“He’s inventing a new carburettor,” said Manfred, devoutly hoping that the lady had no knowledge of the internal-combustion engine.
“He’s working hard, too, sir; he came out to get a breath of air just now, and I never saw a gentleman perspire so! He seems to be working with that file all the day.”
“You mustn’t interrupt him,” began Manfred.
“I shouldn’t dream of doing it,” said the landlady indignantly.
Manfred made his way to the garden, and his friend, who saw him coming—the greenhouse made an ideal workshop for Leon, for he could watch his landlady’s approach and conceal the key he had been filing for three days—walked to meet him.
“He is leaving today, or rather tonight,” said Manfred. “He’s going to Plymouth: there he will catch the Holland-American boat to New York.”
“Tonight?” said Leon in surprise. “That cuts me rather fine. By what train?”
“That I don’t know,” said Manfred.
“You’re sure?”
Manfred nodded.
“He’s giving it out that he’s leaving tomorrow, and is slipping away tonight. I don’t think he wants people to know of his departure. I discovered it through an indiscretion of the worthy doctor’s. I was in the post office when he was sending a wire. He had his pocketbook open on the counter, and I saw some labels peeping out. I knew they were steamship labels, and I glimpsed the printed word ‘Rotterdam,’ looked up the newspapers, and saw that the Rotterdam was leaving tomorrow. When I heard that he had told people that he was leaving Newton Abbot tomorrow I was certain.”
“That’s all to the good,” said Leon. “George, we’re going to achieve the crowning deed of our lives. I say ‘we,’ but I’m afraid I must do this alone—though you have a very important role to play.”
He chuckled softly and rubbed his hands.
“Like every other clever criminal he has made one of the most stupid of blunders. He has inherited his wife’s money under an old will, which left him all her possessions, with the exception of £2,000 which she had on deposit at the bank, and this went to her nephew, the Plymouth engineer. In his greed Twenden is pretty certain to have forgotten this legacy. He’s got all the money in a Torquay bank. It was transferred from Newton Abbot a few days ago and was the talk of the town. Go to Plymouth, interview young Jacley, see his lawyer, if he has one, or any lawyer if he hasn’t, and if the two thousand pounds has not been paid, get him to apply for a warrant for Twenden’s arrest. He is an absconding trustee under those circumstances, and the Justices will grant the warrant if they know the man is leaving by the Rotterdam tomorrow.”
“If you were an ordinary man, Leon,” said Manfred, “I should think that your revenge was a little inadequate.”
“It will not be that,” said Leon quietly.
At nine-thirty, Dr. Twenden, with his coat collar turned up and the brim of a felt hat hiding the upper part of his face, was entering a first-class carriage at Newton Abbot, when the local detective-sergeant whom he knew tapped him on the shoulder.
“I want you, Doctor.”
“Why, Sergeant?” demanded the doctor, suddenly white.
“I have a warrant for your arrest,” said the officer.
When the charge was read over to the man at the police station he raved like a lunatic.
“I’ll give you the money now, now! I must go tonight. I’m leaving for America tomorrow.”
“So I gather,” said the Inspector dryly. “That is why you’re arrested, Doctor.”
And they locked him in the cells for the night.
The next morning he was brought before the Justices. Evidence was taken, the young nephew from Plymouth made his statement, and the Justices conferred.
“There is prima facie evidence here of intention to defraud, Dr. Twenden,” said the chairman at last. “You are arrested with a very large sum of money and letters of credit in your possession, and it seems clear that it was your intention to leave the country. Under those circumstances we have no other course to follow, but commit you to take your trial at the forthcoming session.”
“But I can have bail: I insist upon that,” said the doctor furiously.
“There will be no bail,” was the sharp reply, and that afternoon he was removed by taxicab to Baxeter prison.
The Sessions were for the following week, and the doctor again fumed in that very prison from which he had emerged if not with credit, at least without disaster.
On the second day of his incarceration the Governor of Baxeter Gaol received a message:
“Six star men transferred to you will arrive at Baxeter Station 10:15. Arrange for prison van to meet.”
It was signed “Imprison,” which is the telegraphic address of the Prison Commissioner.
It happened that just about then there had been a mutiny in one of the London prisons, and the deputy governor, beyond expressing his surprise as to the lateness of the hour, arranged for the prison van to be at Baxeter station yard to meet the batch of transfers.
The 10:15 from London drew into the station, and the warders waiting on the platform walked slowly down the train looking for a carriage with drawn blinds. But there were no prisoners on the train, and there was no other train due until four o’clock in the morning.
“They must have missed it,” said one of the warders. “All right, Jerry,” this to the driver. He slammed the door of the Black Maria which had been left open, and the van lumbered out of the station yard.
Slowly up the slope and through the black prison gates: the van turned through another gate to the left, a gate set at right angles to the first, and stopped before the open doors of a brick shed isolated from the prison.
The driver grumbled as he descended and unharnessed his horses.
“I shan’t put the van in the shed tonight,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll get some of the prisoners to do it
