The three got into a four-wheeled cab and drove to Memorial Buildings. Mr. Clifford was out. Then, the clerk who received them asked if they were Messrs. Morgan and Nash.
"This is Mr. Nash," explained the Honourable Robert, "but my name's Spencer. Has Mr. Morgan been here?"
No, he had not. Mr. Clifford had been at the office till eleven o'clock; and had then left word that if Messrs. Nash and Morgan called in his absence they were to be informed that he had gone to Mr. Hooper, of Fountain Court, Temple, where they would find him if they liked to follow.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE AUTOGRAPH ALBUM
Mr. Hooper, leaning back in his chair, surveyed his cousin as if he were some strange animal.
"Although your conduct strikes me as-shall I say? – abnormal, I don't wish to insinuate anything disagreeable, my dear Frank; still, if you are sane I wish you'd prove it."
Mr. Clifford passed his handkerchief across his brow, as if he found the temperature trying.
"It's all very well to laugh-if you're supposed to be laughing-but, if you were in my position, you'd find it no laughing matter. I'm to be married next week."
"That is a prospect calculated to turn the strongest brain; granted!"
"Look here, Jack, I'll throw something at you if you talk like that; I've come for sense, not idiocy. Under the circumstances Mr. Oldfield's continued absence-and silence-was pretty bad to bear; and now to be told he's dead-"
"Dead? you don't mean to say that Oldfield's dead!"
"So I was informed last night by two men, one named Nash, and the other Morgan. Nash introduced himself as Oldfield's solicitor, and Morgan said he was his sole executor. A more unclubable man than Morgan I never met; he's not even a good imitation of a gentleman; how Oldfield came to appoint him as his sole executor is beyond my comprehension."
"What can you expect from a pill-man? I should take anything as a matter of course from the proprietor of Peter Piper's Popular Pills."
"They're a sound, wholesome medicine."
"Of course; we won't flog a dead donkey. And when did Oldfield die? and what of? did you know that he was ill?"
"I hadn't the ghost of a notion. And the best-or rather the worst-of it is that Messrs. Nash and Morgan seem to take it for granted that I knew all about it; especially the man Morgan."
"Why should he do that? And what's the harm if he does?"
Clifford was drumming on the table with his finger-tips, nervously; as a rule he was one of the coolest and most collected of men; now his embarrassment was obvious.
"That's one of the charms of the position; showing that one man may know another for a long time, and yet know nothing at all about him. According to the two gentlemen Joseph Oldfield lived a double life, and his name wasn't Oldfield at all."
"There you are again, the pill-man! It at least looks as if he had the saving grace of being ashamed to have it known that he was connected with his own pills."
"I admit it does make it look as if he were ashamed, though I don't see why he should have been; since, as I say, they are a sound and wholesome medicine."
"No doubt; the elixir of life; cure all ills; see advertisements."
"There is no reason why a man should be more ashamed of being associated with an honest medicine than with the profession of the law, which is not all honesty."
"True, O king! Still, however, let's pass on. If his name wasn't Oldfield, what was it?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Can't I-would you mind saying that again; only let me warn you that if you've come here to ask riddles there'll be ructions."
"Don't be an ass, if you can help it! I saw the girl who's in the next room in his room, yesterday."
"You saw her? I don't believe it."
"At least I saw her likeness; it was on his writing-table. She seemed to be looking at me during the whole of a very unpleasant scene; it was odd how the feeling that she was looking at me affected me; the excellence of the likeness is proved by the fact that I recognized her as the original the moment I saw her."
"Then do you mean-"
"I mean that, according to Messrs. Nash and Morgan, Oldfield's real name was Lindsay, Donald Lindsay, of Cloverlea. What's Miss Lindsay doing here?"
It was Mr. Hooper's turn to look surprised. As was his custom, when at all moved, getting up from his chair, he began to wander about the room.
"Why-she's typing, very badly, some absolutely worthless rubbish, for the magnificent payment of two guineas a week, which I can't afford to pay her."
"That sounds involved. Do you mean that she acts as your typewriter?"
"No, sir; she's my jobbing secretary; though I don't know what that is; nor does she. And in that position she's earning two guineas a week; which is more than I am."
"What's the idea?"
"The idea is that she's a lady; and that she wanted to earn her daily bread, desperately badly. Mind, you're not to breathe a word of this to her, or she'll go away at once, and probably never forgive me into the bargain."
"It strikes me that you've been entertaining an angel unawares. She says she's the daughter of Donald Lindsay, of Cloverlea."
"What she says goes. That girl wouldn't tell a lie-well, she wouldn't."
"Then in that case she must be worth piles of money. I don't understand why she's here; unless- Is it possible that she doesn't know of the connection between Lindsay and Oldfield?"
"Frank, there's a mystery about that girl; I've suspected it all along; now suspicion's growing to certainty. Let's ask her to come in, and we'll put her in the box. I'd give-more than I am ever likely to have, to be to her a bearer of good tidings."
"Jack! Is it like that?"
"You idiot! I've only known her about two minutes; besides, she'd never look at the likes of me; I feel it in the marrow of my bones. But that's no reason why, if you have good news for her, she shouldn't know them."
"One moment! The point on which I've come to consult you I haven't yet reached; and a very nasty one it is; all the same, my dear Jack, we must leave Miss Lindsay till we've discussed it. I'm accused of having committed forgery."
"Frank! you're jesting!"
"It would be a grim jest if I were; but I'm not. Yesterday Mr. Morgan charged me, point-blank, with having forged-and uttered-bills, for over forty thousand pounds; more, he seemed amazed because I did not at once confess my guilt and throw myself upon his mercy."
"The man's a lunatic!"
"Mr. Nash did not directly associate himself with Mr. Morgan's charges; on the other hand, he did not dissociate himself. His attitude puzzled me. I fancy that he had no doubt about my guilt until he met me, and that, afterwards, his judgment was in suspense."
"But what foundation had either of these men for such a monstrous accusation?"
"That's the difficulty; Morgan professes to believe he has a sound one."
"Whose name are you supposed to have forged?"
"Donald Lindsay's."
"But you never heard it till yesterday."
"That is so; but Morgan called me a liar, right out, when I said so; and appearances may be against me. Jack, I'm in an awkward position."
"I don't see why; you can bring Mr. Morgan to book, and there's an end of him."
"There's more in it than you suppose; it's not so simple. Let me explain; or at least try to. You've heard me speak of a man named Trevor, Harry Trevor?"
"I know! Sir Henry Trevor! He's a blackguard!"
"I'm afraid he's not all that he might be, but that has only begun to dawn upon me lately. At one time he and I were intimate. When I was last in Paris I met him one day on the Boulevard. Although, somehow, we'd drifted apart; our paths in life lay in different directions; still I was very glad to see him, and we chummed up at once. He was living in Paris; had an apartment on the Champs Elysée, at the top there, near the Arch. He knew everybody; took me about; I had a royal time. One night I dined with him in his rooms, he and I alone together. Now I'm reluctant to make a direct charge, because I've no proof to offer, but I wondered then, and I've wondered still more since, if he hadn't done something to his wine."
"How-done something?"
"You know I'm an abstemious man, I don't care for wine; as a rule I drink nothing at meals, not even water. But on an occasion like that it was different. I had one glass of champagne, one of those small tumblers; when the servant began to fill it up I stopped him; not that there was anything wrong with the champagne, I feel sure there wasn't. After dinner, with our fruit, we had some port; I wanted neither the port nor the fruit, but Trevor insisted. The servant had left the room; he himself took a bottle out of a cupboard; he laid it in a cradle; he drew the cork; you know the fuss some men make about drawing a cork of what they allege is a remarkable bottle of wine. He made all that fuss, he insisted upon my sampling it; of course after all the business he had gone through, I had no option; he poured me out a glassful. Now I believe that wine was not all he pretended."
"What makes you think it?"
"As soon as I tasted it I didn't like it, I told him so. He said I should change my opinion by the time I'd finished the glass; so-merely to get rid of it-I finished the glass in a hurry, and I liked it less than ever."
"How did it affect you?"
"It upset me; I was conscious that I was not in a condition in which I should care to do business."
"Did you say anything?"
"I told him that I thought the wine had a very funny taste; but he only laughed and said it was evident that I was no judge of port."
"You only had one glass?"
"One only; nothing short of physical force would have induced me to touch another drop."
"Then what did you do?"
"We went into the other room, his sitting-room. He took out an autograph album, it seemed that he collected autographs; though that was the first I'd heard of it. He began to talk about imitating people's handwriting, how good some were at it. Now it's a fact that I've always had an unfortunate facility for imitating handwriting."
"It is, as you say, an unfortunate facility; one not overmuch to be desired."
"When I was at school I used to imitate the masters' writing, the other fellows' writing, anybody's writing; it used to give me a sort of importance in the eyes of the other boys, and I'm afraid I sometimes used my gift in ways which weren't altogether to my credit; you haven't forgotten what boys are. Trevor was at school with me, so he knew all about it. As he turned over page after page of his album, he kept saying that I couldn't imitate this writing, and I couldn't imitate that; I hadn't tried my hand since I had left school; I didn't know if he was right or wrong, and I didn't care. Finally he came to a signature which, so far as I remember, was on a scrap of paper which might have been torn off the bottom of a letter; the name itself was recalled to my memory with unpleasant vividness yesterday-it was Donald Lindsay."
"Frank!"
"We are fearfully and wonderfully made. It had gone clean out of my mind till Mr. Morgan showed it to me yesterday on a bill of exchange; then it came back with a rush of recollection which frightened me. Wasn't that an extraordinary thing?"
"Go on; I don't see yet what you are coming to."
"Trevor made a special point of this signature. He sat down and imitated it himself, and then challenged me to do better. His imitation was a bad one; and-I did better."
"What did you write on?"
"I have a vague impression that it was on a blank sheet of paper; but I was in such a state of muddle that I couldn't positively affirm. Had I been myself I should have changed the conversation before, but I was in such a condition that I could only sit and listen, with but a dim appreciation of his meaning."
"But you do remember copying Donald Lindsay's signature on what you believe was a blank sheet of paper?"
"Unfortunately I do; the name meant nothing to me; I had never heard of such a person; I acted on Trevor's persistent suggestion practically like a man might do who was in a mesmeric trance. When I had finished, Trevor, taking it up, declared it wasn't a bit like, and, if I couldn't do better than that, he'd beaten me. So I tried again."
"You mean that you copied Donald Lindsay's signature a second time?"
"I did."
"On the same sheet of paper?"
"I couldn't positively say, but it wouldn't surprise me to be told that it was on a fresh sheet. I've a hazy notion that I copied it a third and fourth time; Trevor each time declaring that it was not a bit like. By that time my brain was torpid, all I could do was move my fingers; presently I could no longer move those. I lost consciousness. The next thing I can recollect is waking up in bed at my hotel feeling very ill. I rang for the waiter. When he appeared he told me, with a grin, that I had been brought to the hotel in a cab; that I had had to be carried out, borne up-stairs, undressed, and put to bed; the inference being that I was drunk. But I knew better. There happened to be staying in the hotel a doctor who practises at Karlsbad, with whom I had some acquaintance, Dr. Adler, a man of cosmopolitan reputation. I sent for him, and when he came he at once pronounced that I had been poisoned."
"Poisoned? Actually poisoned?"
"Actually poisoned. Adler saved my life; I believe that without him I should have died. It was three days before I could get out of bed; and then I was so weak that I had to be helped across the room."
"What did you do?"
"I sent a note to Trevor, by hand. The messenger returned with it, saying Trevor had left Paris the day after I had dined with him, and his apartment was shut up."
"And then?"
"I returned to London. I had already overstayed my time; I was wanted at the office; I resumed my duties, and forgot all about it; or, at least, I tried to. What could I do? The conclusion to which I came was that there had been something wrong with the wine. I had known Trevor the greater part of his life; I had never known him to be guilty of a disreputable action; I could conceive of no motive which might induce him to play tricks with an old friend, at his own table; I resolved that, when occasion offered, I would tell him the tragic tale of how his port had affected me; until yesterday I supposed that it was by sheer accident that so far an opportunity had not arisen, and that I had heard and seen nothing of Trevor from that day to this; and there you are!"
"That's not all the story."
"So far as I've actual knowledge it is; the rest is mere surmise, based on what Mr. Morgan told me yesterday. He says that bills for over forty thousand pounds, purporting to be signed by Donald Lindsay, have been discounted by Trevor, who asserted that he had them from me. If that's true it looks as if those pieces of paper on which I copied Lindsay's signature were bill stamps."
"Have you no recollection of them whatever?"
"None. If that is so then the possibility is that Trevor knew of the connection between Lindsay and Oldfield; and that that is why he hocussed me-Oldfield's managing man-into copying Lindsay's name; which points to a plot, on Trevor's part, of the most iniquitous kind."
"Where is Sir Henry Trevor now?"
"That I don't know. After leaving Morgan last night I hunted for him everywhere; wired to Paris, searched all over London. Nothing has been heard of him at any of his old haunts for at any rate the last three or four months; he seems to have vanished."
"Who discounted the bills?"
"That, also, I can't tell you; we shall probably hear all about that from Mr. Morgan. What I want to learn is, legally, in what position do I stand?"
"It's not easy to say. To begin with they'll have to prove that the bills were forged."
"And then?"
"Then they'll have to produce Trevor. A man who is capable of behaving as he has done is quite likely to be willing to swear that he received the bills in their completed state from you."
"Which means?"
"Your word against his; to clear yourself you'll have to convict him, which mayn't be easy, or agreeable for you."
"Sounds cheerful; especially as I'm to be married next week!"
"There's one hope for you."
"Only one? Let's have it."
"The fact that Miss Lindsay is in the next room. If she has anything to do with it she'll even forgive you for allowing yourself to get mixed up with such a scamp as Trevor; I know more about him than it seems you do. That girl could forgive anybody anything, she's a saint in embryo. I suggest that we invite her to come in here, and that we then put to her some leading questions."
CHAPTER XXXIV
UNTO THE LIGHT
When Nora entered she looked from one man to the other, as if she wondered by which of them her presence was desired. She declined the chair which Mr. Hooper offered. On his persisting in his request to her to be seated she observed, with the naïve mixture of humility and pride which became her so well, that she would rather not sit, as she was engaged in copying a passage which was more than usually involved, and to which she would like to return as soon as she could. Mr. Hooper, at her back, directed a glance at Mr. Clifford, of which, had she intercepted it, she would probably have required a prompt explanation.
"I think, Miss Lindsay," he said, "that it is possible that you will do no more copying for me, and that the passage of which you speak may remain unfinished."
She turned quickly round to him, alarm on her face.
"Mr. Hooper! Why do you say that? What have I done?"
"Everything you have done, Miss Lindsay, you have done excellently; if you will permit me to ask you a few questions, you will understand why I say it. Please sit down."
"Thank you; I much prefer to stand."
"You, of course, are at liberty to please yourself; but, in that case, Mr. Clifford and I must also continue to stand, and that may be inconvenient." Thereupon she subsided on to the chair which he had placed for her, glancing as she did so at the two men in front of her as if she suspected them of having conspired together to compel her to seat herself against her will. Mr. Hooper assumed an air which was almost judicial. "I beg you to believe, Miss Lindsay, that in putting to you the questions I am about to put I am actuated only by considerations of your own interests. If they seem at all impertinent, I assure you that it is in appearance only; as, if you will answer them frankly, you will immediately perceive. To begin with, how many children had your father beside yourself?"
It is possible that she looked as surprised as she felt; she could hardly have felt more surprised than she looked. She hesitated; then briefly answered-
"None."
"Then-pardon me if I pain you-were you not on good terms with your father when he died?"
Her eyes opened wider; it seemed that her amazement grew.
"Of course I was; what do you mean? If you had ever known my father you wouldn't have dreamt of asking such a-such a silly question; I don't wish to be rude, but you wouldn't. My father never said an angry word to me in the whole of his life."
"But, in that case, to whom did he leave his money?"
"To me."
"To you?"
"He left everything he had in the world to me absolutely; I don't know quite what it means, but I know that's what they said, absolutely."
"Then now it's my turn not to understand you. Your father was an immensely wealthy man. If you are his heiress, how is it I have the honour, and happiness, of seeing you here, in receipt of a modest weekly salary?"
"Every one thought papa was rich; I did; I understood him to tell me himself that he was; but it seemed, after all, that he wasn't. Indeed, as soon as he was dead, some man said he owed him a great deal of money, for bills."
"Bills!"
The interruption came from Clifford.
"I don't know what kind of bills they were; but I know they were bills of some kind, because I was told so; then they came and sold everything to get money to pay the bills, and I was left with nothing."
The two men eyed each other as if the significance of what the girl said surpassed their comprehension. Mr. Clifford continued his interposition.
"Miss Lindsay, Mr. Hooper has told you my name; it is Clifford-Frank Clifford. I believe I knew your father for many years, and am indebted to him for many kindnesses. Did he never mention my name to you?"
"Clifford? No, I don't remember his ever having done so."
"I saw your portrait in his rooms yesterday, and when I saw you this morning I recognized you at once."
"His rooms? What rooms?"
"His rooms in town."
"I didn't know he had any; we couldn't find out that he had an address in town."
"You couldn't find out that he had an address in town? I don't understand; there is something very strange here. Do you know a Mr. Nash?"
"Herbert Nash? He acted as my solicitor after my father was dead."
"Your solicitor, or your father's?"
"Mine. He went through my father's papers with a friend, and it was he who discovered that he had left no money."
"This is stranger and stranger. How many executors did your father appoint?"
"Executors?"
"How many executors did your father appoint in his will?"
"I never heard that he appointed any."
"Then did you ever hear of a Mr. Morgan?"
"Morgan? Stephen Morgan? Stephen Morgan was our butler at Cloverlea."
Mr. Clifford gave what seemed like a gasp of astonishment.
"Your butler! Miss Lindsay, would you mind describing your butler?" She did it so minutely that he identified his visitor of yesterday beyond a doubt. "I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Morgan, Miss Lindsay; but he did not introduce himself as your father's butler. Would it be asking too much to ask you to describe your father?"
"I can do better than that. He never would be photographed by a professional, but I managed to snap him two or three times with my own camera; I have a print of the very last snapshot I took of him here. It's not much as a photograph, but it's not a bad likeness." She took an old-fashioned gold locket from the bosom of her dress, and, opening it, held it out for Mr. Clifford to see. On one side was the portrait of her father; on the other was the portrait of some one else. "That," she explained, rather lamely, "is a portrait of-of some one I used to know."
"This," declared Mr. Clifford, looking at the likeness on the other side, "is the portrait of the man I have known for many years as Joseph Oldfield."
"As who? That's my father!"
"Do you not know he had a business in town?"
"I did not know he had a business anywhere."
"He had; he carried on that business under a pseudonym; I have always known him as Joseph Oldfield; for the first time yesterday I heard the name of Donald Lindsay. It seems to have been his wish that his commercial and his private lives should be wholly distinct, overlapping at no point; he appears to have succeeded in carrying out that wish almost too well."
"How-how extraordinary; and yet I'm not surprised. That is what he has been trying to tell me all the time."
"All what time?"
There was something in her tone and manner which struck the two men as curious; a sort of exaltation.
"He has been coming to me, night after night, in my dreams, always in such trouble; always trying so hard to tell me something; but he never could. Now I know what it was. If he comes again he'll understand that I know, and his trouble will have gone. You mustn't laugh at me; in my dreams his coming has been so real." Judging from their faces neither of her hearers was inclined for laughter. She turned to Mr. Clifford. "What was my father's business?"
"He was the proprietor of Peter Piper's Popular Pills, of which you have probably heard."
"Why" – her face was illumined by a smile-"he always had a stock of them in the house; it was a standing joke. He used to give a box to nearly every one who came, declaring that they were a simple, safe medicine for what he called 'common complaints.'"
Mr. Clifford bestowed on Mr. Hooper what might be described as a glare of triumph.
"So they are, Miss Lindsay; it is only ignorant people who doubt it. No one was in a better position to know than your father was, and he was their sole proprietor. If he left you all his property, then I am fortunate in being the first to tell you that, of my own knowledge, you are the owner of at least a million."
"A million! Mr. Clifford! Then-then-"
She had the locket still open, and was looking at the likeness which she had described as the portrait of some one she used to know; as she looked her sentence came to a premature end, and her face was dyed with blushes. Mr. Clifford went on, a little heatedly.
"You have been badly used, Miss Lindsay; monstrously used; and by those who should have made it their first aim to use you well."
Her radiant face contrasted oddly with his warmth.
"What does it matter? It has done me no harm. All the while I've felt that God was leading me through the darkness unto the light; and that's what He has done. So see how much I have to thank Him for."
The door was opened by Mr. Gibb.
"Two gentlemen and a lady to see Mr. Frank Clifford."
Without waiting for further announcement the visitors came in; in front Robert Spencer; behind him Herbert Nash, with Elaine at his side. When the lovers saw each other, each stood gazing as if fearful that the other was some entrancing vision which might resolve itself into air and vanish. Both cried, as if it was the most delightful and wonderful thing in the world that it should be so-
"You!"
They advanced, and only just in the nick of time remembered that there were others there; they could not have got closer and kept out of each other's arms. Mr. Spencer spoke as if in an ecstasy.
"You queen of dear women, I've ransacked all the stray corners of the world for you! Where have you been hiding?"
"Why," she replied, "I've been trying to earn my living."
"My Lady Quixote! all the while you've been a millionaire!"
"So Mr. Clifford has just told me. I haven't had time to realize it yet; but I think I'm glad."
"You only think?"
"I'm sure." She added-they were so close! – these words, which reached his ear only, "For your sake!" As she whispered her face crimsoned. Before he could answer she had moved forward. "Elaine!" When she advanced the other shrank back. "Why, Elaine, what's the matter?"
Mr. Spencer spoke.
"Miss Harding is now Mrs. Nash. If you will go with her into the next room I think you will find that she has something which she wishes to say to you."
So Nora went with Elaine into the adjoining chamber. The four men, left to themselves, began, with each other's aid, to piece together, into a comprehensible whole, the scattered parts of Donald Lindsay's strange history. While in the little room, where she had had such struggles with the typewriter, in the hour of her happiness, Nora had to listen to a tale of sin; and even while she listened, her one thought was how to comfort the sinner, to lead her, through the darkness, unto the light.