CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THE CHARGE WAS DISPOSED OF.

"On the following morning, at half-past ten, our reporter presented himself at the Bow Street Police Court, and was allowed a private interview with Constance's mother, whom we must for the present designate by the name she had assumed, Mrs. Weston. She looked worn and pale, but beneath these traces of physical fatigue our reporter observed in her an undefinable expression of moral strength which surprised him. He had yet to learn, as our readers have, that this woman's delicate frame was ennobled by those lofty attributes of endurance and fortitude and moral power which in human history have helped to make both heroes and martyrs.

"'You have passed a bad night,' said our reporter, commiseratingly.

"'In one sense I have,' said Mrs. Weston, 'but hope and prayer have sustained me, and the Inspector has been very kind to me. Tell me of my daughter.'

"He briefly related the particulars of his interview with Constance, but made no mention of the red silk scarf. She thanked him with great sweetness for the trouble he had taken, and said that she had been wonderfully comforted by the belief that she had providentially met with so true a friend.

"'Time will prove,' said our reporter, 'that you are not deceived in your belief, but the manifestation of this proof will depend greatly upon yourself. To speak more precisely, in your hands appears to me to rest the power of accelerating events and of setting wrong things right. I am speaking partly in the dark, from a kind of spiritual intuition as it were, but when I strike a trail I have something of the bloodhound in me; innocence will find in me a firm champion, guilt I will pursue till I track it to its threshold.'

"The words were grandiloquent, it is true, but it was scarcely possible to doubt their sincerity.

"'In resolving to confide thoroughly in you,' said Mrs. Weston, gazing earnestly at him, 'I am risking more than you can possibly imagine. I am like a shipwrecked woman to whom a prospect of deliverance has suddenly appeared. I ask for no professions; I will trust you.'

"'You will live to thank the chance which has thrown us together,' said our reporter. 'I do not hesitate to say that you have aroused in me a strange interest; I devote myself to your cause heartily, in the conviction that I am championing the cause of right and innocence.'

"Tears sprang in her eyes. 'Shall I be released today?'

"'I am confident of it. I want to say a word to the Inspector.'

"To Inspector Jealous, who was standing near, he expressed his thanks for the kindness he had shown Mrs. Weston.

"'Well, you see,' said the inspector, in the first place it was enough that she is a friend of yours; in the second place, it was enough that she is a lady. I can read signs; she does not belong to the classes we are in the habit of dealing with.'

"'She does not,' said our reporter. 'The whole affair is a mistake, excusable enough on the part of the policeman, but regrettable because of the distress it has caused an innocent lady. I shall make no complaint against the policeman, on the score of over-officiousness; he was within his rights, and on abstract grounds is perhaps to be commended for his mistaken zeal.'

"It was a wise and prudent speech, and the Inspector, already kindly disposed, conveyed it, before the case was called on, to the ears of the policeman who had made the charge. Assured that no attempt would be made by our reporter to bring him into disrepute, he toned down his evidence considerably, and himself assisted in the dismissal of the case, the brief particulars of which we extract from our police columns:

"Groundless Charge.--Mary Weston, a woman of respectable appearance, was charged with attempting to commit suicide. Constable 382 C said that he was on duty on the Thames Embankment last night, about twelve o'clock, when he saw the woman standing on the stone parapet close to Cleopatra's Needle. Drawing near to her he heard a splash in the water, and the woman was falling forward when he seized her and pulled her away. A gentleman in court laid hold of the woman at the same time, and assisted him in preventing her from carrying out her purpose. The gentleman referred to, Mr. Robert Agnold, one of the reporters upon the Evening Moon, and also a properly qualified solicitor, said he appeared for the accused, who distinctly denied that she had any intention of committing suicide. He was himself a witness of the occurrence, and was convinced that the constable, who had behaved very well throughout the affair, had acted under a mistaken impression. The magistrate asked the constable what caused the splash? The constable replied something the accused threw into the river. The magistrate: 'Did you see what it was?' The constable: 'No.' Mr. Agnold: 'I should state that the accused admits throwing something into the river, and that in the act of doing so she overbalanced herself and so aroused the constable's suspicions. Whatever it was that she threw away, it was her own property and presumably valueless, and, although her action was open to an eccentric construction, it could go no farther than that. She had a perfect right to do what she pleased with what belonged to her.' The constable said that search had been made for it, but it had not been found. The woman went quietly to the station, but refused to give her address. She was not known to the police, and there was no evidence of her having been charged before. The magistrate, to the accused: 'Have you any trouble that urged you to put an end to your life?' The accused, whose speech was distinguished by great modesty and refinement: 'I have troubles, as other people have, but none that could impel me to an act so sinful. Nothing was farther from my thoughts than the attempt with which I am charged. I have done no wrong.' Mr. Agnold: 'Apart from my position as her professional adviser, I will answer for her in every way.' The magistrate: 'She is discharged.'

"It was half-past twelve when Mrs. Weston and our reporter issued from the police court. They walked in silence toward Leicester Square, which, in contrast to the thronged thoroughfares immediately adjoining it, is at this time of the day comparatively quiet. Mrs. Weston looked around inquiringly.

"'Do you know where we are?' asked our reporter.

"'No,' she replied.

"'Then you are not well acquainted with London?'

"'Not very well.'

"'This is Leicester Square. We are not far from Gerard street, Soho, where M. Felix was found dead.' A tremor passed through her, and the hand which rested upon our reporter's arm pressed it convulsively. He did not pursue the subject, but said, 'All's well that ends well. Your daughter will see you earlier than she expects. You will go straight home, I suppose?'

"'Not straight. I am fearful of being followed. Heaven knows whether I shall be able to accomplish the task that lies before me, but whatever I do must be done without drawing notice upon myself. I will not disguise from you that I have innocently placed myself in a false position, and that I am in danger. I cannot explain my words at this moment; I am anxious to see my beloved child; but I must repeat what I have said to you before, that no sin or guilt lies at my door.'

"'I understand that, and I will bide your time. You are afraid that we are being watched. I see no one in sight that can be dogging us, but I can provide against the remotest possibility if you will allow me to accompany you part of the way.'

"She accepted his services gratefully, and he hailed a cab, the driver of which he directed to proceed in an opposite direction to Forston Street, Camden Town. When the cab had gone a couple of miles they alighted and walked the length of two or three streets, our reporter keeping a sharp lookout; then another cab was hailed, which drove them to Camden Town, about a quarter of a mile from Forston Street. They walked together to within fifty yards of No. 21, and then Mrs. Weston paused.

"'You wish me to leave you here,' said our reporter. 'Shall I see you again soon?'

"'This evening, at eight o'clock,' she replied, 'if you will call upon me.'

"'I will be punctual.'

"'I ought to tell you before you go,' she said, in a low tone, 'that the name I gave at the police station is not my own. I was justified in giving a false name; otherwise the knowledge of my--my disgrace might have reached my daughter.'

"'You use a wrong term,' said our reporter, 'no disgrace whatever attaches to you. Good-by till this evening.'

"He shook hands with her and walked briskly away. He had nothing of importance to attend to in the office of the Evening Moon, but he was expected to present himself there, and it was necessary that he should arrange to have the afternoon and evening free. This being settled, he turned toward Gerard Street, with the intention of calling upon Mrs. Middlemore, to ascertain whether anything fresh had transpired. He knocked vainly at the door, however, Mrs. Middlemore was not in the house. At the bottom of Gerard Street he encountered Sophy.

"'Ah, Sophy,' he said, 'I have just been to your house.'

"''Ave yer?' said Sophy, sidling up to him. 'Aunty ain't at 'ome.'

"'So I discovered. Where is she?'

"'At the perlice station,' answered the girl.

"'Anything wrong?'

"'I don't know.'

"'But what has she gone for?'

"'It's about Mr. Felix.'

"'About Mr. Felix!' he exclaimed.

"'So she ses.'

"'But what is the meaning of it, Sophy?'

"'I can't tell yer. All I know is I meets aunty with a face like pickled cabbage, running and blowing and 'olding 'er sides, and I arks 'er what she's in sech a 'urry about. 'It's about poor Mr. Felix,' she ses, as well as she could speak; she was that out of breath she could 'ardly git 'er words out. 'They've found out somethink, and they've sent for me to the perlice station. You go 'ome at once and wait till I come back.' 'Ow shall I get in?' I arks; aunty never gives me the door-key; ketch 'er doing that! 'Ow shall I get in?' 'There's a gent there,' ses aunty, as 'ill open the door for yer.' 'I goes and knocks, and as no gent comes and opens the door for me, I takes a walk.'

"'Is that all you know, Sophy?'

"'That's all. I don't keep nothink from you--not likely.'

"'Can you tell me the name of the police station?'

"'Oh, yes, I can tell yer that. Bow Street.'

"Our reporter did not wait to exchange any further words, but hastened as fast as he could to the Bow Street Police Court. He was close to it when a constable accosted him.

"'I was coming for you at the Evening Moon office, sir,' said the constable. 'The Inspector sent me.'

"'What does he want?' asked our reporter.

"'They've fished up something from the river. He thought you would like to see it.'

"'I should.'

"As he entered the doors his coat was plucked by Mrs. Middlemore.

"'Ah, Mrs. Middlemore,' he said, hastily, 'I will speak to you presently. Don't go away; I will be out in a minute or two.'"