The Nine of Hearts

"Awfully hard up ida is an angel I love her to distraction."

So as to finish this communication, I unravelled the last ten words, and found them to be,

"I will do all in my power yours till death."

This I set aside as being intended to convey no meaning. The first sentence, making an appointment at the corner of Chester Street, was, whether correct or not, of little importance. I concentrated my attention upon the second sentence of twelve words: "Awfully hard up ida is an angel I love her to distraction."

So the young scamp was hard up again, and knew that his sister would respond to his appeal. And he was in love, too, and ida was an angel. Ida, of course, with a capital I.

I jumped to my feet as if I had been shot. Ida! What was the name of Mrs. Layton's maid who had given such damning evidence against the man I meant to set free? Ida White!

Not a common name. An unusual one. I walked about the room in a state of great excitement. Ida White, the angel, and Eustace Rutland, the scamp. But the woman must be at least eight or ten years older than Eustace. What mattered that? All the more likely her hold upon him. Young fools frequently fall in love with women much older than themselves, and when the women get the chance they don't let the youngsters escape easily. Yes, opposite to each other stood two men-one a worthless ne'er-do-well, the other a martyr! Opposite to each other stood two women-one a scheming woman of the world, the other a suffering, heart-broken girl! I would save the noble ones. Yes, I would save them! The chain was forming link by link.

* * * * * *

I broke off here to despatch telegrams to two of my confidential agents. My instructions to them were to employ themselves immediately in discovering where Ida White, the maid who had given evidence against her master at the trial, was living, and having found it, not to lose sight of her for a single moment, but to set a strict watch upon her, and to take note of her proceedings and movements, however trivial they might be. These telegrams being despatched, I returned to my task.

The two sealed letters which Dr. Daincourt had received from Mrs. Rutland lay before me. I took up the first, which I knew to be in Eustace's handwriting. I opened it. It was of a similar nature to the two I had already examined and interpreted. There is no need here to repeat the details of the process by means of which I read this third communication, a copy of which I also append:

I will simply say that the notation was 7,1, 9, 5, 6, 3, 4, 8, 2, and that the words resolved themselves into the following:

"Yon know where to find me. The old address."

"An awful charge may be laid against me. I am not guilty."

"Do not desert me. I swear that I am innocent."

I decided that the whole of this was intended to be conveyed to Mabel Rutland's understanding, and that in the last of Eustace's communications to his sister there was not one idle word.

"An awful charge may be laid against me." That charge, undoubtedly, was the murder of Mrs. Layton. "I am not guilty. I swear that I am innocent." But all guilty men are ready to swear that they are innocent. Not a moment was to be lost in setting my agents to work to discover Eustace Rutland's address as well as the address of Ida White. I quickly opened the letter which Edward Layton had written in prison to Mabel Rutland, and which I had posted. It was very short, to the following effect:

"Dear Miss Rutland, – All is well. Have no fear. Do not write to me until you hear from me again. Believe me, faithfully yours,

"Edward Layton."

Thus it was that he endeavored to keep from the woman he loved the true knowledge of the peril in which he stood. To save her good name, he was ready to go cheerfully to his death.

V

I rose early this morning in the expectation of a busy day. Dr. Daincourt called on Saturday evening, as I had expected, and narrated to me the result of his inquiries respecting Mabel Rutland's jewellery. Among it there was a ring set with turquoises and diamonds which had been given to her by her mother, and which she wore constantly. Dr. Daincourt had received from Mrs. Rutland further instances of the profound attachment which Mabel bore for her twin-brother.

"Deep as was her love," Mrs. Rutland had said, "for Mr. Layton, there is in her love for her brother an element so absorbing that she would not hesitate to make the most terrible sacrifices for his sake. My poor Eustace! It is weeks since I saw him, and I have no idea where he is. He is not altogether to blame, doctor he has been led away by bad companions. Ah, when I think of him and Mabel as little children, and see them, as I often do, playing their innocent games together-when I think of the exquisite joy we drew from them, and of the heavenly happiness they were to us, it seems to me that I must be under the influence of some horrible dream, that things have changed so!"

At half-past nine o'clock one of my confidential agents, Fowler by name, made his appearance.

"Found, sir," was the first thing he said to me.

"Who?" I quickly asked.

"Ida White. Living at Brixton. The drawing-rooms. Quite a swell in her way, sir."

"Is she living alone?"

"So far as we can make out. There are two men now on the watch, one to relieve the other."

"And Mr. Eustace Rutland?" I asked.

"Haven't got track of him yet, sir. The week is rather against us."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, sir, you don't forget that it is Derby week, do you? I suppose you backed one, but I can give you the straight tip if you want it."

"I backed Paradox for a couple of sovereigns," I said. (Where is the man who does not take an interest in the Derby?)

"Not in it, sir. There is only one horse will win, and that is Melton."

"But," I said, coming back to the all-engrossing subject I was engaged upon, "what difference will the Derby week make to you?"

"Well, you see, sir, London is so full. There is too much rushing about for calm, steady work. In such a task as ours a man wants a double set of eyes this week. Suppose my lady takes it into her head to go to the Derby? It will be all a job not to lose sight of her."

"What lady do you refer to?"

"Ida White, to be sure. She's a bit of a blood, sir, and the result of the Derby may mean a lot to her."

"Does she bet, then?"

"There is not much doubt of that, sir."

"How did you discover it?"

"Oh, easily enough. We have ways of our own. Why, sir, when I found out last night where she lives, what did I do an hour afterwards but present myself to the landlady of the house and ask her whether she could let me have a room for a week or two? I didn't tell you that there was a bill in her window, 'A Bedroom to Let to a Single Young Man.' Well, if I ain't a single young man, what is that to do with anybody-except my wife? I'm a soft-spoken chap when I like, and before the landlady and me are together five minutes I'm hand-and-glove with, her, and already a bit of a favorite. So I take her room and sleep there last night, and the first thing this morning down-stairs I am at the street door when the postman comes with the letters. Well, sir, would you believe it, he delivers five letters, and every one of them for Miss Ida White? I, opening the door for the postman, take the letters from him, and hand them one by one to the landlady, who comes puffing and panting up from the basement she weighs fourteen stone if she weighs an ounce. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the first letter. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the second letter. 'Miss Ida White,' says I, giving her the other three, one by one. 'Why, it is quite a correspondence!' All these letters are from Boulogne, sir, from betting firms. I know them by their outsides; I believe I should know them by the smell. Then, sir, there's something else. My lady is fond of newspapers. What kind of newspapers? Why, the sporting ones, to be sure. The Sportsman, Sporting Life, Sporting Times, Referee, and the like. Put this and that together, and what do you make of it, sir?"

"You are progressing, Fowler," I said.

"Yes, sir, we're moving. The landlady, bless her heart, she doesn't suspect what the letters from Boulogne are, but in less than a brace of shakes I worm out of her that Miss Ida White has received any number of them since she came to live in the house."

"Have you an idea what horse she has backed?"

"I have an idea that she has backed half a dozen, and that neither of the favorites is among them. When a woman bets, she wants fifty to one as a rule, and as a rule she gets it, and has to part."

I debated a moment or two, and then I showed Fowler one of the envelopes addressed by Eustace Rutland to his sister.

"Are you certain that none of the envelopes you saw this morning were addressed in this handwriting?"

"Quite certain, sir."

"I should like to see the house that Miss Ida White lives in, Fowler."