Stamped in Gold/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII.
VICTORY.
IT was one o'clock in the morning when, summoned by telephone, Peter Correlly presented himself at the Bertram mansion. The girl opened the door to him, and after a glance at her white, set face he knew that something unusually serious had happened. She took him not to the drawing-room but to the library, and as he passed through the hall he saw a man descending the stairs whom he recognized as one of the foremost physicians of the city.
“My father has had a stroke,” she said quietly, “and the doctors think it may be months before he is well again.”
Her eyes were red, and her lips trembled as she spoke. There was little that Peter could do save to murmur conventional regrets, so he said nothing.
“And I—I am in trouble, in great trouble, Mr. Correlly,” she said.
She seated herself in a low chair, crouching over the little fire which burned in the open grate, and never once did she meet his eyes.
“You once told me that if I ever was in trouble I was to send for you and that you would help me.”
“You did right.” He stood leaning against the chimney piece, with one elbow upon the mantel, and looked down at her. “Tell me just what you can, and let me guess all that you do not want to say. When did his seizure occur?”
“Nearly two hours ago,” said the girl in a low voice. “I think he was worried about—about me. You see, I had to tell him something to-night, Mr. Correlly, and it wasn't easy for him or for me.”
“Had he been to the temple?”
She looked up quickly.
“You know of the temple, then?” she asked, and he smiled.
“I didn't know it was here, but I guessed as much,” he replied.
She inclined her head slowly. “My father has been in the hands of this gang for two years,” she said. “I—I had to tell him all I had learned. There was a terrible scene.”
She did not particularize the gang, but he knew to whom she referred.
“Poor daddy! He has always been interested in the occult, and has written a little book on the subject. Did you know that?”
“I knew that,” said Peter simply.
“It was called 'The Netherworld,'” she went on. “I think it was this book which must have attracted the attention of the gang, and, through the professor, my father was entangled in this awful business. I do not know who the professor is—to me he was always an amusing, simple-minded, somewhat vain little man, repulsive in many ways, but the very last man in the world I should have associated with any crooked plans. I knew that father and he were very good friends, because he used to dine here almost every night, and I was rather glad, because daddy had very few friends and no hobbies. It gave me a sense of relief to know”—she smiled faintly—“that he was off my hands. They must have met when I was still at school, for when I came back here they were already inseparable—and the great wall across the park had been built.”
“I see,” said Peter, nodding. “That is how it came about that you had no knowledge of its building. That puzzled and worried me a little.”
“I had no idea of its existence,” she said, “nor had any of the servants of the house. It must have been built under the direction of the professor or of his fellow conspirators, and none but foreign workmen, who were chosen the purpose, were employed. I have only learned this since—since I took the trouble to inquire.”
“Have you any idea how his affairs stand?” asked Peter gently, and it pained him to see the girl wince,
“I don't think that is a matter for anxiety,” she said. “I do know that daddy is enormously rich. When mother died she left me a million dollars, which is in the hands of trustees, so I am not worrying about the finances of the bank. Daddy could afford all the money he has thrown away on these villains.”
Strangely enough, this news brought a sense of the greatest relief to Peter, who had worried more about the condition of George Bertram's fortune than about any other aspect of the case. Somehow it seemed to him that the name of Bertram, honored for three generations, had better be associated with almost any other crime than with bankruptcy, and a bankruptcy which would drag thousands down to ruin with him.
“There is one thing I want you to tell me to relieve my mind,” he said, “and that is that the absurd suggestion that you should marry the chosen of the gods has been entirely dismissed from your mind with these revelations.”
To his surprise she did not immediately answer, nor did she meet his eyes.
“You don't mean” he said in astonishment.
“I mean that that marriage may have to go through,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “Mr. Correlly, don't you realize that the idea of the marriage emanated from the gang, and that from among these the most presentable was chosen?”
“That I can guess,” he said, “but there are ten thousand reasons why any promise you or your father may have given should not be fulfilled. Good heavens! It is an appalling idea!”
Still she did not look up.
“I want you to help me to get through this most difficult time,” she said; “but first tell me, is there any way by which my father's name can be kept out of this terrible business?”
It was his turn to be silent. He knew that no influence was big enough to keep the name of George Bertram from the case, and she read his silence rightly.
“Don't you see, Mr. Correlly, that I am entirely in the hands of these three men? It is my father's word against theirs, and they can put him—oh, it is terrible!”
She covered her face with her hands.
“They can implicate him in the murder, if that's what you mean,” said Peter, and she bowed her head in assent. “And you think if you marry one of them, who I suppose is the leader of the gang, that they will let up on your father? Why, Miss Bertram, you don't know that gang of crooks. The matter isn't in your hands, anyway; it is in the hands of the authorities. It isn't a question of their giving one another away, or of their being in a position to say whether or not they shall make a disclosure to the police. We have sufficient evidence ”
She shook her head, and for the first time met his eyes and looked him straight in the face.
“You're wrong, Mr. Correlly,” she said quietly. “You have no evidence; you have only theories. Only my father can prove that they defrauded him, and he—he” she stopped and brought her handkerchief to her lips.
Peter absent-mindedly drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lit it before he knew what he was doing. He would have thrown the cigar in the fireplace but she stopped him with a gesture.
“Please smoke,” she said. “I should have asked you when you came in.”
Two curiously unhappy figures they were—Peter, hunched up over the fire on one side, the girl with her chin on her hands on the other—and the thoughts of both followed identical lines.
“There's a lot in what you say, Miss Bertram,” he said at last, “and that's just the thing that has been worrying us. It is an amazing fact that up till now we have no evidence. Nobody saw Mrs. Laste shot; nobody saw the man who beat up Wilbur Smith or kidnaped Frank Alwin. There is a strong supposition, but that supposition will not carry us very far to a conviction.”
He puffed away at his cigar for five minutes, and there was no sound but the tick of a French clock on the mantelpiece.
“There's a lot of truth in what you say, José.”
The girl started, and stared at him. Evidently he was unconscious of his lapse, and he went on.
“We have known the difficulties all along, ever since we were fairly certain that we had the gang at our mercy. We've been hoping against hope to get the right kind of evidence, but so far the only person who is immediately under suspicion—is you.”
“Me?” she said, startled.
“I have evidence sufficient to convict you three times over,” he said, “and I know you were a perfectly innocent instrument in the hands of unscrupulous men. I know, too, that if it comes to a showdown, and unless they have some strong inducement to keep silence, the whole gang will implicate your father in the murder, and implicate him in such a way that it will be practically impossible to prove his innocence.”
Another silence and then the girl rose.
“So you see,” she said with a gesture of despair, “for father's sake I must further the interests of these men, even if it means—marriage.”
She got the word out with difficulty. Peter came up to his feet slowly. There was a smile on his lips but a hard glint in his eye which fascinated her.
“Well, Miss Bertram,” he said, “I guess there are going to be a few more tragedies added to the credit of The Golden Hades.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean just this,” said Peter slowly. “There are three men in this gang—Rosie Cavan—that's the professor; Tom Scatwell, another English crook; and Sam Featherstone. Maybe they had assistance to hold up Wilbur Smith, and pressed a little local talent into their service, for Wilbur isn't exactly popular with certain criminal classes; but outside of these three there is no gang. Three men,” he said deliberately; “and unless matters take a much brighter turn than they promise, I am going to add three tragedies—three irreparable disasters—to the tale of devil work.”
For the moment she did not understand, and then with a little “Oh!” she stepped forward and laid both her hands on his arm, lifting her pale face to his.
“You'll do nothing of the kind,” she said in agitation. “Do you hear? I won't have you do it! I would rather stand the trial myself; I would rather my father took the responsibility, than that you should do so wicked a thing.”
In that instant she caught a glimpse of his mind and she knew its deadly purpose,
“You are not to do it,” she said. “Promise me you will not do it, please! Please!”
He laid his big hand on her arm and smiled down into her face.
“'It is a far, far better thing I do now'”
The little hand shot up to his mouth.
“Peter!” and the word electrified him and left him breathless, “unless you really want to break my heart, to fill me with everlasting shame, that I was responsible for your risking your life, you will put this thought out of your mind, Let them stand their trial.”
He could not speak, and she misunderstood the cause of his silence and shook him with all the strength she could muster.
“There must be another way,” she said. “Please! Please! For my sake! You called me 'José' just now, and I know you like me.”
Suddenly she was gripped in his arms.
“Like you!” he said huskily. “My dear little girl, if they set your statue in the temple I would worship you.”
She laughed—a nervous, tearful little laugh, and struggled to escape.
“You would be a devil worshiper, then, if you did this thing. Peter, won't you promise me? Peter dear”
He took the girl up in his arms and pressed his lips to her burning cheek.
“Maybe I'll not shoot 'em,” he mumbled in her ear. “Maybe I'll just poison 'em,” and she laughed again, a little hysterically, for she knew she had won her battle.