The Triumphs of Eugene Valmont Part 30

'Sir,' he began, when I had waved him to a seat, 'I am a very rich man, and can afford to pay well for the commission I request you to undertake. To ask you to name your own terms may seem unbusinesslike, so I may say at the outset I am not a business man. The service I shall ask will involve the utmost secrecy, and for that I am willing to pay. It may expose you to risk of limb or liberty, and for that I am willing to pay. It will probably necessitate the expenditure of a large sum of money; that sum is at your disposal.'

Here he paused; he had spoken slowly and impressively, with a touch of arrogance in his tone which aroused to his prejudice, the combativeness latent in my nature. However, at this juncture I merely bowed my head, and replied in accents almost as supercilious as his own:--

'The task must either be unworthy or unwelcome. In mentioning first the compensation, you are inverting the natural order of things. You should state at the outset what you expect me to do, then, if I accept the commission, it is time to discuss the details of expenditure.'

Either he had not looked for such a reply, or was loath to open his budget, for he remained a few moments with eyes bent upon the floor, and lips compressed in silence. At last he went on, without change of inflection, without any diminution of that air of condescension, which had so exasperated me in the beginning, and which was preparing a downfall for himself that would rudely shake the cold dignity which encompa.s.sed him like a cloak:--

'It is difficult for a father to confide in a complete stranger the vagaries of a beloved son, and before doing so you must pledge your word that my communication will be regarded as strictly confidential.'

'_Cela va sans dire_.'

'I do not understand French,' said Mr. Sanderson severely, as if the use of the phrase were an insult to him.

I replied nonchalantly,--

'It means, as a matter of course; that goes without saying. Whatever you care to tell me about your son will be mentioned to no one. Pray proceed, without further circ.u.mlocution, for my time is valuable.'

'My son was always a little wild and impatient of control. Although everything he could wish was at his disposal here at home, he chose to visit America, where he fell into bad company. I a.s.sure you there is no real harm in the boy, but he became implicated with others, and has suffered severely for his recklessness. For five years he has been an inmate of a prison in the West. He was known and convicted under the name of Wyoming Ed.'

'What was his crime?'

'His alleged crime was the stopping, and robbing, of a railway train.'

'For how long was he sentenced?'

'He was sentenced for life.'

'What do you wish me to do?'

'Every appeal has been made to the governor of the State in an endeavour to obtain a pardon. These appeals have failed. I am informed that if money enough is expended it may be possible to arrange my son's escape.'

'In other words, you wish me to bribe the officials of the jail?'

'I a.s.sure you the lad is innocent.'

For the first time a quiver of human emotion came into the old man's voice.

'Then, if you can prove that, why not apply for a new trial?'

'Unfortunately, the circ.u.mstances of the case, of his arrest on the train itself, the number of witnesses against him, give me no hope that a new trial would end in a different verdict, even if a new trial could be obtained, which I am informed is not possible. Every legal means tending to his liberation has already been tried.'

'I see. And now you are determined to adopt illegal means? I refuse to have anything to do with the malpractice you propose. You objected to a phrase in French, Mr. Sanderson, perhaps one in Latin will please you better. It is "_Veritas praevalebit_," which means, "Truth will prevail." I shall set your mind entirely at rest regarding your son.

Your son at this moment occupies a humble, if honourable, position in the great house from which you came, and he hopes in time worthily to fill his father's shoes, as you have filled the shoes of your father.

You are not a rich man, but a servant. Your son never was in America, and never will go there. It is your master's son, the heir to great English estates, who became the Wyoming Ed of the Western prison. Even from what you say, I do not in the least doubt he was justly convicted, and you may go back to your master and tell him so. You came here to conceal the shameful secret of a wealthy and n.o.ble house; you may return knowing that secret has been revealed, and that the circ.u.mstances in which you so solemnly bound me to secrecy never existed. Sir, that is the penalty of lying.'

The old man's contempt for me had been something to be felt, so palpable was it. The armour of icy reserve had been so complete that actually I had expected to see him rise with undiminished hauteur, and leave the room, disdaining further parley with one who had insulted him. Doubtless that is the way in which his master would have acted, but even in the underling I was unprepared for the instantaneous crumbling of this monument of pomp and pride. A few moments after I began to speak in terms as severe as his own, his trembling hands grasped the arms of the chair in which he sat, and his ever-widening eyes, which came to regard me with something like superst.i.tious dread as I went on, showed me I had launched my random arrow straight at the bull's-eye of fact. His face grew mottled and green rather than pale.

When at last I accused him of lying, he arose slowly, shaking like a man with a palsy, but, unable to support himself erect, sank helplessly back into his chair again. His head fell forward to the table before him, and he sobbed aloud.

'G.o.d help me!' he cried, 'it is not my own secret I am trying to guard.'

I sprang to the door, and turned the key in the lock so that by no chance might we be interrupted; then, going to the sideboard, I poured him out a liqueur gla.s.s full of the finest Cognac ever imported from south of the Loire, and tapping him on the shoulder, said brusquely:--

'Here, drink this. The case is no worse than it was half an hour ago.

I shall not betray the secret.'

He tossed off the brandy, and with some effort regained his self-control.

'I have done my errand badly,' he wailed. 'I don't know what I have said that has led you to so accurate a statement of the real situation, but I have been a blundering fool. G.o.d forgive me, when so much depended on my making no mistake.'

'Don't let that trouble you,' I replied; 'nothing you said gave me the slightest clue.'

'You called me a liar,' he continued, 'and that is a hard word from one man to another, but I would not lie for myself, and when I do it for one I revere and respect, my only regret is that I have done it without avail.'

'My dear sir,' I a.s.sured him, 'the fault is not with yourself at all.

You were simply attempting the impossible. Stripped and bare, your proposal amounts to this. I am to betake myself to the United States, and there commit a crime, or a series of crimes, in bribing sworn officials to turn traitor to their duty and permit a convict to escape.'

'You put it very harshly, sir. You must admit that, especially in new countries, there is lawlessness within the law as well as outside of it. The real criminals in the robbery of the railway train escaped; my young master, poor fellow, was caught. His father, one of the proudest men in England, has grown prematurely old under the burden of this terrible dishonour. He is broken-hearted, and a dying man, yet he presents an impa.s.sive front to the world, with all the ancient courage of his race. My young master is an only son, and failing his appearance, should his father die, t.i.tle and estate will pa.s.s to strangers. Our helplessness in this situation adds to its horror. We dare not make any public move. My old master is one with such influence among the governing cla.s.s of this country, of which he has long been a member, that the average Englishman, if his name were mentioned, would think his power limitless. Yet that power he dare not exert to save his own son from a felon's life and death. However much he or another may suffer, publicity must be avoided, and this is a secret which cannot safely be shared with more than those who know it now.'

'How many know it?'

'In this country, three persons. In an American prison, one.'

'Have you kept up communication with the young man?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Direct?'

'No; through a third person. My young master has implored his father not to write to him direct.'

'This go-between, as we may call him, is the third person in the secret? Who is he?'

'That I dare not tell you!'

'Mr. Sanderson, it would be much better for your master and his son that you should be more open with me. These half-confidences are misleading. Has the son made any suggestion regarding his release?'

'Oh yes, but not the suggestion I have put before you. His latest letter was to the effect that within six months or so there is to be an election for governor. He proposes that a large sum of money shall be used to influence this election so that a man pledged to pardon him may sit in the governor's chair.'

'I see. And this sum of money is to be paid to the third person you referred to?'

'Yes.'

'May I take it that this third person is the one to whom various sums have been paid during the last five years in order to bribe the governor to pardon the young man?'

Sanderson hesitated a moment before answering; in fact, he appeared so torn between inclination and duty; anxious to give me whatever information I deemed necessary, yet hemmed in by the instructions with which his master had limited him, that at last I waved my hand and said:--

'You need not reply, Mr. Sanderson. That third party is the crux of the situation. I strongly suspect him of blackmail. If you would but name him, and allow me to lure him to these rooms, I possess a little private prison of my own into which I could thrust him, and I venture to say that before he had pa.s.sed a week in darkness, on bread and water, we should have the truth about this business.'

Look you now the illogical nature of an Englishman! Poor old Sanderson, who had come to me with a proposal to break the law of America, seemed horror-stricken when I airily suggested the immuring of a man in a dungeon here in England. He gazed at me in amazement, then cast his eyes furtively about him, as if afraid a trap door would drop beneath him, and land him in my private _oubliette_.