CHAPTER VI.

A SECRET OF THE SEA.

Mr. Byrne had been in the habit of writing a line to Ambrose Murray every few days, in order to satisfy the latter as to how matters were progressing at the house in Spur Alley. In one of his brief notes he mentioned that Van Duren had left home on business for a couple of days. Gerald Warburton happened to be at Miss Bellamy's when this note came to hand, and Murray at once proposed that he and Gerald should visit Byrne and his daughter in Spur Alley, while Van Duren was out of town. Gerald assented, and at six o'clock that evening they found themselves at Van Duren's door. Mrs. Bakewell, as she ushered them upstairs, informed them that Miss Byrne had gone out about an hour previously, but that the old gentleman would no doubt be very glad to see them.

There was no answer to the woman's knock at Mr. Byrne's door. "Poor old gentleman, he gets weaker and deafer every day," she said. "He's not long for this world, I'm afraid." Then she opened the door, and went into the room. Mr. Byrne was sitting, as he seemed ever to sit, in his great easy-chair in front of the fire. Mrs. Bakewell touched him on the shoulder, and shouted in his ear: "Two gentlemen to see you, sir."

"Ech, ech! two gentlemen to see me? Tell 'em to come in: tell 'em to come in. And shut that door as soon as you can. That draught's enough to cut one in two." And with that he turned feebly round and confronted his visitors. And then his cough began to trouble him, and he could not find a word to say till Mrs. Bakewell had gone out and shut the door behind her.

A moment later he was on his feet and grasping his visitors warmly by the hand. "Welcome to Spur Alley, gentlemen!" he said. "You could not have come at a more opportune time, except in one respect--that my daughter is not here to receive you as well as I. But the kettle is on the hob, and I've a bottle of prime Kinahan in the cupboard, together with a few choice Henry Clays, that were sent me by a friend the other day. An it please you, we will make ourselves as comfortable as present circumstances will admit of."

After a little conversation of no particular moment, said Byrne: "I am glad that you have come to see me, Mr. Murray. Had you not come here, I should have made a point of calling upon you in the course of a few days."

"Have you anything of importance to communicate?"

"No, it is not exactly that; but I think the time has come for me to tell you what I have done already, and what I hope to accomplish before I am many days older; together with my reasons for going about this matter in the way I have gone about it."

"I shall be very glad to hear anything you may have to say, Mr. Byrne; but if you would rather defer your revelation for a little while longer, pray do so. As I have told you already, I have every confidence in your management of the affair, and shall continue to have, whether you choose to-day to tell me anything or nothing."

"You are very kind, Mr. Murray, but I think that I shall feel more comfortable if I tell you everything. I want either your approval or your disapproval of what I am doing: I want to feel the ground firm under my feet."

"In that case I have nothing more to say. You know what an intense interest this matter has for me in all its bearings, great or small."

"Before beginning what I have to tell you," said Byrne, "it may be just as well to lock the door. It was only the other day that Pringle, Van Duren's clerk, opened the door suddenly and put his head into the room. I felt sure at the time that he had either seen or suspected something, and would tell his master. I suppose I was mistaken, but for all that I don't care to run the same risk again."

Having locked the door, Mr. Byrne proceeded to light a cigar, and then to brew himself a tumbler of grog with all the care and deliberation to which so important a proceeding was entitled at his hands. Gerald joined him over a cigar. Murray never smoked.

"When you first came to me, Mr. Warburton, and spoke to me about this business," began Byrne after a few preliminary puffs, "I was more surprised than I cared to let you see. And when you told me what it was that you wanted me to do, I was still more surprised. And well I might be, as you will hear presently. You came to me, Mr. Warburton, in the first place, because you thought that there might be a faint possibility of my being able to assist you to discover the whereabouts of Max Jacoby. I was able to assist you in a way that you little dreamt of. My brother, who is two years older than I am, was originally a sergeant in the detective police. He retired some years ago, and he now keeps a little country tavern in the neighbourhood of Dorking. I told my brother what I wanted; he gave me a note to a particular friend of his who is still in the force, and it was through the kindness of this latter gentleman that I was enabled to inform you that our friend Mr. Max lived here, under this very roof, in Spur Alley. Having obtained that information for you, I naturally concluded that my task was at an end; but when you told me what further you wanted from me, that opened up an entirely fresh phase of the question."

Here Mr. Byrne paused to stir his grog and refresh himself with a hearty drink.

"The point urged by both of you," resumed Byrne, "was your belief that Max Jacoby was the murderer of Paul Stilling; and the question you put before me was: By what means is it possible to bring his guilt home to him? Gentlemen, what method of procedure I might have adopted under different circumstances in order to find an answer to your question I cannot, of course, say, but the one which I did adopt had its origin in a very peculiar occurrence, which I will presently explain to you. My plan was this: to take lodgings in this house--my daughter and I. To make the acquaintance of Van Duren. To invite him to tea or supper, in order that he might have an opportunity of associating with Miriam, who, on her part, was to do her best to fascinate him--to make him fall in love with her, and, if possible, to propose to her. Of this scheme Miriam was the hinge. Everything depended upon her--upon her good looks and powers of fascination. But knowing the sort of man I had to deal with, I determined to smooth for him still further the road I wanted him to travel. With this end in view, I led Van Duren on to believe that I was rich, and I caused to be drawn up in due form a fictitious will, in which I bequeathed fifteen thousand pounds to my daughter, and of which I made Van Duren himself one of the executors. The bait took, as I expected it would take. Van Duren, smitten already by my daughter's good looks, was conquered entirely when he found that she was also an heiress. A few evenings ago he fell on his knees before her and implored her to marry him. Miriam, by my instructions, accepted him conditionally: he is to be a month on probation, and if at the end of that time she finds that she can like him sufficiently well, she is to accept him as her future husband. But before the month of probation shall have come to an end, the particular object which has necessitated all this scheming and preparation will, I trust, have been fully accomplished."

Mr. Byrne had allowed his cigar to go out while talking. He now proceeded to relight it. This done, he again paid his respects to the grog.

Both Ambrose Murray and Gerald were utterly puzzled. That Byrne should have allowed, and, by his own confession, encouraged, Van Duren to make love and propose to his daughter, was to them an altogether incomprehensible proceeding. They awaited his further revelations with impatience.

"You have certainly succeeded in exciting our curiosity, Mr. Byrne," said Gerald, "and I hope you won't send us away till you have thoroughly satisfied it."

"Never fear, sir. You shall have the whole history before you leave the room. With your permission, we will retrace our steps a little. I have already told you that I have a brother who was formerly a sergeant in the detective force. He held this position at the same time that I was confidential clerk to Mr. Frodsham. As both of you are aware, I happened to be in court on the very day that you, Mr. Murray, were tried for the murder of Paul Stilling. One of the chief witnesses at the trial was our friend, Mr. Max Jacoby. After my return to London, I called one evening to smoke a pipe with my brother, and in the course of conversation the Tewkesbury murder case cropped up. I told Dick, who likes to hear of such matters, all about the trial. Jacoby's name was mentioned, and I remember remarking to my brother that he had far more the look of a murderer than the man in the dock--meaning you, sir. Well, gentlemen, some three or four months, passed away, when, one day, I met my brother casually in the street. Says he to me, 'Peter, when next you come up to my crib, I can show you a bit of paper that may perhaps interest you a little--a bit of paper with some writing on it, I mean.'--'Is the writing by anybody that I know?' said I. 'It's a letter,' said he, 'and the signature to it is "Max Jacoby"--the name of the fellow, isn't it, who was a witness in the Tewkesbury murder case?' 'That's the name, sure enough,' replied I. 'But how did a letter signed by him come into your possession?' 'Oh, the fellow to whom it was addressed got into a little difficulty. I had to search his rooms, and I found this letter among a lot of other papers. I took a copy of it before handing over the original, as I thought it might interest you.' Well, gentlemen, I thought very little more of the matter, as, indeed, why should I? Dick, however, did not forget, and the next time I called on him he produced the letter. I read the letter, and looked upon the affair as one of those curious coincidences which so frequently happen in real life; but I speedily forgot all about it, and the chances are that I should never have thought about it again had not your visit to me brought all the old circumstances back to my mind. After that visit I made it my first business to go down to Dorking and see my brother. The question was, had he, after all these years, got the copy of Max Jacoby's letter still by him? Fortunately for us, Dick is one of those cautious souls who hardly ever destroy anything, and who have an almost superstitious reverence for any scrap of paper with writing on it. In short, gentlemen, the letter was still in existence. Dick gave it up to me without difficulty, and it is in my writing-desk at the present moment. Before reading the letter to you, I may just add that, having regard to my brother's great experience, I have taken the liberty of consulting him at each step of this affair. It is some pleasure to me to be able to say that he takes the same view of the contents of the letter that I take, and that he agrees with all that I have done up to the present time."

"You were quite right in consulting your brother, Mr. Byrne," said Murray. "It only proves still more clearly how thoroughly you have identified yourself with the case."

Byrne crossed the room, unlocked his writing-desk, and came back with the letter in his hand.

"The letter bears no date," said he, "but as it was found by my brother in the lodgings of the man to whom it was addressed only some three or four months after the murder--subsequent to which occurrence it was, in my opinion, written--the exact date is a matter of very minor consequence. The address given is simply, 'My old lodgings,' and as it was found without an envelope, there is no clue to the post-mark. But that, too, is a matter of little consequence. And now you shall hear what the letter says."

Mr. Byrne threw the end of his cigar into the fire, cleared his throat, and opening the yellow, time-worn paper, read as under:--

"My dear Legros,

"You will be surprised to hear from me so quickly after our last farewell, and to see the place from which this letter is written. Yes, I am back once more in the old spot--penniless--a beggar! I have met with a most terrible misfortune. I have been shipwrecked, and everything I had in the world has gone to the bottom. When I say _everything_, you know what I mean. I mean that which cost me so dear--that which I ran so terrible a risk for--that for which one man's life, and another man's happiness, were sacrificed. But the curse of blood rested on it, and it has gone. You remember that when you parted from me on board ship, I had every prospect of a fair voyage, but during the night the wind began to rise, and by daylight next morning a terrific gale was blowing. We were still in sight of land, and having sprung a leak, we put back towards a little harbour with which our captain was acquainted. But before we could reach it, the ship began to founder, and then it was every man for himself. We saved our bare lives, and that was all. I tried all I could to bribe the men to take my box with them in the boat, but it was of no avail. 'Life's sweeter than all the gold in the world,' they said. 'Your box may go to the devil, and we'll send you after it if we have any of your nonsense.' There was no use in my going abroad when I had lost the only inducement which would have taken me there. So here I am once more, the world all before me. I have just enough money left to buy me to-morrow's dinner. After that----? But I need not say more. I trust to you, my dear Legros, to send me a five-pound note by return. In fact, I must have it. I know too much of you, and you know too much of me, for either of us to decline these sweet little offices of friendship for the other.

"Thine,

"Max Jacoby."

The three men looked at each other in silence as Byrne slowly refolded the letter.

"Your familiarity with the contents of this letter," said Gerald at last, "has enabled you to arrive at certain conclusions in your own mind such as we, to whom the letter comes as an utter surprise, can no more than barely guess at. Do you mind telling us what those conclusions are?"

"The conclusions I have come to are very few and very simple," said Byrne; "simple, inasmuch as, to my mind, knowing what I know, they are plainly discoverable through the thin veil of obscurity in which the contents of the letter are purposely involved. My conclusions are these: That this letter was written within a very short time after the murder and subsequent trial. That the property whose loss Jacoby bewails in such bitter terms was neither more nor less than the proceeds of the murder, with which he was going abroad. That when the ship went to the bottom, Jacoby's ill-gotten gains went with her, and that Jacoby himself, having no longer the means of going abroad, came back to London in a state of utter destitution, as is evidenced by his begging the loan of a five-pound note from his quondam friend."

"Yes," said Gerald, after a few minutes of silent thought, "I quite agree with you that the construction which you have put upon the contents of this letter is a most feasible one, and I am inclined to think that it is also the true one. But even granting that such be the case, I confess I am still at a loss to understand in what way a proposal of marriage from Jacoby to your daughter can forward by one single step the special end we have in view--to bring home the crime to the real murderer."

"That, too, is where I am puzzled," said Murray; "for, singular as this letter is, and confirmatory as it is of the belief I have all along maintained, that Jacoby is the guilty man, I altogether fail to see in what way Mr. Byrne's late proceedings tend to fix the guilt upon him."

Byrne, looking from one to the other, rubbed his hands and chuckled. "I thought that part of the business would prove a stumbling-block," he said. "But if you will allow me, I can lift you over it very easily. You will have observed that Jacoby's letter enters into no particulars. It gives neither the name of the ship, the date of sailing, nor the port he sailed from. We cannot advance a step beyond the letter till we make ourselves masters of that information. It is quite evident that there is only one source from which we can obtain it, and that is from Jacoby himself. How are we to get out of him any information respecting this, the great secret of his life? Were you or I to question him, we should merely arouse his suspicions and shut his lips for ever. Gentlemen, no one can worm the secret out of this man but a woman--and only a woman that he loves. Gentlemen, Max Jacoby loves my daughter, and has asked her to become his wife. On my daughter, therefore, devolves the duty of making this man reveal what he has probably never told yet to any living soul. And now you understand the point at which we have arrived."

"Clearly," said Gerald; "and upon my word, I am doubtful whether the same result could have been arrived at by means other than those which you have seen fit to make use of."

Ambrose Murray did not speak, but he put out his arm, and grasped Byrne by the hand in a fashion far more eloquent than words.

"If Mr. Byrne will allow me, I will proceed just one step further in the matter," said Gerald. "Assuming for a moment that we have succeeded in getting out of Jacoby all the information we want from him; that we know when and from where he sailed, and the name of the ship--what then? The only evidence on which it would be possible to convict him will still be at the bottom of the sea."

Before Byrne could say a word in reply, there came a sudden knocking at the door, and the voice of Bakewell was heard outside: "A letter for Mr. Byrne."

Murray, his mind impressed with what had gone before, said solemnly: "Yes, it will still be, what it must remain for ever--a Secret of the Sea!"

Byrne held up a warning finger. In one minute he seemed to become twenty years older. He hobbled feebly towards the door, coughing meanwhile in a way that was pitiful to hear. "All right, Bakewell, I'm coming--I'm coming," he cried, querulously. Then, as he opened the door, Miriam's voice was heard carolling gaily as she ran quickly upstairs.