Part 3

One day a City man, who was given to betting, and whom we shall call A, received a visit from a friend addicted to the same weakness, who shall be designated B. Locking the room door and sinking his voice to a whisper, B announced that he had made a wonderful discovery by which betting could be reduced to a system of all prizes and no blanks, and consequently a fortune very quickly realised. ‘Now is your chance,’ he said, ‘if you like to join me. I shall give no explanation of the method; come and see for yourself.’

An appointment was made for the next morning, the date of the X races, at the Z (betting) Club.

‘Have you anything on this race?’ was the first inquiry made by B as A came into the room.

The answer was in the negative.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said B, drawing him into a corner, for the place, as usual at such times, was crowded with betting-men; ‘the final list for the twelve o’clock race will be telegraphed here in a few minutes.’ (The Z, it need scarcely be said, had its private tape.) ‘Lay all the money you like, at any odds, upon the horse I shall select, and I will guarantee that it shall be the winner. But mind, you must not lose a second after I have given you the hint. Go to the nearest bookmaker in the room and make your bet on the instant.’

A minute or two afterwards, the electric bell gave the signal, and there was a general rush to the machine. B was one of the first to scan the list: there were five runners. He passed his finger down the names until he paused almost imperceptibly upon Y, and looked at his companion, who, although it was the very last horse he would have thought of backing, boldly called out: ‘I’ll take the odds against Y.’

Y being a rank outsider, a bookmaker laid the odds on the instant. One minute afterwards came the announcement that Y was the winner.

After they left the club together, B unfolded the mystery. ‘When the list of runners was telegraphed,’ he said, ‘the race was already won.’

‘But how could that be?’ asked A. ‘The race was run at twelve, and the time on the telegram was three minutes to twelve.’

‘The time was falsified,’ was the reply. ‘The message was not wired until past the hour, nor until the winner was declared.’

‘And how could you fix upon the right one?’ demanded A.

‘There was the minutest dash on the tape against the name of the winner, only noticeable by one in the secret. You see, the clerks are in the pay of an Association. There are three or four other clubs beside this where we get the telegrams in the same manner, so that we vary our times. Here, for instance, we put upon the twelve o’clock race; at another, upon the one; at a third, upon the two, and so on.’

We may add that the fraud was ultimately discovered, and the clerks who worked it severely punished.

The next trick we shall relate could not be practised now, in consequence of an alteration in the Turf customs. It was worked in this fashion by two confederates. Let us suppose it to be the Lewes races. One of the two goes down to Lewes on the previous day, and by the last post sends a letter addressed _in pencil_ and unsealed to his brother-rogue in London. Inside the envelope is a note addressed to a bookmaker, simply containing the words, ‘Please back ____ for so much.—Yours truly, JONES’—a blank being left for the horse’s name. This missive arrives in town by the morning post, and the instant the race is run the name of the winner is telegraphed to rogue number two, who then inserts the name of the horse, rubs out his own name and address from the envelope, writes that of the bookmaker instead, and seals it up. Everything is now perfect in appearance: there are the Lewes postmark of the previous night, the London of the morning, and the seal untampered with. We need scarcely say that the handwriting appears to be the same, and, according to the rules of racing at that time, if a letter be delayed in transmission through the post, the bookmaker is still made answerable for its contents.

And now, how is it to be got into his hands without exciting suspicion? There are several ways of doing this: sometimes he may be at the club, and then the letter is dropped into the letter-box; but the favourite dodge is to dress up a man as a postman, with bag and a bundle of letters in his hand, who will deliver it at the victim’s office; or the confederate will watch for the real postman, walk behind him, drop the letter on the pavement, and then call out to the carrier: ‘Hillo, you’ve dropped one of your letters.’

The man will pick it up, and, being almost certain to have others addressed to the same person, innocently play the rogue’s game. As to the bookmaker, all he can do is to write a letter of complaint to St Martin’s-le-Grand and pay the money.

You cannot touch pitch without being defiled, or play with edged tools without being cut, says the old proverb; and you cannot associate with rogues and play the rogue without occasionally being swindled yourself.

MISS MASTERMAN’S DISCOVERY.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Since she left the rectory, she had had two letters from Lady O’Leary, a passage in the second having made a powerful impression upon her: ‘Since your departure, my dear Phœbe, I have had leisure for much reflection on the subject of your frightful discovery; and after considerable cogitation, I have arrived at the conclusion that it is certainly your bounden duty to acquaint the bishop with the conduct of Mr Draycott, and to do so at once before you return to Sunnydale. I should advise you to write and inclose that abandoned widow’s note. I fancy that we are not the only ones who are beginning to see through this sanctimonious villain of a rector. I observed last Sunday that several of the congregation, amongst them Lady Conyers and General Scott and his family, who always stay for a chat with the Draycotts after service, left the church as quickly as possible, as if to avoid speaking to any of the family. Mrs Penrose was not at church; no doubt she had her reasons for staying away, though I heard from Miss Jones that it was given out that it was a bad headache that kept her at home.’

From Lady O’Leary’s statement, it was not clear if Mrs Penrose’s headache had been publicly announced in church or not; and the worthy lady had also omitted to mention that it was entirely owing to her own hints and innuendoes, industriously dropped here and there, accompanied by significant looks of unutterable meaning, that the mind of the parish was being considerably exercised with grave doubts as to Mr Draycott’s moral character. The letter went on to say that invitations had been issued for a large evening party at the rectory on the following Thursday. Lady O’Leary strongly urged Miss Masterman so to time her return as to be present at it, adding: ‘I intend to go, as I feel it my duty to neglect no opportunity of collecting evidence which may serve to deliver our hearths and homes from the contaminating presence of the shameless Draycott!’

On reading this, Miss Masterman considered that there was no further proof wanting of the enormity of the rector’s guilt. Another suspicious circumstance was, that she had received no invitation, and in three days the party would take place. She therefore felt convinced that the rector, dreading lest her keen eye should detect more than would be noticed by the shallow members of his own family, had made some excuse to prevent Mrs Draycott from bidding her to the festivity; consequently, resolving to hesitate no longer, she sat down and indited the following letter:

_To the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of ——._

MY LORD—I venture, as a temporary resident in the parish of Sunnydale, to call to your lordship’s notice some heinous irregularities in the conduct of the Rev. Stephen Draycott, rector of that parish. I should indeed blush to record the details of his guilt in any words of mine; but the inclosed note, addressed to him by a person who calls herself ‘Mrs Penrose,’ will, I think, speak for itself. The individual whom I allude to is, I have every reason to fear, an astute adventuress; and should your Lordship think it worth while to make further inquiries respecting her, I have no doubt that sufficient evidence will speedily be found to substantiate my statements in every respect.—I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s most obedient humble servant,

(MISS) PHŒBE MASTERMAN.

Miss Masterman next wrote a letter to the unconscious Mrs Draycott, fixing the following Friday for her return, at the same time fully intending to make some excuse for arriving unexpectedly on Thursday afternoon instead, so as to be in time for the party in the evening. She then sent a few lines to Lady O’Leary acquainting her with all she had done; and after seeing her letters posted, she congratulated herself on the courage and resolution with which she had carried out what she believed to be a duty to society.

On Thursday, Miss Masterman left Bradborough early in the morning, having so arranged her journey that she would arrive at Sunnydale about six, which, as she calculated, would give her time to unpack and dress for the evening. But, by an unfortunate chance, it happened that as the train by which she travelled during the first part of her journey was delayed, it would be quite impossible to be at the rectory much before eleven o’clock P.M. Even Miss Masterman felt that that would be too late an hour at which to arrive unexpectedly; so she made up her mind that her only course would be to go to the village inn for the night, her one consolation being, that Lady O’Leary would be sure to give her a full and particular account of all that occurred at the rectory.

The alteration in her arrangements was most annoying to Miss Masterman, who, like many other rich people, if she made a plan, expected, as a matter of course, that it should be rigidly adhered to. During four hours which she had to wait at a junction, she sat and brooded over her grievances, waxing more and more grim as she did so. To add to her irritation, the rain began to come down in torrents; and the cold and draughty station was made additionally comfortless by the damp air which came in through every door and window, and penetrated to every bone in Miss Masterman’s body.

At length, however, the dreary journey came to an end; and on reaching her destination, she took a fly, and ordered the man to drive her to the only decent inn that Sunnydale could boast. By this time it was past eleven o’clock. The rain had ceased, and the moon was shining brightly, throwing streams of silvery light on all around, and bringing every object into unusual prominence. In order to reach the inn, it was necessary to pass Fern Lodge, the pretty cottage residence of Mrs Penrose. Fancying she heard voices, Miss Masterman leaned forward and looked out of the window. What was her horror and amazement to see Mr Draycott gallantly escorting Mrs Penrose to her door! There was no mistaking the rector’s tall figure and dignified deportment. But the widow! Dressed in what appeared to be an elegant costume, her bare arms and neck, plainly visible through her black lace shawl, were gleaming with diamonds! But even this was not all! The bright moonlight falling on her upturned face as she smiled upon Mr Draycott, plainly revealed powder and rouge! Slowly the pair advanced towards the house, and as a turn in the road hid them from sight, Mr Draycott was bending over his companion, apparently engaged in earnest conversation.

Miss Masterman sank back in the fly in the greatest agitation. Her worst suspicions were now confirmed! and by the time she arrived at the inn, she felt fairly exhausted with excitement. Miss Masterman at once requested to be shown to her room; and during the greater part of the night she lay awake, thinking over the startling discoveries she had made and their probable results. On one point she had quite made up her mind—that nothing would induce her to remain any longer under the same roof with the rector. So she arranged with the hostess of the _Sunnydale Arms_ that she would stay there for a week—to await events. At an early hour she called upon Lady O’Leary; but, to her great disappointment, she found that lady confined to her room with such a severe attack of gout, that she had been unable to be present at the rectory on the previous evening. The invalid listened with greedy interest to Miss Masterman’s revelations, and for the moment she forgot the pain she was enduring in the delight of hearing about Mrs Penrose’s rouge, and especially the diamonds, which were ‘confirmation strong,’ if any were needed, of the words in the fatal letter. On her side, Lady O’Leary had little to tell Miss Masterman, except that two days ago she had seen Magdalen Draycott, who told her that they only expected about half the number they had asked to the party, as so many had refused. The girl had also said that her mother was a good deal worried about it; from which Lady O’Leary concluded that things were coming to a crisis, and that people were beginning to see the unprincipled Draycott in his true colours. The interview between the two ladies was terminated by a paroxysm of agony which seized upon the invalid, and completely incapacitated her for further conversation.

Miss Masterman returned to the inn for lunch, and then prepared for her momentous visit to the rectory; for she had resolved to beard the lion in his den, and to denounce him in the presence of his family as a hypocrite. On arriving at the rectory, she was told by the servant who appeared in answer to her imperious knock, that the rector was at that time engaged with the churchwardens and others on parish business, and could not be interrupted.

‘My business will not admit of delay,’ replied Miss Masterman. ‘I must insist upon seeing the rector at once.’ Then, as the servant endeavoured to expostulate—‘No words!’ continued the spinster; ‘conduct me to him at once.’

The servant then led the way, though with evident reluctance, and throwing open the drawing-room door, announced Miss Masterman.

Bristling with conscious virtue, her tall form drawn up to its fullest height, she intrepidly advanced, seeming to breathe out threatenings and slaughter in her progress, and her whole appearance formidable to the last degree.

The dining-room was full of people, who were seated round the long table, at the head of which presided the rector. The two churchwardens were seated near him. The rest of the party included Mrs Draycott, Lady Conyers, General Scott, and many of the leading residents of Sunnydale, who had met to discuss some necessary alterations in the hours of the church services. At sight of Miss Masterman, a dead silence fell upon the assembly. Nothing daunted, she advanced to Mrs Draycott, and held out her hand; but, to her surprise, she was repulsed. She was then addressed by the rector, who, rising from his chair, said in dignified accents: ‘If you wish to speak to me, Miss Masterman, I will come to you presently in the study. At present, I am engaged, as you see, with my friends.’

‘I can perfectly understand your motives in wishing to speak to me without witnesses, Mr Draycott,’ replied she; ‘but you shall not escape so easily. What I have to say shall be said here, in the hearing of your wife, and of the friends whom you have so grossly deceived.’

‘I spoke for your own sake, madam, not mine,’ said the rector, as he turned pale with anger. ‘But since you insist upon it, pray, let my friends hear what excuse you have to offer for this uncalled-for intrusion.’

‘I wish to acquaint them with your real character,’ answered Miss Masterman firmly. ‘You know that you are an unprincipled man and a profligate.’

At these audacious words, all the company rose to their feet, with the exception of Mr Sheldon, the rector’s churchwarden, a young and rising solicitor, who—his professional instincts instantly on the alert—scented legal proceedings, and began quickly and silently to take notes of all that passed. The other churchwarden, Mr Blare, a little puffy, red-faced man, with a temper that was the terror of all the naughty boys in the parish, after vainly trying to express his wrath articulately, sank back into his chair again gasping and snorting, till his face assumed an apoplectic hue that was truly alarming. The rest of the assembly loudly expressed their indignation at Miss Masterman’s extraordinary allegations; when above the din rang out the rector’s clear and penetrating voice. ‘My friends,’ he cried, ‘will you be seated, and listen to me?’ Then, as they obeyed in silence, he turned to the furious woman before him, and continued: ‘May I ask, Miss Masterman, by what right you abstracted a letter from my study, and then took the unwarrantable liberty of sending it to the bishop?’

‘I wished to open the bishop’s eyes to your real character,’ replied Miss Masterman. ‘I read that letter by the merest accident, and I felt that it was only right that others should be undeceived as well as myself.’

‘And are you aware,’ demanded Mr Draycott sternly, ‘that you have rendered yourself liable to an action for libel?’

‘Certainly not,’ answered Miss Masterman, ‘for I have only spoken the truth. It is of no use to try and bully, Mr Draycott; your character has now been discovered.’

At this crisis, Miss Masterman was interrupted by an angry snort from Mr Blare, who, after making another futile attempt to express himself coherently, subsided into a violent fit of coughing, after which, he contented himself with giving vent to a short jeering laugh whenever Miss Masterman spoke, in a manner that irritated that lady almost beyond endurance.

‘Perhaps, before you indulge in any more strong language, you will be good enough to listen to a few words of explanation,’ proceeded the rector. ‘The letter which you purloined from my study referred merely to some theatricals. My wife had written a little play in which Mrs Penrose was to take part; the play was to be acted last night at a party in this house, which had been purposely kept a secret from you on account of your known dislike of all theatrical entertainments. The articles alluded to in Mrs Penrose’s letter to me were required by her for the part she was to play. Had you mentioned the matter to me or to any member of my family, you would have heard the truth, and spared yourself and us much unnecessary pain.’

‘Then,’ gasped Miss Masterman, ‘when I saw you and Mrs Penrose at eleven o’clock last night’——

‘I was escorting her home, after her kindness in helping us,’ replied Mr Draycott. Then, as his voice trembled with suppressed anger, he continued: ‘I have been this morning, thanks to your impertinent interference, subjected to a severe cross-examination by my bishop; and though I trust he is now convinced of the falsehood of your allegations, I have been put in a most painful position. Owing to you and Lady O’Leary—who has not scrupled to spread scandalous reports about me in my own parish—I have been cut by some of my most valued friends; and if I refrain from prosecuting you both for libel, it is only on condition that you offer a full and ample apology for your most wicked and uncalled-for assertions.’

As Miss Masterman heard these words, she felt ready to sink through the ground, for she at once saw the folly and wickedness of her conduct in its true light. All her assurance deserted her, and she feebly tried to falter out a few words of regret; but the rector sternly interrupted her. ‘That is not sufficient, Miss Masterman,’ said he. ‘I must trouble you to write at once to the bishop, and also to send a paragraph to the local papers, to retract every word that you and Lady O’Leary have said against my character. Should you, or she, refuse to do me this justice, I shall immediately commence proceedings against you both!’

Here the solicitor interposed with: ‘I am in a position to warn Miss Masterman that should Mr Draycott determine to institute proceedings for libel, the damages in this case might be excessive.’

Baffled, confounded, and for the first time in her life completely cowed, Miss Masterman looked helplessly around her, and had the mortification of seeing Lady Conyers, General Scott, those rich and influential members of the congregation, whose friendship she had so sedulously cultivated, turn their backs upon her in utter contempt, as she passed down the room; even kind Mrs Draycott averted her eyes from her; and her equanimity was by no means restored when, on reaching the door, she found that it had been left partially open, and that the whole of the preceding conversation had been overheard by Master Hubert, who was now turning somersaults in the hall, as Miss Masterman more than suspected, in celebration of her own discomfiture.

It is scarcely necessary to add that Miss Masterman and her friend were only too thankful to accept the rector’s terms, and so escape the just penalty of their conduct; and whenever, after this, Miss Masterman felt inclined to give too free license to her tongue, the rising temptation was instantly subdued by the recollection of the mischief once wrought by that unruly member during her summer holiday in the parish of Sunnydale.

PHOTOGRAPHIC STAR-CHARTING.

It is now some years since photography was first called to the assistance of the astronomer, and the results which have been achieved show that it will play a still more important part in the future. A description of all its advantages would carry us far beyond the limits of the present article; but we mention four, as they are necessary to the understanding of the subject.

The power which the sensitive film possesses of recording the appearance of a bright object to whose light it has been exposed for only a minute fraction of a second, has enabled us to obtain pictures of the sun that are much more accurate than ordinary drawings. The camera, moreover, has the faculty of seeing a great deal in a very short space of time. If we confine our attention to a small area, a very few moments suffice to show us all that is to be seen by the naked eye; persistent looking for half an hour would only tire our eyes without enabling us to see anything at first invisible. It is different with the camera; the longer the light is permitted to fall on the plate, the more details do we find in the resulting picture. The fact that some rays are more effective (photographically) than others has enabled Dr Huggins to photograph, in full sunlight, that extremely faint solar appendage, the corona, which is visible to the eye only when the intense light of the sun is hidden as during a total eclipse.