Arthur Morrison - British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated)

“I think, Lord Stanway,” Hewitt said, “that perhaps I had better not say until I have quite finished my inquiries, in case of mistakes. The case is quite an extraordinary one, and of quite a different character from what one would at first naturally imagine, and I must be very careful to guard against the possibility of error. I have very little fear of a mistake, however, and I hope I may wait on you in a few hours at Piccadilly with news. I have only to see the policemen.”

“Certainly, come whenever you please. But why see the policemen? They have already most positively stated that they saw nothing whatever suspicious in the house or near it.”

“I shall not ask them anything at all about the house,” Hewitt responded. “I shall just have a little chat with them—about the weather.” And with a smiling bow he turned away, while Lord Stanway stood and gazed after him, with an expression that implied a suspicion that his special detective was making a fool of him.

In rather more than an hour Hewitt was back in Mr. Claridge’s shop. “Mr. Claridge,” he said, “I think I must ask you one or two questions in private. May I see you in your own room?”

They went there at once, and Hewitt, pulling a chair before the window, sat down with his back to the light. The dealer shut the door, and sat opposite him, with the light full in his face.

“Mr. Claridge,” Hewitt proceeded slowly, “ When did you first find that Lord Stanway’s cameo was a forgery? ”

Claridge literally bounced in his chair. His face paled, but he managed to stammer sharply: “What—what—what d’you mean? Forgery? Do you mean to say I sell forgeries? Forgery? It wasn’t a forgery!”

“Then,” continued Hewitt in the same deliberate tone, watching the other’s face the while, “if it wasn’t a forgery, why did you destroy it and burst your trap-door and desk to imitate a burglary ?”

The sweat stood thick on the dealer’s face, and he gasped. But he struggled hard to keep his faculties together, and ejaculated hoarsely: “Destroy it? What—what—I didn’t—didn’t destroy it!”

“Threw it into the river, then—don’t prevaricate about details.”

“No—no—it’s a lie! Who says that? Go away! You’re insulting me!” Claridge almost screamed.

“Come, come, Mr. Claridge,” Hewitt said more placably, for he had gained his point; “don’t distress yourself, and don’t attempt to deceive me—you can’t, I assure you. I know everything you did before you left here last night—everything.”

Claridge’s face worked painfully. Once or twice he appeared to be on the point of returning an indignant reply, but hesitated, and finally broke down altogether.

“Don’t expose me, Mr. Hewitt!” he pleaded; “I beg you won’t expose me! I haven’t harmed a soul but myself. I’ve paid Lord Stanway every penny back, and I never knew the thing was a forgery till I began to clean it. I’m an old man, Mr. Hewitt, and my professional reputation has been spotless until now. I beg you won’t expose me.”

Hewitt’s voice softened. “Don’t make an unnecessary trouble of it,” he said. “I see a decanter on your sideboard—let me give you a little brandy and water. Come, there’s nothing criminal, I believe, in a man’s breaking open his own desk, or his own trap-door, for that matter. Of course I’m acting for Lord Stanway in this affair, and I must, in duty, report to him without reserve. But Lord Stanway is a gentleman, and I’ll undertake he’ll do nothing inconsiderate of your feelings, if you’re disposed to be frank. Let us talk the affair over; tell me about it.”

“It was that swindler Hahn who deceived me in the beginning,” Claridge said. “I have never made a mistake with a cameo before, and I never thought so close an imitation was possible. I examined it most carefully, and was perfectly satisfied, and many experts examined it afterward, and were all equally deceived. I felt as sure as I possibly could feel that I had bought one of the finest, if not actually the finest, cameos known to exist. It was not until after it had come back from Lord Stanway’s, and I was cleaning it the evening before last, that in course of my work it became apparent that the thing was nothing but a consummately clever forgery. It was made of three layers of molded glass, nothing more nor less. But the glass was treated in a way I had never before known of, and the surface had been cunningly worked on till it defied any ordinary examination. Some of the glass imitation cameos made in the latter part of the last century, I may tell you, are regarded as marvelous pieces of work, and, indeed, command very fair prices, but this was something quite beyond any of those.

“I was amazed and horrified. I put the thing away and went home. All that night I lay awake in a state of distraction, quite unable to decide what to do. To let the cameo go out of my possession was impossible. Sooner or later the forgery would be discovered, and my reputation—the highest in these matters in this country, I may safely claim, and the growth of nearly fifty years of honest application and good judgment—this reputation would be gone forever. But without considering this, there was the fact that I had taken five thousand pounds of Lord Stanway’s money for a mere piece of glass, and that money I must, in mere common honesty as well as for my own sake, return. But how? The name of the Stanway Cameo had become a household word, and to confess that the whole thing was a sham would ruin my reputation and destroy all confidence—past, present, and future—in me and in my transactions. Either way spelled ruin. Even if I confided in Lord Stanway privately, returned his money, and destroyed the cameo, what then? The sudden disappearance of an article so famous would excite remark at once. It had been presented to the British Museum, and if it never appeared in that collection, and no news were to be got of it, people would guess at the truth at once. To make it known that I myself had been deceived would have availed nothing. It is my business not to be deceived; and to have it known that my most expensive specimens might be forgeries would equally mean ruin, whether I sold them cunningly as a rogue or ignorantly as a fool. Indeed, my pride, my reputation as a connoisseur, is a thing near to my heart, and it would be an unspeakable humiliation to me to have it known that I had been imposed on by such a forgery. What could I do? Every expedient seemed useless but one—the one I adopted. It was not straightforward, I admit; but, oh! Mr. Hewitt, consider the temptation—and remember that it couldn’t do a soul any harm. No matter who might be suspected, I knew there could not possibly be evidence to make them suffer. All the next day—yesterday—I was anxiously worrying out the thing in my mind and carefully devising the—the trick, I’m afraid you’ll call it, that you by some extraordinary means have seen through. It seemed the only thing—what else was there? More I needn’t tell you; you know it. I have only now to beg that you will use your best influence with Lord Stanway to save me from public derision and exposure. I will do anything—pay anything—anything but exposure, at my age, and with my position.”

“Well, you see,” Hewitt replied thoughtfully, “I’ve no doubt Lord Stanway will show you every consideration, and certainly I will do what I can to save you in the circumstances; though you must remember that you have done some harm—you have caused suspicions to rest on at least one honest man. But as to reputation, I’ve a professional reputation of my own. If I help to conceal your professional failure, I shall appear to have failed in my part of the business.”