The Nine of Hearts

VI
THE DAY AFTER THE DERBY

Before commencing an account of what has been done, and what discovered, I cannot refrain from writing one sentence. Success has crowned our efforts.

There is no need here to minutely describe our proceedings on Monday and Tuesday. Sufficient to say that I was in constant communication with Fowler-who As a most trustworthy fellow, and shrewd to the tips of his nails-and that I had occasion on Tuesday to again assume my disguise. On Tuesday night I saw Dr. Daincourt, and was glad to learn from him that there was an improvement in Miss Rutland's condition.

"Due," he observed, "in a great measure to certain assurances I imparted to her in a voice so distinct and cheerful as to impress itself upon her fevered imagination."

"That is good news," I said. "You are administering what she requires-medicine for the mind."

I come now at once to the account of one of the most exciting days-the Derby Day of 1885-I have ever passed through. Fowler was in my house at seven o'clock in the morning, and brought with him a suit of clothes which he wished me to wear. He had forewarned me that he intended to make a change in his own appearance, and I was therefore not surprised when he presented himself in the guise of a well-to-do farmer who had come to London to see the Derby.

"Miss White is going, sir," he said, "and we are going, too. I have been living in the house with her these last two days, and it is important that she should not recognize me. I have a piece of satisfactory information for you. It is an even bet that before this day is out I bring you face to face with Mr. Eustace Rutland."

"If you do," said I, "you will lose nothing by it. Bring me into the same room as that young man, and I will wring from him what I desire to know."

"Don't get excited, sir," said Fowler. "Keep cool. You have had a good night's rest, I hope?"

"Yes, I slept well."

"That's right. Make a hearty breakfast, as I am going to do. We shall need all our strength. It is going to be a heavy day for us."

"Where does Ida White start from?" I asked.

"I can't tell you, sir. I pumped the landlady of the house, but she knew nothing except that a new bonnet had arrived for our lady-bird. Miss White is as close as wax, but that new bonnet means the Derby, if it means anything. She can't very well start before nine o'clock, and we shall be on the watch for her not later than half-past eight. I have six men engaged in the affair, sir. It will cost something."

"Never mind the cost," I said "it is the last thing to be considered."

"That is the way to work to success. Many a ship is spoiled for a ha'porth of tar. We shall come out of this triumphant, or my name is not Fowler."

His confident, hopeful manner inspired me with confidence, and after partaking of a substantial breakfast we both set out for Brixton. Fowler had hired a cab by the hour, with a promise of double fare to the driver, to whom he gave explicit instructions. We did not enter the house; we lingered at the corner of a street at some distance from it, and at twenty minutes to ten Miss Ida White closed the street door behind her. Secret signals passed between Fowler and his men, and we followed the lady's-maid, the cab which Fowler had engaged crawling in our rear without attracting attention. Miss White sauntered on until she came to a cab-stand, and entering a cab, was driven away. We were after her like a shot. Two other cabs started at the same time, and I learned from Fowler that they were hired by his men.

"Don't think I have drawn off all my forces, sir," he said. "Although Miss White has left the house, there are two men on watch, who will remain there the whole of the day. She has started early. It will make it all the easier for us."

Miss White's cab stopped at Victoria Station, and we stopped also.

"She's a smart-looking woman, sir," whispered Fowler to me.

"She has a splendid complexion," I remarked.

"Put on, sir," said Fowler, smiling. – "put on. Leave a lady's-maid alone to learn the tricks of the face."

Ida White purchased a first-class ticket for Epsom Downs, and we did the same. Had I followed my own judgment I should have avoided the carriage in which Miss White travelled, but Fowler pushed me in before him, and got in afterwards, and being under his command, I did not hesitate. He had purchased a number of newspapers, and shortly after we started he surprised me by opening a conversation with a stranger. He spoke with a Lancashire accent, and I should have been deceived by his voice had he not been sitting by my side. The subject, of course, was the Derby, and he appeared to be eager to obtain information as to the merits and chances of the various runners.

Meanwhile, Miss White, who had also purchased every sporting paper she saw, had taken from her pocket a Racing Guide, in which the performances of the horses were recorded. She studied this Guide with great seriousness, and was continually consulting the newspapers to ascertain how far the opinions of the sporting prophets agreed with the information of the authority with which she had provided herself. "So," thought I, "this young woman, whose whole soul seems wrapped up in racing matters, is the same young woman who in court declared that she hated races and betting men." Before we were half an hour on our journey I felt perfectly at ease in her presence. It was clear that she considered herself safe, and among strangers. The conversation between Fowler and the gentleman became more animated; others joined in, and I observed that Miss White's attention was attracted to their utterances, Every now and then she made a memorandum in a small metallic book, and before we arrived at Epsom Downs she allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and freely expressed her opinions upon the horses that were to run for the blue ribbon of the turf. I did not venture to address her, but Fowler had no fear, and extracted from her the names of the horses she believed to have the best chances. He slapped his thigh, and declared that he should back them.

We alighted at Epsom Downs, and rode to the race-course. The great rush of the day had not yet set in, but although the Grand Stand was scarcely a third part filled, there were already many there who had taken up a favorable position from which to see the principal race of the day. Fowler improved upon his acquaintance with Miss White, and I obeyed the instructions he managed to convey to me not to stick too close to him. I did not lose sight of him, however, and presently he came and said to me, in an undertone,

"It's all right, sir; I'm making headway. I've told her where I come from in Lancashire, and that I am a single man with a goodish bit of property which has just fallen to me through the death of my father. I've given her my card-I had some printed yesterday in case they might be wanted. We are going up-stairs to have a bit of luncheon before the races commence."

Up-stairs we went to the luncheon-room, where Fowler called for a bottle of dry champagne, in which we drank good-luck to each other. It was only by great exertions that we managed, after lunch, to squeeze ourselves into the Grand Stand. The crush was terrific up the narrow stairs, and Miss Ida White would have fared badly had it not been for Fowler's gallant attentions.

I have no intention to describe the race. It presented all the usual features of a Derby, to which I paid but little heed, my attention being concentrated upon Miss Ida White. She was greatly excited. There were some book-makers on the Grand Stand shouting out the odds, and she must have invested at least a dozen sovereigns on different horses, the odds against which ranged from 40 to 60 to 1.

The race was over. Melton was hailed the winner. I knew that Miss White had not backed Melton for a shilling, and I watched the effect the result of the race had upon her. Her lips quivered, her eyes glared furiously about. "Ida is an angel, is she?" thought I. "Ah! not much of the angel there."

A stampede commenced to the lower ground. The Grand Stand was half empty. Then it was that I saw a man who had just come up give a secret look of intelligence to Fowler, after which he strolled a few paces away, and stood with his back towards Miss White. Fowler joined him with a negligent air, and very soon returned.

"I am very sorry you lost," he said to Miss White, "and quite as sorry that I must wish you good-by."

He took her aside, and had a brief conversation with her, in the course of which he slipped something into her palm, upon which her fingers instantly closed. Shaking hands with her, he beckoned to me, and we left the Grand Stand.

"What did you give her?" I asked.

"Only a card," he said, "with an address in London, to which she could write to me if she felt inclined. I told her that I had never seen a lady I admired so much, and that I hoped she would give me the opportunity of becoming friends with her. In an honorable way-oh, quite in an honorable way!" he added, with a laugh.

"And what are you leaving her for now?" I inquired.

"Because I know where Mr. Eustace Rutland is to be found," he replied. "It will take two or three hours to get to the place, and I suppose it is best to lose no time."

"Decidedly the best," I said "but how about Ida White?"

"She is safe enough. My men are all around her. She won't be left for an instant, wherever she may go. The gentleman I entered into conversation with in the train was one of my fellows. You are a great lawyer, sir, but I think I could teach you something."

"I have no doubt you could. Where does Eustace Rutland live?"

"In Croydon, at some distance from the station."

We did not reach Croydon until past six o'clock, and it was nearly another hour before we arrived at the address which Fowler had received.

"That is the house, sir," he said, pointing to it. "It doesn't look very flourishing."

It was one of a terrace of eight sad-looking tenements, two stories in height, and evidently occupied by people in a humble station of life.

"Before we go in, sir," said Fowler, "I must put you in possession of the information I have gained. Mr. Eustace Rutland does not live there" – I started-"but Mr. Fenwick does. The young gentleman has thought fit to change his name that is suspicious. He has lived there the last two weeks, having come probably from some better-known locality, the whereabouts of which I shall learn by-and-by. When I say he came from some better-known locality I am not quite exact it will be more correct to say that he was brought from some better-known locality. He was very ill, scarcely able to walk, and is still very weak, I am given to understand. Now, sir, what do you propose to do? Do you wish me to go in with you, or will you see this young gentleman alone, without witnesses?"

"You are the soul of discretion, Fowler," I said, "and of shrewdness. I must see the young gentleman alone, and without witnesses. Meanwhile you can remain in the house, ready at my call, if I should require you. Keep all strangers from the room while I am closeted with him."

I knocked at the door, and inquired of the woman who opened it for Mr. Fenwick. She asked me what I wanted, and who Mr. Fenwick was.

"Mr. Fenwick lodges here," I said. "I am a friend of his, and I wish to see him."

"How do you know he lodges here?" asked the woman.

"Simply," replied Fowler, "because we happen to have received a letter from him with this address on it. What's your little game, eh, that you want to deny him to us?"

As he spoke he pushed his way into the passage, and I followed. The woman looked helplessly at us, and when Fowler said, with forefinger uplifted warningly, "Take care what you are about," she replied, "I don't know what to do; I am only following out my instructions."

"Your instructions," said Fowler, "were not to prevent Mr. Fenwick's friends from seeing him."

"I was told to admit no one," the woman said.

"And pray who told you?" demanded Fowler. "The lady?"

"Yes, sir," said the woman. "Miss Porter."

"Oh, Miss Porter," exclaimed Fowler. "A friend of ours also. Dark-skinned. Black hair. Black eyes. Red lips. White hands. Rather slim. About five foot four."

"Yes, sir," said the woman.

Fowler had given a pretty faithful description of Miss Ida White.

"Well, then," said Fowler, whose ready wit compelled my admiration, "there is no occasion to announce us to Mr. Fenwick. Show this gentleman the room, and while they're chatting together I will have a little chat with you."

"It is on the first floor," said the woman.

"Of course it is," said Fowler; "the first floor front, the room with the blind pulled down. Do you think I don't know it? How is the young gentleman?"

"Not at all well, sir."

I heard this reply as I ascended the stairs, in compliance with a motion of Fowler's head. When I arrived at the door of the room occupied by Fenwick, otherwise Eustace Rutland, I did not knock, but I turned the handle and entered. A young gentleman who had been lying on the sofa jumped up upon my entrance, and cried,

"Who are you? What do you want?"

I closed the door, and turned the key in the lock.

"What do you do that for?" he exclaimed.

"You will very soon know," I replied. "I am here for the purpose of having a few minutes' conversation with Mr. – shall I say Fenwick?"

"It is my name."

"If I did not come as a friend I should dispute it, and even as a friend I shall venture to dispute it. Your proper name is Eustace Rutland."

He fell back upon the sofa, white and trembling.

"What do you mean? Why are you here?" he gasped.

"I will tell you," I said. "The time for evasion and concealment is past. Your sister-"

"My sister!" interrupted Eustace. "I do not understand you."

"You do understand me. You have a sister-a twin-sister-whose name is Mabel. She lies at the point of death, and you have brought her to it."

He covered his face with his hands, and I judged intuitively that there sat before me a young man who, weak-minded and easily led for evil as he might be, was not devoid of the true instincts of affection.

"Did you know of her condition?" I asked.

"No," he replied, in a trembling voice. "Is it true? Is it true?"

"It is unhappily true, and it may be that it lies in your power to rescue from the grave the innocent young girl who has devoted her life and happiness to you."

"My God! my God!"

"I will not deceive you. Such happiness cannot come to pass if you are guilty."

"I am not guilty!" he cried, starting to his feet. "God knows I am not guilty!"

"Swear it," I exclaimed, sternly.

"By all my hopes of happiness," he exclaimed, falling upon his knees-"by my dear Mabel's life, by my dear mother's life-I swear that I am innocent!"

He was grovelling on the floor, and 1 assisted him to rise.

"And being not guilty," I said, solemnly, "you were content to remain in hiding while another man was accused of the crime which neither he nor you committed! And being not guilty, you would have waited until he was done to death before you emerged once more into the light of day! I believe you when you say you did not know of your sister's peril, but you knew of the peril in which Edward Layton stood. Don't deny it. Remember, the time of evasion has passed."

"Yes," he murmured, "I knew it."

"Why did you not come forward," I said, indignantly, rushing as if by an inspiration of reasoning to the truth, "to affirm that you and Ida White were in Prevost's Restaurant, in the very room in which Edward Layton and your sister entered, on the night of the 25th of March? Why did you not come forward to affirm that it was you who-by a devilish prompting-took Edward Layton's ulster, unknown to him, from the peg upon which it was hanging, and went out with your paramour to the carriage in which he and your sister had arrived? Answer me. Why did you not do this, to prevent a noble and innocent man from being condemned for a murder which he did not commit?"

"It was no murder!" cried Eustace. "It was no murder! She died by her own hand!"

"She died by her own hand!" I echoed, bewildered by this sudden turn in the complexion of the case.

"Yes," said Eustace, "by her own hand. Upon the table by her bedside there was written evidence of it."

"Which you removed!" I cried.

"No, not I, not. I! Of which she took possession!"

"Speak plainly. Whom do you mean by she-Ida White?"

"Yes."

I paused. Truth to tell, I was overwhelmed by these disclosures.

"Bear this steadfastly in mind," I said, presently, in a calm, judicial tone. "You are in the presence of a man who has sworn to rescue the innocent. You are in the presence of a man who has sworn to bring the guilty to justice. Upon me depends your fate. I can save or destroy you. If by a hair's-breadth of duplicity and evasion you attempt to deceive me, your destruction is certain. This is the turning-point of your life. Upon your truthfulness rests your fate. Open your heart to me, not as to your enemy, but as to your friend, and relate to me, without equivocation, the true story of your life, from the time you commenced to plunge into dissipation and disgrace."

Awed and conscience-stricken, he told me the story. In the course of his narration I was compelled frequently to prompt and encourage him, but that, in the result, it was truthfully told I have not a shadow of doubt.

His career at college ended, he came to London. There he made the acquaintance of Edward Layton's father, a man who, although well on in years, was as weak-minded as he was himself. They entered into a kind of partnership, in which, no doubt, the elder man, now in his grave, was the leader and prompter. From Eustace's description of Edward Layton's father I recognized a man weak-minded as Eustace himself was, and whose inherent honor and honesty were warped by his fatal passion for gambling. Old Mr. Layton, for a long time, kept his infatuation from the knowledge of his son, and it was not until he was actually involved in crime and disgrace that Edward became aware of it. Long before this Edward had, through his engagement with Mabel Rutland, been employed in the helpless task of endeavoring to save her beloved brother, but when the knowledge of his own father's disgrace was forced upon him, he knew that all hope of Mabel's father consenting to his marriage was irretrievably gone. It was not only that the young and the old man had lost money in betting-it was that they had actually been guilty of forging bills, which Mr. Beach, the father of the woman whom Edward Layton afterwards married, held in his possession. It was this that first took Edward Layton to Mr. Beach's house. Mabel had implored him to save her darling brother, against whom Mr. Beach had threatened to take criminal proceedings. I do not at this moment know whether Edward Layton had revealed to Mabel the disgrace which hung also above his father but that is immaterial. Agnes Beach, Mr. Beach's only child, saw and fell in love with Edward Layton, and her father, disreputable as he was, being devoted to his daughter, was guided by her in all that subsequently transpired. The bills he held he determinedly refused to part with, unless Edward Layton married his child.

In the terrible position in which he was placed, knowing that Mabel Rutland was lost to him forever-knowing how deeply and devotedly she loved her brother Eustace-knowing the disgrace which hung over his own name, he saw no other way to prevent utter ruin than to enter into this fatal engagement, and to marry a woman whom he did not love. But, with a full consciousness of the disreputable connection he was about to form, he laid no pressing injunction upon his father to recognize the unhappy union; and, indeed, old Mr. Layton, aware that he was in Mr. Beach's power, was by no means desirous to meet him. Love lost, honor lost, the sword hanging over his head, Edward Layton submitted to the sacrifice. There was no duplicity on his part. Agnes Beach knew full well that he did not love her. He received, as he believed, the whole of the forged bills which Mr. Beach held, and it was not until some time after his marriage that he discovered that three of these fatal acceptances had been withheld from him. At the time he made this discovery he was leading a most unhappy life with his wife, and on more than one occasion she taunted him with the power she held over him.

It was shortly after the marriage that weak-minded Eustace made the acquaintance of Ida White. She was an attractive woman, well versed in the wiles of her sex, and she played upon him and entangled him to such an extent that there was no escape for him. It is unnecessary here to enter into the details of this connection. It is sufficient to say that Ida White held Eustace Rutland completely in her power, with a firm conviction that if she could induce him to marry her, she could, after the marriage, obtain the forgiveness of Eustace's father-which would insure her a life of ease and luxury. But there was still a certain firmness in the young man.

"Marry me," she said.

"I will marry you," Eustace replied, "when I get back the forged acceptances."

Where were they? In Mrs. Layton's possession.

Close as was the intimacy which existed between the unhappy lady and her maid, Mrs. Layton retained so jealous a possession of these incriminating documents that Ida White was not able to lay her hands upon them. In the company of Eustace Rutland she was supping in Prevost's Restaurant on the night of the 25th of March. She had slipped away from Mrs. Layton's house, as she had often done before, to meet her young and foolish lover. She saw her master and Mabel enter the room, and observed Layton taking off his ulster. Then the idea suddenly entered her head that Eustace and she should personate her master and the young lady-with a full knowledge how deeply those two were compromised by their being together and arrive home before them, by which time, doubtless, Mrs. Layton would be asleep. She knew that under her pillow Mrs. Layton kept the documents which Eustace frantically desired to obtain, and the possession of which would make her, Ida White, his wife. If Mrs. Layton awoke and resisted while the forged bills were being abstracted, Eustace would be at hand to use force, if necessary; and it was principally from the wish to compromise her lover so deeply that he would not dare to break his promise to marry her that she determined to put her idea into execution. She knew that ordinarily Edward Layton kept the latch-key of the street door in the pocket of his ulster. She disclosed the scheme to Eustace, and threatened him with exposure if he did not do as she desired. It was she who took the ulster from the wall of the restaurant, and it was she who, secretly and expeditiously, assisted Eustace to put it on; then they stole out together and entered the carriage. Before acquainting Eustace with her design she had ascertained that Edward Layton's carriage was waiting for him and for Mabel. She trusted to her own resources to keep her master out of his house after she and Eustace had entered it.

Here a word is necessary as to the true meaning of Edward Layton's proceedings during the day and night of the 25th of March. Abandoned as were the hopes in which he and Mabel had once fondly indulged, she still relied upon his efforts to save her brother from harm. Eustace had lost heavily upon certain races. He had made a despairing appeal to her, and she called upon Layton to assist the erring lad. It was in the endeavor to discover Eustace that Edward Layton had driven from place to place to obtain from him the information necessary to rescue him from his peril. Mabel had, by letter, engaged to meet Edward Layton in Bloomsbury Square at ten o'clock on the night of that day, in order that he might relieve her anxiety with respect to her brother. How they met, and what transpired after they met, have been already sufficiently detailed.

Ida White's manœuvres were successful up to a certain point. She and Eustace entered the carriage, were driven home, and, unsuspected, obtained entrance into the house. The correspondence between Eustace and Mabel had been for some time conducted through the medium of the system of the Nine of Hearts, and it was either by an oversight or by accident that Eustace, during the drive from Prevost's Restaurant to Edward Layton's house, took from his own pocket one of these cards and let it drop into the pocket of the ulster. But when they were safely in Layton's house, and crept stealthily and noiselessly into Mrs. Layton's bedroom, they made the horrible discovery that Mrs. Layton, in a moment of frenzy, had emptied the bottle of poisonous narcotics, and had by her own will destroyed herself. The proof was at her bedside: When she had swallowed the fatal pills, the horror of the deed overwhelmed her. She summoned up sufficient strength to rise in her bed, to take paper and the pen from the inkstand, and before the death-agony commenced in her sleep, to write upon that paper the confession which fixed upon her the crime of suicide.

Having reached this point of the strange story, I demanded to know from Eustace Rutland what had become of that confession.

"Ida took possession of it," he said, "and I have not seen it from that moment to this."

"Why did you not come forward and make this public?" I cried.

"Because," was his reply, "Ida told me that, if what we had done became known, nothing could save us from the hangman."

"Did she obtain possession of the forged acceptances?"

"Yes."

"How was it that the tumbler from which the fatal draught was taken was on the mantle-shelf?"

"Ida placed it there."

It was enough. The entire facts of this mysterious case were clear to me. I required nothing more to prove Edward Layton's innocence than the possession of the document written almost in her death-throes by his unhappy wife.

I unlocked the door and called up Fowler. Briefly and swiftly I told him what was necessary, and said it was not at all improbable that this document was in Ida White's lodgings at Brixton; and I had scarcely uttered the words before a rat-tat-tat came at the street door.

"It is she!" cried Eustace.

"Who?" I asked, in great excitement.

"Ida," he replied.

"It serves our turn exactly, sir," muttered Fowler to me, and then addressing Eustace, he said, "Is that your bedroom?" pointing to a communicating door.

"We will go in there. Let the lady come up."

We disappeared, leaving the communicating door partially open, and the next minute I heard Ida White's voice.

"Cursed luck!" she cried. "I've lost eighty-five pounds to-day. I tell you what it is, Eustace-if we can't wheedle your old governor into forgiving us after we are married, we shall have to turn book-makers ourselves. You shall take the bets, and I will do the clerking. It will be a novelty, and we shall make pots of money."

Eustace did not reply.

"Why don't you speak?" she continued. "Are you struck dumb?"

Then came Eustace's voice, like the cry of a despairing soul:

"You are a devil! Why have you driven me to this? I hate you, hate you, hate you! You fiend, you have killed my sister!"

Fowler did not wait for me to act. He seized me by the arm, and pulled me after him into the room.

"What!" screamed Ida "you two!"

"Yes," said Fowler-and in the midst of my own excitement I could not avoid observing the expression of calm satisfaction on his face-"we two."

"What are you here for?"

"For reasons, Ida White," replied Fowler, "which may or may not be fatal to yourself. Follow what I am about to say. We have here a confession from this young gentleman which, if true-that is, if it can be proved by documentary evidence-will bring undoubted disgrace upon you, but neither death by the hangman's hands nor penal servitude for life."

She recoiled, and echoed,

"Death! Penal servitude for life!"

"It is exactly as I have said. Death by the hangman's hands or penal servitude for life. All is known. Your theft of the ulster at Prevost's Restaurant, and everything else. Your liberty at this moment rests upon a written document. If it never existed, or if you have destroyed it, you are doomed. If it exists, you are saved."

"You are a madman!" she cried, but her face was blanched, and her figure expressed the most abject terror.

"I am an officer of the law," said Fowler. "Now do you understand? If the confession written by Mrs. Edward Layton, and which, after her death, you took from the table by her bedside, is in existence, you have nothing to fear. If it is not, you are a lost woman. No words, no parleying! It is life or death for you! The moment has come. Decide. Which way?"

Utterly overpowered, Ida White replied, with hands tremblingly raised, as if for mercy,

"I have the paper."

"Where?"

Her hands wandered to her pocket, and she took a purse from it.

"Here!"

"There is something else, lady-bird."

"What?"

"The papers you stole from underneath your mistress's pillow. Ah! you have those also! Hand them over. Thank you, lady-bird. Very satisfactory – very satisfactory indeed. A happy termination to a most remarkable case!"