Читать книгу Found and Fettered - James Edward Muddock - Страница 5

2. LABOUR LOST: THE STORY OF A SCHEME THAT MISCARRIED.

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EVERYONE who lays claim to the possession of even ordinary powers of observation, must frequently have been struck by the way in which mere chance seems to influence and control the lives of human beings. Some trifling and unforeseen circumstance has often been the means of entirely changing one's destiny. Read the histories of prominent men and women, kings and queens, statesmen, lawyers, clergymen, authors of both sexes, of soldiers, and sailors, and it will have to be admitted that "chance" is a factor in the human sense which frequently upsets all our calculations. It will, of course, be admitted that "chance" is but another name for luck, good or bad as the case may be, and people may be found who deny the existence of such a thing as luck; but Professor de Morgan, who was one of the greatest of mathematical writers this century has produced, and whose classic on "The Theory of Probabilities" is too well known to need more than a passing reference here, was firmly convinced that some people were born naturally lucky and others unlucky. He himself says, "The assertion that there is something in luck is one which I do not think of questioning;" nor will any other man think of questioning it unless he is singularly obtuse, or singularly blind to the signs that come in his way. Indeed, if anyone who has read thus far will pause to take a retrospective glance at his own life he will perhaps be surprised to see how often that life has been influenced by what appears as strokes of bad or good luck. My story will, I think, lend peculiar point to the foregoing argument, which has an undeniable appositeness to what I have to tell. I might with perfect justification of the title have called this story "By the Spin of the Halfpenny," for it was due to the twirling of that humble coin of the realm that the events I am about to narrate were brought about.

It chanced one summer in the distant past that I was rusticating with a dear friend in the historic precincts of the grand city which has not inaptly been dubbed the "Modern Athens" by some enthusiastic Scotsman. The natural beauties of its situation no one can deny, but there are certain architectural excrescences which detract a good deal from its artistic beauty. Nevertheless, Edinburgh has a fascination all its own, and is particularly attractive in the long, warm days, when blue skies and bright sunshine lend a charm to even the most squalid of places. The friend I allude to has long since been numbered with that mighty majority of the human race, between whom and us is the mystery of unbroken silence, and which oft prompts the lonely-hearted to dumbly exclaim:

"Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!"

The grip of ray friend's hand was that of an earnest, genuine man; and his cheery voice was like the mellow strains of a silver flute. We had been long "acquain," and we had wandered through many strange lands, and seen many strange scenes together. Ah! and alas! how evanescent are the joys and pleasures of life, and all too soon we gaze with tearful regret on the white tombstones of our dear ones dead and gone! But I must not moralize, though the temptation to do so is strong when one remembers companionships that Death has destroyed. Well, my friend and I had been spending some delightfully pleasant days in the northern city, when, as we were lounging and enjoying our matutinal pipe, after a hard day's work the previous day, he suddenly exclaimed, with the easy familiarity warranted by long and tried friendship, which had been unmarred by even the lightest rift or the tiniest shadow:

"I say, Dick, old fellow, what are you going to do to-day?"

"Loll and dream, for I am tired," I answered.

"Bosh," said he, with his wholesome laugh, "You'll do nothing of the sort. I shall carry you off somewhere."

"No, you won't, dear boy, I'm in for a day's laziness."

"You are in for a day's outing," he returned. "The balmy atmosphere and bright sky woo one to Nature's bosom. That touches you? Eh?"

I asserted with emphasis what he already knew, that I was one of Mother Nature's most devout of worshippers; but I added that there were times, owing to the weakness of the flesh, when even a devotee preferred the dreamy indolence of the lotus-eater to the toil of the pilgrim; and at that particular moment, and in that particular instance I wished to sup of the drowsy mandragora and see visions.

"By Jove," he cried cheerily, "when a fellow talks of seeing visions it's a sign that he is growing mentally weak. Now, then, I'm going to take you off to Stirling, thence we'll do a tramp across the Trossachs, and as we go I'll read out 'The Lady of the Lake' to you, for it's one of my favourites, and I'm letter perfect in it. That will clear the cobwebs from your brain, and you'll talk no more of visions unless it be visions of the beautiful 'Lady of the Lake.'"

"Get thee behind me, tempter of tempters," I growled. "I fain would be alone, and yet you tempt me with a song of enchantment, and I am weak."

"Aha, you yield," he exclaimed.

"No, I am as inflexible as tempered steel."

"The spin of a coin of the realm shall decide it," said he. "Are you on?"

"Yes. I cry 'heads,' and I'm sure to win."

He drew forth from his pocket a halfpenny, tossed it into the air with a dexterous jerk of the thumb, and let it fall upon the table.

"It's tail," he roared, as the coin settled, and so it was. "The fates are against you; so stir yourself. There is a train in half an hour, and see to it that the tobacco pouch is well filled. Fail at your peril. Come, time and trains wait for no men. At least trains do sometimes, but not for humble men like us."

Who could resist such a delightful despot as he was? I therefore tacitly complied with his imperious command, and having procured my hat and stick and light overcoat, we set off to the station, and soon were enjoying that superb view which is seen from the "Queen's Seat" on the wall of Stirling's ancient Castle. If we had ordered weather to our own liking, we could have had nothing better than the sample we were favoured with on that glorious day. A few fleecy clouds that resembled nothing so much as drawn out white wool, flecked the azurine sky, and there was a clearness—a plate-glass-like atmosphere, not often experienced in the northern regions of the kingdom. The passionate larks soared upwards with a burst of melody that seemed to gush forth like a flood, filling the palpitating air; and mingling with it was the rythmical murmur of flowing water, while the senses were lulled with the aroma of the scented breeze that blew over vast expanses of field and wood. My friend felt the influence of these things as much as I did, for deep in his manly heart was a rich vein of pure sentiment that found its expression in a worshipful silence, and so we spoke not, but gazed dreamily over the quivering landscape, each thinking the thoughts that were in accord with his respective temperaments, and the particular mood of the hour. Suddenly our dream was broken by the soft voice of a woman exclaiming—"Isn't it lovely!"

The "lovely" jarred upon my senses, for it is a verbal barbarism for which women are responsible; and turning I beheld a gaily dressed pretty woman of about twenty-five in the companionship of a sour-visaged, dark complexioned man upon whom she was leaning with her gloved fingers of both hands interlocked about his arm, and her brown eyes fixed on his face as if she were pleading to him to at once endorse her verdict with regard to the "loveliness" of the landscape over which the wand of summer had been passed, and called forth all its innate beauty, until in colouring, artistic finish, and detail, it presented a perfect picture of living nature.

The man was forty if he was a day. His hair was cut close, and mingling with its almost jetty-blackness, were grey streaks. His cheeks and chin were clean shaved; but a grey-streaked moustache drooped not ungracefully over his lips. His face was not a good one. There was a shifty foxiness in the dark eyes, and a certain cast of feature not altogether easy to describe, which irresistibly suggested an evil, a plotting mind. As you looked at him, and took in the points of his physiognomy you could not associate him with a rugged, frank, outspoken disposition.

You who are disposed to deny that something—and a big something too—of the human mind cannot be read in the first glance you get of a face must have studied your fellow-men to little advantage. Although I could lay no claim, even in the smallest degree, to the wonderful gift which distinguished the renowned Lavater, I had, both intuitively and by experience, the power of drawing certain more or less accurate deductions from expression, contour, and detail of the face. And so I found myself studying this man until I was sure of two things. Firstly, that he was an enemy to well-ordered society; secondly, that at some time or somewhere I had looked on him before.

His style of dress was flashy and vulgar. The cut of his trousers—tight at the knees, bell-shaped at the bottom—clearly indicated the coarse and narrow understanding which is utterly incapable of distinguishing between meretricious gaud and true art. He wore a loud crimson necktie, held in position by a jewelled ring, the jewels of which might or might not have been genuine; it was impossible to tell from that distance. He had rings on his fingers also—far more than any man of refined taste would care to wear. His coat was a rakish, cheap-cut garment, and on his gaudy, speckled waistcoat reposed a massive, cable-patterned chain, with numerous seals pendant therefrom. He wore a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat that was posed not ungracefully on his head, and which served in a minor degree to redeem the vulgarity of his personal appearance.

If I had been asked there and then to have passed a verdict upon this individual I should have said that he possessed within him the prima materia of an unprincipled adventurer; one who had no respect for the laws of meum and teum; and to whom—given a certain concatenation of circumstances—human life would have had no sacredness.

As the well-known proverb "Birds of a feather flock together" expresses an irrefragable truth, I need only say at this juncture the lady who accompanied him was neither his superior nor his inferior. She was on a level with him. I have remarked that she was pretty So she was, but it was a coarse prettiness that would only bear looking at as a whole and not in detail. By the law of affinities she had been drawn towards him by having something in common, that something existing in a similarity of tastes, ideas, and aspirations. The relationship in which they stood to each other was in one sense not difficult to determine. They were lovers; that was evidenced in her pose, her look, her general manner, and they had the appearance of a very newly-married couple on their honeymoon tour.

Now, having surveyed and weighed, so to speak, this commonplace couple, and drawn my own inferences as to the value they were likely to set on the rules of ethics generally recognized by well, self-governed people, I might have dismissed them from my mind, and turned to the more agreeable contemplation of the superb panorama which engirt us round about, and was enhanced in picturesqueness by the hoary towers of the time-stained castle, had it not been for the fact that the man's face awakened some dormant memory. It was a phantom memory—as intangible as a phantom, as fugitive as a phantom. I had seen the face before, but where, when, and under what circumstances I could not possibly recall just then. When your brain is filled with many photographs of people you have seen and known at some far-off time you cannot always put your finger on any particular one that happens to have become faded and dingy by the lapse of time, and say, "That is So-and-so," and fix the date of your meeting.

The man replied to the woman's remark by saying:

"Yes, it ain't bad; but I want some grub. I'm precious hungry."

Then he looked down into her upturned face with an endearing expression, and they moved away.

For some moments I stood gazing after them with an aroused curiosity, and trying to drag forth from the storehouse of my memory something wherewith I might identify the gentleman. Suddenly like a flash of light the remembrance I sought came to me. He was by birth a Welshman, whose real name was Llewellyn Jones, but who passed under many aliases. I had been largely instrumental in bringing him to book many years before for an audacious forgery, and as he had been previously convicted he received sentence of a long term of imprisonment. As I recalled this I further remembered that he was regarded as a clever and daring rascal, who flew at big game.

"What is he doing here?" I asked myself. "What is he up to? Has he just married that woman? Does she know the life he has led? Is she an innocent dove that has been lured into the fowler's net?"

I had little hesitation in answering "No" to the latter question. She was not dressed in the plumes of a dove, nor were her features expressive of a dove's guilelessness. It was infinitely more likely she was a helpmate in the fullest sense, and that she was willing to follow him in his course, whether for good or ill. Ill it would be no doubt, for a man ingrained with rascality as he was was not in the least likely to suddenly turn saint.

It may be imagined that I was more than ever interested in these people now that I had determined his identity, and I resolved to learn something more about them. If he was leading an honest life well and good. There would be no harm done, since he would be unaware of my solicitude about his welfare, and if it were otherwise I might be able to render some service to the State by spoiling his plans if they were opposed in any way to the law. My friend had drawn from his pocket a small sketch-book, and was amusing himself—he was very clever with the pencil—by rapidly sketching in outline little bits of the landscape, so I turned to him and said:

"I will leave you here for a while. I want to try and solve a riddle. I will be back soon. Wait for me."

He merely nodded an assent to my request, for he was absorbed in his amusement, and I moved off in the track of Jones and his companion. I sighted them just as they were going out of the Castle gateway, and followed them to an hotel, where I soon ascertained they were staying under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Cotswold. They had arrived the previous night, and had intimated their intention of departing on the morrow. They had come down from Edinburgh, and from inquiries they had made it was gathered that they intended to pursue their journey through the Trossachs, and proceed to Glasgow. The manager of the hotel regarded them as a newly-married couple, as they seemed very loving to each other, and Mr. Cotswold was looked upon as a man of some importance, inasmuch as he had received numerous telegrams although he had been there so short a time. "Numerous telegrams" was evidently a standard of respectability and importance, according to the views of that particular hotel-keeper.

Of course, I breathed no word of suspicion against the reputation of "Mr. Cotswold," who was considered to be a good customer, for he had ordered wine freely the night previous at his dinner. But I telegraphed in cipher to certain official quarters asking if any information could be given me concerning Llewellyn Jones, who had been convicted of forgery. In due course I received for answer the following:—

"NOTHING AT PRESENT KNOWN OF JONES. HE WAS DULY DISCHARGED AFTER SERVING HIS SENTENCE, AND IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE LEFT THE COUNTRY."

In the meantime, that is between the despatch of my telegram and receipt of the answer, I had returned to my friend who had been anxiously waiting for me, as he was bent on a pedestrian tour. But I explained to him the little business I had in hand, which was either to justify my suspicions or satisfy myself that Llewellyn Jones alias Cotswold was leading an honest life. So my friend yielded to my request that we should only make a short stroll, and return to the hotel in time for dinner. On getting back from our walk I found the telegraphic answer to my question awaiting me, and if it did nothing else it proved that for the time being at least Mr. Jones had passed from the ken of the people who, it might be supposed, had some interest in keeping an eye upon him.

It must not be forgotten by those who are disposed to think that there was no justification for watching Jones that he came into the category of an habitual criminal, that the law of averages was all in favour of an habitual criminal, after a long term of imprisonment, reverting to his old ways. For my own part, I was morally certain that Jones was still a dangerous person. But under any circumstances, if for no other reason than that of gratifying an idle curiosity—if you so will it—I was determined to know what Jones's little game was. When I had last brought him to book he had been described as "a single man," and there was every reason to believe that description was accurate.

Now, however, it appeared as if he had joined issues with one of the opposite sex, and had united his destiny to hers; and as I felt certain she belonged to the same genre as he did, it seemed to me in the highest degree probable that when two evil things came together evil would be the result. So as I had time on my hands I thought I could not spend it better than by trying to discover how Jones got his income. It was a very interesting problem, and one which—in the interest of truth and right—was well worth solving.

During the afternoon "Mr. and Mrs. Cotswold" were absent; they hired a carriage and pair, and went for a long drive. That act argued that they had a well-lined purse; and the argument was strengthened by the little incident which I learnt casually that that very morning Mr. Jones, or Cotswold, as he called himself, had obtained change for a twenty-pound Bank of England note at the bar of the hotel. Now, was it not a legitimate question to ask:

"How was it that this man—a convicted forger—who had but recently come out of prison, was so well provided with money?"

The question was one which I felt ought to be answered correctly, and I resolved that I would answer it. I was no longer desirous of dreaming the dreams of the lotus-eater; nor of enjoying the drowsiness, begotten of the potent mandragora. All my faculties were keenly alert. I had been suddenly presented with a problem, which was well calculated to afford me the keenest interest, and I settled down to my self-imposed task with a feeling, that if it was not enthusiasm that spurred me, it was something very much like it. My friend and I passed the afternoon in strolling about, and he having the artist's love of the beautiful, watched with rapt admiration the western sun working out prismatic effects of colour, as it slowly sank in the fervid sky, and—

"Turned the cloddy earth to glittering gold."

It was all very beautiful. The sky was a burning glory of fretted fire, and in the amber light the inanimate things of earth seemed transfigured and to take on a splendour, until there was suggested to the beholder—at least to me—those wonderful and daring flights of genius which Martin gave evidence of when he gave to the world his great picture—The Plains of Heaven. Gradually the colours faded and the purple of the gloaming stole softly over the scene. Then we rose from the mossy bed on which we had been reclining, and made our way back to the hotel, which we reached as a noisy gong was calling the hungry to dinner.

A goodly company in point of numbers sat down to the table d'hôte, and my friend and I secured seats on the opposite side of the table to that at which Jones and his wife sat. I had reason to suppose that there was no likelihood of Jones recognizing me, for when I ran him down on the last occasion I had scarcely ever come in personal contact with him, and my plan was to endeavour to draw him into conversation after dinner, when the gentlemen retired to the smoking-room—I had already ascertained that he was a smoker—and by means of carefully guarded questioning find out, if it could be done, where he was domiciled, and if he was really on his honeymoon tour. A little incident, however, that occurred during the dinner-time, saved me the necessity of that course, and here again the law of chance or luck—call it what you will—favoured me.

When the dinner was about half over a waiter brought in a letter to Jones, who, with manifest eagerness, tore open the envelope, unfolded the letter, perused it with a gratified smile, whispered something to his wife as he handed the letter to her to read. She too read it with a smile of gratification, and they exchanged looks, which indicated unmistakably that the information contained in the letter afforded them complete satisfaction. The woman then returned the paper to her husband, who at once proceeded to tear it and the envelope into pieces, which he cast behind him into a fireplace, which, for the nonce, had been turned into a little arbour of living plants in pots. When the dinner had ended, and the guests departed, I strolled round to that fireplace, picked up every shred of the torn paper, and slipping them into my pocket-book I went to the bedroom I had engaged for the night. Then lighting the candle I sat down at the table, and arranged all the pieces in their proper order. This, as may be supposed, was not done without a considerable amount of trouble, but when at last I succeeded in my task I found that the envelope bore the Manchester postmark and the date of the previous day, and the superscription was:

John Cotswold, Esq.,

Royal Hotel,

Stirling, N.B.

The letter itself was written in cipher, of which the following is a copy:—


It will be seen from this table that there were nineteen signs. 9 was repeated eleven times, and the next highest was *, while v, 2/4, and — only appear once. Now, as everyone knows, amongst the most frequently used characters in the English language are E and I, and bearing this in mind I felt that I had got the key to the enigma.


Let me proceed to explain. I noted that 9 occurred most frequently, and * followed next in order. As E is more frequently used than I, I tried E to begin with, thus:

E 2 2

Now came the question, what did the 2 stand for? I tried various combinations without getting any further. The twenty-second letter of the alphabet being V, wouldn't fit in. Then it flashed upon me that the 2 was probably used as a divisor, and L being the twelfth letter in the alphabet the 2 might stand for it. Twice 6 being 12, I therefore got the word—

E L L

That, however, conveyed no intelligible meaning; but the double L suggested naturally that A should be substituted for E, when the word

A L L

appeared. Assuming that to be correct, it was clear that as A was the first letter of the alphabet it was represented by 1. This helped me on, and I at once jumped to the ninth letter, which, of course, is I. But now I was perplexed by the *, which was a frequently-used sign. Yet it evidently did not represent E, so I tried N T F; but having regard to the number of times it was repeated in the cipher, S seemed the most likely, and it gave me—

ALL IS

In order to determine the next word—and having discovered that 2 stood for L—I wrote down the following—

ALL IS LL

The points represented the missing letters, which I at once filled in by W E.

ALL IS WELL.

Here I had a perfectly intelligible phrase, and it determined that W and E were represented by 4 and 5. "But, why," I asked myself, "did 4 stand for W, and 5 for E?" The vowel was the 5th in the alphabet, but W certainly wasn't the fourth. "Yes, it is," I mentally exclaimed. "It is the fourth from the last letter," and as I could account for the 4 in no other way, I was content to let it stand so.

After a little puzzling I took (14) to stand for a single letter, and N being the fourteenth in the alphabet I got this sentence—ALL IS WELL. N.

Two letters were wanted to follow the N, and it was necessary that one should be a vowel, and by trying all the vowels I hit upon O, which at once suggested T, which gave me the word not. The next following in the cipher was +5. Knowing that 5 stood for E, I put down the sentence—

ALL IS WELL. NOT E

It was difficult to find a single letter that would make sense, so that it seemed pretty clear + must represent two letters, and after various trials I was sure it was TH.

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE

Knowing what S L and I were represented by, I was now enabled to expand the sentence:

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLI TEST

G H were evidently the letters wanted here to fill in the blanks, so I had slightest, and now knowing the signs which stood for the G H, I was helped on considerably. Let us see now what we can make of it.

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLIGHTEST SIGN O.

Here it was obvious that a letter was wanted where the dot is, and P seemed the most suitable, so we get of, and the expansion can be proceeded with:

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLIGHTEST SIGN OF S S I ION.

The context was of great aid here, for could it suggest anything but suspicion?

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLIGHTEST SIGN OF SUSPICION.

We at once see that U is represented by Ø and P by Ï. With this knowledge the next word was easy enough.

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLIGHTEST SIGN OF SUSPICION. SUCCESS I THIN.

No one could be blind to the necessity of putting K after the thin, which turned it into think; K being represented by [], we are now able to read:

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLIGHTEST SIGN OF SUSPICION. SUCCESS, I THINK, IS CE TAIN.

Here we discover that the sign is R. It was now only necessary to determine the meaning of 2/4, the figure 6, and V, to read off the whole of the cryptograph; and I took it that 2/4 stood for the second fourth letter, that is the fourth from A, which of course gives us D; while 6 in the order of things would be F, and V was Y with the tail cut off, so the communication ran thus:

ALL IS WELL. NOT THE SLIGHTEST SIGN OF SUSPICION. SUCCESS, I THINK, IS CERTAIN. WILL PROCEED NO FURTHER UNTIL YOU RETURN.

Eureka! I cried, as I thus solved the secret which had so strangely come into my hands. The cryptograph was by no means a difficult one, though it took a little time to puzzle out; but having once got the keynote the rest was easy, as will be seen when the cipher and the solution are read together.


With the knowledge I possessed of the antecedents of Llewellyn Jones—or Cotswold, as he now called himself—this cipher letter was not to be ignored. It was pregnant with a great meaning; and to my way of thinking pointed unmistakably to villainy. This decided me on the course to take, and I resolved to watch him. The following day by arrangement my friend returned to Edinburgh to square up at the hotel and forward me on my luggage, and I kept in the wake of Jones and his wife as they proceeded through the Trossachs to Glasgow, where they put up at a temperance hotel. Their next movement was a trip down the Clyde to Arran and back, and after two days spent in Glasgow they left by the night train for Manchester, where I soon found out they had secured apartments in a very respectable house in Strangeways, kept by a widow lady named Higginbottom, who took in lodgers as a means of livelihood.

Judicious inquiries elicited the fact that Jones had taken the apartments in the name of Cotswold. He represented himself as an engraver by trade; said he was going to be married, intended to make a honeymoon tour in Scotland, and on his return settle down to business. This was all Mrs. Higginbottom knew about him, and, of course, she believed his statements. In order that I might the better keep an eye upon Jones until I had satisfied myself that I was either right or wrong in my suspicions, I secured temporary lodgment in a house on the opposite side of the street, and from this coign of vantage I was enabled to watch him, nor had I long to wait for developments. A visitor called upon him; a powerfully built, thick-set, short man, who in general appearance was suggestive of a bull dog. And a little later the two men went out together, and proceeded to Salford, which is now a division of Manchester separated by the River Irwell, once a clear pellucid stream teeming with fish; for long a repulsive open sewer, and now within measurable distance of becoming a great waterway "for ships that cometh from the sea," as the Irwell is to form part of the Manchester Ship Canal.*

[* Since this was written the Canal has been opened throughout its entire length, and ocean-going ships are to be seen at Salford and Manchester.]

At the period I am dealing with, Salford was a most undelectable neighbourhood. For the most part the people who resided there were factory operatives, and the huge mills that gave employment to so many thousands of men, women, and children, ground away the lives of the poor operatives at the same time that they spun fortunes for the owners. Innumerable tall chimneys poured forth dense suffocating clouds of black smoke which grimed and clagged everything, and hung over the place like a pall of death, as indeed it was; and what the smoke failed to do in the way of poisoning the atmosphere, the chemical manufactories completed.

Salford was, and, for aught I know to the contrary, is a dreadful place. Confining myself to the past tense, the people were a wretched lot; stunted of limb, pallid of face, and gloomy of disposition—as well they might be; for who can live for years in a poisoned, reeking, darkened atmosphere without being tainted with the gloom of his surroundings? In one of the most densely populated parts of the place, and in a narrow dingy street, stood a branch office of the Mid-Lancashire Banking Company. The company occupied these premises as temporary tenants, until a new building they were erecting in Chapel Street was completed. The street was a street of incongruities. There were huge factories with their smoke-emitting chimney shafts; howling wastes of plots of lands, which were made the receptacle for all sorts of rubbish, and were the playgrounds for the wretched, half-naked street arabs, and the miserable children who swarmed in the neighbourhood; there were several ramshackle hovels of houses where the fluff-covered, reeking, pale-faced operatives of the mills found shelter; and there were, here and there, many tumble-down wooden sheds which were used as storage places for carts, vans, and lumber of various kinds. There were a few hucksters' shops, and a farrier's forge. The bank premises stood at the corner of a narrow alley that was a thoroughfare to a parallel street, at the corresponding corner was a two-storied house of the style and build usually found in such a neighbourhood.

To this house I tracked my men one unusually dark and choking day. The atmosphere was suggestive of a greasy, filthy sponge that had been soaked in liquid mud and soot. Grime, grime, grime was everywhere, and not a ray of brightness to relieve the Dantesque gloom. A sickening odour of oily waste pervaded the air, while the senses were dazed and the very ground trembled with the awful roar and burr of the factory looms. It was truly a busy scene of toiling, sweating humanity, but oh, what a hive! How the wan toilers drooped and coughed as they passed along the black and muddy street, or bent wearily over the looms in the mills. In this part Grod's fair earth was polluted and damned in order that a few men might reap fortunes, while the labourers broke their hearts in the awful struggle to prolong their blighted lives from day to day.

As soon as ever I saw Jones and his companions enter that house I scented mischief. I found out by a little inquiry that the place had been occupied for something like three months by a man who gave the name of John Asquith, who lived alone, apparently, and was supposed to be a mechanic, though nobody knew where he worked. He allowed it to be understood that he had taken the house, which had been untenanted for a long time, in anticipation of being married shortly, and when he came to the neighbourhood, he brought with him a small cartload of ramshackle furniture. There wasn't much of it, as may be gathered from the fact that a donkey was able to draw the lot. Asquith was looked upon with some dislike, though I could get no better reason for this than that he did not associate with anyone, and was very reserved. There was an air of mystery about him that the humble folk of the neighbourhood did not like; for squalid, miserable, and unwholesome as they were, they were sociable folk, and given to telling each other their grievances; to pouring their woes into each other's ears, and to learning all about each other's little petty affairs. They therefore tacitly resented anyone coming amongst them who was not as they were, and did not as they did.

When Asquith went first to live in the house he was visited occasionally, it had been noted, by a man and woman, who had been seen to go late in the afternoon and leave early in the morning, thereby raising the supposition that they had stayed all night From the description I gathered of this man and woman I had not much doubt that they were Jones and his wife.

All this to my mind was gravely suspicious. Asquith had not rented the house for any legitimate purpose, of that I was convinced. Some conspiracy was going on; some devilish plot being hatched, some cunning wickedness being worked out. Jones's previous record, and the cryptograph which I had succeeded in solving at Stirling made that pretty evident. Jones and Asquith were confederates, and the woman was in their confidence. Soon it began to dawn upon me what the conspiracy probably was, but until I had got good and reliable data to go upon I did not wish to take any action, or cause any alarm in the neighbourhood, and of course I was particularly anxious not to do anything calculated to frighten the birds into flight before my net was properly spread. Therefore my policy was a waiting one, no less than a watching one.

On the day in question Jones stayed a long time, and when he left night had fallen, the whirr of the machinery had ceased, the lights in the factories were out, and weary workers had gone to the hovels that they called "home." I followed in his wake, and after traversing several streets he paused before an ironmonger's shop, and peered through the fog-blurred and dripping windows. Presently he entered the shop, and after a time emerged again, carrying with him a short, powerful pick and a spade. Then he made his way back to the house. All was silent; the neighbourhood seemed deserted now. The feeble gas lamps were powerless to penetrate far into the murk. From a distance they looked simply like dull, glowing spots on a black cloth. I took up my position at the entrance of the narrow court which formed the thoroughfare between the parallel streets, and of which I have already spoken. Not a living thing was visible, nothing was stirring, a silence like the silence of death had settled on the neighbourhood. You looked up, impenetrable darkness was there; you looked around, darkness still, hardly relieved by the points of flame which constituted the lamps. The windows of the house occupied by Asquith revealed nothing. They were evidently well shuttered. My ear applied to the door failed to detect any sound. But presently I spread out my pocket-handkerchief on the wet, slimy pavement of the court, and, kneeling down, placed my ear as near the pavement as possible and listened intently for some time. Then I got the sign I had been seeking, and, rising, hurried away to my residence, for my work was finished for the night.

Between ten and eleven the following morning I returned to the neighbourhood. The factories were in full blast, and from the various chimneys dense columns of smoke were rolling forth, while there was a clatter of iron-shod clogs on the greasy stones as the workers passed to and fro. All this, of course, was a sign of life, and of the stir of life; of the beat of energy and the pulse of industry. But, somehow or other, those great factories seemed to me like huge Plutonian dungeons where human slaves toiled away their wretched lives spinning gold, in order that rich men might become richer and enjoy the fat and the fruits of the earth, while the spinners starved and rotted in an atmosphere which was as poisonous as the poison of upas trees or of the pestiferous air exhaled in the Javan "Death Valley," where not even a blade of grass will grow, and nothing that draws breath can live.

Entering the office of the Mid-Lancashire Bank, I asked to see the manager in charge, and, having sent him my card, I was presently conducted to his sanctum, which, what with bright fire and good furniture, was like an oasis in the midst of a blight-stricken wilderness. But even in that room there was the fluffy atmosphere, and the nauseating reek of oily waste. You couldn't get away from them so long as you were under the shadow of those roaring factories.

The manager's name was Thorpe. He was a little grey-headed gentleman, with a sad, sallow, and wrinkled face. He rose as I entered, and extended his hand to me, while a weary smile played about his mouth. He probably thought I wished to become a customer of the bank.

"What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?" he asked, as he pointed to a chair and resumed his own seat.

"Has it ever occurred to you, sir, that your bank might one day be robbed?"

He looked startled, and stared at me. Then with a little laugh of uneasiness, said:

"Every bank no doubt is more or less liable to such a contingency, but in most cases it is a remote contingency, for every possible precaution that human forethought can suggest is taken to safeguard the property a bank holds in trust."

"That I fully understand," I replied, "but it doesn't quite answer my question. What I wish to know is, if you have any fear that this particular bank may be robbed?"

He looked at me searchingly with his small, dull eyes, and then, with some peremptoriness, demanded to know why I questioned him. I hastened to explain who I was, and that I had some reason for believing that an attempt was being made to get into the bank. He smiled again—a sort of incredulous smile—as he answered me.

"This bank is unusually well protected," he said, "and I do not think any attempt would be successful. We established our branch in this particular neighbourhood for the convenience of the factory proprietors, who every week want large sums of specie in order to pay their hands, and, though we are only temporary occupants of these premises, pending the completion of our new place in Chapel Street, we have taken extraordinary means to protect ourselves."

"You have cellars below, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; but they have been made unusually strong."

"In what way, may I ask?"

"By an extra thickness of brickwork all round the walls, and then an iron sheathing inside that again."

"On what day of the week have you the most money in the vaults?"

"On Thursday, as Friday is the pay-day for the mill hands, and usually from fifteen to twenty thousand pounds are drawn out."

"Is all that in gold?"

"Well—mainly so. Sovereigns and half-sovereigns principally, but of course we also provide a considerable amount of silver."

"How is the money brought to the bank?"

"In bullion boxes, which are conveyed here in charge of trusty servants and the assistant manager of our head office. The money is then placed in my charge, and only I and my confidential clerk have keys of the vaults. On Friday morning the money is brought up in bags as we require it."

Having listened to these particulars, I said to Mr. Thorpe:

"Now, sir, I don't wish to alarm you unnecessarily, but I have no doubt in my own mind that a very cunning and daring scheme is being worked out for gaining access to your vaults by someone who must be well acquainted with the fact that you keep a large sum of ready money down below every week end. I should like to frustrate that scheme, and will do so with your assistance, but I consider it of great importance that you should keep this matter secret for the present."

"But you have not yet furnished me with any proof of the accuracy of your assertions."

"If you like to remain here this evening after the bank closes," I answered; "together with your confidential clerk, and as many other people as you may think necessary, I will furnish you with proof, unless I am very greatly mistaken indeed. I suggest that you have two or three constables, and we shall have to remain a little time in the cellars."

The poor old gentleman looked so distressed that I felt quite sorry for him; and he took some time to ponder over my proposal before he answered me. Then as if he felt the responsibility to be a little too great for him he said:

"It seems to me that we ought to take my confidential clerk into our confidence. He is a clear-headed man, and his suggestions and advice will be valuable."

Of course I assented, and the clerk was called in. His name was Griffin. He was between thirty and forty, with an intelligent face, and clear, searching eyes. I repeated to him what I had told his chief, and when I had finished Mr. Griffin said, addressing the manager:

"I think, sir, we should allow Mr. Donovan to guide us entirely in this affair. It is hardly likely he would make the statement he has made unless he had exceedingly good data to go upon. Nor is it advisable at this period that anyone else should be let into the secret, for the rascals who may have designs on the bank, if they get the slightest hint that they are being watched, will take fright at once and abandon the scheme. If we can take them red-handed so much the better, and the more crushing will be the defeat."

"Then what course do you suggest, Mr. Griffin?" asked the manager.

"Well, sir, since Mr. Donovan assures us that he can furnish us with proof, what I suggest is this:—You and I and Mr. Donovan should descend to the vaults whenever he likes."

"Very well," returned the manager; "let it be so. Then will you be here this evening, Mr. Donovan, after the bank closes?"

Assuring him that I would, and an hour being fixed, I went away. Necessarily I experienced some anxiety lest I should not be able to give him the assurance I wanted to give him, of the attempt that was being made to get into his cellars. When I saw Jones carry the pick and shovel into Asquith's house, it was, as it were, a handwriting on the wall; and when I bent my ear to the greasy pavement of the court, and heard the dull thud of the pick as it was being used beneath, I was convinced my surmises were correct. The rascals were digging a tunnel beneath the pavement so as to open up a means of communication with the bank cellars. It was, of course, a very daring scheme, involving them in an immense amount of labour, and exacting unlimited endurance and patience. But the rascals had, no doubt, made their calculations very well. They had noted the juxtaposition of the house to the bank. The two buildings were separated merely by a narrow court. The conspirators had also made themselves well acquainted with the business of the bank, and learned that every week end a large sum of money was temporarily placed in the cellars, to be drawn on as acquired, in order that the toilers in the factories might receive their wages. If an entrance could only be effected into the cellars when the money was there, what a haul would reward the exertions of the daring thieves, who, with ordinary caution, might be able to get clear off with a fortune! I knew Jones to be an exceedingly clever rascal, with a great deal of business aptitude and knowledge, and, from what had already come to my knowledge, I could not doubt but that he was the leading spirit in the affair, and the whole scheme was possibly due to his genius; and had it not been for the truly extraordinary chance which enabled me to get on his track, his labour and ingenuity, unworthily as they were being employed, would have met with reward in the shape of success.

In accordance with the arrangement, I presented myself at the bank at the stated hour and found Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Griffin waiting for me. The manager was suffering from great agitation and excitement, and I noted that he carried a ponderous oak stick with a formidable knob at one end, as though he thought he might suddenly be called upon to defend himself against a whole legion of robbers. Both he and his clerk were provided with a small but powerful lantern, and each had a key of peculiar construction to open the doors.

At the top of the stone steps that led down to the cellars was a stout iron-lined door, and that opened we were confronted with another door halfway down, and at the bottom of the steps was a solid iron door which might have defied the most industrious of burglars. When this last barrier had yielded to the legitimate keys, and had swung back on its powerful hinges, our nostrils were filled with a mouldy, damp smell like that which comes from a newly-opened vault where decaying humanity lies and rots. We advanced into the cellar. It was vaulted and paved with square flags, and the walls were sheathed with iron. It was almost impossible to breathe until the doors had been open for some minutes, as there was no other way of ventilation. When the three doors were closed the vault was air-tight, and I shuddered with a sense of horror as I thought of the hideous suffering anyone would endure who happened to get shut in accidentally. Ranged round in piles were oblong boxes, which were wonderfully suggestive of small coffins, but they contained that for which men sell their souls, and which endures when men have passed away and are forgotten.

Advancing to the end of the vault, the end nearest the basement of Asquith's house, we became very silent and listened with bated breath, our ears close to the iron-bound wall, and presently there came to us the dull but unmistakable sounds of a pick. The rascals were at work, and from the distinctness of the sounds it was pretty evident that the burrow had reached within a short distance of the bank wall.

"What does this mean?" asked the manager with trembling lips and white face.

"It means," said I, "that two scoundrels, one of whom has already served a long term of imprisonment, are in league—and, for aught T know, there may be more in the plot—and are working industriously from the house at the corner there, to effect a secret entrance into these cellars. For what purpose I need scarcely explain, but men who have legitimate business with a bank do not usually construct a secret tunnel in order to get communication with the bank's strong room.

"My God! this is dreadful," groaned the poor manager, as he was overwhelmed with the sense of the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. "What is to be done?"

I smiled at his distress.

"Pray don't let the matter trouble you so much."

"Trouble me! How can I help its troubling me?" he exclaimed. "I have been a trusted and faithful servant for fifty years, and if this dastardly scheme succeeded I might be blamed for not having taken all due precaution to safeguard the treasure committed to my care."

"My dear sir," I answered him, "this is mere hypersensitiveness. Even suppose that I had not forewarned you, and the scheme had succeeded, how, in the name of common sense, could any blame attach to you?"

He groaned, and passed his thin hand through his scant grey hair.

"Well, what do you propose to do?" he gasped.

"The answer to that is clear. We must take these rascals red-handed, then the punishment that will be meted out to them will be such that they will hardly have the chance again of working ill in this world. We will let them go on with their work, but under our secret surveillance. When the right moment comes we will adopt means to render their escape impossible, and they will find themselves caged like rats."

Mr. Thorpe was not altogether disposed to fall in with my suggestion. He seemed to think it would be better to at once make a police raid on Asquith's house, but as I pointed out to him that though there would undoubtedly be presumptive evidence of their guilty designs, an indictment might fail owing to the difficulty of affording legal proof that the prisoners intended to get into the bank. At any rate, so long as the fellows had the means of paying lawyers they could throw no end of difficulty in the way of the prosecution, and if lawyers are only paid they will employ all the powers of their wretched trade to prove the devil himself a maligned gentleman, and his character as white as driven snow.

Mr. Griffin quite supported my views, and so it was arranged that I was to be free to take any course I thought proper.

As we could do nothing more that night we left the cellars, carefully locking the doors after us, and I was glad to get into the upper regions once more, for bad as the oily, reeking air of the neighbourhood was it was preferable to the oppressive stuffiness of those vaults—the storehouse of so much wealth which had attracted the cupidity of Jones and his companion. But gold breathes not. Neither, damp, time, nor aught else can affect it. It endures for ever and ever, while man, who for the sake of the yellow dross will fiercely slay his fellow, passes away after a brief span, and crumbles into dust.

My next step was to obtain a key that would fit the door of Asquith's house, and one day, having assured myself that no one was on the premises, I entered with one of the local police superintendents. We found a miscellaneous collection of tools of all kinds, including crowbars, picks, shovels, wedges, and the like. From the cellar a tunnel was being driven in the direction of the bank cellar, and the dirt and débris that was brought out was piled in all the lower rooms, and a little square backyard was full. We calculated that the workers had only about another yard to get through before being in contact with the bank walls, and to break a hole in the brickwork and the iron sufficiently large to admit of a man entering would be a comparatively light task to such desperate and determined men, who had not been deterred by many yards of solid earth and rock—for rock had been encountered, and had to be cleared away with the help of steel wedges and a sledge hammer wielded in a restricted space, and under great difficulty. Such industry and perseverance were well worthy of a better cause. But Jones & Co. were playing for a big stake, and after labour would come the reward. At least so they hoped, and so it might have been had my dear friend on that fateful day in Edinburgh not spun his halfpenny, which decided that I should go with him to Stirling.

Of course, we disturbed nothing whatever in Asquith's house, but left everything just as we found it, and from that day we arranged to have a nightly guard in the bank.

For three long weeks this vigilance was kept up. The progress of the workers was necessarily slow, and they had to work under every possible disadvantage. At last, however, we were made aware that they had reached the basement wall, and the following night they made their attack upon it. The brickwork was soon broken through, and then they were confronted with the iron lining. That required different treatment to bricks and mortar, and we heard the scratching of a pair of callipers as a circle was traced on the iron, and this circle would have to be cut out. That part of the work required to be carried out as speedily as possible, for as soon as ever they broke through the iron their plot would be revealed to the first person who entered the cellar. The robbers, therefore, could only count upon a few hours in which to cut away the iron and carry off the boxes of money, and that would have to be done during the time that intervened between Thursday night and Friday morning, because it was on Thursday afternoon that the large amount of money was placed in the strong-room ready for the Friday morning's run; and it was hardly supposed that Jones & Co. were ignorant of that fact.

It was then Tuesday, but we did not relax our vigilance the following evening, though, as I anticipated, the workers did not work. On Thursday night I had with me six stalwart companions, and we concealed ourselves in the vault, ready and anxious for the dénouement of the startling little drama, while outside four plain-clothes constables were stationed, with instructions to keep a sleepless watch on Asquith's house. We were aware that the two men and Jones's wife were there that night, and we felt sure we should trap them so that escape would be impossible.

Within half an hour of the bank being closed the rascals commenced work with a drill. The process they adopted was to drill a series of holes all round the line of a circle, by which means they would be enabled to remove the circular plate of iron, and thus have a large opening to enter and exit by. Steadily they worked; the drill pierced rapidly, and through the holes made the rays of the light they had shot in long pencils. Two hours passed. The excitement was intense, for we knew the supreme moment was at hand. At last the circular plate that had been cut out fell with a clang on to the floor, and through the opening came a flood of light from three or four lanterns suspended in the tunnel, and by that light we saw Jones and his brawny companion stripped to the waist, save for their flannel singlets, and looking grimy and sweaty after their labour, while behind them, with eager, curious face, was Mrs. Jones, who peered at the hole with anxious, greedy eyes. The wealth she had no doubt been dreaming of seemed to her now to be within grasp, and possibly visions of the things wealth can procure passed before her mental gaze.

Asquith came through the hole first, and as he wiped his perspiring brow with the back of his grimy hand he said:

"Well, I'm glad that bit of work's over anyway. It's been a hard job, mate, eh? But the rhino's ours; that's something, and our plans have been so well made that before the sleepy cops can wake up we'll clear out of the blooming country."

"All right, Jack; but don't let's waste time now," called out the woman. "Pass the stuff out. My fingers are itching to handle some of it."

"Don't burst yourself, Liz. You always were so blarsted impatient. Let me get my breath first." Here he pulled a flask out of his trousers' pocket and took a long swig of its contents. That done, he smacked his lips, screwed on the top of the flask, which he restored to his pocket, and then, telling Jones to hand him a jemmy which was lying on the ground, he advanced into the cellar, and proceeded to prise off the lid of one of the bullion boxes. That was soon done, and his great strength—for he was a powerful man—enabled him to carry the box to the opening, and Llewellyn Jones and his wife at once began to fill a sack they had brought with them with the sovereigns the box contained. Now had come our moment of action. At a signal from me, my men sprang forward and pinned Asquith, though he struggled and fought desperately. The shock of our sudden appearance caused Jones's wife to drop down in a dead faint, while he, with a cowardly regard for his own safety only, fled, but only to fall into the hands of the watchers outside the house.

The stupefying amazement, the chagrin, the exasperation of these men, when they found that the result of all their months of labour was lost, may be far better imagined than described. Their plans had been well made, well carried out, and success must have seemed certain to them, as day by day they advanced in their work, and no doubt success would have crowned their efforts had it not been for the spin of the coin.

When the evidence against the man came to be worked up, it was found that Asquith's real name was Robert Corn well. He was a native of Manchester, and the son of respectable people, who had formerly kept a broker's shop in Hulme, which is one of the divisions of Manchester. He had been a wild, reckless young man, however, and spent many years on the gold diggings of Australia, but had done no good for himself, and at last returned home. The woman was his sister. She had been in domestic service, and had made the acquaintance of Jones one night at the theatre. There is reason to suppose that at that time she did not know anything of his shady career. At any rate through her intimacy with him he and her brother were brought together, and she, it would appear, readily lent herself to their schemes and plans. And a robbery committed at the house where she had been in service previous to marrying Jones—for married to him she was—was traced to her, and the money she thus secured enabled her and her husband to go on their little jaunt to Scotland. Thus their scheme was frustrated, and their labour was lost.

It is perhaps needless to say that each of them received a most exemplary punishment, though a desperate attempt was made to prove that the woman simply acted under the controlling influence of her husband. That plea might have had weight had it not been proved that she had been guilty of the robbery at the house where she had been in service.

Found and Fettered

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