The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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as I often did, to play piquet with Cardlestone. That was about ten o'clock. About eleven Jane Baylis came to Cardlestone's—she'd been to my rooms to find me—wanted to see me particularly—and she'd come on there, knowing where I should be. Cardlestone would make her have a glass of wine and a biscuit; she sat down and we all talked. Then, about, I should think, a quarter to twelve, a knock came at Cardlestone's door—his outer door was open, and of course anybody outside could see lights within. Cardlestone went to the door: we heard a man's voice enquire for him by name; then the voice added that Criedir, the stamp dealer, had advised him to call on Mr. Cardlestone to show him some rare Australian stamps, and that seeing a light under his door he had knocked. Cardlestone asked him in—he came in. That was the man we saw next day at the mortuary. Upon my honour, we didn't know him, either that night or next day!"
"What happened when he came in?" asked Breton.
"Cardlestone asked him to sit down: he offered and gave him a drink. The man said Criedir had given him Cardlestone's address, and that he'd been with a friend at some rooms in Fountain Court, and as he was passing our building he'd just looked to make sure where Cardlestone lived, and as he'd noticed a light he'd made bold to knock. He and Cardlestone began to examine the stamps. Jane Baylis said good-night, and she and I left Cardlestone and the man together."
"No one had recognized him?" said Breton.
"No one! Remember, I only once or twice saw Maitland in all my life. The others certainly did not recognize him. At least, I never knew that they did—if they did."
"Tell us," said Spargo, joining in for the first time, "tell us what you and Miss Baylis did?"
"At the foot of the stairs Jane Baylis suddenly said she'd forgotten something in Cardlestone's lobby. As she was going out in to Fleet Street, and I was going down Middle Temple Lane to turn off to my own rooms we said good-night. She went back upstairs. And I went home. And upon my soul and honour that's all I know!"
Spargo suddenly leapt to his feet. He snatched at his cap—a sodden and bedraggled headgear which he had thrown down when they entered the cottage.
"That's enough!" he almost shouted. "I've got it—at last! Breton—where's the nearest telegraph office? Hawes? Straight down this valley? Then, here's for it! Look after things till I'm back, or, when the police come, join me there. I shall catch the first train to town, anyhow, after wiring."
"But—what are you after, Spargo?" exclaimed Breton. "Stop! What on earth——"
But Spargo had closed the door and was running for all he was worth down the valley. Three quarters of an hour later he startled a quiet and peaceful telegraphist by darting, breathless and dirty, into a sleepy country post office, snatching a telegraph form and scribbling down a message in shaky handwriting:—
Rathbury, New Scotland Yard, London. Arrest Jane Baylis at once for murder of John Maitland. Coming straight to town with full evidence.
Frank Spargo.
Then Spargo dropped on the office bench, and while the wondering operator set the wires ticking, strove to get his breath, utterly spent in his mad race across the heather. And when it was got he set out again—to find the station.
Some days later, Spargo, having seen Stephen Aylmore walk out of the Bow Street dock, cleared of the charge against him, and in a fair way of being cleared of the affair of twenty years before, found himself in a very quiet corner of the Court holding the hand of Jessie Aylmore, who, he discovered, was saying things to him which he scarcely comprehended. There was nobody near them and the girl spoke freely and warmly.
"But you will come—you will come today—and be properly thanked," she said. "You will—won't you?"
Spargo allowed himself to retain possession of the hand. Also he took a straight look into Jessie Aylmore's eyes.
"I don't want thanks," he said. "It was all a lot of luck. And if I come—today—it will be to see—just you!"
Jessie Aylmore looked down at the two hands.
"I think," she whispered, "I think that is what I really meant!"
THE END
Dead Men's Money
Chapter II. The Midnight Mission
Chapter V. The Brass-Bound Chest
Chapter VII. The Inquest on John Phillips
Chapter VIII. The Parish Registers
Chapter IX. The Marine-Store Dealer
Chapter XI. Signatures to the Will
Chapter XIII. Sir Gilbert Carstairs
Chapter XV. Five Hundred a Year
Chapter XVI. The Man in the Cell
Chapter XVII. The Irish Housekeeper
Chapter XX. The Samaritan Skipper
Chapter XXI. Mr. Gavin Smeaton
Chapter XXII. I Read my Own Obituary