"Whom?" he retorted.
"That I do not know--as yet. But that is the reason why I came here to-night, uncle: because you must help me to find out."
Sir Thomas abruptly rose from his chair, and took his stand on the hearth rug, with legs apart, and slender hands buried in the pockets of his trousers, in the att.i.tude dear to every Englishman.
His eyes in their framework of innumerable wrinkles looked down, not unkindly, at the pale, serious face of the girl before him.
He, who was accustomed to give every sc.r.a.p of advice, every senseless piece of t.i.tle-tattle its just meed of attention, was not likely to leave unheeded the calm a.s.sertions of a woman for whom he had great regard, and who was the daughter of a brother officer and one of his best friends. Of course the girl was in love with de Mountford, so her judgment on him was not likely to be wholly unbia.s.sed: at the same time Sir Thomas--like all men who have knocked about the world a great deal, and seen much of its seamy side--had a great belief in woman"s instinct, as apart from her judgment, and he was the last man in the world to hold the s.e.x in contempt.
"Look here, my dear," he said after a little while, during which he had tried to read the lines in the interesting face turned up toward him, "I honour you for your sense of loyalty to de Mountford, just the same as I honour your father for the like reason. And in order to prove to you that I, individually, would be only too happy to see the man"s innocence established beyond a doubt, I am going to argue that soberly and sensibly with you. You hold the theory that Luke de Mountford is shielding some one from the consequences of an awful crime by taking the burden on himself. Now, my dear, as I told you before, people don"t do that sort of thing nowadays. In olden times, the consequences of a crime--especially where the aristocracy was concerned--were quite picturesque: the Tower, the block, and all that sort of thing. But to-day the paraphernalia of vengeful justice is very sordid, very mean, and anything but glorious. It means the lengthy inquiry before a police magistrate, then the trial, the past dragged up to the light, the most private secrets thrown to the morbid curiosity of the million. In order to face that sort of thing, my dear, a man must be either guilty--then he cannot help it; or wrongfully accused--then he hopes for the establishment of his innocence. But a man does not prepare himself to face all that out of Quixotic motives alone, knowing himself to be innocent and because he desires that another should be spared those awful humiliations and the chance of a disgusting and shameful death."
"What do you mean by all that, Uncle Ryder," she asked.
"I mean that if we are going to admit this Quixotic motive in de Mountford"s att.i.tude now, there can only be one mainspring for it."
"What is that?"
"It is perhaps a little difficult----" he said somewhat hesitatingly.
"You mean," she interposed quietly, "that if Luke is taking this awful crime upon himself for the sake of another, that other can only be a woman whom he loves."
"Well," retorted Sir Thomas, "it is not you, my dear, I presume, who killed this bricklayer from Clapham."
She did not reply immediately: but her lips almost framed themselves into a smile. Luke and another woman! To Sir Thomas Ryder that seemed indeed a very simple explanation. Men have been known to do strange things, to endure much and to sacrifice everything for the sake of woman! But then Sir Thomas knew nothing of Luke, nothing more than what the latter chose to show of his inward self to the world. The memory of those few moments in the room in Fairfax Mansions laughed the other man"s suggestion to scorn. Louisa shook her head and said simply:
"No, Uncle Ryder, I did not kill the Clapham bricklayer in the cab."
"And you won"t admit that Luke may be shielding another woman?" said Sir Thomas, with just the faintest semblance of a sneer.
"I won"t say that," she replied gravely. "You see, I don"t really know. I would take a dying oath at this moment--if I were on the point of death--that Luke never committed that abominable crime. I won"t even say that he is incapable of it. I"ll only swear that he did not do it. And yet he is silent when he is accused. Then, to me, the only possible, the only logical conclusion is that he is shielding some one else."
"Have you questioned him?"
"Yes."
"Put the question directly to him, I mean?"
"Yes."
"And what did he say?"
"That his own stick condemns him, and that he would plead guilty at his trial."
"He never told you directly or indirectly that he killed the man?"
For the s.p.a.ce of one second only did Louisa hesitate. She had asked Luke the direct question: "Was it you who killed that man?" and he had replied: "It was I." She had asked it then, determined to know the truth, convinced that she would know the truth when he gave reply. And she did learn the truth then and there, not as Luke hoped that she would interpret it, but as it really was. He had never really lied to her, for she had never been deceived. Now, she did not wish to hide anything from Sir Thomas Ryder, the only man in the whole world who could help her to prove Luke"s innocence in spite of himself: therefore, when her uncle reiterated his question somewhat sharply, she replied quite frankly, looking straight up at him:
"He told me directly that it was he who had killed the man."
"And even then you did not believe him?"
"I knew that he tried to lie."
"You firmly believe that de Mountford knows who killed that Paul Baker--or whoever he was?"
"I do."
"And that he means to go through his trial, and to plead guilty to a charge of murder, so that the real criminal should escape."
"Yes!"
"And that he is prepared to hang--to hang, mind you!" reiterated Sir Thomas with almost cruel bluntness, "if he is condemned in order to allow the real criminal to escape?"
"Yes."
"And you yourself have no notion as to who this person maybe?"
"No."
"Is there anybody, do you think, who is likely to know more about Luke de Mountford"s past and present life than you do yourself?"
"Yes," she said, "Lord Radclyffe."
"Old Radclyffe?" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.
"Why, yes. Lord Radclyffe adored Luke before this awful man came between them. He had him with him ever since Luke was a tiny boy.
There"s no one in the world for whom he cared as he cared for Luke, and the affection was fully reciprocated. My belief is that Lord Radclyffe knows more about Luke than any one else in the world."
"But old Rad is very ill just now, unfortunately."
"It would kill him," she retorted, "if anything happened to Luke, whilst he was being coddled up as an invalid, almost as a prisoner, and no news allowed to reach him."
Sir Thomas was silent for a moment, obviously buried in thought. That he was still incredulous was certainly apparent to Louisa"s super-sensitive perceptions, but that he meant to be of help to her, in spite of this incredulity was equally certain. Therefore she waited patiently until he had collected his thoughts.
"Well, my dear," he said at last, "I"ll tell you what I will do.
To-morrow morning I"ll go and see if I can have a talk with old Rad----"
"To-morrow morning," she broke in gravely, "Luke will be dragged before the magistrate--the first stage of that awful series of humiliations which you yourself say, Uncle Ryder, that no man who is innocent can possibly endure!"
"I know, my dear," he said almost apologetically, "but I don"t see now how that can be avoided."
"We could see Lord Radclyffe to-night!"
"To-night?" he exclaimed. "Why, it"s nearly ten o"clock."
"In matters of this sort, time does not count."
"But old Rad is an invalid!"