The Duke Decides/Chapter 20

by Headon Hill

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CHAPTER XX

In the Muniment Room

While Alec Forsyth was engaged in showing Ziegler out of the crypt, the Duke of Beaumanoir, in happy ignorance of the perilous effort his friend was making for him, sat in the dark muniment room, still as a cat, with his eyes on the door. He had drawn one of the oak chairs close to the safe in which Senator Sherman’s genuine bonds reposed. He had established himself on guard, in case, trickery having failed, violent methods should be adopted at the last moment to obtain the huge plunder.

He thought it improbable that, with General Sadgrove in the house and Azimoolah somewhere loose around it, any of the gang would break in unseen, still less that they would reach the muniment room. He sincerely hoped that the vigilance of those trained watchdogs would prevail, for, though he was prepared to atone for his folly by defending the safe at the cost of his life, if need be, he did not see how that could be done without opening up the scandal he had gone through so much to avoid. He had bought the safe, had met the Senator at Liverpool, and now, unknown to anyone, was keeping his lonely vigil in the firm determination that, at all hazards, the bonds should reach the Bank of England in safety; but there was a dread in his heart lest the tell-tale emergency he was providing against should arise.

For here it becomes necessary to say that the letter sent to Ziegler in London five days before, and purporting to convey the Duke’s submission and request for instructions, which were called for by Alec Forsyth, was not written by the Duke at all, or even with his cognizance. It had been the joint production of General Sadgrove and Forsyth, with an eye to immediate immunity for the Duke from further murderous attacks, and to the enactment of some such dangerous comedy as had just been played in the crypt. Though when that deceptive missive was penned, its authors expected, in varying degrees, as will presently be seen, tragedy rather than comedy. And he who by right of youth and friendship necessarily took the greater risk was the one who, not being fully informed by his uncle, had most cause for apprehension from the masquerade.

But Beaumanoir, sitting in the dark with his Smith and Wesson at full cock amid the archives of the house he was concerned to preserve stainless, was aware of none of these tortuous dealings. Had his zeal allowed him to indulge in the luxury of a light, he might have whiled away the time by perusing some of the musty chronicles around him, and have so drawn comfort from the knowledge that if his misdeed was published with the usual trimmings in every paper in the kingdom, he would still compare favorably with some of his race who had gone before. So far he had never stolen poor men’s land under the protection of the Commons Enclosure Act, or appropriated tenants’ improvements to his own enrichment.

True, it was a dirty trick he had put his hand to—a dirty trick in dirty company—and he hated himself for it to the full. But he had been a denizen of another world when Ziegler’s emissary had annexed him, body and soul, as plain Charles Hanbury, in the Bowery saloon. He remembered that world now with a horror and a loathing greater, if possible, than when he had endured it—the sordid life in the five-dollar boarding-house, the lunch of tough sandwiches of Texas beef which had bulged his pockets on the way to his duties in the big dry goods store, the insolence of his Irish-American and German fellow-workers because of his English speech. And the haughty salesladies who had drawn their skirts from him as they squeezed past the tame detective at the timekeeper’s box—sitting there in the dark muniment room, even his present trouble could not check a smile at thinking what those damsels would have done if told that he had been about to become a duke within the month.

Yes, it had been a dirty trick that he had undertaken to escape all this, but somehow the thing had not seemed so bad when he was unacquainted with the persons interested. Just as old-time smugglers persuaded themselves that there was no dishonesty in defrauding the state, so in the same light he had regarded the spoliation of a big corporation like the Bank of England or the United States Treasury, whichever would have been the ultimate loser when the lawyers had settled the matter. He would never have gone into the business, even in his despairing exile, if he had not looked upon it as a breach of honesty by which no single individual would be an appreciable loser. He made no excuses for himself on this score, but merely analyzed his state of mind philosophically, by no means salving his conscience because he had dropped the affair the moment individualities had become involved, or laying claim to any merit for a repentance sustained at such imminent peril.

“Whatever is the upshot of it all I can never be too thankful that I came over in the same ship with the Shermans,” he muttered, “and for being brought up with a round turn by the knowledge that the one to bear the brunt of my iniquity would have been Leonie’s father. Why, the excellent Senator might have been suspected of having stolen the bonds himself. Funny that that view didn’t occur to me till I knew the people.”

The same gratitude had filled his simple soul twenty times during the last week, even when his enemies had pressed him most sorely; but it recurred with redoubled force now that he was within sight of the end. By noon on the morrow the Senator would have safely housed the securities at the Bank, and then his own responsibility would cease. Ziegler could kill him then, and welcome, if he still thought it worth while, though the chief of the organization was not, he imagined, the sort of person to waste time and energy on a purely sentimental revenge. If Ziegler carried on the feud after the bonds were safe from him it would be, as before, to secure silence about the attempt, and he could fling no stigma on the family name without divulging details that would incriminate his gang. And the family name was all that mattered.

Beaumanoir had just rounded off his forecast in this satisfactory manner when he was suddenly startled back into the present by a faint sound far down the corridor on which the muniment room abutted. He knew perfectly well what the sound was—the “scroop” of the spring-driven swivel-roller that automatically closed a baize door shutting off the servants’ premises. He had half risen from his chair when another sound—the tinkle of a pebble cast against the window from outside—distracted his attention; but disregarding it in favor of the more pressing emergency, he made haste towards the door of the room.

The room was at the extreme end of the corridor, looking along it lengthwise, and it was not therefore necessary for the Duke to disclose himself at the door, which he had purposely left partially open, in order to reconnoiter. Standing in the darkness a few feet from the door, he was able to see who was coming, and the sight sent a thrill of despair to his heart. All his pleasant anticipations of oblivion for his transgression were rudely shattered, for the old man who, white-bearded and with cat-like tread, came along the passage was Ziegler himself. Another figure was dimly discerned close behind, but of that the Duke took no heed. His eyes were riveted on the one in front—on the evil man who had the power to change his destiny. There was something curiously fantastic, something unreal, in the aged miscreant gliding towards him, framed in the gaping darkness of the doorway.

The opening into a branch passage, leading to another part of the mansion, lay between Ziegler and the muniment room, and there was a bare chance that he might turn in that direction. In reality he had to advance but a few steps before the point could be settled, but it seemd a whole æon to the Duke, and, to add to the tension of his nerves, another pebble struck the window. All hope of being able to preserve his secret had fled now, and Beaumanoir strove to concentrate his reeling brain on how best to summon assistance and ward off an attack on the safe. If only he knew who that was throwing up stones from outside—whether friend or foe—he could decide whether to run to the window and open it or leave it alone. He dared not act in ignorance, possibly to admit a third adversary. The window was ten feet from the ground, but the wall was covered with gnarled ivy stems up which an active man could readily climb.

While he was hesitating the matter was arranged for him. There was no time to reach the window, for Ziegler passed the branch corridor without as much as looking at it, and was coming straight on to the muniment room. Beaumanoir raised his revolver, but lowered it again, incapable of shooting a fellow-creature in cold blood, and also fascinated by a horrible curiosity to learn the intruder’s intention. He could not as yet be absolutely certain that Ziegler knew that the bonds were in the safe. He would wait till it was attacked before he made a counter-move.

In this mind he slipped behind a huge oak press laden with expired leases, and had hardly ensconced himself when Ziegler entered the room, followed, to Beaumanoir’s surprise, by a woman, whom he did not recognize, in the faint light diffused from the corridor, as Rosa, Mrs. Talmage Eglinton’s French maid. The shadowy figures—that of the frail old man and of the trim soubrette—stood motionless and silent just within the doorway, evidently mastering the landmarks of the room. Then, at a whisper from Ziegler, the maid glided with a nod of comprehension to the nearest window, and was busy with the hasp when the rattle of still another pebble on the glass accelerated her movements. She swung the casement outwards, and in a muffled voice called down:

“’Tis ze right room. You are to come oop.”

A rustling noise, as of foliage shaken, rising from below warned the Duke that if he waited longer he might be beset by a horde of assailants. It spurred him to instant action. Set in the wall close to his place of concealment was the switch of the electric light, and stretching out his left hand he turned it on, at the same time stepping forward and covering Ziegler with his pistol. The old man blinked at him in the sudden glow, and then, quietly turning, shut the door. His object must have been to prevent his voice penetrating into the house, for he croaked out to the Frenchwoman by the window the petulant order:

“Tell Benzon to hurry.”

The maid, relaxing the venomous glare with which she was regarding Beaumanoir, put out her head and obeyed. A renewal of the rustling and the sound of heavy breathing told her that her request had been heard, and drew a harsh laugh from Ziegler. Fixing the Duke with a cruel gaze, he remarked calmly, in his thin falsetto:

“The champion safe-cracksman of America will be here in a moment. Your Grace will have the opportunity of seeing a very pretty piece of work if you care to remain till I have exchanged this package for the one inside. You are not going to be fool enough to use that pistol and give yourself away at this stage, and if you were, my friend Benzon would be equal to the occasion.” And holding up the parcel of tissue paper which he had received from Forsyth in the crypt, he shook it mockingly at the Duke.

But in so doing he reckoned literally without his host. With a spring that wrenched his lame foot painfully Beaumanoir leaped upon him, and, crushing the white beard to a throat that somehow seemed less scraggy than might have been expected, dragged him to the door and contrived to get it open with his left hand. So struggling, the pair stumbled into the corridor, and Beaumanoir was about to shout lustily for help, when his voice dwindled into a panting:

“Thank God you’ve come! I’ve got this one, but there is a woman in there, and—and others are coming in through the window.”

For in the corridor, hurrying towards him, were General Sadgrove, Senator Sherman, and Alec Forsyth, each with revolvers in their hands, while Sybil Hanbury brought up the rear, looking as if she resented that position. In the presence of this formidable phalanx Beaumanoir felt his captive wilt in his grasp, and indeed he himself was swept back by it, still holding on, into the muniment room, where the woman Rosa was in the act of retreating from the window. The General took command quite naturally, bidding Forsyth guard the door, while he himself advanced to the window, very stern and upright, and muttering as he went:

“What can Azimoolah have been about? He must be past his work.”

But the words were hardly spoken when the subject of his censure leaped in through the window, drawing his breath quickly, but not otherwise inconvenienced by a limp bundle of humanity which he carried over his shoulder, and now proceeded to dump like a sack on the floor. After securing the window, the Pathan turned and gravely saluted the General.

“There were three others, sahib, but they are gone,” he said simply. “At sight of thy servant fear seemed to fall upon them, so that they fled across the maidan like deer flushed by a cheetah. But this one was already climbed nigh to the window, so I followed, and choking him a little, brought him in.” And with his foot he slightly spurned the motionless form of his prisoner, whom the Duke and Forsyth recognized as the hero of the watch-spring saw who had been surprised cutting out the panel at Beaumanoir House a week before.

“Choked him a little!” said the General with a grim chuckle. “You don’t seem to have left much life in him, but it was no case for standing on ceremony. And now, madam,” continued the veteran, facing round to where Beaumanoir stood with his grip on Ziegler’s collar, “your disguise need hamper you no longer—that is, if you prefer to finish this business in your own person. Get the pull of your sex, you know.”

“Yes, I guess that wig doesn’t do justice to Cora Lestrade,” interjected Senator Sherman, and with a dexterous twirl of his wrist he jerked off the elaborate head-gear which had effectually transformed the dashing lady known as Mrs. Talmage Eglinton into a repulsive old man. But it was only when feminine instinct had prompted her with a swift application of her handkerchief to remove the purple stain that had added the semblance of disease to old age that the Duke recognized his guest.

“I do not understand,” he murmured, feebly.

And it seemed that Alec Forsyth, in spite of the part entrusted to him in the comedy of the crypt, had been ignorant of the identity of his antagonist, for a cry of astonishment escaped him. On the other hand, the demure smile that played round Sybil Hanbury’s pretty mouth betokened a closer intimacy with the foregoings of this wonderful development. Forsyth’s sharp exclamation had the effect of rousing Azimoolah’s captive from his swoon. The man raised himself on his elbow, and, grasping the situation, remained quietly watchful.

“And now, your Grace, before another word is said, let me shake you by the hand right here, and thank you for all the patient courage you have shown and all the danger you have incurred to baffle as waspish a gang as ever hailed from my side of the ditch,” said the Senator, suiting the action to the word, greatly to the embarrassment of the Duke, and provoking a scornful laugh from the fantastic figure in male attire.

“Why, he was one of us,” she sneered. “It was only when he found he had something to lose that he backed out.”

The Senator looked her up and down with a fine contempt.

“So much for a great reputation,” he said. “My good Lestrade, the warders who told me you were the cleverest woman in Sing-Sing must have made a grievous error, for a really clever criminal would never have been cornered by a brave man pretending to join the confederacy. The Duke has not tripped once all through the affair, except that he has been a little too reckless in exposing his valuable life to peril. The result of his heroic conduct is that you are outwitted all along the line, and that the three millions are secure in that safe.”

This misdescription of the case, so adroitly near the mark and yet differing from the truth in the all-important word “pretending,” made the Duke catch his breath. Somehow the matter which he had believed himself to be working single-handed seemed to have been taken out of his shaky grasp, and, shamed by the unmerited praise, he waited for the rejoinder of the adventuress. It came crisp and sharp.

“Then what you have to do is to call in the police and hand us over to justice,” she said defiantly. “The authorities will be puzzled to find a reason for all you worthy amateurs bottling up your knowledge of a crime that would have shaken two continents. I think I shall be able to instruct my counsel so that by the time he has done with him his Grace won’t be much of a hero.”

The Senator smiled superior.

“Ah!” he retorted, pleasantly; “you might have tried that if you had had the chance. But then, you see, you won’t have it. I’m only a visitor here—like yourself, his Grace’s guest—but I believe the intention is that you and your friend, who really need not scowl so, are not to face a Judge this time. General Sadgrove has charge of what we may call the liberation department, and he will enlighten you.”

The man Benzon, lying propped on his elbow, with Azimoolah standing over him statuesquely menacing, shot a sly glance of triumph at his confederate, but it met with only a sickly smile for a response. Lestrade’s eyes turned with shrinking expectancy to the General, her insolent demeanor having vanished, strangely enough, at the hint that she would not be detained.

“Yes, there will be no prosecution,” the General said, sternly. “The Duke took the onus of defeating your aims upon him before he was called to his present high station, and his friends are unanimous that he ought not to pursue the matter now. You, Madame Lestrade, will be allowed to depart early to-morrow morning in the name you have chosen to assume; and you, sir, can go at once by the way you came—through the window.”

The man Benzon rose to his feet with alacrity, trying vainly to catch the eye of his accomplice, and shooting furtive glances at the package which she still carried. There was evidently something that he did not understand, and wanted to before he availed himself of the unexpected permission. There came a curious gleam into the General’s eyes as he noticed this perplexity, and when he took up his parable again there was a ring in his voice that chained his hearers’ attention. Sybil, too, leaned forward, watching the two bond-robbers alternately, as though expecting a surprise for them.

“Before you go I will explain what is puzzling you,” the General went on, addressing himself to Benzon, and pointing to the dummy package in Cora Lestrade’s hand. “You are under the impression that those are the bonds, and you are half inclined to think that we are letting you go in ignorance of what you believe to be the case—that the genuine bonds were handed to that lady in the crypt by the Duke. Know, then, that the Duke wasn’t in the crypt at all, nor were any bonds handed over. His Grace’s place was taken by Mr. Forsyth there, who succeeded in getting from her the spurious bonds and handed her in return a lot of blank paper. See—examine it for yourself.”

And quickly possessing himself of the parcel, he held it for inspection. A spasm crossed Benzon’s sinister face, and there escaped him the involuntary cry:

“But you looked at the things, Cora, and pronounced them correct. You said we were only coming here for the heirlooms in the safe; yet you must have known.”

“Quite so,” the General proceeded, disregarding a smothered remark from the female culprit. “She knew that she had been hoodwinked, because she recognized my nephew under his disguise, and so at once examined the parcel. Thereupon she deceived you and her other associates for a private reason that had nothing to do with the interests of your precious combination. Like to hear what that reason was?”

Benzon flung a reproachful, half-imploring look at his strangely garbed chief, as though seeking for a denial from her, but failing to catch her downcast eye, he gave a sullen assent to the question.

“Very well,” the General went on, inexorably. “She withheld her confidence from her colleagues because she desired to save the life of Mr. Forsyth from the murderous vengeance of you gentlemen who are so handy with charcoal braziers and railway accidents. So she made a last desperate effort to obtain the bonds by persuading you to break into the safe under a false pretext—used you as tools, do you understand?—to repair her own breach of faith to you without having to confess it. Her idea was doomed to failure, anyway, for, apart from his Grace’s vigilance, she was effectually watched by Miss Hanbury from the moment of her readmission into the house by that Frenchwoman. When ‘Mrs. Talmage Eglinton,”—with a fine scorn on the name—“crept out dressed like that, we wanted to see whether she would go straight to her room when she came back, don’t you know.”

He paused, but not with an air of finality. No one had ever suspected Jem Sadgrove in the old days of an eye for dramatic effect. He must have been coached by somebody into leading up to the question now to be put with fierce insistence by the saturnine Benzon, and, to judge by the eager interest in Sybil’s dilated eyes, that young lady had been the coach.

“Why should Cora Lestrade want to spare Mr. Forsyth?” asked the man, taking a step forward, to be instantly reminded of his position by the lean brown hand of Azimoolah falling like a vise on his shoulder. The Pathan evidently cherished a lingering hope that there might yet arise a pretext for treating “the black tribe” in the old way.

“Because, sir, a woman can’t help herself in matters of the heart, and even the worst of ’em is capable of an unselfish attachment,” the General replied, with slow emphasis. But he hastened to add, as if eager to disavow responsibility for the introduction of sentiment: “At least, so I was advised. The little scheme for obtaining the sham securities was based on the supposition that this woman had a liking for Mr. Forsyth, and would do him no hurt if she recognized him. That forecast has turned out to be well founded.”

“Uncle Jem!” Forsyth protested, flushing hotly.

“Yes, laddie, I know you would not have taken the job on if I had informed you who Ziegler was,” said the General. “There would have been less to fear, but there would have been a dash of the underhand about it that wouldn’t have suited you. But I should never have allowed you to walk into such a death-trap as that crypt would have been without the safeguard we—that is, I—trusted to. It wasn’t a case for being too nice. There’s no such thing as taking a mean advantage of people threatening life and property, they told me when I was taught my trade.”

The man Benzon, who had kept his gaze fixed on the face of Cora Lestrade, removed it now, and, with a cool politeness that struck an unaccountable chill to most of his hearers, thanked the General for enlightening him on “a point of considerable importance,” and begged permission to depart if he was really not to be detained. At a sign from his master Azimoolah stood aside, and the man swung himself out of the window, gained a foothold on the ivy stems, and was gone. When they had all turned away from the darkling face framed for a moment among the creepers, it was seen that she who had loomed so largely in their lives of late as “Mr. Clinton Ziegler” and “Mrs. Talmage Eglinton” was swaying and about to fall.

“Thank you,” she said, recovering herself with a painful effort as Senator Sherman, who happened to be nearest, came to her assistance.

“It was only a passing weakness, but I shall be glad if I may go to my room.”

And with a flicker of the old impudence she mimicked General Sadgrove:

“Even the worst of ’em is capable of feeling shaken on hearing sentence of death pronounced,” adding, with a swift change of manner, “and that is what I have heard in this room to-night.”

But in the morning, when, with the Frenchwoman Rosa, she took her departure by a train leaving so early that none of the house-party were visible, it was observed by the servants that Mrs. Talmage Eglinton was in the highest spirits, and, if possible, more stylishly appareled than usual. And Mr. Manson, the butler, looking regretfully after the station brougham as it drove away, murmured benedictions, having palmed the largest tip that had come his way in a quarter of a century.

“A thorough lady,” he sighed, as he closed the hall door and went in to preside at the breakfast sideboard. “Pity she was called away unexpected.”