The Substitute Prisoner Part 13

Gradually the detective's eyes cleared with belief and his calloused nature yielded to an impulse of pity.

"I did not expect to find you here, Mrs. Collins," he said more gently.

"I can understand your suffering--I do not wish to add a hair's weight to it. But the conclusion is inevitable that your visit at such a late hour has something to do with Mr. Whitmore's death, so I must ask you to explain your presence."

She leaned back in her chair, a look of meek resignation in her face.

"I came to obtain a letter addressed to Mr. Whitmore," she said frankly.

"A letter which you wrote?"

"No."

"By whom was it written?"

"My brother--Mr. Ward."

Britz tried to guess the hidden significance of the note which had impelled this woman to a midnight visit to Beard's house. She must have known, just as Britz had ascertained earlier in the day, that Beard was a bachelor, occupying the private dwelling with a lone servant. Surely she would not have been guilty of so unconventional an act except through desperate necessity.

"That letter--will it throw any light on Mr. Whitmore's death?" asked Britz eagerly.

"Not the slightest," was her disappointing reply. "It has absolutely nothing to do with it."

"Then you won't mind identifying it if I find it in my search of the premises?"

"Not in the least--that is, on one condition," said she.

"And that condition--what is it?"

"Your promise that the letter will not be made public."

It was a condition to which the detective could readily agree. It was no part of his duty to supply the newspapers with the intimate details a.s.sociated with every crime. He was habitually reticent toward reporters, yet he was not unpopular with them. For, besides recognizing and admiring his unbending honesty, his courage and resourcefulness, they were aware that on the rare occasions when he took them into his confidence, they could rely upon his statements as upon a mathematical certainty. Not in all his career had he ever been known to discuss in print his theories, or deductions, or half-baked conclusion. In that respect he differed radically from most of the detective force. Whenever he had a statement to make, it embodied the solution of the mystery on which he had been working. It meant that the guilty man was safely behind the bars and that the evidence against him was complete.

"Confidential communications obtained by me are never made public except in a courtroom," he informed the woman. "If the letter has no bearing on Mr. Whitmore's death it will be returned to Mr. Beard."

"But I want it--that's what I came for," she pleaded. "Can't you give it to me?"

"Not without Mr. Beard's consent," he replied in a tone of finality.

"And then only after I have a.s.sured myself of its lack of bearing on the Whitmore case."

She bestowed on him a glance of such keen disappointment as to provoke a doubt of the innocence of the missive. But he did not betray what was in his mind. Instead, he rose to his feet, and, with a polite bow, said:

"I may trust you to wait until I have completed my search. In the meantime, kindly pardon me."

His form vanished through the curtains and she could hear him ascending the steps. To her ears there came a short colloquy between the detective and the servant, but the words were indistinct and she was unable to gather their meaning. Huddled in the chair, she waited while the minutes dragged wearily, until at the end of three-quarters of an hour the detective's welcome footsteps were heard on the stairs.

Britz entered the room carrying a huge pile of papers which he deposited on a chair. From the top of the pile he took a letter, and, advancing toward her, asked:

"Is this the note?"

At sight of the letter her exhaustion vanished and she held out a trembling hand.

"It isn't that I don't trust you," said Britz, withdrawing the missive, "but under the circ.u.mstances I prefer to retain possession of it."

It required no formal acknowledgment from her to a.s.sure him that he held the right note. Her face, her eyes, her very aspect proclaimed her anxiety concerning it. Retreating to a position directly beneath the cl.u.s.ter of electric lights, Britz read the letter. It was dated the previous day and was as follows:

"_Dear Whitmore_: Mr. Beard has informed me that I may communicate with you through him. For nearly six weeks I have waited anxiously for your return, but I am in such sore straits that I can no longer delay communicating with you.

"I require for use in my business the sum of one million, two hundred thousand dollars. Unless I am able to obtain the money at once, I am ruined. Were I the only one to suffer by the crash I should not mind. But it means the loss of my sister's fortune, as well as that of her husband. Grace, too, could bear the loss. But the thought of plunging Collins into poverty, under the present circ.u.mstances, is what impels me to appeal to you.

"To avert this catastrophe my sister joins in the appeal I am making. I hope, in the course of the next six months, to be able to repay the loan. But it is absolutely necessary to obtain the money at once, for my creditors are threatening immediate bankruptcy proceedings. And that means the end.

"Sincerely, LESTER WARD."

"So your brother is in a bad way financially?" said Britz, more in the way of an audible comment than as a question.

Evidently the subject was too painful for discussion, for she averted her face as if to hide the emotions written thereon.

"Your brother expected Mr. Whitmore to rescue him?" persisted Britz.

"Yes," she acknowledged.

"And Mr. Whitmore's death leaves him in a sad predicament?"

"Ruin is inevitable," she admitted.

"Which makes it clear that it was to Mr. Ward's interest as well as your own to find Mr. Whitmore alive?"

"Precisely," replied she. "His death was a terrible blow to us."

Britz saw the situation clearly. Ward, rendered desperate by the impending ruin, had hoped that Whitmore would come to his rescue. But the latter's death had destroyed all hope of aid from that direction.

The letter, far from furnis.h.i.+ng incriminating evidence against anyone, clearly established Ward's and Mrs. Collins's interest in keeping Whitmore alive. Nevertheless Britz decided to retain the note on the bare chance that subsequent developments might give it a changed aspect.

Mrs. Collins, divining with the sure instinct of a woman, the obvious conclusion which the detective had drawn from the letter, ventured another attempt to gain possession of it.

"Now that you are convinced that it has no bearing on Mr. Whitmore's death, may I have it?" she asked.

"Why are you so anxious to obtain it?" retorted Britz.

"Because its possession by someone would be an endless source of embarra.s.sment to me," answered she.

She spoke as one engaged in a controversy of minor significance. But it was plain that exhaustion was swiftly overtaking her, that her bruised senses were near the end of their endurance.

"You need fear no uneasiness from the letter while it is in my possession," the detective said rea.s.suringly.

She accepted the statement as a final refusal to surrender the missive, and, consulting the small watch set in her black leather purse, noted with a frightened gasp that it was two o'clock.

"Where is Mr. Beard?" she asked, as if suddenly recalling his absence.

"He is under arrest," answered Britz in even voice.