Part 4

BY A BARRISTER.

Some time ago, an agitation sprang up in favour of the amalgamation of the two legal professions in England, and the conduct thereafter of litigious business on lines more or less nearly approximating to the American system. The movement emanated, no doubt, from the town branch of the profession; for it is no secret that many solicitors are anxious to distinguish themselves in court by pleading their clients’ causes, in place of retaining counsel to do so for them. But, in the face of more burning questions, the agitation gradually died away.

It now seems not unlikely to be revived, as it is certain that sooner or later it must be. And an _ex cathedrâ_ utterance given by that eminently practical judge, Mr Justice Stephen, a short time ago, will tend to hasten the course of events in this matter. A case for trial before that judge was duly called on, when it was found that the plaintiff was unrepresented, his counsel being at the time engaged in another court. The plaintiff being unwilling, or at least unprepared, to conduct his own case—notwithstanding the growing tendency in favour of personally conducted cases—the judge was asked to allow the case to stand over, which he did, but not without giving a hint as to the possibility of future ‘reform.’ ‘If,’ said his lordship, ‘such an incident occurs often, it will become necessary to do away with the separation between solicitors and barristers.’ Just so. This is the way the question is regarded from the judicial point of view. When the judge is put to inconvenience, he speaks out; and if he is at all often put to inconvenience, he will act also. But inasmuch as, in most actions, each party is represented by more than one counsel—certainly no ‘distinguished’ or fashionable counsel will accept a brief without a junior—such inconvenience to a judge is of comparatively unfrequent occurrence; so that, although one of its members may occasionally be found to _speak_ in favour of amalgamation, little or no active assistance can be expected from the judicial body.

But how does the question affect other interests? Solicitors, as we have hinted, are in favour of amalgamation. It can hardly do them much harm, but must in many cases add to their professional incomes, which is of course all that, as a body, they want. Barristers are more opposed to it, but, we think, without much reason. A few, doubtless, will suffer; but the state of the advocate’s profession as a whole can hardly be worse than it is at present. There are barristers, it may be said, who earn fifteen or twenty thousand pounds a year; but they are not many—infinitely fewer in number than those who earn nothing at all—and they are probably well above the reach of competition, partly by reason of their known and exceptional ability, and partly because they have been placed by fashion on a pedestal which is too firm to crumble away, at least during their brief span of life. But the few who make such incomes may be compared to the large landowners whom Mr Henry George and his friends would rob to enrich (?) those who have no land. If all the incomes made at the Bar were added together, and their sum divided amongst all the barristers, each would have but a pittance, so overstocked is the profession. Hence, regarding barristers as forming a small community, and giving due consideration to the greatest happiness of the greatest number principle, it is pretty obvious that the Bar has really little to lose by the bringing about of amalgamation.

Now from the point of view of the public. It is clear that this largest interest must benefit by amalgamation. It would promote economy—an extremely great gain. It would practically mean the abolition of that middle-man who is so obnoxious to economists, so hurtful to the proper expression of delicate points, and so wasteful of time. It matters not to the public, as long as it is placed in direct communication with its counsel, whether that counsel be a solicitor or a barrister; but it is of great and increasing importance to the vast body of litigants that personal relations should be established between client and advocate; and this is what must sooner or later come to pass. Other advantages of the amalgamated system have been before urged here and elsewhere; they need not be again specified in detail. Technically, the probable effect of the system would be the immediate entering into partnership of counsel and solicitors; which would mean nothing to the general public except the nearer approach of counsel and the vastly increased possibility of personal interview with him. Solicitors, in fact, would for all practical purposes become barristers’ confidential clerks; they would do all the work they do now for settlement by their partner counsel; they would receive clients in chambers while their partners were engaged in court, and in the event of an unusual press of court-work, would conduct the minor cases through their trials. The aggregate advantages of such a reform are so obvious, that minor interests should not be considered in bringing it about; and we are therefore inclined to express a hope that Mr Justice Stephen’s criticism of the existing state of affairs may prove to be prophetic of the near future.

LADY FREDERICK’S DIAMONDS.

I, Arnold Blake, have had a queer up-and-down, checkered sort of life, and until I was nearing my fortieth year, was most persistently down in my luck. First, it was in Mexico that I tried my fortune, and failed. Then, tempted by an enthusiastic friend, I went to Genoa and set up there in partnership with him as a merchant. The life was a very healthy and happy one, but not what any one could call profitable, from a pecuniary point of view—in fact, quite the reverse. After a few years, finding it impossible, with both ends stretched to the uttermost, to make them meet, we gave that up; and I moved on to Nice, where I had two or three substantial friends. There, things took a turn for the better, and I gradually formed a niche for myself, in time becoming quite an authority in my own small circle. Then, acting on good advice, I started a branch bank in connection with a well-known one in London. This answered fairly well; I had just as much work as I cared to do, was able to pay my expenses, and had even begun to lay by a little hoard against the proverbial ‘rainy-day.’ Nice was a gay, bright town to live in, and I constantly met old friends, and made many pleasant new ones, who were passing through to the South, or spending two or three months there, or at Monte Carlo, for the fascinating pleasure of either losing their own money, or making a tidy little fortune out of somebody else’s pocket.

One afternoon, I was sitting in my small counting-house, writing for the English mail, when the door opened, and in came an old acquaintance, Sir Frederick O’Connor, with a parcel in his hand. ‘How d’ye do, Blake?’ said he cheerily. ‘I’ve come to you to get me out of a difficulty. These are my wife’s jewels. Why she has brought them with her, family diamonds and all, passes my understanding. I call it insane! Fact is I don’t relish the idea of waking up some fine morning to find my throat cut! I want to know if you will be so good as to keep them in your safe while we are here. Whenever Lady O’Connor wishes to dazzle her friends with them, I can easily come round and ask you for what she wants.’

Naturally, I willingly consented to find a corner for the jewels; and after I had taken an inventory of them, Sir Frederick himself placed them in an inner compartment, and I locked the door. I little thought what a dance those confounded diamonds should lead me!

A few days after this, at a large garden-party I met Lady O’Connor, young, pretty, and happy-looking. She shook hands cordially, expressed pleasure at meeting again, and asked if I thought the season would be a gay one. ‘By-the-by,’ she said, ‘it is very kind of you, Mr Blake, to take care of my valuables. Sir Frederick was quite in despair about them, until a happy thought suggested you as their protector. I am going to trouble you for some of them to-morrow. Fred will call for them; and do not be surprised if you see him bristling with bowie-knives and revolvers, for he has a fixed idea that the Nice ruffian has a keener nose for other people’s property than any other ruffian in the world.’

I answered that her lovely jewels were worthy of an escort armed to the teeth, and that I was very glad indeed to be of use to Sir Frederick and herself in any way.

The morning after this garden-party—it must have been about half-past four or five—my sleepy senses were completely scattered by my door being thrown violently open, and Roscoe, my combined valet and commissionaire, a quiet and respectful treasure, landing beside me as if shot out of a catapult. I knew at once that something very dreadful must have happened. Roscoe’s face of horror and despair would have made a valuable study for an artist.

‘Get up, sir, at once, and come down to the office. The safe has been broken open, and cleaned out, sir, quite empty!’ gasped Roscoe breathlessly, pale with excitement.

I cannot recollect what followed during the few minutes in which I hurriedly dressed, and Roscoe is far too considerate to have ever reminded me of that short scene. The first thing I _do_ remember is, finding myself in my office, clothed in a sketchy and uncomfortable manner, the victim of one of the most audacious burglaries that had taken place in Nice for a very long time. I stood gazing at my ransacked safe and rummaged drawers, and at the floor, strewn with papers, among which, here and there, I noticed a few gold pieces, which seemed as if the robbers had been interrupted or startled in some way or other. I was afraid to move from the spot on which I stood until the detective, whom I had sent Roscoe off in a _fiacre_ to fetch, should arrive, lest I might unwittingly destroy some small but important piece of evidence, which his experienced eyes would discover at a glance. In a very short time he appeared, and after a friendly word or two, commenced his investigations. He carefully examined the safe, the window, and the door. Nothing seemed to escape him. He took voluminous notes; measured a footmark which he discovered on the floor; but the footmark on further inquiry was found to be his own, which rather put him out.

I told him of the jewels which had been placed in my care so lately.

‘Your man informed me, monsieur, as we came, that you had diamonds of great value in your iron safe.’

A clammy dew broke out suddenly on my forehead, as I remembered that Lady O’Connor was counting on appearing in those same jewels at the prefecture ball that night.

‘On the strength of what your servant told me, monsieur,’ continued the detective, ‘I have already telegraphed to Marseilles, Genoa, and Turin, and have directed some of my most trustworthy men to be on the alert at the railway station and the port. I will send and let monsieur know the moment we get any trace of the stolen property.’

I made out a careful list of all I had lost, gave it to the detective, and then returned to my rooms to dress in a rather less superficial manner. The awful business of breaking the loss of the jewels to Sir Frederick and Lady O’Connor was now staring me in the face, and as I walked to their hotel I became a prey to the most paralysing nervousness I hope it will ever be my lot to endure. I was shown into a charming sitting-room, facing the sea, and though I did not look at anything round me, except the two people I had come to see, I remembered afterwards every detail of the scene.

They were at breakfast. The refreshing, sun-warmed morning air breathed softly in through the open window, scented by the mignonette, which grew thickly in boxes on the balcony outside. Lady O’Connor looked very graceful and pretty in a long loose gown of some soft Indian silk, trimmed with lace. Sir Frederick, also in comfortable unconventional garments, was reading aloud a letter, over which they were both laughing merrily as I was announced. They welcomed me warmly, looking as if early and unexpected visitors were quite a common occurrence, and between them, carried on the usual preliminary chit-chat about the lovely weather, the delight of being able to breakfast with the window open in the month of November, the view, &c., as long as the servant remained in the room, while I stood looking from one to the other, solemnly bowing my head in silent answer to their cheerful remarks. It is not necessary to relate what passed; suffice it to say that both Sir Frederick and Lady O’Connor possessed an unusual share of kindness of heart and of sympathy with other people’s misfortunes, and they endeavoured to make my unpleasant position as easy for me as possible.

Then followed a week of restless activity. I haunted the police bureau; if I was not there two or three times a day myself, I sent Roscoe to find out for me if any telegrams had arrived on the all-important subject, any clue been found to throw the smallest light upon it.

One lovely afternoon, I was walking down the Promenade des Anglais in anything but a cheerful frame of mind, indeed I do not think I ever felt so utterly depressed before. Nothing whatever had been heard of the missing jewels; and during a long consultation that morning with Aigunez the detective, he had told me that he firmly believed that the robbery was the work of one man, and that the jewels were still in Nice. I had been calling at one of the pretty villas beyond the Var, and was now making my way down the side of the Promenade next the houses, to the _Hôtel de la Mediterranée_, to talk over Aigunez’s last suggestion with Sir Frederick O’Connor. As I was passing the high solid walls of the now quite unused cemetery, I noticed that the door was ajar; and expecting to find there old Baroni the care-taker, whom I knew, I pushed open the door and entered. Nobody was there: all was silent and solitary. Here and there were untidy heaps of rubbish; tangled, overgrown bushes; and propped against the walls were two or three gravestones that had covered graves from which the remains had been removed to some family vault elsewhere. I could not help wondering how much Baroni received for the amount of care and labour he bestowed on the old English burial-ground. When my eyes, which were uncommonly sharp ones, had become accustomed to the dark shadows thrown by the walls, and the brilliant glare where the shadow-line ended, I noticed that a gravestone lying in rather a retired spot appeared, by the fresh-looking footmarks round it, to have been lately moved. I do not think that this circumstance would have roused my curiosity in the then preoccupied state of my mind, had it not been that close beside it a large branch of a neighbouring tree had been bent down and fastened firmly to the ground by means of a stone. This arrested my attention, it was so evidently intended to mark the spot. Exerting all my strength, I pushed the heavy stone sufficiently to one side to enable me to see that it concealed a small pit, recently dug, by the look of the mould round it. It was empty! I managed to replace the gravestone, and left the cemetery, carefully closing the door behind me, and glancing round to see if my actions had been observed.

I hurried on to the hotel, wondering and conjecturing as to the possible meaning of the curious little mystery I had just discovered. That small oblong pit, for what purpose could it have been prepared? My first idea was that a murder had been or was about to be committed, and in this way it was intended to get rid of the victim’s body; but the hole was certainly not large enough for a grown person. Was it possible that it was to be the unblessed, unadorned tomb of some little one, done to death by pitiless earthly guardians, who found its frail helpless life a burden to them? That was too hideous a fancy. Suddenly, the thought struck me that it might be a hiding-place for property! By Jove, the diamonds!

At that moment I reached the _Mediterranée_, and going up the broad stairs three at a time in my excitement, I knocked at the door of the O’Connors’ sitting-room. Sir Frederick was alone, smoking, with the last number of the _World_ in his hand.

‘I felt sure that you would come in this afternoon,’ he said, as he pushed his cigar case towards me, ‘so I put off going to the club.—What is the latest intelligence?’

I first told him of Aigunez’s opinion, that the jewels were still in Nice, an opinion which had now gained for me a double significance. Then I unfolded my own budget, and told him of all I had seen in the old cemetery which had been closed for so many years.

This put Sir Frederick into the wildest spirits. ‘We’ve got them now, Blake!’ he exclaimed, ‘and no mistake about it. They’ve run themselves into a nice trap. Of _course_, these are the rascals we’re after.—What do you say?—Don’t set my heart upon it, in case of disappointment. Nonsense! my dear fellow. Don’t you see they cannot get rid of diamonds like those in a hurry; and not being able to leave the town puts them in a regular fix? It is very dangerous for them to keep such valuable things about them, and now, they flatter themselves that they have found an uncommonly safe hiding-place. Why, Fate must have led you by the very nose to that door this afternoon!’

I laughed. ‘It is as well for us, perhaps, that I did not feel her fingers, or things might have turned out differently. We had better settle our plan of action for to-night, as it won’t do to let this chance slip. How fortunate there is no moon. It will be as black as Erebus inside those high walls.’

‘Our best plan,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘is, I think, to hide ourselves there as soon as it is dark. We may have a long time to wait; but then, again, we may not, and we are much less likely to be observed if we slip in early in the evening.’

‘Then I will call for you, Sir Frederick, as soon as it is dark enough,’ I answered. ‘And allow me to suggest that we do not take Aigunez into our confidence, for it will be a triumph indeed to cut out the far-famed French detective in his own line of business.’

I left the hotel with a lighter heart than I had carried about with me for some time. Though I had cautioned Sir Frederick not to be too sanguine, I was myself convinced that we should have the diamonds in our possession before morning. I went back to my rooms, wrote some letters, dined, and then tried to quiet my excited mind by pacing up and down the sitting-room, smoking my usual post-prandial cigar, till I thought it was sufficiently dark to venture forth. The church clocks were striking ten as I arrived at the _Mediterranée Hôtel_, and I found Sir Frederick performing the same restless quarter-deck constitutional on the pavement outside.

‘So glad you’ve come, Blake; I’m anxious to be off now.—What is that in your hand?’

‘A small lantern,’ I answered. ‘We shall find it useful.’

‘Got a revolver?’ inquired Sir Frederick in a solemn whisper.

‘No,’ said I, in an equally sepulchral voice; ‘fists are my weapons.’

‘Pooh!’ returned he. ‘Of what use are English fists when you have an Italian knife in your ribs?—Here we are!’

The door was exactly as I had left it. There was not a sign of anybody near us, so we went quickly through, closing it again behind us. We, stood for a minute silent and still, until our eyes had become more accustomed to the intense darkness round us; then we groped our way, with two or three stumbles against tombstones and over mounds of earth, to the spot where I fancied the marked stone must be, and in a few seconds I discovered it without doubt, by falling over it. As I was collecting myself and my scattered senses together again, after this sudden and unpleasant downfall, I heard close beside me a volley of muttered execrations from Sir Frederick, who declared, in an agitated whisper, that he was sure he had caught a ghost or something very like it. At the risk of discovery, I opened the lantern, and for one second threw the light on the object he held in his hands. It was an unusually large bat, which, disturbed by our intrusion on its own domain, must have flown or dropped on to Sir Frederick from the tree under which he was standing. He quickly shook it off; and without further adventure we concealed ourselves in some thick bushes near the grave. It would have required the eyes of a lynx to discover us, hidden as we were in the midst of a mass of evergreens, overgrown with a network of tangled creepers, and the high black wall behind. There we waited, keenly watchful. Not a leaf stirred. A perfectly dead silence lay over everything, as if the fairy of the Sleeping Beauty story of our childhood held nature bound under her spell. A mouldy, damp, earthy vapour rose from the ground at my feet, and seemed to weigh me down as if it were something solid.