"Only this. I was not long articled at that time. The table was taken from the room in which I sat, and placed here for some special work.
Now, the imitations of Mr. Dering"s handwriting were made by myself and another clerk in joke. I remember them perfectly. They were written at the back of a letter addressed to me."
Mr. Dering went to the safe and produced the bundle containing all the papers in the case. He unrolled the bundle and placed the contents on the table.
Everybody was now serious. Lady Dering looked out of the window no longer. Mrs. Arundel had drawn her chair to the table.
Elsie picked out the paper containing the imitations. "Tell me," she said, "if you remember--mind--everybody--this bundle of papers has never been shown to George--tell me the name of your correspondent?"
"It was Leonard Henryson."
She gave the paper to Mr. Dering. "You see," she said.
The lawyer gave it to his brother, who pa.s.sed it on to his wife, who gave it to her mother. Mrs. Arundel laid it on the table and raised her veil.
"The next point," said Elsie, "is about Athelstan"s whereabouts during the last eight years. One letter was received by you, Mr. Dering, four years ago. You have already shown it to me. Will you let me read this letter aloud for all to hear?" It was in the bundle with the stopped notes. He bowed a.s.sent--and she read it.
"Twelve thousand pounds!" cried Sir Samuel--"twelve thousand pounds! All he had! Good Heavens?"
"All he had in the world," said Elsie. "And all for a child who refused to believe that her brother could be a villain! All he had in the world?" Her eyes filled with tears--but she dashed them aside and went on.
"He was in the States four years ago. That, I suppose, will no longer be denied. The next question is--when did he return to this country?"
George left the room again, and returned with a young gentleman.
"This gentleman," Elsie continued, "comes from Messrs. Chenery & Sons, bankers, of New York and London. He has brought a letter with him. Will you kindly let me see it, sir?--It is," she explained, "a letter of credit brought over by my brother from California. You see the date--June 20th of this year."
Mr. Dering read it, and gave it to his brother, who gave it to his wife, as before.
"It says that Mr. Athelstan Arundel, one of the staff of a certain Californian paper, will leave New York on June the 21st by the _Shannon_, and that he is authorised to draw on Messrs. Chenery & Sons for so much.--Thank you." The young gentleman retired.
"Now, Mr. Dering, are you satisfied that Athelstan was in America four years ago--that he left America two months ago, and that he was then on the staff of a Californian paper?"
"There seems no reason to doubt these facts.--But"--he put his forefinger on the cheque payable to the order of Edmund Gray--"are we any nearer to the forger of this cheque?"
"I am coming to that presently. I am going to show you all, so that there shall be no doubt whatever, who is the forger--the one hand--in the business. Wait a little."
Strangely enough, every eye fell upon Checkley, who now trembled and shook with every sign of terror.
"Sit down, Checkley," said his master.--"Elsie, do we want this gentleman any longer? His name I have not the pleasure of knowing."
"Oh! come," said Mr. Carstone, who was nearest. "You know my name, surely."
George warned him with a look, and he subsided into silence.
"I think I shall want you, Mr. Carstone," Elsie replied, "if you will kindly take a chair and wait.--Now, Sir Samuel, I think I am right in saying that your belief in the guilt of George rested entirely on the supposed complicity of Athelstan. That gone, what becomes of your charge? Also, there is no doubt, I believe, that one hand, and one hand alone, has committed the whole long list of letters and forgeries. If, therefore, Athelstan could not execute the second business, how could he do the first? But I have more than arguments for you."
Sir Samuel coughed. Mrs. Arundel sighed.
"As regards the charge against George, apart from his supposed intimacy with an imaginary criminal, the only suspicious thing is that he may have had access to the open safe. Well, Checkley also may have had access.--Don"t be afraid, Checkley--we are not going to charge you with the thing at all. You are not the forger. In fact, there was a third person who had access to the safe."
She opened her handbag and took out a packet of papers.
Then she sat down, with these in her hand, and leaning over the table, she looked straight and full into Mr. Dering"s eyes, and began to talk slowly in a low and murmuring voice. And now, indeed, everybody understood that something very serious indeed was going to be said and done. At the last moment a way had occurred to Elsie. She would let them all see for themselves what had happened, and she would spare her guardian the bitter shame and pain of being exposed in the presence of all this company.
"Mr. Dering," she began, "you have strangely forgotten that you know Mr.
Edmund Gray. How could you come to forget that? Why, it is ten years at least since you made his acquaintance. He knows you very well. He does not pretend to have forgotten you. You are his solicitor. You have the management of his property--his large private fortune--in your hands.
You are his most intimate friend. It is not well to forget old friends, is it? You must not say that you forget Edmund Gray."
Mr. Dering changed colour. His eyes expressed bewilderment. He made no reply.
"You know that Edmund Gray leaves this room every evening on his way to Gray"s Inn: you remember that. And that he comes here every morning, but not till eleven or twelve--two hours after the time that you yourself used to come. His head is always so full of his thoughts and his teaching, that he forgets the time between twelve and four, just as you forget the evening and the morning. You are both so much absorbed that you cannot remember each other."
Mr. Dering sat upright, the tips of his fingers touching. He listened at first gravely--though anxiously. Presently a remarkable change pa.s.sed over his face; he became full of anxiety. He listened as if he was trying to remember; as if he was trying to understand.
"Edmund Gray," he said, speaking slowly. "Yes, I remember my client Edmund Gray. I have a letter to write for him. What is it? Excuse me a moment; I must write that note for him." He took pen and paper and hastily wrote a note, which Elsie took from him, read, and gave to Sir Samuel.
"You want to tell the banker that Mr. Edmund Gray has returned you the transfers.--Yes.--Thank you. I thought you could not forget that client, of all others."
He leaned back smiling--his expression no longer anxious, but pleased and happy. The change transformed him. He was not Mr. Dering, but another.
"Go on, child."
"The rooms of Gray"s Inn are quiet all day long. It is a peaceful place for study, is it not? You sit there, your books before you, the world forgotten."
"Quite forgotten," said Mr. Dering.
"No--no," cried Checkley, springing to his feet. "I won"t have it done.
I----"
"Sit down." George pushed him back into his chair. "Another word, and you leave the room."
"It is a peaceful day," Elsie continued, "that you pa.s.s--for the most part alone--you with your books. Sometimes you come here to call upon your old friend and solicitor, Mr. Dering."
"Sometimes," he replied. "We are very old friends. Though his views are narrow.--Where is he?" He looked about the room. "You are all waiting to see him? He will be here directly. He is always here about this time."
"Yes, directly. You remember what I said to you on Sunday concerning certain transactions? I told you how important it was to have the exact truth about them."
"Certainly. I remember. I wrote an account of them for you."
"You did. Are these papers what you wrote?"
He looked at them for a moment. "These are my papers," he said. "They are what I wrote at your request. They contain a perfectly true account of what happened."
"Now, before I go on, you will not mind--these people here do not know Mr. Edmund Gray--you will not mind my asking a few persons to testify that you are really Mr. Edmund Gray?"
"My dear child, ask all the world if you wish; though I do not understand why my ident.i.ty should be doubted."
"Not quite all the world.--Mr. Carstone, will you tell us the name of this gentleman?"