though inspector fay had disclosed no more than was necessary for the purpose of the initial charge, the arrest of james layton was popularly considered to have solved the mystery of the murder of christine manderson.
no one realized more fully than layton himself the overwhelming strength of the case against him. he was as good as condemned already. beyond his own assertion of innocence, he was utterly defenseless against a sequence of evidence that might well have shattered the strongest reply. and he was without any reply at all, except his own denial. he could only admit the truth of the damning train of circumstances, in face of which his mere word was hopelessly—and, he was compelled to acknowledge, justly—inadequate. the secret of his identity—most crushing fact [pg 242]of all—was lost. he was the michael cranbourne whom christine manderson, then thea colville, had drawn on to ruin and disgrace. he had threatened her, in the presence of witness, with just such an end as she had met with. he had been seen lurking in the garden at the time of the crime. he had been beside himself. and to all that he had no more convincing answer than the plea of not guilty. he placed himself, quite dispassionately, in the position of his own judge and jury. there could be only one result.
the strange message of hope, brought to him by jenny west, from a mysterious foreigner who had declared knowledge of his innocence and of half the truth, aroused his curiosity, if no more. that one person, at all events, had discovered, and was apparently pursuing, an alternative to his own guilt was interesting, if a slender encouragement to build on. he was not disposed to cling to flimsy hopes. he accepted his position with perfect calmness. since the confession of his identity to inspector fay a load seemed to have been lifted from his mind, and with it had passed the revival [pg 243]of mad passion which the sight of christine manderson's fatal beauty had aroused. he found himself able to dwell on her memory—even to contemplate her death—with a cold detachment which surprised himself. he no longer shrank from conjuring up her image—but now it was a dead image from a dead world. and—not without surprise also, and perhaps a certain satisfaction—he found himself looking forward to a visit from jenny west.
she came to him at the appointed time. she was very white. the deep shadows of sleepless grief and anxiety were round her eyes—but in them shone the fire of a dogged, dauntless courage. her great untamed soul was aflame with revolt against the implacable circumstances that had placed the man whose name a thousand had blessed on the highroad to the gallows. she threw herself against the wall of facts with all the force of her primitive love. she was one of those whose trust rises to its greatest heights when opposed to reason.
he greeted her kindly. he was cheerful [pg 244]and composed. he showed that he was glad to see her.
"we shall save you, jim!" she declared, straining back the tears that sprang to her eyes at his kindness. "i know we shall! i know it!"
"god will save his workman," he returned quietly—"if it is his will."
he looked at her closely. and something very like affection came into his face.
"you are pale," he said. "you are over strained. you haven't slept."
she bent her head, to hide her brimming eyes.
"my child...." he said gently.
"what does it matter," she sobbed, "if i haven't slept? how can i sleep—when you are ... here?"
"listen, my dear," he said—"we must face this thing squarely. it's no use trying to shut our eyes to the truth, however unpleasant it may be. as the case stands at present, no jury in the world could acquit me. i have no reply to the charge, except to declare that [pg 245]i did not kill christine manderson—and that will not help me. the evidence is more than enough to satisfy any impartial, clear-thinking man or woman. it would satisfy me. that i know myself to be innocent will not assist me to establish my innocence. thousands of things may happen in the meantime—but i must prepare to suffer the penalty for a crime that i did not commit."
"you shall not!" she cried passionately. "if there is justice in heaven or earth, you shall not!"
"i do not cling to life," he returned. "it has very little to give me, or to take away. men may find me guilty—but i shall stand before god innocent. it will not be the first time i have stood before god."
a spark of his old fanaticism flashed into his eyes for a moment, then faded.
"i shall be ready," he said steadily, "for whatever he sends."
"men shall not find you guilty," she declared. "there are three people working for you. the truth will be discovered."
[pg 246]"your mysterious frenchman?" he smiled. "what has he done?"
"i don't know," she confessed. "he tells me nothing—except to keep on promising that you will be saved. and that is enough for me."
a frown darkened layton's face.
"i wish you would not put yourself so completely into the hands of a stranger," he said doubtfully. "who and what, is this man? and how does he come to be mixed up in this affair?"
"i know nothing whatever about him," she replied. "but there is something that makes me trust him. i believe he will keep his promise."
"i don't like it," he insisted.
"if i didn't help him," she said, "i could do nothing. and i should go mad."
"what has he given you to do?" he asked.
"i promised not to tell any one," she hesitated.
he shrugged his shoulders.
"you had better tell me. you have no one else to protect you."
[pg 247]"it is something i can't understand," she said slowly. "this morning i had to write out the names and addresses of all the art and picture dealers from the directory, and this afternoon i am to go round in a car to as many of them as i can, with a letter from the french embassy, to ask if any articles have ever been supplied to, or orders taken from, a miss masters, of 35, de vere terrace, streatham, and if so, what."
layton stared at her in astonishment.
"what possible connection can that have with the case?" he exclaimed.
"i don't know," she said again. "i've tried to think."
"the french embassy," he mused. "that is strange...."
he checked himself, and looked at his watch.
"you time is nearly up," he said. "listen to me carefully. there is one very important thing that i want you to understand. whatever may develop in the meantime, i intend to prepare for the worst."
he kept her silent with a firm gesture.
"my work must go on. no matter what [pg 248]happens to me, my work must go on. and it must be carried on as i have begun it, by some one who has worked with me, and understands my objects—by some one who is human, and unlimited by sect or creed. i don't want to make people religious—it would spoil most of them. i want to make them healthy and happy. i would rather they were clean pagans than unclean christians. no soul is saved or lost because it happens to take a certain view of the mysteries of god. it is the bodies i care for—the bodies i want to build. humanity should be a song of thanksgiving, not a prayer for alleviation."
the fires kindled again. his face was lit up.
"you must continue my work. if i should have to leave it ... you will find everything yours. there is over a million. use it as i have taught you. use it to help children to grow into men and women, and men and women to grow into old men and women. use it to help human beings against the cruelties they inflict on each other—and animals against the cruelties inflicted on them. promise me [pg 249]that if the worst happens, you will go on where i leave off."
tears blinded her. she could not speak.
"promise," he insisted.
"i will," she sobbed. "i will go on—as long as i can live after you."
he stood still, looking at her fixedly. there was the dawn of an awakening on his face.
"my god!" he whispered, "i was wrong. i do cling to life. i want to live. o god, save me!"
and the girl uttered a great sigh of thankfulness, and fell fainting against the wire partition that stood between them.
