The Man Who Lost Himself Part 7

Those words, backed by the five pound note, wrought a great change in the mind of Jones. He had Rochester's permission to act as he was acting, and a little money to help him in his actions.

The fact of his penury had been like a wet blanket upon him all day. He felt that power had come to him with permission. He could think clearly now. He rose and paced the floor.

"Stick to it--if you can."

Why not--why not--why not? He found himself laughing out loud, a great gush of energy had come to him. Jones was a man of that sort, a new and great idea always came to him on the crest of a wave of energy; the British Government Contract idea had come to him like that, and the wave had carried him to England.

Why not be the Earl of Rochester, make good his position finally, stand on the pinnacle where Fate had placed him, and carry this thing through to its ultimate issue?

It would not be all jam. Rochester must have been very much pressed by circ.u.mstances; that did not frighten Jones, to him the game was everything, and the battle.

He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficulties that had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them.

His position was una.s.sailable.

Coming over from New York he had read Nelson's s.h.i.+lling edition of the Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education.

He contrasted his own position with Orton's.

He was absolutely una.s.sailable.

He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it.

There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester's, and would have to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his thumb--that excuse would last for some time. "There's one big thing about the whole business," said he to himself, "and that is the chap's eccentricity. Why, if I'm shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my memory or my wits--there's not a blessed card I haven't either in my hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my ident.i.ty and tell my story." He was engaged with thoughts like these when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the day, had arrived.

"Bring him in," said Victor. The servant retired and returned immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him.

The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner.

The card announced:

MR. A. S. VOLES 12B. Jermyn Street

Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things.

Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience.

He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair; the servant shut the door and the two men were alone.

Just as a dog's whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so did Jones' nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy.

Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, went to the door and opened it to see if the servant was listening.

He shut the door.

"Well," said he, "have you got the money for me?"

Another man in Jones' position might have asked, and with reason. "What money?"

Jones simply said "No."

This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then he burst out.

"You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. I called, you were out."

"Was I?"

"Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me--well, here I am now, I've got a cab outside ready to take it."

"And suppose I don't give it to you?" asked Jones.

"We won't suppose any nonsense like that!" replied Voles taking his seat, "not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute's notice."

"That's true," said the other, "we don't want the police."

"You don't," replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of Rochester's voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring in it and vitality--altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the truth. Pa.s.sed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller's scales.

"True," said Jones. "I don't--well, let's talk about this money.

Couldn't you take half to-night, and half in a week's time?"

"Not me," replied the other. "I must have the two thousand to-night, same as usual."

Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing the toast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked.

His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle in his path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determined to destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crime Rochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, he would declare everything, prove his ident.i.ty by sending for witnesses from the States, and show Rochester's letter. The blackmailing would account for Rochester's suicide.

But Jones knew blackmailers, and he knew that Voles would never prosecute. Rochester must indeed have been a weak fool not to have grasped this nettle and torn it up by the roots. He forgot that Rochester was probably guilty--that makes all the difference in the world.

"You shall have the money," said he, "but see here, let's make an end of this. Now let's see. How much have you had already?"

"Only eight," said Voles. "You know that well enough, why ask?"

"Eight thousand," murmured the other, "you have had eight thousand pounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good price for a few papers." He made the shot on spec. It was a bull's eye.

"Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that," said Voles, "a good deal more than that."

So it was doc.u.ments not actions that the blackmailer held in suspense over the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a b.u.t.ton to Jones, he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester's letter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to ident.i.ty himself.

"Well," said he, "let's finish this business. Have you a cheque book on you?"

"I have a cheque book right enough--what's your game now?"

"Just an idea of mine before I pay you--bring out your cheque book, you'll see what I mean in a minute."

Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from the breast pocket of his overcoat.

"Now tear out a cheque."

"Tear out a cheque," cried the other. "What on earth are you getting at--one of my cheques--this is good."