CHAPTER XII

THE RETURNED PRODIGAL

It is impossible to describe adequately the effect that this news had on me, to convey the relief I felt; it seemed too good, far too good, to be true, and yet Mr. Hannay spoke with such complete assurance and authority as to preclude all doubt. Somehow, in some manner, I had escaped after all! These torturing thoughts of mine had had no real basis in fact. I had been a trusting fool, the victim of a cruel lie. Ah, Frean----

"So it never happened?" I cried. "Frean knew I hadn't seen the papers--I told him so--and that I wouldn't want to see them, read about what I was supposed to have done. He banked on that. He wanted me to run away and hide. There was no accident, no woman and child----"

"Oh, yes, there was," interrupted Mr. Hannay. "And both were killed; that's all quite true. But don't you see that if your car was stolen it entirely exculpates you?"

From the heights I plunged anew into the depths. I felt like hitting the good Mr. Hannay for having raised such false hopes. "It doesn't exculpate me at all!" I exclaimed. "I only wish it did!"

"Why doesn't it?"

"Because it doesn't! Any fool knows that. Don't you see that Camden----" And I repeated what Frean had said. "Excuse me for being so short with you, Mr. Hannay, but you don't know what I've been through in the way of remorse, and these false hopes----"

"But, my dear boy, they aren't false; not a bit of it. I wouldn't say so if I wasn't absolutely sure. It's quite true that Red Bank is on the route you took, and that your assailant, in going from Sea Bright to Camden, would have no reason to pass through it. Yet the facts are that he _did_."

"What! How do you know?"

"Well, you say you met Mr. Varney and his niece in their car at about nine o'clock?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly sure of that. When I left my car, I noticed by the illuminated clock that it was a quarter to nine."

"And it was after ten when the woman and child were run over in Red Bank," said Mr. Hannay. "There is no question about that, and if you'd happened to read the account in the paper you'd have known it. Here it is; see for yourself." And he handed me the paper in question.

"Yes, I see that!" I exclaimed, reading the paragraph he had marked. "By George, I--I----" In my relief I got up and shook him by both hands. An unbearable load had lifted from my heart. After all, I _had_ escaped! The fatality had occurred at ten minutes past ten, and at that time I was lying unconscious behind a hedge near the Sea Bright station.

And then a horrible doubt assailed me. "But can I prove it?" I cried. "Will anybody believe me? I'm sure about the time; I observed other details accurately that night, even though I was hopelessly drunk. I observed things that were afterward proved to be correct. But you see what people will say--that I was drunk and couldn't have known the time."

"But Mr. Varney and his niece weren't drunk," said Mr. Hannay. "They will be able at least to approximate the hour when you talked with them at the crossroads. You may be sure of that."

"Yes, but I don't think Mr. Varney would lift a finger to save me from the gallows. I told you what happened when I was discharged. He hates me."

"U-m-m," murmured Mr. Hannay. "Just so. Well, we can do without his evidence, if need be. There's the man Taylor to prove where and how he found you early the next morning. If it was you who came back through Red Bank, how could the car be smashed to flinders at Camden near midnight and you found half unconscious at Sea Bright five hours later? How could you get there without being seen? No, it's impossible on the face of it. I tell you that the fact of another person having the car, and being killed in your place, explains everything, and we won't have any trouble proving your innocence."

"I only hope so," I said, "but Mr. Varney's evidence may be absolutely necessary. Now, Mr. Hannay, you've known my family since before I was born; you know, I dare say, things that even I don't?"

"Possibly," said the old lawyer cautiously.

"Well, have you ever heard of Theodore Varney previous to this? Do you know of any reason why he should be so bitter against my family? For I tell you it wasn't merely that I'd imposed on him; he had forgiven me posing as Joyce until he heard my real name. Then he went right up in the air. It wasn't that he believed me guilty of those two deaths and thought I was a coward in hiding; that was only part of it. Back of it all was a dislike for me personally because I was Peter Lawton. I'm sure of that."

Mr. Hannay stroked his chin. "Well, I suppose I'd better tell you, my boy; I can't very well keep it back now. He hates you because you are your father's son. You see, Mr. Varney was deeply in love with your mother."

I wasn't so greatly astonished at this information, for some such idea had occurred to me that morning in the car, when Varney spoke so bitterly of my father. "Then it is merely a case of a jealous and disappointed suitor still nursing a fancied grievance? Come, tell me all you know."

"Well, with all due respect to the dead, I'm afraid your father hardly treated Mr. Varney fairly--nor did your mother, either, for that matter. I knew all the interested parties personally, and can speak with authority. Varney and your father were very intimate friends, and it was the former who introduced the latter to the then Miss Canning. Varney and she had known each other almost from childhood, and though there was no official engagement it was common knowledge that they cared for each other, were pledged, in fact, and would eventually marry. Indeed, Varney confided this to his chum, your father. At this time, also--when your father first met your mother--the same understanding existed between your father and Varney's only sister----"

"Phew!" I exclaimed. "You can't mean Brenda Gelette's mother?"

"I do, Peter. You see the fearful mix-up that followed? Your father and mother fell in love with each other at first sight, one of those passionate, all-sacrificing attachments, not unknown to human history, which is bound to promote or end in tragedy. Miss Varney seems to have survived the shock of their sudden elopement--at least she eventually married--but it certainly ruined her brother's life.

"I should never have told you all this if you hadn't insisted," finished Mr. Hannay kindly, "and don't think I've exaggerated or overstated the case. Your mother was an honorable woman, your father an honorable man, and, though I've no experience of such things, it is clear that in this instance their mutual attachment overcame every scruple. But Mr. Varney is entirely wrong if he says your father broke your mother's heart. He did so only by dying--and she followed him quickly. Nor did he die in an alcoholic ward, as your Uncle Peter claimed, though I can't pretend he conserved either his fortune or his health."

"Well," I said at length, "it's not for me to judge. At any rate, I now understand Mr. Varney's cordial dislike for me, and I must say I don't blame him. I only wish I'd known about it."

I proceeded to put some adroit questions to the old lawyer concerning Mr. Varney, for here was one who had known him and his brother intimately and who might unwittingly give me some clew to the other's connection with the Black Company. I succeeded, however, in learning nothing that Scallon hadn't told me already.

We now discussed more material matters connected with my affairs, and I learned that my will had not been probated, and that my old quarters in the Belvedere, on Madison Avenue, were just as I had left them. I was glad to hear, too, that Watkins, whom I had had since starting my new mode of life, was still at his post.

"As you know," said Mr. Hannay, "the lease isn't up till the end of the year, and Watkins begged to be allowed to remain in charge of the apartments till they were sublet. It's a funny thing, but he said from the first he had a feeling you weren't dead at all, and might come walking in any day. About giving your story to the press, of course, you can't avoid that. Is it possible to keep Mr. Varney's name out of it?"

"Unfortunately not. Frean would tell all about my employment there if I didn't. By the way, has he made it up with his father? I heard he hadn't, but I'm not certain."

"You may be certain. The scamp's getting money from some quarter, according to all accounts of the way he's living, though I don't know who would employ him even for his parents' sake."

"Where do you suppose he's getting it from?"

Mr. Hannay shrugged. "Considering that crooked brokerage deal--he ought to have been jailed--I shouldn't be surprised if he was interested in some bucket shop, probably as a tout. A thoroughly bad egg, if you want my opinion. I hope you'll steer clear of him in future, Peter; he can't bring you any good. No, he can never make things right with his family, the time for that is past and the break is absolute and final. His people have stood all that is humanly possible, far more than is generally known. There are some people you can't do anything with, no matter how hard you try; people who seem to have no morals, in whom there is nothing to appeal. Arnold Frean is one of them; he never was any good and he never will be. I never could understand what you saw in him, why you made a companion of him."

"But I didn't," I replied. "He was at Princeton with me, you know, and after all, that means something. But I hardly knew him at college; we weren't in the same year, and in entirely different sets----"

"I dare say," interrupted Mr. Hannay grimly. "You'd no money to throw around then."

"No, and he had. He had too much. It wasn't until after I inherited Uncle Peter's check book that I really knew Frean, and I can't say I know much about him even now. I met him as I met dozens of others, people you don't seem to meet unless you've money. Perhaps you can tell me who his intimate friends are----"

"No, and I don't care; nobody to be proud of, I'll wager. And now, my boy, we'll trot down and see the district attorney; we just have time. There is another point in that newspaper article to which I wish to call your attention; you may have overlooked it. It states distinctly that the car came from the south and turned west, whereas you would have come from the north. Having no idea it wasn't you who were driving, the only supposition was that you'd gone south, returned to Red Bank, and struck out for Camden, aiming possibly at Philadelphia. But I doubt if you actually passed through Red Bank at all, for why was the car and its license number noted only on the return trip? No, you may rest assured that we'll have no difficulty in establishing your innocence."

Nor had we, at least nothing approaching what I had expected. But I couldn't help wondering what my reception would have been had I been poor and unknown. I don't mean to say that I could have bought an immunity bath, or clogged the wheels of justice with gold pieces, but--well, wealth and position certainly make a difference. Witness Frean's case, the influence that kept him out of jail. The mere fact that a man like Mr. Hannay was my friend made a profound difference in itself, and a story that might have seemed incredible from the lips of a pauper, seemed otherwise when voiced by a millionaire. At all events it was credited and, pending corroboration from Varney and the man Taylor--a mere matter of form, I was assured--I was released on my own recognizance. Of course I was entitled to be released, for I wasn't guilty, but had I been poor and unknown I should have been remanded to jail while my story was being investigated. That is the difference, I suppose, between wealth and poverty, influence and nonentity.

It was nearing six o'clock when I left the Tombs and, saying farewell to Mr. Hannay, boarded a subway local. At Fourteenth Street I got out, intending to change to the uptown express. The station presented its usual bedlam rush-hour appearance, and I had some trouble in bucking my way through to the first row waiting to rush the doors. I thought I heard my name called, but could see no one I knew. Then, just as the express drew in, some one gave me a violent shove, and I pitched headfirst to the rails.

I don't know to this day how I escaped. Nobody does. By all odds, I should have been pulped under the wheels or "third-railed" into eternity as quick as winking. I imagine, perhaps, my old football training helped me; I mean I knew instinctively how to fall without breaking any bones, and even if tackled and thrown from a totally unexpected quarter, to keep my wits and go on thinking. At all events I hit on my shoulder and scrambled over to the downtown rails in some occult fashion as the express with screeching brakes shot past, far too close for comfort.

Having no wish to figure further in the papers, I scrambled on to the downtown platform, waved a hand to the gaping crowd to show I was unhurt, and dodged up the steps to the street before most of the people realized what it was all about. I had got off with a bruised shoulder, though the Black Company had meant my life. It was a nice reception for a returned prodigal!