difficult letter to write, and Langholm was still battling with thefirst sentence when he reached the Cadogan.
"A gentleman to see me?" he cried in surprise. "What gentleman?"
"Wouldn't leave his name, sir; said he'd call again; a foreigngentleman, he seemed to me."
"A delicate-looking man?"
"Very, sir. You seem to know him better than he knows you," added thehall-porter, with whom Langholm had made friends. "He wasn't certainwhether it was the Mr. Langholm he wanted who was staying here, and heasked to look at the register."
"Did you let him see it?" cried Langholm, quickly.
"I did, sir."
"Then let me have another look at it, please!"
It was as Langholm feared. Thoughtlessly, but naturally enough, whenrequested to put his own name in the book, he had also filled in thatfull address which he took such pains to conceal in places where he wasbetter known. And that miserable young Italian, that fellow Severino,had discovered not only where he was staying in town, but where he livedin the country, and his next discovery would be Normanthorpe House andits new mistress! Langholm felt enraged; after his own promise to writeto Rachel, a promise already fulfilled, the unhappy youth might have hadthe decency to refrain from underhand tricks like this. Langholm feltinclined to take a cab at once to Severino's lodgings, there to relievehis mind by a very plain expression of his opinion. But it was late; andperhaps allowances should be made for a sick man with a passion ashopeless as his bodily state; in any case he would sleep upon it first.
But there was no sleep for Charles Langholm that night, nor did thethought of Severino enter his head again; it was suddenly swept asideand as suddenly replaced by that of the man who was to fill thenovelist's mind for many a day.
Idly glancing up and down the autographed pages of the hotel register,as his fingers half-mechanically turned leaf after leaf backward,Langholm's eye had suddenly caught a name of late as familiar to him ashis own.
It was the name of John Buchanan Steel.
And the date was the date of the Minchin murder.