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“‘He has not come either.’
“Randolph Moore looked serious. ‘We must have the door down,’ said he.
“They don’t build houses very solid in that land of earthquakes, and ina brace of shakes they were all in the office. Of course the thing toldits own story. The safe was open, the money gone, and the clerks fled.Their employer lost no time in talk.
“‘Where were they seen last?’
“‘On Saturday they bought the _Matilda_ and started for a cruise.’
“Saturday! The matter seemed hopeless if they had got two days’ start.But there was still the shadow of a chance. He rushed to the beach andswept the ocean with his glasses.
“‘My God!’ he cried. ‘There’s the _Matilda_ out yonder. I know her bythe rake of her mast. I have my hand upon the villains after all!’
“But there was a hitch even then. No boat had steam up, and the eagermerchant had not patience to wait. Clouds were banking up along thehaunch of the hills, and there was every sign of an approaching changeof weather. A police boat was ready with ten armed men in her, andRandolph Moore himself took the tiller as she shot out in pursuit of thebecalmed yawl.
“Jelland and McEvoy, waiting wearily for the breeze which never came,saw the dark speck which sprang out from the shadow of the land and grewlarger with every swish of the oars. As she drew nearer, they could seealso that she was packed with men, and the gleam of weapons told whatmanner of men they were. Jelland stood leaning against the tiller, andhe looked at the threatening sky, the limp sails, and the approachingboat.
“‘It’s a case with us, Willy,’ said he. ‘By the Lord, we are two mostunlucky devils, for there’s wind in that sky, and another hour wouldhave brought it to us.’
“McEvoy groaned.
“‘There’s no good softening over it, my lad,’ said Jelland. ‘It’s thepolice boat right enough, and there’s old Moore driving them to row likehell. It’ll be a ten-dollar job for every man of them.’
“Willy McEvoy crouched against the side with his knees on the deck. ‘Mymother! my poor old mother!’ he sobbed.
“‘She’ll never hear that you have been in the dock anyway,’ saidJelland. ‘My people never did much for me, but I will do that much forthem. It’s no good, Mac. We can chuck our hands. God bless you, old man!Here’s the pistol!’
“He cocked the revolver, and held the butt towards the youngster. Butthe other shrunk away from it with little gasps and cries. Jellandglanced at the approaching boat. It was not more than a few hundredyards away.
“‘There’s no time for nonsense,’ said he. ‘Damn it! man, what’s the useof flinching? You swore it!’
“‘No, no, Jelland!’
“‘Well, anyhow, I swore that neither of us should be taken. Will you doit?’
“‘I can’t! I can’t!’
“‘Then I will for you.’
“The rowers in the boat saw him lean forwards, they heard two pistolshots, they saw him double himself across the tiller, and then, beforethe smoke had lifted, they found that they had something else to thinkof.
“For at that instant the storm broke—one of those short sudden squallswhich are common in these seas. The _Matilda_ heeled over, her sailsbellied out, she plunged her lee-rail into a wave, and was off like afrightened deer. Jelland’s body had jammed the helm, and she kept acourse right before the wind, and fluttered away over the rising sealike a blown piece of paper. The rowers worked frantically, but the yawlstill drew ahead, and in five minutes it had plunged into the stormwrack never to be seen again by mortal eye. The boat put back, andreached Yokohama with the water washing half-way up to the thwarts.
“And that was how it came that the yawl _Matilda_, with a cargo of fivethousand pounds and a crew of two dead young men, set sail across thePacific Ocean. What the end of Jelland’s voyage may have been no manknows. He may have foundered in that gale, or he may have been picked upby some canny merchantman, who stuck to the bullion and kept his mouthshut, or he may still be cruising in that vast waste of waters, blownnorth to the Behring Sea, or south to the Malay Islands. It’s better toleave it unfinished than to spoil a true story by inventing a tag toit.”
B. 24
I told my story when I was taken, and no one would listen to me. Then Itold it again at the trial—the whole thing absolutely as it happened,without so much as a word added. I set it all out truly, so help me God,all that Lady Mannering said and did, and then all that I had said anddone, just as it occurred. And what did I get for it? “The prisoner putforward a rambling and inconsequential statement, incredible in itsdetails, and unsupported by any shred of corroborative evidence.” Thatwas what one of the London papers said, and others let it pass as if Ihad made no defence at all. And yet, with my own eyes I saw LordMannering murdered, and I am as guiltless of it as any man on the jurythat tried me.
Now, sir, you are there to receive the petitions of prisoners. It alllies with you. All I ask is that you read it—just read it—and then thatyou make an inquiry or two about the private character of this “lady”Mannering, if she still keeps the name that she had three years ago,when to my sorrow and ruin I came to meet her. You could use a privateinquiry agent or a good lawyer, and you would soon learn enough to showyou that my story is the true one. Think of the glory it would be to youto have all the papers saying that there would have been a shockingmiscarriage of justice if it had not been for your perseverance andintelligence! That must be your reward, since I am a poor man and canoffer you nothing. But if you don’t do it, may you never lie easy inyour bed again! May no night pass that you are not haunted by thethought of the man who rots in gaol because you have not done the dutywhich you are paid to do! But you will do it, sir, I know. Just make oneor two inquiries, and you will soon find which way the wind blows.Remember, also, that the only person who profited by the crime washerself, since it changed her from an unhappy wife to a rich youngwidow. There’s the end of the string in your hand, and you only have tofollow it up and see where it leads to.
Mind you, sir, I make no complaint as far as the burglary goes. I don’twhine about what I have deserved, and so far I have had no more than Ihave deserved. Burglary it was, right enough, and my three years havegone to pay for it. It was shown at the trial that I had had a hand inthe Merton Cross business, and did a year for that, so my story had theless attention on that account. A man with a previous conviction nevergets a really fair trial. I own to the burglary, but when it comes tothe murder which brought me a lifer—any judge but Sir James might havegiven me the gallows—then I tell you that I had nothing to do with it,and that I am an innocent man. And now I’ll take that night, the 13th ofSeptember, 1894, and I’ll give you just exactly what occurred, and mayGod’s hand strike me down if I go one inch over the truth.
I had been at Bristol in the summer looking for work, and then I had anotion that I might get something at Portsmouth, for I was trained as askilled mechanic, so I came tramping my way across the south of England,and doing odd jobs as I went. I was trying all I knew to keep off thecross, for I had done a year in Exeter Gaol, and I had had enough ofvisiting Queen Victoria. But it’s cruel hard to get work when once theblack mark is against your name, and it was all I could do to keep souland body together. At last, after ten days of wood-cutting andstone-breaking on starvation pay, I found myself near Salisbury with acouple of shillings in my pocket, and my boots and my patience cleanwore out. There’s an ale-house called “The Willing Mind,” which standson the road between Blandford and Salisbury, and it was there that nightI engaged a bed. I was sitting alone in the tap-room just about closingtime, when the innkeeper—Allen his name was—came beside me and beganyarning about the neighbours. He was a man that liked to talk and tohave some one to listen to his talk, so I sat there smoking and drinkinga mug of ale which he had stood me; and I took no great interest in whathe said until he began to talk (as the devil would have it) about theriches of Mannering Hall.
“Meaning the large house on the right before I came to the village?”said I. “The one that stands in its own park?”
“Exactly,” said he—and I am giving all our talk so that you may knowthat I am telling you the truth and hiding nothing. “The long whitehouse with the pillars,” said he. “At the side of the Blandford Road.”
