while to put them in evidence, would have shown thatthe prisoner was a wronged and deceived man. To use
a Scriptural phrase, Brake had been wounded in the
house of his friend. The man who was really guilty
in this affair had cleverly escaped all consequences,
nor would it be of the least use to enter into any
details respecting him. Not one penny of the money
in question had been used by the prisoner for his own
purposes. It was doubtless a wrong and improper thing
that his client had done, and he had pleaded guilty and
would submit to the consequences. But if everything in
connection with the case could have been told, if it
would have served any useful purpose to tell it, it
would have been seen that what the prisoner really was
guilty of was a foolish and serious error of judgment.
He himself, concluded the learned counsel, would go so
far as to say that, knowing what he did, knowing what
had been told him by his client in strict confidence,
the prisoner, though technically guilty, was morally
innocent.
His Lordship, merely remarking that no excuse of any
sort could be offered in a case of this sort, sentenced
the prisoner to ten years’ penal servitude.
Bryce read this over twice before handing back the book.
“Very strange and mysterious, Mr. Gilwaters,” he remarked. “You say that you saw Brake after the case was over. Did you learn anything?”
“Nothing whatever!” answered the old clergyman. “I got permission to see him before he was taken away. He did not seem particularly pleased or disposed to see me. I begged him to tell me what the real truth was. He was, I think, somewhat dazed by the sentence—but he was also sullen and morose. I asked him where his wife and two children—one, a mere infant—were. For I had already been to his private address and had found that Mrs. Brake had sold all the furniture and disappeared—completely. No one—thereabouts, at any rate—knew where she was, or would tell me anything. On my asking this, he refused to answer. I pressed him—he said finally that he was only speaking the truth when he replied that he did not know where his wife was. I said I must find her. He forbade me to make any attempt. Then I begged him to tell me if she was with friends. I remember very well what he replied.—‘I’m not going to say one word more to any man living, Mr. Gilwaters,’ he answered determinedly. ‘I shall be dead to the world—only because I’ve been a trusting fool!—for ten years or thereabouts, but, when I come back to it, I’ll let the world see what revenge means! Go away!’ he concluded. ‘I won’t say one word more.’ And—I left him.”
“And—you made no more inquiries?—about the wife?” asked Bryce.
“I did what I could,” replied Mr. Gilwaters. “I made some inquiry in the neighbourhood in which they had lived. All I could discover was that Mrs. Brake had disappeared under extraordinarily mysterious circumstances. There was no trace whatever of her. And I speedily found that things were being said—the usual cruel suspicions, you know.”
“Such as—what?” asked Bryce.
“That the amount of the defalcations was much larger than had been allowed to appear,” replied Mr. Gilwaters. “That Brake was a very clever rogue who had got the money safely planted somewhere abroad, and that his wife had gone off somewhere—Australia, or Canada, or some other far-off region—to await his release. Of course, I didn’t believe one word of all that. But there was the fact—she had vanished! And eventually, I thought of Ransford, as having been Brake’s great friend, so I tried to find him. And then I found that he, too, who up to that time had been practising in a London suburb—Streatham—had also disappeared. Just after Brake’s arrest, Ransford had suddenly sold his practice and gone—no one knew where, but it was believed—abroad. I couldn’t trace him, anyway. And soon after that I had a long illness, and for two or three years was an invalid, and—well, the thing was over and done with, and, as I said just now, I have never heard anything of any of them for all these years. And now!—now you tell me that there is a Mary Bewery who is a ward of a Dr. Mark Ransford at—where did you say?”
“At Wrychester,” answered Bryce. “She is a young woman of twenty, and she has a brother, Richard, who is between seventeen and eighteen.”
“Without a doubt those are Brake’s children!” exclaimed the old man. “The infant I spoke of was a boy. Bless me!—how extraordinary. How long have they been at Wrychester?”
“Ransford has been in practice there some years—a few years,” replied Bryce. “These two young people joined him there definitely two years ago. But from what I have learnt, he has acted as their guardian ever since they were mere children.”
“And—their mother?” asked Mr. Gilwaters.
“Said to be dead—long since,” answered Bryce. “And their father, too. They know nothing. Ransford won’t tell them anything. But, as you say—I’ve no doubt of it myself now—they must be the children of John Brake.”
“And have taken the name of their mother!” remarked the old man.
“Had it given to them,” said Bryce. “They don’t know that it isn’t their real name. Of course, Ransford has given it to them! But now—the mother?”
“Ah, yes, the mother!” said Mr. Gilwaters. “Our old governess! Dear me!”
“I’m going to put a question to you,” continued Bryce, leaning nearer and speaking in a low, confidential tone. “You must have seen much of the world, Mr. Gilwaters—men of your profession know the world, and human nature, too. Call to mind all the mysterious circumstances, the veiled hints, of that trial. Do you think—have you ever thought—that the false friend whom the counsel referred to was—Ransford? Come, now!”
The old clergyman lifted his hands and let them fall on his knees.
“I do not know what to say!” he exclaimed. “To tell you the truth, I have often wondered if—if that was what really did happen. There is the fact that Brake’s wife disappeared mysteriously—that Ransford made a similar mysterious disappearance about the same time—that Brake was obviously suffering from intense and bitter hatred when I saw him after the trial—hatred of some person on whom he meant to be revenged—and that his counsel hinted that he had been deceived and betrayed by a friend. Now, to my knowledge, he and Ransford were the closest of friends—in the old days, before Brake married our governess. And I suppose the friendship continued—certainly Ransford acted as best man at the wedding! But how account for that strange double disappearance?”
Bryce had already accounted for that, in his own secret mind. And now, having got all that he wanted out of the old clergyman, he rose to take his leave.
“You
