Devlin the Barber

"Five minutes past eleven."

"Wait here; I sha'n't be gone but a few minutes. Get everything ready to start directly I come back."

His trap was standing at the corner of Royal Crescent. He ran out, jumped on the box, and was gone. I called to the waiter, and in three minutes the hotel bill was paid, and we were ready.

During Bill Foster's absence I said to Carton,

"Do you make anything of all this?"

"It looks," replied Carton, "as if my guardian was running away."

"To my mind there's not a doubt of it. Have you any idea what that little box he would not let out of his charge contains?"

"The two thousand sovereigns he obtained from the bank," said Carton, in a tone of inquiry.

"Exactly. I tell you now plainly that I am positive Mr. Kenneth Dowsett is implicated in the murder of your poor girl."

Carton set his teeth in great agitation. "If he is! if he is!" he said; but he could say no more.

Bill Foster was back.

"There's a train to Folkestone," he cried, "the South-Eastern line, at 11.47. You can catch it easily. If there's no boat handy from Folkestone to Boulogne, you'll be able to hire one there. The steamers take two hours going across. You can get there in four. Train arrives at Folkestone at 1.27. By six o'clock you can be in Boulogne. Jump into my trap, gentlemen."

We jumped in, and were driven to the station. His information was correct. I gave him thirty shillings, and he departed in high glee. Then we took tickets for Folkestone, and arrived there at a quarter to two.

There was no steamer going, but with little difficulty we arranged to get across. The passage took longer than four hours-it took six. At nine o'clock at night we were in Boulogne.

I cannot speak an intelligible sentence in French. Carton was too agitated to take the direction of affairs.

"Do you know where we can stop?" I asked of Devlin. "Have you ever been here before?"

"My dear sir," said Devlin, "I have travelled all over the world, and I know Boulogne by heart. There's a little out-of-the-way hotel, the Hôtel de Poilly, in Rue de l'Amiral Bruix, that will suit us as though it were built for us."

"Let us get there at once," I said.

He called a fly, and in a very short time we entered the courtyard of the Hotel de Poilly. There we made arrangements with the jolly, comfortable-looking landlady, and then I looked at Carton, and he looked at me. The helplessness of our situation struck us both forcibly.

"Who is in command?" asked Devlin suddenly.

"You," I replied, as by an inspiration.

"Good," said Devlin. "I accept the office. From this moment you are under my orders. Remain you here; I go to reconnoitre."

"You will return?" I said.

"My dear sir," said Devlin airily, "it is too late now to doubt my integrity. I will return."

"For God's sake," said Carton, when Devlin was gone, "who is this man who seems to divine everything, to know everything, and whom nothing disturbs? Sometimes when he looks at me I feel that he is exercising over me a terrible fascination."

"I cannot answer you," I said. "Be satisfied with the knowledge that it is through him we have so far succeeded, and that, in my belief, it will be through him that the murderer will be tracked down. The world is full of mysteries, and that man is not the least of them."

It wanted an hour to midnight when Devlin returned. In his inscrutable face I read no sign of success or failure; but the first words he spoke afforded me infinite relief.

"I have seen him," he said. "Let us go out and talk. Walls have ears."

The river Liane was but a short distance from the hotel, and we strolled along the bank in silence, Devlin, contrary to my expectation, not uttering a word for many minutes. He had lit a cigar, and Carton had accepted one from him; I refused to smoke, having too vivid a remembrance of the cigar I had smoked in Fanny Lemon's house, and its effect upon me. At length Devlin said to Carton:

"You appear sleepy."

"I am," said the young man.

"You had best go to bed," said Devlin; "nothing can be done to-night."

Carton, assenting, would have returned to the hotel alone, saying he could find the way, but I insisted that we should accompany him thither. I had heard that Boulogne was not the safest place in the world for strangers on a dark night. Having seen Carton to his room, we returned to the river's bank. Had Carton been in possession of his full senses he would doubtless have objected, but he was dead asleep when he entered his bedroom, Devlin's cigar having affected him as the one I smoked had affected me.

"He encumbers us," said Devlin, looking out upon the dark river. "I have discovered where Mr. Dowsett is lodging, and were our young friend informed of the address he might rush there, and spoil all. We happen to be in luck, if you believe in such a quality as luck. I do not; but I use the term out of compliment to you. Mr. Dowsett's quarters are in the locality of the Rue de la Paix, and, singularly enough, are situated over a barber's shop. Things go in runs, do they not? Nothing but barbers. I do not return with you to the hotel to-night."

"What do you mean?" I asked, startled by this information.

"The proprietor of the barber's shop over which Mr. Kenneth Dowsett is sleeping-but, perhaps, not sleeping, for a sword is hanging above his head, and he may be gazing at the phantom in terror-say, then, over which he is lying, is an agreeable person. I have struck up an acquaintance with him, and, by arrangement, shall be in his saloon to-morrow, to attend to any persons who may present themselves. Mr. Dowsett will probably need the razor and the brush. I can easily account for my appearance in Boulogne; I have come to see my friend and brother. Mr. Dowsett, unsuspecting-for what connection can he trace between me and Lizzie Melladew? – will place himself in my hands. He has told me that there is not my equal; he may find that it is so. In order that I may not miss him I go to the house to-night. Early in the morning come you, alone, to the Rue de la Paix. You can ride to the foot of the hill, there alight, and on the right-hand side, a third of the way up, you will see my new friend's establishment. I will find you a snug corner from which you may observe and hear, yourself unseen, all that passes. Are you satisfied now that I am keeping faith with you?"

"Indeed, you are proving it," I replied.

"Give me no more credit than I deserve," said Devlin. "It is simply that I keep a promise. In the fulfilment of this promise-both in the spirit and to the letter, my dear sir-I may to-morrow unfold to you a wonder. It is my purpose to compel the man we have pursued to himself reveal all that he knows of Lizzie Melladew. Perhaps it will be as well for you to take down in writing what passes between us. Accept it from me that there are unseen forces and unseen powers in this world, so rich in sin, of which few men dream. See those shadows moving on the water-are they not like living spirits? The dark river itself, had it a tongue, could appal you. On such nights as this are secret crimes committed by devils who bear the shape of men. What kind of being is that who smiles in your face, who presses your hand, who speaks pleasant words to you, and harbours all the while in what is called his heart a fell design towards the execution of which he moves without one spark of compassion? I don't complain of him, my dear sir; on the contrary" – and here, although I could not see Devlin's face, I could fancy a sinister smile overspreading it-"I rather delight in him. It proves him to be what he is-and he is but a type of innumerable others. Your innocent ones are arrogant in the vaunting of their goodness; your ambitious ones glory in their successes which bring ruin to their brethren; your kings and emperors appropriate Providence, and do not even pay him a shilling for the conscription. A grand world, and grandly peopled! The man who glories in sin compels my admiration; but this one whom we are hunting is a coward and a sneak. He shall meet his doom!"

As he ceased speaking he vanished; I can find no other word to express the effect his sudden disappearance had upon me. Whether he intended to create a dramatic surprise I cannot say, but, certainly, he was no longer by my side. With some difficulty I found my way alone back to the Hotel de Poilly, where Carton was fast asleep.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE TRANCE AND THE REVELATION

Of all the strange experiences I have narrated in connection with Devlin, that which awaited me on the following morning was the most startling and inexplicable. Prevailing with difficulty upon Richard Carton to remain at the hotel until I either came to or sent for him, I drove to the foot of the Rue de la Paix, as I was instructed to do. I took the precaution to hire the driver of the fly by the hour, and desired him to stop where I alighted until I needed him. I was impelled to this course by a feeling that I might possibly require some person to take a message to Carton or bring him to the Rue de la Paix. I found the barber's shop easily, and could scarcely refrain from uttering a loud exclamation at the sight of Mr. Kenneth Dowsett sitting in a barber's chair, and Devlin standing over him, leisurely at work. Devlin, with his finger at his lips, pointed to a table in a corner of the shop, at which I seated myself in obedience to the silent command. On the table were writing materials and paper, and on a sheet of this paper was written: "You are late. I have thrown Mr. Dowsett into a trance. He will reveal all he knows. I will compel him to do so. Take down in writing what transpires."

My heart throbbed violently as I prepared myself for the task.

Devlin: "Do you know where you are?"

Mr. Dowsett: "Yes, in Boulogne."

Devlin: "Where were you yesterday?"

Mr. Dowsett: "In Margate."

Devlin: "Where were you on Friday last?"

Mr. Dowsett: "At home, in London."

Devlin: "Recall the occurrences of that day?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I do so."

Devlin: "At what hour did you rise?"

Mr. Dowsett: "At nine o'clock."

Devlin: "Who were present at the breakfast-table?"

Mr. Dowsett: "My wife and daughter, and Richard Carton."

Devlin: "Was anything relating to the engagement of Richard Carton and Lizzie Melladew said at the breakfast-table?"

Mr. Dowsett: "Nothing."

Devlin: "Was there anything in your mind in relation to it?"

Mr. Dowsett: "Yes. I had a plan to carry out, and was thinking of it."

Devlin: "In what way did you put the plan into execution?"

Mr. Dowsett: "When breakfast was over, I went to my private room and locked the door. Then I sat down and wrote a letter."

Devlin: "To whom?"

Mr. Dowsett: "To Lizzie Melladew."

Devlin: "What did you write?"

Mr. Dowsett: "A heart-broken woman implores you to meet her to-night at eleven o'clock in Victoria Park, and, so that she may recognise you, begs you to wear a bunch of white daisies in your belt. She will wear the same, so that you may recognise her. The life and welfare of Mr. Richard Carton hangs upon this meeting. If you fail, a dreadful fate awaits him, which you can avert. As you value his happiness and your own, come."

Devlin: "What did you do with the letter?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I addressed it to Miss Lizzie Melladew, at her place of business in Baker Street, and posted it at the Charing Cross Post-office."

Devlin: "How did you know she worked there?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I learnt it from my ward, Richard Carton."

Devlin: "Did you disguise your handwriting?"

Mr. Dowsett: "Yes; I wrote it in a feminine hand."

Devlin: "What was your object in writing the letter?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I was determined that Richard Carton should not marry Lizzie Melladew."

Devlin: "Why?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I had all along arranged that he should marry my daughter Letitia."

Devlin: "How did you propose to break off the match between your ward and Lizzie Melladew?"

Mr. Dowsett: "My plans were not entirely clear to myself. I intended to appeal to the young woman, and to invent some disreputable story to make her suspect that he was false to her. If that failed, then-"

Devlin: "Proceed. Then?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I was resolved to go any lengths, to do anything to prevent the marriage."

Devlin: "Even murder."

Mr. Dowsett: "I did not think of that-I would not think of it."

Devlin: "But you did think of it. You could not banish that idea from your mind?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I could not, though I tried. It crept in the whole of the day. I could not help seeing the scene. Night-the park-the young woman with the bunch of white daisies in her belt stained with blood."

Devlin: "Those pictures were in your mind, and you could not banish them?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I could not."

Devlin: "There were other reasons for preventing the marriage than your wish that Richard Carton should marry your daughter?"

Mr. Dowsett: "There were."

Devlin: "What were they?"

Mr. Dowsett: "If he married Lizzie Melladew, I should no longer enjoy the income I had received for so many years. I looked upon it as mine. I could not live without it. We should have been beggared-disgraced as well. I had forged my ward's name to bills, and if he married out of my family there would have been exposure, and I might have found myself in a felon's dock. If he married my daughter this would not occur. I was safe so long as I could keep my hold upon him."

Devlin: "Did your wife and daughter know this?"

Mr. Dowsett: "My daughter knew nothing of it. My wife suspected it."

Devlin: "Did she know that you contemplated murder?"

Mr. Dowsett: "She did not."

Devlin: "Why did you give Richard Carton a sleeping draught on that night?"

Mr. Dowsett: "In order that he might sleep soundly, and not discover that I left the house late."

Devlin: "Were your wife and daughter asleep when you left your house?"

Mr. Dowsett: "They were abed. I do not know whether they were asleep."

Devlin: "You took a knife with you?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I did."

Devlin: "Where did you obtain it?"

Mr. Dowsett: "It was a large clasp knife I had had for years. I found it in a private drawer."

Devlin: "You went to the private drawer for the purpose of finding it?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I did."

Devlin: "Did any one see you leave the house?"

Mr. Dowsett: "No one."

Devlin: "Did you walk or ride to Victoria Park?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I walked."

Devlin: "To avoid suspicion?"

Mr. Dowsett: "Yes."

Devlin: "When you arrived at the Park did you have any difficulty in finding Miss Melladew?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I soon found her."

Devlin: "What did you do then?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I made an appeal to her."

Devlin: "Did she listen to you quietly?"

Mr. Dowsett: "No. She taunted me with having tricked her by writing an anonymous letter in a disguised hand."

Devlin: "Go on."

Mr. Dowsett: "I told her it was the only way I could obtain a private interview with her. I invented a scandalous story about my ward. She said she did not believe it, and that she would expose me to him. She told me that I was infamous, and that it was her belief I had been systematically practising deceit upon my ward, and that she would not be surprised to discover that I had been robbing him. 'To-morrow he shall see you in your true colours,' she said. I was maddened. If she carried out her intention I knew that I was a ruined and disgraced man. 'That to-morrow will never come!' I cried. The knife was in my hand. I scarcely know how it came there, and do not remember opening the blade. 'That to-morrow will come!' she retorted. 'It shall not!' I cried; and I stabbed her to the heart. She uttered but one cry, and fell down dead."

Devlin: "What did you do after that?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I hastened away, taking the knife with me. I chose the darkest paths. Suddenly I came upon a young woman sitting upon a bench, reclining against the back. I saw her face, and was rooted to the spot in sudden fear. She did not stir. Recovering, I crept softly towards her, and found that she was asleep. Leaving her there, I hastened back to the woman I had stabbed. I knelt down and looked closely at her. I felt in her pockets; she was quite dead. There were letters in her pockets which I examined, and then-and then-"

Devlin: "And then?"

Mr. Dowsett: "I discovered that the woman I had killed was not Lizzie Melladew!"

CHAPTER XXIX

THE RESCUE

So startled was I by this revelation that I jumped to my feet in a state of uncontrollable agitation. What I should have done I cannot say, but the direction of events was not left in my hands. Simultaneously with my movement of astonishment, a piercing scream rang through the house.

I was standing now by the chair in which Mr. Kenneth Dowsett was sitting in his trance, and I observed a change pass over his face; the scream had pierced the veil in which his waking senses were enshrouded. Devlin also observed this change, and he said to me hurriedly:

"Go up-stairs and see what is taking place. Your presence may be needed there, and to one person may be very welcome. I will keep charge over this man."

As I left the room I heard Devlin turn the key in the lock. Rapidly I mounted the stairs, and dashed into a room on the first landing, from which the sound of female voices were issuing. Three women were there; two were strangers to me, but even in that agitating moment I correctly divined that they were Mrs. Dowsett and Letitia; the third, who rushed with convulsive sobs into my open arms, was no other than Lizzie Melladew herself.

"O, thank God, you have come!" she sobbed; "thank God! thank God! Where is Mary? Where is Richard? Take me to them! O, take me to them!"

Mrs. Dowsett was the first to recover herself. "You will remain here," she said sternly to Lizzie; and then, addressing me, "How dare you break into my apartment in this manner?"

"I dare do more than that," I replied, in a voice sterner than her own, and holding the weeping girl close to my heart. "Prepare you to answer for what has been done. I thank God, indeed, that I have arrived in time, perhaps, to prevent another crime. All is discovered."

At these words Mrs. Dowsett shrank back, white and trembling. I did not stop to say more. My first duty was to place Lizzie Melladew in safety; but where? The mental question conveyed its own answer. Where, but in her lover's arms?

"Come," I said to Lizzie. "You are safe now. I am going to take you to Richard Carton. Trust yourself to me."

"I will, I will!" sobbed Lizzie, "Richard is here, then? How thankful I am, how thankful! And Mary, my dear sister, is she here, too?"

I was appalled at this last question. It proved that Lizzie was ignorant of what had occurred. Not daring to answer her, I drew her from the room, and the women I left there made no attempt to prevent me. Swiftly I took my precious charge from the house, and in a very few minutes we were in the carriage which was waiting for me at the foot of the Rue de la Paix. The driver understood the direction I gave him, and we galloped at full speed to the Hotel de Poilly. Without revealing to Lizzie what I knew, I learnt from her before we reached the hotel sufficient to enlighten me as to Mr. Kenneth Dowsett's proceedings, and to confirm my suspicion that it was Mary Melladew who had met her death at that villain's hands. When Lizzie received the anonymous letter which he wrote to her, she took it to her poor sister, who, fearing some plot, prevailed upon her to let her see the anonymous writer in Lizzie's place; and, the better to carry out the plan, the sisters changed dresses, and went together to Victoria Park. Being twins, and bearing so close a resemblance to each other, there was little fear of the change being discovered until at least Mary had ascertained why the meeting was so urgently desired. Leaving Lizzie in a secluded part of the park, Mary proceeded to the rendezvous, with what result Mr. Dowsett's confession has already made clear. Discovering the fatal error he had committed, Mr. Dowsett returned to Lizzie, who, while waiting for her sister, had fallen asleep. Being thoroughly unnerved, he decided that there was only one means of safety before him-flight and the concealment of Lizzie Melladew. The idea of a second murder may have occurred to him, but, villain as he was, he had not the courage to carry it out. He had taken from the dead girl's pocket everything it contained, with the exception of a handkerchief which, in his haste, he overlooked; and upon this handkerchief was marked the name of Lizzie Melladew. He could imitate Richard Carton's writing-as was proved by the forgeries he had already committed-and upon the back of this anonymous letter he wrote in pencil a few words in which Lizzie was implored to trust herself implicitly to Mr. Dowsett, and without question to do as he directed. Signing these words in Richard Carton's name, he awoke Lizzie and gave her the note. Alarmed and agitated as the young girl was, and fearing that some great danger threatened her lover, she, with very little hesitation, allowed herself to be persuaded by Mr. Dowsett, and accompanied him home. "Where is Mary?" she asked. "With our dear Richard," replied Mr. Dowsett; "we shall see them to-morrow, when all will be explained." At home Mr. Dowsett informed his wife of his peril, and the three females left for Margate by an early train in the morning. In Margate Mrs. Dowsett received telegrams signed "Richard Carton," but really sent by her husband, which she showed to Lizzie, and which served in some measure to assist the successful continuation of the scheme by which Lizzie was to be taken out of the country. Meanwhile she was in absolute ignorance of her sister's fate; no newspaper was allowed to reach her hands, nor was she allowed to speak to a soul but Mrs. Dowsett and Letitia. What was eventually to be done with her I cannot say; probably Mr. Dowsett himself had not been able to make up his mind, which was almost entirely occupied by considerations for his own safety.

I did not, of course, learn all this from Lizzie, she being then ignorant of much which I have related, but I have put together what she told me and what I subsequently learnt from Devlin and other sources.

Arriving at the Hotel de Poilly, I succeeded in conveying Lizzie into a private room, and then I sought Richard Carton. I need not set down here in detail the conversation I had with him. Little by little I made him acquainted with the whole truth. Needless to describe his joy when he heard that his beloved girl was alive and safe-joy, tempered with grief at poor Mary's fate. When he was calm enough to be practical, he asked me what was to be done.

"No time must be lost," I said, "in restoring your dear Lizzie to her parents. To you I shall confide her. Leave that monster, your treacherous guardian, to Devlin and me."

It was with difficulty I restrained him from rushing to Lizzie, but I insisted that his movements must be definitely decided upon before he saw her. I called in the assistance of the jolly landlady, and she supplied me with a time-table, from which I ascertained that a boat for Dover left at 12.31, and that it was timed to reach its destination at 3.20. There were numerous trains from Dover to London, and Lizzie would be in her parents' arms before night. Carton joyfully acquiesced in this arrangement, and then I took him in to his dear girl, and, closing the door upon them, left them to themselves. A meeting such as theirs, and under such circumstances, was sacred.

While they were together I wrote two letters-one to my wife, and the other to Mr. Portland-which I intended should be delivered by Carton. I did not intrude upon the happy lovers till the last moment. I found them sitting close together, quite silent, hand clasped in hand, her head upon his breast. I had cautioned him to say nothing of Mary's sad fate, and I saw by the expression upon Lizzie's face that he had obeyed me. After joy would come sorrow; there was time enough for that. Mary had given her life for her sister's; the sacrifice would ever be held in sacred remembrance.

I saw them off by the boat; they waved their handkerchiefs to me, and I thought of the Melladews mourning at home, to whom, at least, one dear child would soon be restored. When the boat was out of sight, I jumped into the carriage, and was driven back to the Rue de la Paix.