Читать книгу The Ends Of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 7

Table of Contents

The brougham sped on and on into the darkness, until at length it turned into a still darker avenue, at the end of which a flare of light gleamed against the blackness of the night. Evidently his lordship had reached his destination. Cathcart dropped from his perch on to the yielding path, and stood there until his eyes began to pick out objects against the lowering sky. He crouched down under the lee of a belt of shrubs till the hall door of the mansion opened and the brougham was driven away.

A fine place, Cathcart thought; one of those stately homes that one finds nowhere outside the British Isles. But George Cathcart had not come here to admire, or gratify his curiosity. He had a shrewd idea that stern work lay before him ere morning. He fumbled in his pocket for the gold matchbox at the end of his watch-chain. Crouching still lower, he struck a match, and hastily perused the little slip of paper that Russet had handed him.

"The conservatory door on the west side of the house is locked," it ran, "and leads to the library. Enter the library boldly, and demand speech of Sir Cyril Bath. The rest depends upon yourself. You need have no fear; you will be perfectly safe. I come on the scene later on."

"Curt and to the point," Cathcart muttered. "There is nothing for it but to obey. Whatever happens, I can be no worse off than I am at present. All the same, I shall have to be careful unless I want to be ignominiously captured for a burglar."

He waited there for some time longer, until every light in the house was extinguished, save for one room which he rightly judged to be the library. As Cathcart crept cautiously across the terrace to the house, he just caught sight of a figure in evening dress writing at a table. A slight inequality of the Venetian blinds gave him this picture. Evidently his lordship was busy over his correspondence.

The light from the library dimly illuminated a long glass structure standing out at right angles from the house. George needed no guide to tell him that this was the conservatory. He crept on tip-toe to the far end.

His heart was beating a little faster now, but he had no fear. Very gently he turned the handle of the door. It yielded to his touch. A second later, and he was in the conservatory. The door from the study was open, and the place was faintly lighted. The warmth and scent and the graceful beauty of the place was not lost on George.

He crept on noiselessly and swiftly, for he could see quite plainly now. Just for a moment he stood looking into the well-lighted, luxuriously-furnished room, with the books upon the walls. He looked, too, at the grey-haired figure bent over the writing-table. There was something familiar in the figure, and yet Cathcart could not have said why. A gilt clock over the fireplace struck one.

Cathcart stepped straight into the room. His lordship looked up with a suggestion of irritation on his face.

"I told you I wanted nothing," he said. "My God!"

"I came to speak to you," Cathcart observed. "You are not well; you change color. If you are afraid, why—"

He paused, as the man opposite him rose. For the first time Cathcart had a full view of his involuntary host's face. It was white as ashes, the usually strong lips twitched like those of a scolded child, there was a deep, horrible fear in his eyes. As he would have crossed the room, Cathcart interrupted him.

"Touch that bell, and I'll kill you," he said hoarsely. "Ah, now I know why I was asked to come here. You are recognised, sir. Men call you the Honorable Cyril Bath; I prefer to call you James Stevens."

Very slowly the other man dropped into his seat. For a long time he said nothing—he could do no more than read Cathcart's face as if he were trying to peruse the latter's soul. He would have denied the thing if he could, for he had more than his fair share of courage and audacity, but he could not have spoken then to save himself from destruction.

It was not only that the man he most dreaded in the world stood before him, it was not only that Cathcart had recognised him; but it meant that a man who could escape from prison like this had powerful friends, and, moreover, friends who knew things. And Bath had his enemies.

"I recognise you now," Cathcart went on slowly. He stood there big with a sense of possession and a mastery of the situation. "I ought to have done so in court when you recognised me. You very nearly made a fine mess of it this morning, my friend. It must have been a bit of a shock to you to come hurriedly to Lewton and find in one of the prisoners the very man charged with your own crime. Fancy you trying me for that Lone Star business! Fancy my standing up in court and telling them the history of James Stevens. What a magnificent example of a double life. A puisne judge and a dashing, dare-devil criminal!"

Sir Cyril Bath found his voice at last. "How did you manage to escape?" he gasped.

"You'll have to drag along without that information," George said dryly. "Sufficient for the present that is I am here, and that I have recognised you. By the irony of fate, you are trying me for your own crime. You nearly had a fit when you saw me this morning, but when you realised that I had no grip of your identity you made up your mind to go on. Without the slightest compunction you would have sentenced me to a long term of penal servitude, nay, you would have made it as long as possible, so as to keep me out of the way. But I have powerful friends, it seems, who are likely to prove to be your equally powerful enemies."

Bath sat silently digging a pen into the blotting-pad before him.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked presently.

"I have not quite made up my mind. For the present I would be free to pursue my own way, and get to the bottom of this business. You are absolutely in my hands. And you can release me if you choose. A judge can make a jury say or do anything. To-morrow you are to sum up in my favor. You are to direct an acquittal. Do you hear?"

"Oh, I hear. I am to so bamboosle the jury that they will give you your liberty, which liberty is to be employed later on in ruining me and bringing me under the shadow of the gaol. Upon my word, Mr. Cathcart, that is a most modest request of yours."

"If you refuse, I will denounce you in open court."

"And who would believe you? I am not to be bluffed like that. Your statement would be put down as the ravings of a lunatic. If you go back to stand your trial, which you will not do—"

"As sure as there is a heaven above us. I will!"

Bath rose from his chair. He had picked up some object before him, and came towards George with a contemptuous smile. Then his whole aspect changed to one of fury.

"No, you won't," he hissed; "because of this."

A knife flashed in the air, and descended in a gleaming circle. Quick as thought Cathcart jumped back, and his fist shot out, catching Bath a staggering blow on the chin. He collapsed like an empty sack, his head coming in contact with a dull thud on the fender.

There he lay, white, still, and dead to all appearances. The whole thing was so sudden that George could not realise it as yet.

"I hope I haven't killed that blackguard," he muttered.

"I sincerely hope not," a cool voice said. "If such is the case you will have spoilt all my delicately laid plans. And that would be a pity."

Cathcart looked up to see a man in immaculate evening dress standing tranquilly before him. It was the man with the tarry thumbs.