LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2376, 14 November 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

CURIOUB CIRCUMSTANTIAL PUZZLE. A lawyer's story. ("London Society.") (Concluded ) ' You mußt make up your mind to it. I know what the law is,' said Mr Biehards ; «and—well, not to minco matters, I've already got our police-sergeant waiting in the next room. A messenger from the bank can despatch any summons to any of your friends, if yon'll write it down. Y?s—it la in my power to give you into custody on suspicion of having forged a cheque which you yourself admit has passed through the hands of no third parties -a cheque for £SO signed John Buller. And as to why I have particular reasons for my belief, I don't mind telling you It's because the bank here has had special notice from the chief branch at Carcester to cash no cheques signed " John Buller" till we've communicated with the drawer, and to detain the person presenting them, whoever he may be—unless the cheques bear a certain private sign. There's reason for that, yon may be sure. And there la tho sign on every one of these chequps —except the one for £so.' ' Vou mean to say that this cheque for £SO is the only one unmarked ?' ' The only one.' ' Let me see it, if yon please.' He held it bo that I might see It, taking care that I shonld have no chance of wresting it from his hands. I certainly could not blame him any longer for over zeal, seeing it was on my own advice he was aoting. Bit what room could I find for a single thought, save that an unmarked cheque, as like that presented by Adam Brown as a cheque could be had been received straight from J ohn Bullor's own hands by my own? Surely it looked more like witchcraft than forgery. And yet Adam's effective confession of guilt, and the regularity with which the undoubted forged cheques had been presented—l oonld not make head or tail of it all. I must have been bewildered ; I must have seemed confused, as if with guilt or fright, for I was confused in reality. I could not even affect the indignation of injured honesty ; I was not indignant with Mr Richards for being auspicious of what might be witchcraft, but certainly hod all the air of a forgery—l, Charles Standlsh, being the forger! 'lt is utterly unintelligible,' said I, using the common phrase of people who won't, rather than can't, explaio things that seem going against them; ' but lam sure of one thing—Charles Standlsh of Caroester I am. And I don't want to stay in Redport till Monday. I will telegraph, as you say. I'll send word to my wife—but no ; she's not in Carcester either juat now. I must send for one of the clerks at the office, I'm afraid, and make everybody wonder at what I can have been doing at Redport to need proof of my identity. Give me a form, and I'll write a message for my clerk ' All I could do was to send off six telegrams to six different people, in the bare hope that one of them might bring over to Redport some respectable citizens of Carcester before the very laßt train. My office was already closed when the message to It was delivered. Not one brought a soul. In effect. I was a prisoner on suspicion of forgery—and I had in truth presented an unquestionably forged cheque that bad been through no hands but my own ! It was the most unaccountable mystery I had ever known ; and it kept me from sleeping, even more than the discomfort of my cell, as much as if I were really a conscious sharer in the villanies of Adam Brown.

It was not till Monday afternoon tha I received the welcome news that John Buller was on his way to see me at tho police station in company with Mr Richards. I must say that I had become more anxious now about getting home as fast as I could than about anything else in the world. It is not an amusing thing to be treated, in a stracge place, as a suspected felon ; and I have held very strong views about the treatment of unconvicted prisoners ever since that Bedport Sunday. ' Here he is, sir,' said Mr Richards ; * this is the —the gentleman who presented that cheque on (Saturday morning. I hope and trust it's all right; but in these times, you see, one can't be too—' ' Thank heaven, at last!' said I, springing from my seat, and holding out my hand ; ' I've never passed so long a day since I was born; but I certainly don't complain of Mr Richards—he's been zealous enough, anyhow ; and I only wish my clerks would simply do what they're bid, and give up that confounded habit of thinking for themselves. If you ever have to leave the company's service, Mr Richards, for want of thinking power, never mind ; I'll take you into mine. W ell, Mr Buller, you must have slipped In to drawing one unmarked cheque, after all V

• No, sir !' said Mr Buller, with strange vehemence, for him ; ' no —I did not draw that cheque—with or without a eign. I drew no oheque for fifty pounds at all. And if you're the rascal that has been up to these games, and got it ail on poor young Adam's shoulders. I'm glad I see you here ; I'm glad of it, with all my heart and soul. I'm hanged if I didn't know I was right, all along. Adam Brown, if a letter can find him, poor ltd, goes back to my works at Bedport this very hour!' Could I believe my ears ? ' You—John Bailer—you believe me guilty of haviDg forged cheques, and tried to throw the guilt of it upon Adam Brown 1 Think for one least moment of what you are saying—' • Think! Thinking's plain enough, It seems to me—a mile too plain by the longest chalks you can draw. It's likelier anybody would be a rogue than the orphan lad I'd brought up as my own son. I daresay, like oncngh, he was too taken aback by such a charge to say a word. I wonder he didn't double his fist and knock me down. But I hopo»l'm a just man if I'm a bit of a hasty one. I'm not goiDg to be hasty with yon. If you can explain what's at best an ugly business, say It out like a man.' ' If I didn't respect an old client, and an old friend— But I can't forget how you've been worrying about this business. Explain ? 1 will, though I don't see how yon and I can ever be friends again. You know as well as I do that I never cashed a cheque for you in my life before, or ever was at Bedport till the day before yesterday——' ' Ay; so you say.' 'So I do aay. And you know that I received that case of cheques and bills—whatever they were, for I never looked at them—from your own bands on Saturday morning.' ' Did you ? That's my cheque-case, sure enough. But suppose you did, what then ? Because something comes out of it, it doesn't follow it was I who put it in. No, no. I never drew that oheque. You present it to be cashed, and it purports to be drawn, signed, and endorsed by me. You say yon received it from me. I Bay you didn't. And I ought to snow ; for you couldn't have received a cheque that never was drawn. Justice is justice. Adam Brown goes back to my works ; and you'll go to the country's, whoever yon are. I don't know what's the right way to start a prosecution, but that's easy known. I'll see Standish this very day.' « You'll see Standish V

' Ay, Standish of Carcester, my lawyer. Criminal business isn't bis line, he says ; but he'll do it for me.' ' You mean I'm to prosecute myself? Well, it all seems queer enough. Perhaps I don't know who I am. Do you ? No, sir, I don't, I'm happy to say. Forgers aren't in my line.' Good Heaven ! Do you mean to deny that I am Mr Standish, of Carcester?' I saw a very decided smile come over the face of Mr Bioharda. And it was not pleasant to see. For if John Bailor, as he was quite oapable of doing, chose to prosecute me for forgery —well, I should be acquitted, of course, but my character would be gone for ever and a day. The names of ladies are not more delicate than those of professional men. ' Come, none of that nonense,' said John Buller, * yon're no more Standish than I'm Duke of Wellington. It does sggra vate me to hear a man talk in that way. If you choose to deny that you're the Duke of Wellington when I say you are, we'll have a wager upon that, and toss up for the winner. You come and dine with me at the Star, both of yon, and I'll treat you like princes We'll eat cheques for fifty pound apiece between slices of bread and buttercnt thin, with lemon and cayenne. It's very odd, but I took a fancy to you the first minute I saw you. There's something about you put me In mind of somebody or other—l never could I remember names. But it's all one whoever I yon are. We're the sparks that fiy upwards '

and, by Jingo, we'll have a jolly good fly . . . Who are yon ? he called out at the top of his voice to Fichards; • you're a murderer, sir, and a forger, and a fool. Come and dine with me at the Star. . . .' I

need not continue the talk of poor John Buller, whom overwork, and loss of faith In the one human being who was dear to him, had driven him out "t hia mind. It was an overwhelming relief when my managing clerk arrived, and when uufliclont explanations were obtained to allow of my return homo in company with my poor friend. Even to the zealous Mr Richards the state of things was as clear as day, so far aa ho knew * * * * It waa not bard for me,

to see how John Buller, onoe assured against bis will of Adam's treachery in the first instance, had brooded over the shock, with an already ovdr-lonely and over • burdened mind, till, as sure as Friday night came round, he, po?sensed by tho demon of monomania—which simply means the abnormal growth of a natural and normal idea —drew the cheque which haunted and fascinated him * * *

It was not till years afterwards—not till my poor friend had left all his troubles behind him; not till I had long ago given up puzzling my head about the matter —that I one day received a letter bearing an Australian post-mark, and addressed to myself in a strange hand. There was nothing curiouß In that; but, as I read, the story I have been trying to tell came back to me aa freshly as if it had all happened yesterday. For thus the letter ran : —'Sir, —lt will doubless surprise you to receive this from me ; for I cannot suppose that you will remember as much as my name. But yon will remember—l fear only too well—a clerk in the service of Mr John Buller, who was dismissed from his service for embezzlement, lam that man; and my reason for calling myself to your rememberance Is, that I have at last found myself able to repay the sums that I abstracted wrongfully, and for whioh only Mr Buller's kindness Baved me from being sent to gaol. Ido not, moreover, want him to thkk me always such a hopelessly ungrateful and treacherous scoundrel as he must be thinking me. I got into bad ways, knowing them bad all the time. I wanted more money tkan I could get honestly, and I had to pay it. I needn't tell that story ; It's over now, and no harm done to anybody but me. I was temptoe by what I called to myself need and weakness, to "borrow," I called it then—to steal, that is to say—some of tho money I drew from Eedport Bauk. I had complete oontrol of the accounts at Eedport, and I suppose It was all so easy that at first it didn't so much feel like stealing, and so I went on and on. I used to take sometimes more than fifty poundi together. I've sent you a statement af all I took ; and I hope it's correct, for of course I had to muddle up all the acoounts. You see, sir, Mr Buller always used to give me a fifty-pound cheque over and above what I asked for, meaning, I suppose, to keep plenty of ready money in the works for the week ; and I never told him it was more than was wanted, for the reasons I've written. The only excuse I had is this—l never knew how much I owed to Mr Bailer. I thought I was nothing more to him, and rather less, than any other man. That's no reason I should rob him, but it makes me a bit less of a thorough blackguard. He ought to have had me sent to gaol. And when he didn't, but just as much as told me to go and do no more wrong, as If I'd been his own son—well, sir, it did go to the bottom of all the heart I've got, and I'd like him just to know that he wasn't foolish in being kind. If I ever did another wrong, or mean, or dishonest thing, I should have been the biggest cur on earth. I got a chance in New Zealand, and I should like him to know that his words made a man of me. This is a poor sort of a letter, but I can't say what I feel, and I won't try.—Trusting to hear from you per return, yours respectfully, Adam Brown.'

And that is the not wholly unsatisfactory end of a sad story. 1 suppose that the first cheque must have been some sort of a blunder ; aud that an obstinate man's supposition that forgery on somebody else's part was more was more probable than a blunder on his own, resulted in—what we have seen. I intenaed, when I set one, to point a good number of morals, legal aud otherwise. But I will content myself with two. One 13, that justice has even queerer ways of going to work than law —as when it punishes a man for a fault that hasn't been found out by finding him guilty of one that he never committed. The other is, that trust, even if carried to the pitch of insanity, is not by any means so mid a thing as it seems. John Bailer's over-trust sent him out of his own mind, but it has saved another man.