When once Hazell was on the track of a railway mystery he never let a moment slip by. In an hour’s time he was at the address given him at Scotland Yard. On his way there he took a card from his case — a blank one — and wrote on it, “From the Earl of Ringmere.” This he put into an envelope.
“It’s a bold stroke,” he said to himself, “but if there’s anything in it, it’s worth trying.”
He asked for Allen. The woman who opened the door looked at him suspiciously, and said she didn’t think Mr. Allen was in.
“Give him this envelope,” replied Hazell. In a couple of minutes she returned, and asked him to follow her.
A short, wiry-looking man, with sharp, evil-looking eyes, stood in the room waiting for him and looking at him suspiciously.
“Well,” he snapped, “what is it — what do you want?”
“I come on behalf of the Earl of Ringmere. You will know that when I mention Churn,” replied Hazell, playing his trump card boldly.
“Well,” went on the man, “what about that?”
Hazell wheeled round, locked the door suddenly, put the key in his pocket, and then faced his man. The latter darted forward, but Hazell had a revolver pointing at him in a twinkling.
“You — detective!”
“No. I told you I came on behalf of the Earl. That looks like hunting up matters for his sake, doesn’t it?”
“What does the old fool mean?” asked Jeffreys.
“Oh! I see you know all about it. Now, listen to me quietly, and you may come to a little reason. You changed that picture at Churn the other night.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” sneered the other, but less defiantly.
“Well, I do — but not quite all. You were foolish to leave your fingerprints on that lever, eh?”
“How did I do that?” exclaimed the man, giving himself away.
“You’d been dabbling about with oil, you see, and you left your thumbprint on the handle. I photographed it, and they recognized it at Scotland Yard. Quite simple.”
Jeffreys swore beneath his breath.
“I wish you’d tell me what you mean,” he said.
“Certainly. I expect you’ve been well paid for this little job.”
“If I have, I’m not going to take any risks. I told the old man so. He’s worse than I am — he put me up to getting the picture. Let him take his chance when it comes out. I suppose he wants to keep his name out of it — that’s why you’re here.”
“You’re not quite right. Now, just listen to me. You’re a villain, and you deserve to suffer; but I’m acting in a purely private capacity, and I fancy if I can get the original picture back to its owner that it will be better for all parties to hush this affair up. Has the old Earl got it?”
“No, not yet,” admitted the other, “he was too artful. But he know’s where it is, and so do I.”
“Ah — now you’re talking sense! Look here! You make a clean breast of it, and I’ll take it down on paper. You shall swear to the truth of your statement before a commissioner for oaths — he need not see the actual confession. I shall hold this in case it is necessary; but, if you help me to get the picture back to Sir Gilbert, I don’t think it will be.”
After a little more conversation, Jeffreys explained. Before he did so, however, Hazell had taken a bottle of milk and a hunk of whole-meal bread from his pocket, and calmly proceeded to perform “exercises” and then to eat his “lunch” while Jeffreys told the following story:
“It was the old Earl who did it. How he got hold of me doesn’t matter; perhaps I got hold of him — maybe I put him up to it — but that’s not the question. He’d kept that forged picture of his in a lumber room for years, but he always had his eye on the genuine one. He paid a long price for the forgery, and he got to think that he ought to have the original. But there, he’s mad on pictures.
“Well, as I say, he kept the forgery out of sight and let folk think he’d sold it, but all the time he was in hopes of getting it changed somehow for the original.
“Then I came along and undertook the job for him. There were three of us in it, for it was a ticklish business. We found out by what train the picture was to travel — that was easy enough. I got hold of a key to unlock that ground frame, and the screwing off of the bolt was a mere nothing. I oiled the switch well so that the thing should work as I wanted it to.
“One pal was with me — in the siding, ready to clap on the side-brake when the car was running in. I was to work the switch, and my other pal, who had the most awkward job of all, was on the freight train — under a tarpaulin in a car. He had two lengths of very stout rope with a hook at each end of them.
“When the train left Upton, he started his job. Freight trains travel very slowly, and there was plenty of time. Counting from the back brake-van, the car we wanted to run off was No. 5. First he hooked No. 4 car to No. 6, fixing the hook at the side of the end of both cars, and having the slack in his hand, coiled up.
“Then, when the train ran down a bit of a decline, he uncoupled No. 5 from No. 4, standing on No. 5 to do it. That was easy enough, for he’d taken a coupling staff with him; then he paid out the slack till it was tight. Next he hooked the second rope from No. 5 to No. 6, uncoupled No. 5 from No. 6, and paid out the slack of the second rope.
“Now you can see what happened. The last few cars of the train were being drawn by a long rope reaching from No. 4 to No. 6, and leaving a space in between. In the middle of this space No. 5 ran, drawn by a short rope from No. 6. My pal stood on No. 6, with a sharp knife in his hand.
“The rest was easy. I held the lever, close by the side of the line, coming forward to it as soon as the engine passed. The instant the space appeared after No. 6 I pulled it over, and No. 5 switched to the siding, while my pal cut the rope at the same moment.
“Directly the car had run by and off, I reversed the lever so that the rest of the train following took the main line. There is a decline before Compton, and the last four cars came running down to the main body of the train, while my pal hauled in the slack and finally coupled No. 4 to No. 6 when they came together. He jumped from the train as it ran slowly into Compton. That’s how it was done.”
Hazell’s eyes sparkled.
“It’s the cleverest thing I’ve heard of on the line,” he said.
“Think so? Well, it wanted some handling. The next thing was to unscrew the packing case, take the picture out of the frame, and put the forgery we’d brought with us in its place. That took us some time, but there was no fear of interruption in that lonely part. Then I took the picture off — rolling it up first — and hid it. The old Earl insisted on this. I was to tell him where it was, then he was going to wait for a few weeks and get it himself.”
“Where did you hide it?”
“You’re sure you’re going to hush this up?”
“You’d have been arrested long ago if I were not.”
“Well, there’s a path from Churn to East Ilsley across the downs, and on the right hand of that path is an old sheep well — quite dry. It’s down there. You can easily find the string, fixed near the top.”
Hazell took down the man’s confession, which was duly attested. His conscience told him that perhaps he ought to have taken stronger measures.
“I told you I was merely a private individual,” said Hazell to Sir Gilbert Murrell. “I have acted in a purely private capacity in bringing you your picture.”
Sir Gilbert looked from the canvas to the calm face of Hazell.
“Who are you, sir?” he asked.
“Well, I rather aspire to be a book collector; you may have read my little monogram on Jacobean Bindings?”
“No,” said Sir Gilbert, “I have not had that pleasure. But I must inquire further into this. How did you get this picture? Where was it — who—?”
“Sir Gilbert,” broke in Hazell, “I could tell you the whole truth, of course. I am not in any way to blame. By chance, as much as anything else, I discovered how your picture had been stolen and where it was.”
“But I want to know all about it.
I shall prosecute... I—”
“I think not. Do you remember where the forged picture was seen last?”
“Yes; the Earl of Ringmere had it — he sold it.”
“What if he kept it all this time?” said Hazell, with a peculiar look. There was a long silence.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Gilbert at length. “You don’t mean that. Why, he has one foot in the grave — a very old man — I was dining with him only a fortnight ago.”
“Ah! Well, I think you are content now, Sir Gilbert?”
“It is terrible — terrible! I have the picture back, but I wouldn’t have the scandal known for worlds.”
“It never need be,” replied Hazell. “You will make it all right with the Winchester people?”
“Yes... yes... even if I have to admit I was mistaken, and let the forgery stay through the exhibition.”
“I think that would be the best way,” replied Hazell, who never regretted his action.
“Of course, Jeffreys ought to have been punished,” he said to himself; “but it was a clever idea — a clever idea!”
“May I offer you some lunch?” asked Sir Gilbert.
“Thank you; but I am a vegetarian.”
“I think my cook could arrange something; let me ring.”
“It is very good of you, but I ordered a dish of lentils and a salad at the station restaurant. But if you will allow me just to go through my physical training ante-luncheon exercises here, it would save me the trouble of a more or less public display at the station.”
“Certainly,” replied the rather bewildered baronet; whereupon Hazell threw off his coat and commenced whirling his arms like a windmill.
“Digestion should be considered before a meal,” he explained.