CHAPTER IX.

FOUND.

On the eve of his departure for Pembridge, Gerald Warburton had promised Ambrose Murray that immediately after his return he would consult with him as to the steps which it would be advisable to take in furtherance of that quest on which the mind of the elder man was so firmly bent, but which to the younger one looked, at that time, so thoroughly hopeless. The momentary glimpse which they obtained of Jacoby while standing on the platform of Welwyn Station, happening just then, came like an apt and singular confirmation of the story told by Murray. It acted as a spur to Gerald's flagging purpose, and would have served as an additional incentive to Murray, had any such been needed, to press forward unflinchingly towards the end he had in view. From that day forward no one could accuse Gerald of any want of enthusiasm for the cause he had adopted as his own. He put his hand to the plough, and he never looked backward again.

The first, and perhaps the most difficult, move in the game they had set themselves to play, had been solved for them by the merest accident. Jacoby was still alive. There was no need for them to trouble themselves further on that score. The next move, and one hardly less difficult than the first one, was to find out where Jacoby was now living; and the question that Gerald at once set himself to answer was this: What is the likeliest and readiest mode of discovering the whereabouts of this man?

Among the papers which had come into the hands of Miss Bellamy at the death of Ambrose Murray's wife, were certain verbatim accounts of the trial for the Tewkesbury murder. These papers Miss Bellamy had carefully preserved, and they were now handed over by her to Gerald, who proceeded to read them carefully through three or four times, by which means he made himself master of all the details of the case as they had presented themselves at the trial. A certain Mr. Frodsham had been Murray's counsel on that occasion, and very admirable had been the speech, and very cogent the arguments, employed by him in his attempt to prove the innocence of his client--an attempt which, as we have already seen, did not succeed. To Gerald, turning the whole case over in his mind, it seemed that the first thing to do was to find out this Mr. Frodsham, see him, consult with him, tell him in confidence of Murray's escape, and ascertain whether, after so long a time, his experience could suggest any feasible plan for proving, or even attempting to prove, the innocence of a client for whose sake, twenty years ago, all his eloquence had been exerted in vain.

In setting about the task which he had thus taken in hand, and which he was thoroughly determined to go through with, Gerald did not expect to derive much assistance from Murray himself, nor, in fact, did he. Murray was altogether too unpractical; he had been shut up too long from the busy, struggling world around him to enable him to cope with it face to face, or to grope his way through such a blind man's maze as his own case necessarily involved, at every step of which a knot would have to be disentangled, or a difficulty of some kind encountered and overcome. He could asseverate earnestly enough that Jacoby was the murderer, and that the sole object for which he now lived was to bring the crime home to him; but when asked by what means that was to be done, he was like a child who had lost itself in some dark place. He could only cling to Gerald, and ask him to think, to devise, to scheme for him. "I have faith--faith the most intense," he would sometimes say, "that the world will know me for what I am before I die. Why else was my reason given back to me? why else was a way of escape shown me? why else am I here, except to prove this thing? And, oh, Gerald! why has an over-ruling Intelligence sent to me you, the son of my lost darling's oldest friend--you, with your kind heart, and clear brain, and knowledge of the world and its ways--except to assist me, to give to my forlorn weakness that strong helping hand, without which I can do nothing! Other men might ask: Why should I help this escaped lunatic? Why should I trouble myself about this criminal madman, on whose head the guilt of blood still rests? But not you--not you! You and I, Gerald, have been mysteriously drawn together by the bonds of an invisible sympathy. We have been brought together, not that we may be to each other as mere touch-and-go acquaintances, but for the working out of some hidden purpose. For good or for evil, the issues of your life and mine are inextricably mingled; like streams from two distant sources, they have met, never again to be disunited, till they fall into the far-off Hidden Sea!"

Mr. Frodsham had been too well known in the legal profession for Gerald to experience much difficulty in obtaining answers to his inquiries respecting that gentleman. It did not take him long to ascertain that Mr. Frodsham had been dead for several years. But from the same source whence he derived this positive information, came another piece of information not quite so positive, which, being of no apparent use, was thrown in gratis, as it were, to the effect that although Mr. Frodsham was dead, Mr. Peter Byrne, who had been his confidential clerk for many years, was supposed to be still alive. To Gerald this extra piece of information seemed of no use whatever. His idea in wanting to see Mr. Frodsham had been, not to obtain facts--those he had already--but to seek his advice, his counsel, perchance his assistance. But of what use or assistance Mr. Frodsham's confidential clerk could be to him, he could not for the life of him see. Still, as it behoved him to neglect no source of information, however trivial or apparently unimportant it might seem to be, and as he was rather nonplussed for the time being as to what was the next step which it behoved him to take, he decided to have this Mr. Byrne hunted up, if it were possible to find him, and then see him in person, on the very faint chance that something might be elicited from him which would tend to show what line of action it would be advisable to adopt next.

Five days later Gerald received Mr. Byrne's address by post. It was No. 2, Amelia Terrace, Claridge Road, Battersea, which place Gerald next day made it his business to go in search of.

Amelia Terrace was in a desolate locality enough, being shut out from the world by wide intervening stretches of market garden, very useful and very productive, no doubt, but which seemed to lack every pleasant attribute with which a garden is usually associated in one's mind. The particular house that Gerald was in search of was one of twenty others exactly similar to it in pattern and design. Little shabby-looking six-roomed houses, the cheap stucco with which their fronts were plastered peeling off already in great ugly blotches, the yard of "garden" on to which their windows looked protected by cheap railings, broken away in many places, and thick with rust, or twisted out of shape in others. Inside, the rooms were close and frowsy, with doors and windows that in some cases would not shut, and in others left crevices that in this wintry weather had to be stuffed up with rags, or old newspapers, or even here and there with an old bonnet. At one corner was a flaring gin-palace, and at the other a huckster's shop, only its proprietor did not call it a shop, but an "emporium."

Yes, Mr. Byrne was at home, said the slatternly servant who answered Gerald's knock at No. 2.

Before more could be said, some one called out from the parlour, "Walk in, sir, walk in, if it's me you are in want of. I saw you when you were over the way, but I didn't know that you were looking for No. 2."

Gerald accepted the invitation and walked into the parlour, a shabbily-furnished little room, pervaded by a vile odour of stale tobacco-smoke. Mr. Byrne, in red morocco slippers, a Turkish cap, and a faded dressing gown of a flowery Chinese sort of pattern, rose from the sofa to receive him.

Peter Byrne was a man of sixty, but looked quite ten years younger than that age, thanks to his dyed hair, his artificial teeth, and the faintest possible suspicion of rouge, without which, when got up for the day, he never ventured abroad. But so deftly and artfully was the hare's foot applied, that not one out of a dozen of his acquaintances accepted as other than genuine that pleasant, healthy colour which, whatever the season might be, Peter Byrne's cheeks never failed to display. He was rather under than over the medium height, was lightly built, and was very active for his age. His head was large, and somewhat disproportionate to the size of his body. He had large, but regular features, and had doubtless thought himself very good-looking when a young man; but the lines of his face were now coarse and fleshy, and seemed to indicate a too free indulgence in the good things of the table, and possibly too great a fondness for after-dinner potations. He had clear grey eyes, with a keenness and a steadfastness in them that Gerald liked; and yet there seemed something factitious about his smile--it came and went too readily to seem altogether genuine.

Gerald having introduced himself and taken a chair, proceeded at once to the object of his visit.

"In my search for certain information," he said, "I have been recommended to call upon you as having been the confidential clerk of the late Mr. Frodsham."

"I certainly was Mr. Frodsham's confidential clerk for several years," said Byrne, "and any information that may be in my power I shall be happy to afford you--provided, of course, that such information involve no breach of business confidence."

"You need be under no apprehension on that score," answered Gerald. "I must ask you, in the first place, to let your memory travel back for twenty years, and then to tell me whether you have any recollection of a somewhat remarkable case in which Mr. Frodsham was engaged for the defence. It was a murder case, and was tried at the Gloucester Spring Assizes. The crime was committed at Tewkesbury, the murdered man's name was Paul Stilling, and the prisoner's name Ambrose Murray."

"I remember the case in question quite well," answered Byrne. "In fact, I was in court when the trial took place. Mr. Frodsham was busier than usual that circuit, and he took me with him."

"So far that is fortunate," said Gerald. "Then you will probably recollect that one of the chief witnesses at the trial was a Dutch or German Jew of the name of Max Jacoby?"

"I recollect distinctly the man to whom you refer."

"My object in coming to see you to-day is to ask you whether you can in any way assist me to discover the present whereabouts of this man, Max Jacoby?"

Byrne gave vent to a long, low whistle.

"It's a hard nut, sir, that you've set yourself to crack--the finding of a man like that after twenty years; and--and really I hardly know in what way I can help you."

Gerald was silent. He had no intention of accepting Byrne's answer as final.

"Why don't you apply to Scotland Yard for assistance?" asked Byrne, after a pause.

"I have private reasons for not doing so," answered Gerald. "But there is no reason why you should not treat me as your client in this matter, and endeavour to obtain this information for me either from Scotland Yard or elsewhere."

"Hum! Such inquiries, whether successful or unsuccessful, cost money."

"Get me the information I ask for, or even show me that you have done your best to get it but have failed, and we shall not quarrel about the price."

"But the man may have died years ago, or, being a foreigner, he may be living in some little town on the continent, in which case our inquiries could hardly hope to be successful."

"Jacoby was alive, and well, and in London only three weeks ago."

"Oh, come, there's something tangible about a fact like that. And you know nothing more concerning him?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Mr. Byrne, with due solemnity and deliberation, proceeded to charge and light a long-stemmed pipe with a painted China bowl, which stood propped against the chimney-piece ready to his hand.

"I will be candid with you, Mr. Warburton," he said, after a few preliminary puffs. "I don't anticipate that there will be so much difficulty in tracing this man Jacoby as there might be in the case of a great many other people."

"Why should there be any difference in his case?" asked Gerald.

"Because he is a man with whom the police have had dealings, directly or indirectly, not on one occasion only, but several times. There is no need for me to say more at present, except this, that such a man is seldom altogether lost sight of, unless he leaves the country and goes to live abroad. Still, I should not advise you to be too sanguine."

Gerald promised not to be too sanguine, but still had good hopes of success. He then went into some monetary details with Mr. Byrne, and after that he rose to go.

"I dare say you wonder a little to find a man like me living in a dog-kennel of a place like this," said Byrne, with his expansive smile, as he stood for a moment or two airing his back at the fire.

"I have seen too much of the world to wonder greatly at anything," said Gerald, ambiguously.

"You see, this is how it was," said Byrne, confidentially. "I was Mr. Frodsham's clerk for a great number of years--not that I ever liked the profession, but my bread and cheese was dependent on it, and I was bound to stick to it. By the death of a relative, I came in for ten thousand pounds, and I at once retired to live on my means. I had always been fond of the turf, I had always fancied that I knew something about that noble animal, the horse, and I now determined to turn my knowledge to account. I made up my mind that I would turn my ten thousand pounds into thirty thousand. Sir, I did not turn it into thirty thousand pounds, but into thirty thousand pence. In fact, I lost the whole of it. I was too old to re-enter the profession, and having an income of eighty pounds a year for life, I determined to settle down upon it, and make the best of a bad job. This locality, if not the most genteel in the world, is cheap and salubrious, and here Miriam and I have pitched our tent for a little time, while waiting for summer weather. Relatives, sir, can't live for ever, especially when turned eighty years of age, and asthmatical into the bargain."

"At the risk of being thought impertinent, may I ask who Miriam is?"

"Miriam, sir, is my daughter--an only child, and a jewel of a girl, though I say it who ought not. Nature, sir, has been liberal to her, having endowed her with beauty and talents that would fit her to adorn a sphere far superior to this one. I hope and trust that there is a brilliant future in store for her."

This interview with Mr. Byrne took place between the time of Gerald's first visit to Pembridge and that second visit which resulted from his acceptance of the position of secretary to Sir Thomas Dudgeon. He gave Byrne Miss Bellamy's address, to which any communication for him was to be sent. Such communication would be re-addressed and forwarded to him at Stammars by Miss Bellamy. He had been at Sir Thomas Dudgeon's about a week, when he received the following brief note from Byrne:--

"Dear Sir,

"With reference to the subject respecting which you spoke to me a few days ago, no time has been lost in taking the preliminary steps, and I am happy to inform you that I believe we are already on the right track. I hope in a week at the most to be able to supply you with some positive information. But we must not be too sanguine.

"Faithfully yours,

"P. B."

A few days later Gerald went up to town to transact certain business for Sir Thomas Dudgeon, and having some spare time on his hands, he spent most of it either with Miss Bellamy or Ambrose Murray. It was while they were all three sitting together one afternoon, that the postman brought a second note from Byrne to Gerald.

"Dear Sir,

"The person respecting whom you spoke to me at my house is now, I believe, passing under another name. If you will meet me either this or to-morrow evening at seven on the steps of the General Post Office, I will take you to a place where--yourself unseen--you can see the man to whom I allude, and so have the means of identifying him. Should he prove to be the person you want, I will afterwards furnish you with his address. If you decide upon meeting me this evening, wire me to that effect.

"Yours faithfully,

"P. B."

At seven o'clock that evening, Gerald Warburton and Ambrose Murray found themselves at St. Martin's-le-Grand, where, two minutes later, they were joined by Mr. Byrne.

"As I myself am totally unacquainted with the person we are in search of, never to my knowledge having seen him," said Gerald to Byrne, "I have been compelled to bring this gentleman with me. Jacoby was well known to him by sight many years ago, and he does not doubt his ability to identify him now."

Byrne bowed slightly, and threw a keen glance at Murray; but the evening was cold, and the latter was so muffled up that very little of his features could be seen.

They were still standing on the post-office steps, when Byrne, turning to Gerald, said--

"The man I am about to show you lives in the city, and has done so for several years. When in town he always dines at one particular tavern. He is generally to be found there from half-past six till half-past seven. He dined at this place yesterday and the day before, and I have no doubt that he is there at the present moment. We must wait near at hand till he comes out, and then you will have an opportunity of getting a clear view of him by the light of the lamp over the door."

Here and there in some quiet city nook may still be found one of those homely, old-fashioned taverns, innocent of lacquer-work and gilding--panelled, not with looking-glass, but with substantial mahogany, dark with age, such as were common in the days when Charles Lamb or Washington Irving were peripatetics about the streets of London, but which are becoming rarer with each recurring year. To several of these taverns is attached a dining-room, where a fried sole or a cut off a wholesome joint may be obtained as late as six or seven o'clock, and where any one who is known to the house may have a chop or a steak done to a turn up till midnight. There is no bustle and confusion here; you are not hurried over your meals; you need not quit your seat the moment you have swallowed your last mouthful, in order to make room for some one else. Day after day the same people come--punctual to the minute, as a rule. They are all on hob-nobbing terms with each other, and fresh faces are rarely seen.

It was over against such a tavern as this that our three conspirators now stationed themselves. The street was very narrow, and exactly opposite the tavern was a dark passage leading to sundry suites of offices, now silent and deserted. Within the shelter of this passage they took their stand. Not long had they to wait. Presently the swing doors were pushed open from the inner side, and the man whom they had come to see issued forth into the street--a man of fifty, or perhaps fifty-five, broad-chested, strongly built, and with a face that might have been carved out of lignumvitae, so hard, resolute, and determined was it in every line. He stood for a moment in the full light of the lamp over the doorway, and then he walked slowly down the street.

Gerald felt Murray's grasp on his arm tighten suddenly as the man came out.

"Is that the man you wanted me to find? Is that Max Jacoby?" asked Byrne, in a low voice.

"That is Max Jacoby!" answered Murray, in a whisper.

"We must give him time to get clear away," said Byrne, "and then I will show you the place where he lives."

Five minutes later they left their hiding-place. Byrne, taking his companions through several short cuts and narrow ways, brought them presently to another part of the city, and came to a halt close against a tall, substantial-looking house. It stood in a narrow way intended for foot-passengers only, that led from one great artery of city traffic to another. One side of this footway was bounded by the blank wall of a range of huge warehouses that had their frontage in another street. The opposite boundary of the footway consisted of a low stone wall, crowned with rusty railings, that shut in an ancient graveyard. The church that once on a time had appertained to the graveyard had been demolished years ago; but the dilapidated tombstones, with their "forlorn Hic jacets" all overgrown with rank and frowsy herbage, were still there, together with a miscellaneous assortment of old shoes, broken bottles, and other rubbish. As usual, it was Nobody's business to bring about a different state of things, and Nobody did his business thoroughly by leaving it altogether undone.

The house to which Byrne had brought his companions was built into the graveyard, and its front door was in a line with the raised wall already spoken of. It was an old-fashioned, red-brick house, and had doubtless at one time been the residence of the rector, or of some other functionary connected with the church that was no longer there. From the windows, both back and front, the view must have been dismal in the extreme. To-night the whole house looked as dark and deserted as the graveyard in which it stood. Not a single glimmer of light was visible in any of its windows. Byrne, after taking a cautious look round, drew his companions forward. There was a square brass plate let into the door, on which, by the light of a lamp near at hand, they all three read these words:

MAX VAN DUREN. General Agent, &c.

"He has changed his name!" said Murray, turning suddenly on Byrne.

"There's nothing to wonder at in that," said Byrne, with a shrug. "In London one comes across queer changes every day."