“There we have it then at last!” Crawshay exclaimed eagerly. “You are under obligations to him.”
“I certainly am,” she acknowledged.
“And he has taken advantage of it,” Crawshay continued, “to make you his tool.”
“Whatever he has done,” she replied, “rests between Jocelyn Thew and me. I am not in the least disposed to excuse myself or to beg for mercy from you. If you represent the law, directly or indirectly, I do not ask for any favours. I shall be perfectly ready to go to your police station whenever I am sent for.” There was a knock at the door. They both turned around. In reply to Katharine’s mechanical “Come in,” Jocelyn Thew entered.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “was I mistaken or did I hear my name?”
“We were speaking of you,” Crawshay admitted, turning towards him, “but I do not think that either Miss Beverley or I have anything to say to you at the moment.”
“That’s rather a pity,” was the cool reply, “because you may not see me again. I was looking for Miss Beverley, in fact, to say good-by. We are docking in half an hour, and those who have been searched can go on shore, if they like to leave their hold luggage. As I have been searched twice in the most thorough and effective fashion, I have my pass out.”
“You mean that you are going away altogether to-night?” Katharine exclaimed.
“Only so far as the Adelphi,” he told her. “I have some friends to see who live near Liverpool, so I shall probably stay there for two or three days.”
“I was coming to look for you on deck presently,” Crawshay intervened, “but if your departure is so imminent, I will say what I have to say to you here.”
“That would seem advisable,” Jocelyn Thew agreed.
“I think it is only right that you should know, sir,” Crawshay continued, “that a very serious position has arisen here in which Miss Beverley is unfortunately involved. Incriminating documents have been found in her luggage, placed there obviously by some unscrupulous person, who was in search of a safe hiding-place.”
“Is this true?” Jocelyn Thew asked, looking past Crawshay to Katharine.
“I am afraid that it is,” she assented.
“The person who placed them there,” Crawshay proceeded, the anger gathering in his tone, “may believe for the present that he has been able to escape from his dangerous position by this dastardly attempt to incriminate a woman. He may, on the other hand, find that his immunity will last but a very short time.”
Jocelyn Thew nodded in calm acquiescence.
“I am at a loss,” he said, “to account for your somewhat melodramatic tone, but I really do not think that Miss Beverley has very much to fear.”
“There I agree with you,” Crawshay declared. “She has not so much to fear as the criminal who is responsible for what has happened. He may think that he has escaped by saddling his crime upon a woman’s shoulders. On the other hand, he may discover that this attempt, which only aggravates his position, will turn out to be futile.”
Jocelyn Thew held out his hand towards Katharine.
“Really,” he said, “the tone of this conversation takes one back to the atmosphere of the dear old Drury Lane melodrama. I feel, somehow or other,” he went on, looking into Katharine’s eyes, “that our friend here has cast me for the part of the villain and you for the injured heroine. I am wondering whether I dare ask you for a farewell greeting?”
Katharine did not hesitate for a moment. Her shapely, ringless hand was grasped firmly by his brown, lean fingers. She felt the pressure of a signet ring, the slight tightening of his grip as he leaned a little towards her. Again she was conscious of that feeling of exuberant life and complete confidence which had transformed her whole and humiliating situation so short a time ago.
“The injured heroine is always forgiving,” she declared,— “even though she may have nothing to forgive. Good-by, Mr. Thew, and good fortune to you!”
.
CHAPTER XV
The morning — grey, slightly wet — broke upon Liverpool docks, the ugliest place in the ugliest city of Europe. A thin stream of people descended at irregular intervals down the gangway from the City of Boston to the dock, and disappeared in various directions. Amongst the first came a melancholy little procession — a coffin carried by two ship’s stewards, with Doctor Gant in solitary attendance behind. After the passengers came a sprinkling of the ship’s officers, all very smart and in a great hurry. Then there was a pause of several hours. About midday, two men — Brightman and a stranger — came down the covered way into the dock and boarded the steamer. They were shown at once into the captain’s room, where Crawshay and Captain Jones were awaiting them.
“This,” Brightman said, introducing his companion, “is Mr. Andelsen. I was fortunate enough to find him on the point of leaving for London.”
Mr. Andelsen shook hands and accepted a chair. Upon the table in front of the captain was the sealed dispatch box. Crawshay had a suggestion to make.
“I think,” he said, “that Miss Beverley should be here herself when this is opened.”
“I have no objection,” Brightman assented.
The captain rang for his steward and sent down a message. Mr. Andelsen — a tall, thin man, dressed in a sombre grey suit — handled the seals for a moment, looked at the address of the box, and shook his head.
“I could not take upon myself the responsibility of opening this,” he declared. “It is certainly the seal of the Embassy of my country, but the box is addressed specifically to our Foreign Secretary at the Capital.”
“We quite appreciate that,” Crawshay admitted. “The captain, I believe, is not asking you to break it. We simply wish you to be present while we do so, in order to prove that no disrespect is intended to your country, and in order that you yourself may have an opportunity of taking a note of the contents.”
“So long as it is understood that I am only here as a witness,” the consul acquiesced, a little doubtfully, “I am quite willing to remain.”
Katharine was presently ushered in. She was dressed for landing in a smart tailor-made suit, and her appearance was entirely cheerful. Crawshay stepped forward and handed her a chair.
“Dear me,” she said, “this all seems very formidable! Am I under arrest or anything?”
“The captain is about to open the dispatch box found in your trunk, Miss Beverley,” Crawshay explained, “in the presence of Mr. Andelsen here, who represents the country whose seals are attached. I have already expressed my opinion that this box has been surreptitiously placed amongst your belongings, and although, of course, our chief object was to gain possession of it, I regret very much the position in which you are placed.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Crawshay,” she rejoined, without much feeling. “It is certainly a fact that I never saw the box before it was dragged out of my trunk yesterday.”
The captain broke the seals, untied the tape, and with a chisel and hammer knocked the top off the box. They all, with the exception of Katharine, gathered around him breathlessly as he shook out the contents on to the table. They were all sharers in the same shock of surprise as the neatly folded packets of ordinary writing paper were one by one disclosed. Crawshay seized one and dragged it to the light. The captain kept on picking them up and throwing them down again. Brightman mechanically followed his example.
“The whole thing’s a bluff!” Crawshay exclaimed. “These sheets of paper are all blank! There isn’t any trace even of invisible ink.”
The consul rose to his feet with a heavy frown.
“This is a very obvious practical joke,” he said angrily. “It seems a pity that I should have been compelled to miss my train to town.”