CHAPTER XXVIII.

FINIS.

Robert Despard was taken before the magistrate at Bow Street Police Court and was remanded, bail being refused. At the inquest on Ruby Strode the jury returned a verdict of manslaughter. On Despard's next appearance at the police court he was committed for trial.

This took place some weeks later, but in the meantime something like a panic seized the shareholders in the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. There was a wild rush to "get out." The early birds in the City--those who were prepared and had merely gambled--managed to do so, and to make a small profit: others lost heavily. Here and there in Devonshire there were rumours of men and women who had lost all their savings in the venture.

But the real sufferers who said nothing at all were old John Dale and Sir Reginald Crichton. They were utterly unprepared, and the tragedy that had occurred at Despard's flat engaged their whole attention.

They were too shocked and horrified to think of themselves, and even when they knew what was happening and saw the sudden drop in the shares, which were eventually knocked down to nothing, they made no attempt to save themselves. The thought of ruin never entered John Dale's head. And when it was slowly born upon him that he was ruined he merely shrugged his shoulders and said no word.

For his son had come back--had risen, as it were, from the dead.

Fate was kind, and they were allowed to meet for a few brief moments before Rupert was re-arrested and taken back to prison. And though by the laws of his country he was still guilty and a convict, yet John Dale had the satisfaction of knowing that his son had always been innocent.

And on his knees he thanked his God that he had been spared. And very humbly, too, he prayed for forgiveness for having ever doubted his own flesh and blood, for having, no matter what proof was given him, believed that his son could have been guilty of so mean and despicable a crime.

A fortnight before the trial of Robert Despard took place, Sir Reginald arranged a meeting between his son Jim, John Dale, and Marjorie.

"Repentance comes too late, I know," he said, "and it's no use my trying to explain; but I hope it's not too late to ask Miss Dale to forgive an old man whose greatest crime after all has been a foolish, unbending pride. I know now that it was false pride."

Marjorie shook her head, and when Sir Reginald would have continued she stopped him. "There's no need to say anything. Your attitude was perfectly natural. If I had been a woman instead of merely a girl and Jim had been my son instead of my lover I should have felt just the same, behaved just the same. So long as you and father understand--and will forgive us if our love has made us a little selfish sometimes--nothing else matters." She looked at her lover: "Does it, Jim?"

Sir Reginald glanced at John Dale. But the old yeoman farmer said nothing.

"Is it too late," the former said, "to ask you to take my boy and make him happy? Remember, he hasn't a penny now to bless himself with, except what he can earn. I was never one to believe in love in a cottage, but perhaps I've been converted. Anyway Jim has brains, and I'm glad to say--I hope it isn't false pride again--that his country has already recognised it, and I think there's a big career before him. It will be still bigger, my dear, if he has you beside him as his wife."

Marjorie's eyes filled with tears as Jim took her in his arms and kissed her lips.

"When my brother's innocence has been completely and legally proved and he is set free we will be married, but not till then," she whispered.

And John Dale took his daughter's hand and kissed it.

Rupert was, of course, a most important witness when Despard's trial took place. The document found on Ruby Strode which proved that Rupert had been wrongfully convicted more than three years ago was sufficient to convince the jury that Despard, though he had not contemplated murder, was nevertheless responsible for causing the woman's death. The fact that his trunks were packed and that he was ready to leave the country at a moment's notice without anyone being aware of his intention to do so made the case look black against him. It was on his solicitor's advice that he made a perfectly frank and complete confession of the part he had played three years ago when Rupert Dale stood his trial for tampering with Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque.

But Despard's record was a black one, and the Counsel for the Crown did not hesitate to show him up in his true colours.

He was found guilty and sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

A fortnight later Rupert Dale received the King's pardon and was set free. As it happened the very first man to greet him outside the prison doors was his friend, Patterson. He shook Rupert's hand almost casually, then gave him a hearty pat on the back.

"Gad, we've been in some tight corners together, Dale," he laughed. "But I thought when we got back to the old country we should find things a bit tame--no more fighting, no more narrow squeaks for our lives, no more excitement. I was wrong, eh? At any rate you stepped right into the thick of it. Glad I was here to see you come out top dog."

And Rupert nodded and gripped Patterson's hand tightly. "You're the best friend I ever had," he said huskily.

"I ought to be," Patterson grinned, "since I owe you my life. But for you I should never have got away on that black night when the Muruts were dancing round the fire ready to cut our heads off and smoke 'em over the burning embers. Lord, what a fine game it is! Think of it, this scalp of mine might have adorned some chief's sword now; or the old hag who played mistress of ceremonies might be using it on state occasions as the latest fashion in evening dress."

* * * * *

It was on a warm, spring morning in April that Marjorie Dale and Captain James Crichton were quietly married at Princetown, within sight of the prisons which had played such a strange and important part in their lives. Erstwhile Convict 381 was Captain Crichton's best man.

As soon as the happy pair had left for the honeymoon--destination unknown--Patterson, Rupert, and John Dale returned to Blackthorn Farm, and over mugs of old brown ale again drank their health.

The farmhouse itself remained unchanged, but outside there was a scene of desolation. The mine, which a few months ago had been a scene of activity, was now deserted. It was a blot on the beautiful moorlands. Though the great plant still remained, silence now brooded.

"Best thing you can do, Dale," Patterson said, "is to come out East again and bring your father with you."

"Take my boy," the old man whispered, "he'll succeed there, I know. The old country's played out, I'm afraid. But I--I'm too old now. I'd only be a drag upon him."

But Rupert shook his head and laughed. "I'm not going to desert you, guv'nor. We've been parted long enough. And, what's more, I'm not going to desert the old farm, or the rotten old mine, as far as that goes. After all, I'm responsible, for I made the discovery of pitch-blende and got the radium idea in my head."

"What will happen to the property now?" Patterson asked.

And old Dale explained just how matters stood. He was the largest shareholder and he had not parted with a single share. They had been quoted that day on the Stock Exchange at threepence!

"Seems to me the scare came at the very moment that hope was held out that radium would be extracted," Patterson said. "I was talking to one of the fellows who had made the first report on it the other day, a German, I daresay you remember him, Mr. Dale. He backed out of it because he objected to Mr. Despard and certain other men who were behind the scenes. He says he is perfectly certain there is radium and that it can be extracted. I don't pretend to know much about the subject, but I'd like to have a look round to-morrow morning, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to get hold of this fellow--Swartz is his name--and see what he has to say. By jove, I've put away a bit of money, and I'd just like to gamble! Think of picking up a few thousand shares in a radium mine in England at threepence a piece. Gee whiz!"

And that is just what Mr. Patterson did. Mr. Swartz was called in, and on his advice the company was reconstructed. Sir Reginald Crichton and John Dale held on to their shares and even bought a few more. The new company took over the whole concern, buying it at a merely nominal price.

After six months of ceaseless work and research; of hope and despair, a rich strain of pitch-blende was discovered with radium emanations. The shares of the newly named "Blackthorn" Mine were daily quoted on the Stock Exchange. At first their behaviour was erratic, jumping from pence to shillings, shillings to pounds, and back again in a way that suggested that the market was once again being rigged.

But it was not. Patterson, working quietly and secretly with Mr. Swartz, discovered a new method of extracting radium-ore, which reduced the cost of production of the element by fifty per cent.

And shortly after Captain and Mrs. James Crichton returned from a very prolonged honeymoon, the Blackthorn Mine had produced enough radium to assure them they need have no fear as to their future--unless it were the fear that such great and unexpected wealth might rob them of the simple love and happiness they had found. John Dale was overwhelmed.

When, metaphorically, the rats had left the sinking ship, he had found himself with several thousand worthless shares. These shares were soon quoted at a hundred per cent. premium.

"I don't like it," he said in his old-fashioned way, wagging his head. "It don't seem right somehow. All I want now is a few pounds a week and the old farm, my son by my side, and my girl happily married."

"Well, you've got all that," Patterson laughed. "And whenever you feel worried by your wealth, you've only got to step outside your front door, walk over the East Dart, buy five thousand pounds worth of your own radium, and send it to one of the great hospitals in London. They'll know what to do with it there. Blackthorn Farm means life for thousands of poor creatures who have abandoned hope. We can give 'em life, John Dale, so don't worry about being rich. Money's an awful nuisance I know, but one always has the consolation that one can get rid of it as quickly as one likes--which is more than a poor man can do, anyway!"

Dale admitted that he had never thought of it in that way. But he has taken Patterson's advice, and he finds that it answers very well.

And he is still to be found at Blackthorn Farm, Dartmoor, living principally on old ale and brown bread and cheese, and--so the gossips affirm at the village inn--dividing his time between reclaiming the waste land and turning it into pasture, and signing cheques for the benefit of certain schemes and institutions, which he keeps a secret from everyone but his son Rupert.

Robert Despard is also living on Dartmoor--but not at Blackthorn Farm. His country keeps him--for his country's good. And he wears a very pretty uniform and attends church-parade regularly.