CHAPTER XXXV.

ACE OF TRUMPS.

As soon as Clara left him, Tarbot put on his hat and went to see the solicitor for the prosecution. The latter had made an appointment to see Tarbot between three and four o’clock. He had a long interview with the doctor, in which details with regard to Pelham’s trial were most carefully gone into. Tarbot told what he had to tell in a quiet voice, his face calm and stern-looking. Now and then to a close observer there might have been seen what looked almost like a sorrowful expression stealing round the lips.

When Tarbot had given all his information Mr. Cornish spoke.

“By the way, this is an unpleasant business for you,” he said. “That part about the _post obit_ will not sound too well. You got him to sign that, remember.”

“I did it simply because I had no other security for my money. As matters have turned out I know well that this part of the affair will not redound to my credit. But, after all, what was I to do? I could not hold back because of that. I was the child’s guardian, remember, and Mrs. Pelham was my great friend.”

“A case of conscience. I quite understand,” said Cornish. “Well, it is all sad and terrible. The case will go, without the slightest doubt, against the prisoner.”

“You think so?” said Tarbot eagerly. In spite of all his efforts his eyes danced now with malignity.

“I am certain of it,” said Cornish, glancing up at him in some surprise. “The man will hang for the crime. The jury will convict him, and there won’t be a loophole for the commutation of the sentence. I am sorry for the young wife.”

“Yes, she is the one to be pitied,” said Tarbot.

“If any further particulars come to light you will acquaint me?” said Cornish.

“Yes,” replied Tarbot, rising as he spoke. “By the way, have you given orders for the exhumation of the body?”

“Yes, the doctor for the Crown goes down to Great Pelham to-night with his assistant and the usual officers from Scotland Yard. You clearly understand that Pelham is only remanded for the present—he cannot be committed for trial until the body has been exhumed, and it is clearly proved that the child swallowed the poison.”

“Yes, yes, I see. Well, you are losing no time.”

“I am not. In a matter of this sort there is no good in lingering over things. From what you have told me it is only a mere matter of form. The child of course swallowed the hyocene. Pelham will be committed for trial in a few days. You, of course, Dr. Tarbot, will be served with a subpœna to appear as witness for the prosecution. Your wife will also have a notice to appear.”

“Who instructs for the defense?” asked Tarbot.

“Wilkinson; and Merriman is the barrister. Merriman is the best criminal barrister we have, but he cannot fight a case like ours, although he will do his best.”

“Why did we not secure him?” said Tarbot, knitting his brows.

“Oh, I think highly of my own man; and in any case Merriman had been previously retained for the defense.”

“It is a great pity we did not get him,” repeated Tarbot.

The lawyer said nothing. The doctor bade him good-by, and took his leave.

Tarbot went straight to see Mrs. Pelham. He told her briefly what had occurred, gave her a _resumé_ of the present aspect of the case, and sitting down by her side, looked at her. The widow’s expression was nervous and worn to the last degree.

“You are not well,” he said.

She burst into tears.

“I wish I had never done it,” she cried.

“Done what, my dear madam?”

“What I have done—prosecuted Dick. I have broken the heart of the bravest girl in the world.”

Tarbot could not help shivering.

“Do you allude to Lady Pelham?”

“I do, Luke. She was here this afternoon. How splendidly she spoke, and how grand was her trust in her husband! Are you quite sure that Dick—Dick, who has the most open face in the world—did commit such a dastardly crime?”

“Think for yourself. Go over the evidence,” said Tarbot.

“Oh, I have; but somehow lately I cannot think about it. My head gets giddy, and I am leaving it all to you. I wish I were dead and in the grave with my murdered boy.”

“I pity you sincerely,” said Tarbot. “You must stay quiet and hope for the best. It is too late to change matters now, and it would be very wrong, very wrong indeed, to leave the child’s death unavenged.”

He stayed for a few moments longer, and then took his leave.

On the following morning, amongst several letters which lay on his breakfast table, Tarbot received one from his wife. He had not noticed Clara’s absence on the previous evening. She was often away from dinner lately, her health being far from good. Occasionally she spent whole days in bed. He used to hear her coughing, but he never went to her. When he saw her letter, however, on the breakfast table, he could not help giving a start. It bore a country postmark. He opened it and read the following words:

“I told you, Luke Tarbot, that there was such a thing as the last straw. There is also such a thing as the worm turning. I have reached the last straw, and, to employ the other metaphor, I am the worm, much trodden on and much suffering, who has at last turned. Now listen to what I am going to say. I am on my way to Haversham. From there I shall go straight to Pelham Towers. Do you know why? To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It was always your good pleasure to laugh at my mesmeric powers. When you read this letter you will no longer smile at them.

“I am about to explain to you what I meant when I spoke of possessing the ace of trumps. Read and consider my words carefully. You often told me that Dr. Weismann of Paris was a humbug. Listen and tremble. He was no humbug. He was a man who possessed a marvelous personality, a strange and occult power. He imparted his knowledge to me, and I also found after some practise that I possessed the same intangible power. When you thought the child was dead he was not dead at all—he never died. That time when you wrote a certificate of his death he was only in a mesmeric sleep or trance. With care and cunning I had brought him to that pass. I never gave him a drop of the hyocene which you had provided me with. From time to time I subjected him to certain influences which produced trance. He got quickly and completely under my power.

“On the night you saw him his condition simulated death so well that you were taken in. It resembled a similar case in Paris which I attended, in which death was so completely simulated that three physicians were taken in, and pronounced the patient dead.[1] Luke, little Sir Piers has never died. I weighted his coffin with iron weights wrapped in wool. I took the boy to my own lodgings. He is well now—in perfect health. My mother has the care of him, and when I tell my story I am going to produce him. Your whole case, therefore, falls to the ground. I tell you now in order that you may if you like leave the country while there is time. I give you this one last chance for the sake of the old love which I felt for you.

Footnote 1:

A fact.

“Your revenge, Luke Tarbot, has come to nothing. Had you given me any return for the love which I lavished upon you, I would have been true to you to the extent of sinning for you, and going hand in glove with you in this. As it is, I have ceased to love you. I shall be punished, but it does not matter, for my days are numbered, and I would far rather spend them in prison than have the life of a brave and gallant gentleman like Richard Pelham any further imperiled.

“You know the worst now, Luke, you know all. My ace of trumps is little Sir Piers, who is alive and well.

“CLARA.”

There is such a thing as a bad man’s frenzy, and it is best to draw the veil over it. Tarbot had wild ideas at first of rushing after Clara and murdering her on the spot in order to secure her silence, but as each futile thought swept through his brain he pushed it away as hopeless and impracticable. After a couple of hours of thought which no one need envy him, he went with stealthy and quick movements to pack a few belongings into his Gladstone bag. From his house he rushed to his bank, drew what balance he possessed there, and took the morning train to the Continent.

He had the sense to see that his game was up. There was nothing whatever for him but flight.