CHAPTER I.

IT was on the 18th July, 1881, that Mr. Newton Marling, chief cashier of Farley, Jerrold, aud Co.'s Bank, Lothbury, disappeared. The circumstances were, primâ facie, so precisely similar to those attending so many other "disappearances" of bank cashiers and managers that the public shrugged its shoulders, and said:

      "The old story — the accountant is a trusted servant of twenty years' standing! Of course he robs his employers. What else could be expected?"

      But when full inquiries were made the indifference of the public was changed into active interest, and soon the question of Mr. Marling's disappearance was a general topic of conversation, all sorts of conjectures being hazarded to account for it.

      The bank had not been robbed! Mr. Marling's accounts were in faultless order, and there was nothing to indicate, or even suggest, that he had any intention of absenting himself. He was a man of middle age, very regular in his habits, and implicitly trusted by his employers. The last might not, perhaps, go for much; but, since he was not a defaulter, he had clearly not betrayed the trust reposed in him. Was his delinquency, then, of another kind? Was the steady-going cashier a gallant, gay Lothario, and had he departed for sunnier climes with some fair and frail dame or damsel? His young daughter firmly refused to listen to any such hypothesis. Her father had always come home at the regular hour, save the week before his disappearance, when he was detained late at the bank, looking over some accounts, he told her; but even then he never came home later than ten o'clock, and this was only on one occasion; at other times it was nine, or half-past, and it took him nearly an hour to reach his house in Clapham. The manager, who, of course, lived at the bank, was able to testify that Mr. Marling did remain on the premises beyond the usual time on two or three occasions; as to others he could not say positively, but what he knew so far tallied with Nora Marling's statement as to amount to almost an absolute confirmation of it. Her opinion of her father's unimpeachable morality would not, in itself, be accepted at more than its worth. It was not very likely a young girl would be able to detect any failing in this direction in her father, and he would be specifically careful to account to her in a satisfactory manner for anything that to a more worldly-wise and unbiased observer might look suspicious. That she was supported in her unshaken faith by Brian Desmond, to whom she was engaged, was not much evidence in Mr. Marling's favour either; a man is prone to think the best of his prospective father-in-law, and is not certain to know a great deal about him. Not that Desmond was easily deceived. He was an ex-officer of the Irish Constabulary, and his native keenness of wit had plenty of cultivation; but putting aside his and Nora's conviction that the cashier was the victim, and not the perpetrator, of foul play, there was not a tittle of evidence to support the latter theory. He might, of course, have thrown dust in his daughter's eyes; a good many things "might have" been, but this was all conjecture. It seemed, too, an odd proceeding for a man to financially cut his own throat by running away from his employment, without even lining his nest first.

      The difficulty in believing that the unfortunate man had met with foul play was, primarily, that he had certainly left the bank on the evening in question. The manager stated that he saw Mr. Marling quit the premises about eight o'clock. If then, the latter was murdered, it must have been between Lothbury and his home — or whatever other place he was going to. If home, was it easy to kill a man and dispose of his body during a transit so public as that from Lothbury to the well-lighted and populated road in which Mr. Marling lived at Clapham? But the murder — if murder had been done — could hardly be the result of a "plant." The cashier was a very prudent man; he never carried any large sum of money upon him; his watch was an old-fashioned silver one; it kept splendid time, but would be almost worthless to a thief — certainly not worth the risk of murder. In fact, the more the matter was discussed and threshed out, the deeper became the mystery. The detectives were baffled, and after a while gave up the case. A private detective employed by Desmond — Nora, poor girl, had no means for such a luxury — fared no better, and it seemed as if the disappearance of Mr. Marling was to add one more to the many instances of undiscovered crime. So far as could be ascertained, no one had seen him after he left the bank on the 18th of July. He was perfectly well known to all the officials, both at Victoria and Ludgate Hill, and at Clapham-road also, where he alighted; but he had not been noticed at any of these stations. The bank directors proved their respect for Mr. Marling by offering a substantial reward for any trustworthy information concerning him; the manager, Mr. Walton, contributed to the reward; but nothing came of it. Newton Marling, if he were alive, had some very good reason for keeping out of the way; if he were dead, his assassins knew how to guard their secret. Any idea of suicide was out of the question; no man had less motive for such a crime, and the body must of necessity have been found.

      The daughter of the missing man suffered terribly. She was passionately devoted to her father, and the uncertainty surrounding his fate added tenfold to the agony of losing him. If she could only know the truth, however fearful! But this suspense was killing. There were times when the girl seemed like one mad, and Desmond trembled for her reason. His utmost efforts failed to soothe her into anything like calm. "They have murdered him!" she would say. "It is a wicked thing to suggest that my dear, dear father was a guilty man! He had never a thought out of his home. I deemed it impossible that he could have an enemy, but whatever the motive may be, my father has been murdered!"

      She had allowed Desmond to look through her father's private papers, but these offered no clue to the mystery; they, in many instances, redounded to the cashier’s credit; in not one was there any disclosure of a past which might have risen up against the man in his middle age, or of a present enemy. Desmond questioned his betrothed very closely; her replies might afford to him some clue, though she would not, perhaps, understand the significance of the information she gave. Among other things, he asked very particularly about the late work upon which Mr. Marling was engaged.

      "But how could that afford any clue, Brian?" the girl asked.

      "It might," he answered. "My experience has taught me how small a thing may be of importance in such cases. Your father only told you that he was looking into some accounts, didn't he?"

      ""Yes, nothing more; and I did not ask any questions. Of course, I don't understand banking business, and I should not like to be inquisitive; it would be no use if I were. Father was always so strict about out speaking of the bank affairs at home."

      "But he seemed anxious and worried?"

      "Yes. But when I spoke of it to him, he said it was nothing, and changed the subject."

      Desmond sighed heavily. Yet, though for the time he felt completely baffled, he resolved not to give up all hope of discovering what he firmly believed to be a crime. The private detective he had employed made no secret to his employer of his belief that the missing man was alive, and only "keeping dark"; but Brian shook his head.

      "You don't know the man," he said. "I do. Nor am I a greenhorn, either as a man of the world or detective. I have done a good deal of the latter sort of work in my time. I stick to my opinion: but as just now there seems no prospect of obtaining any clue to the mystery I shall drop proceedings."

      But he did not relax his own vigilance. He could not continue any active steps, in the absence of all ground to work upon; but his mind was perpetually on the alert. He was always on the look out for anything that might throw, if but the fainest, light on this fearful mystery.

      In three months the general public had pretty well forgotten the matter, and in three months more even those who had interested themselves deeply in it would have found some difficulty in recalling more than the leading fact that Newton Marling had "disappeared."

      Meanwhile Nora Marling's means were very straitened. Her father's life was insured in her favour, but, of course, no payment under the circumstances could be obtained from the insurance company. Desmond, therefore, urged a speedy and quiet marriage.

      "Under the conditions," he said to Nora, "I should not dream, as you know, of speaking to you of marriage yet; but as it is you cannot refuse to give me the right to protect you and care for you."

      So Nora consented, and the two were quietly married, and for a time went abroad. The poor girl seemed almost prostrate; and sometimes she would start from her sleep, crying out that her father was murdered, and would cling to her husband shivering and sobbing, yet striving all the time for self-control.

      "I must find out the truth!" Brian said to himself on more than one of these occasions when he had at last succeeded in soothing his young wife; "or I shall lose my darling."

      Yet the time went on, and the mystery seemed no nearer solution than at the beginning. Since the world-famed disappearance of "Charlie Ross" never had disappearance more inexplicable, more complete, occurred.

      Months glided into years, and it was now the summer of '87 — three years after the event which had set all London talking, and given rise to innumerable comments on the perils of life in a great city.

      Brian Desmond and his wife were then living in Kensington, and one Sunday afternoon, Desmond, returning home from a stroll in the park, found a visitor with Nora. This was the second cashier of Farley and Jerrold's bank — a very nice fellow, who had always shared the opinion of Nora and her husband that Mr. Marling had met with foul play.

      "I was just telling Mr. Johnston so," said Nora, "and I doubt if he would have come to-day only to bring some news — bad news, I am sorry to say."

      "What is that?" asked Desmond, quickly.

      "Mr. Walton is ill," said Johnston; "he was just going for his holiday when he was seized with sudden faintness, and had to take to his bed. That was two days ago. I called and saw him to-day. The doctor had just been, and told him it would be a long business, and he seemed in a fearful state of mind."

      "But why?" asked Nora, "there is no actual danger, is there?"

      "No; but Mr. Walton seems so anxious about the work. I pointed out to him that in any case he would have been away on his holiday, and the work would be all right; but I couldn't pacify him, he was a little bit light-headed and kept on about the 'work' as if because he was laid up everything must go sixes and sevens."

      "He'll worry himself into a worse illness if he frets in that fashion," said Desmond. He had never seen the manager; but he knew in what high esteem he was held by the directors of the bank.

      "That's what both the doctor and I told him," said Johnston; and presently other matters came on the tapis.

      Nora felt a deeper interest in the manager than her husband, for she knew how Walton had valued Newton Marling, and had always declared his belief in the missing man's integrity.

      When the cashier was taking his leave, Mrs. Desmond begged him to bring further news of the manager's illness.

      "I feel quite anxious," she said. "Please let u know how he goes on — will you?"

      And Johnston promised.

      He called three or four evenings later, after banking hours.

      "I could not see Mr. Walton," he said, "he was sleeping, but the nurse told me they had to give him a sleeping draught. He actually attempted to get up this morning to go to the bank; and he was too weak to stand."

      "What should he be so anxious about?" asked Desmond.

      "Nothing. He's the last man in the world to have his affairs in a mess. The ruling passion strong in sickness, I suppose."

      Brian said no more on the subject; but that night, while his wife slept, he sat alone in his study — thinking. His face was deadly pale; there was a strange look in his eyes; and when he at last rose to seek rest — it was past two o'clock — his lips were set with a resolute resolve.

      The next morning he told his wife he had business in the City; he might be home to luncheon, but she was not to wait for him.

      She said, "very well," asking no questions; but she could not help noticing that her husband held her to him, when he said good-bye, even closer and longer than usual, and looked very wistfully into her eyes; when he at last released her it was almost abruptly, and he went out quickly, as if he feared to trust himself.

      Nora was a little startled, wondering what could have happened; she was always more or less nervous, and on the qui vive since that terrible 18th of July; but she was not for an instant suspicious of her husband. Her trust in him was as full and free as his trust in her.

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CHAPTER II.

      "MR. DESMOND, are you aware of the gravity of the charge you imply, if you do not actually make it?" said Mr. Farley, one of the directors of the bank with a certain grim dignity to Desmond, who had called on them after leaving Nora.

      His fellow director, Mr. Jerrold, looked of the same opinion, though he was silent.

      "Perfectly," replied the Irishman, firmly. "I certainly make no charge, for I have only suspicion, founded, I am free to allow, on what may seem very flimsy evidence; but what I ask or suggest can do no harm. If my suspicions are proved groundless, it will never be known beyond us three — even to my wife I should say nothing. I have been an officer of constabulary, Mr. Farley, and I know how to keep secrets. Besides, I give you my word of honour to keep this one."

      "Mr. Walton," said Mr. Jerrold, interposing, "has been manager of this bank for more than twenty years. He has proved himself in every way worthy of our highest esteem. It would be preposterous to doubt his probity merely on the ground that he, lying on a sick bed, was anxious and troubled about the business."

      "Long service goes for nothing," said Desmond. "Some of the worst frauds are perpetrated by old and, therefore, trusted servants. But I can urge no more, gentlemen. The matter goes deeper than possible defalcation; but it is in your hands. I am obliged to you for granting me an interview. Good morning."

      "Stay, Mr. Desmond," said Mr. Farley, rather hastily. "I don't quite understand what you mean by saying the matter goes deeper than possible defalcations. Will you explain yourself?"

      "I would rather not, at present. You have perfect faith in Mr. Walton, and I don't say that you are not justified; but I say that you have not proved yourself justified. You prefer not to secure that proof, and my business is concluded."

      He bowed and withdrew. But of course the astute Irishman knew very well the directors would follow his suggestion, and have the manager's accounts investigated. There is nothing more infectious than suspicion; once breathed it poisons the very air. It had never occurred to the bank directors to doubt Richard Walton; a suspicion founded on almost nothing was enough to shake the confidence of twenty years — though not one of the directors would have admitted it.

      Brian Desmond was playing a waiting game. He said not a word to his wife, but possessed his soul in patience, and one day, a month after his interview with Messrs. Farley and Jerrold, he was sent for to come to the bank, and on his arrival shown at once into a private room. He found there not only Mr. Farley and Mr. Jerrold, but several of the directors, and their countenances at once prepared him for some very grave disclosures.

      Mr. Farley, motioning him to a chair, addressed Brian at once. "Mr. Desmond, will you kindly tell us if you had any other grounds for suspecting Mr. Walton's probity than those you mentioned here a month ago."

      "I had and have none other, Mr. Farley."

      "I am bitterly grieved to say," continued the banker, "that your suspicion, slight though its foundation, has proved only too correct. We have had Mr. Walton's books overhauled, and find that he has been systematically robbing the shareholders during the last eight years. The defalcations at present discovered amount to over £10,000, and we believe the amount will prove to be much larger than that."

      There was a moment's dead silence. Brian Desmond felt for a minute as if the room were swimming round him. He had expected some such disclosure, yet it came upon him with a shock; not so much for what it was in itself, but for all that lay behind it, and was of such vital interest to his wife and himself.

      With an effort he mastered himself, and, addressing all present, said:

      "What I have just now heard does not surprise me. But has it occurred to you that a much more terrible crime underlies the frauds you have discovered?"

      "Mr. Desmond!" exclaimed two or three, in a breath.

      The Irishman rose to his feet. "Gentlemen," he said, "I believe in my soul that Richard Walton was the murder of Newton Marling, and for the reason that Marling discovered, or was on the eve of discovering, the frauds you have now laid bare."

      The men looked at each other blankly. Horrible though the suggestion was, its possibility, in the light of what they already knew, was forced upon them. Desmond went on:

      "You will remember that Mr. Marling some time before his death frequently remained late at the bank over some business, the nature of which he did not disclose to anyone. On the night of July 18th Mr. Walton alone declared that he saw Mr. Marling quit the bank. But did Mr. Marling ever quit the bank, living or dead?"

      "Great Heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Farley, the beads starting out on his brow, while a sort of shudder ran through the others, "what can you mean?"

      "I mean," said Desmond, "that if Mr. Walton had determined — from what he knew of his own imminent peril — to silence his accuser that night, the means might be to his hand. The two men were alone on the premises; they only had access to the strong-room. Have the strong-room searched. Let me accompany you to it now, and if there exists any means of concealing the evidences of a crime, my professional experience will enable me to discover them."

      "Mr. Desmond," said one of the directors, "this is too horrible! How would it be possible for Mr. Walton to commit such a crime?"

      "I only suggest a theory," relied the Irishman, calmly, although he was not inwardly calm. "Were Mr. Walton resolved on murdering a dangerous witness, he could send Mr. Marling to the strong-room on some pretext, follow him, and his victim is at his mercy."

      There was some consultation among the directors, and it was finally decided that three of them in including Messrs. Farley and Jerrold — should proceed to the strong-room with Desmond and put his grim suggestion to the proof. Anything exciting notice or remark was at present to be avoided.

      Very quietly, therefore, and even secretly, the party proceeded to the strong-room. A vague horror was on them all — a tension of expectancy. What hideous disclosure might not the next half-hour make?"

      By common consent the search was left to Desmond, who was, evidently, on familiar ground, and set to work at once in a thoroughly professional manner, though, in truth, his heart was sick within him.

      He turned his attention at once to the floor, which was paved with large slabs of stone, and carefully and minutely he went over it, examining every slab.

      "None of these could be moved," Jerrold whispered to him.

      Desmond glanced at him with the contempt an expert feels for the words and idea of an ignoramus; but he said nothing. He passed on to the part of the room farthest from the entrance, and suddenly he paused; a thrill went through his companions.

      "This stone has been moved," said Desmond.

      Mr. Farley bent down.

      "Are you sure?" he said; "it does not look so to me."

      "Nor to most people, Mr. Farley: but it has been moved, and it must be moved again. Can I have a crowbar?"

      Mr. Jerrold volunteered to obtain one, and while he was gone Desmond showed to the others the indications of the stone having been moved.

      "But it might have been done before," said Mr. Farley.

      "Not very long before," was Desmond's answer.

      He himself felt perfectly certain of the result, and a sort of sick feeling came over him during the interval of waiting, but he preserved his outward self-control.

      Mr. Jerrold presently returned with the crowbar, and Desmond at once commenced operations.

      The task of raising the stone was not an easy one so securely had it been replaced after its disturbance; the original displacement must have caused the operator no little time and trouble. The directors looked on with intense anxiety and a dread which no man was willing to acknowledge to himself — a dread that deepened as the stone yielded gradually to Desmond's patient and skilful efforts.

      Now the stone was raised, and a faint, earthy odour was perceptible. Brian set his teeth; Mr. Farley drew back shuddering. The heavy slab fell back with a crash, and Desmond bent forward.

      "Good Heaven!" was all he said, under his breath, and covered his face from the horrible sight.

      Huddled up in his dreadful tomb was all that remained of Newton Marling — little more than a skeleton — a sight too awful for description. Only by the clothes and by other things worn by the dead man, which the murderer might not have dared to remove, could his victim be identified. Mr. Farley was so overcome that he almost fainted, and had to be supported to a seat. Even Desmond's soldierly self-command nearly failed him, though the instant thought of the horror the discovery would cause his young wife was enough in itself to unnerve him; but he was the first of the group to rally.

      "Nothing must be touched," he said, in a low tone. "The police must be sent for at once, and Walton arrested also without delay, as he might hear of this discovery and succeed in escaping."

      The police were sent for, and the remains were lifted out of the aperture and examined — Brian Desmond instantly identifying a ring and the murdered man's coat, which was of peculiar and somewhat old-fashioned cut. The watch had evidently been removed, and probably destroyed.

      All attempts at secrecy were now abandoned, and it was speedily known in the bank that the corpse of the missing cashier had been found in the strong-room, and that circumstances pointed to the manager being the assassin. Desmond, so soon as his presence could be dispensed with, hastened home to break the terrible news to his wife. He trembled at the idea of her hearing it from some other source, for it would be all over London within two or three hours.

      Only that day Mr. Walton had been told that in less than a week he would be able to return to business, though the doctor earnestly advocated a complete change to secure entire restoration to health. But the manager would not hear of this.

      "I must return to the bank," he said; but he never did.

      For within two hours of uttering these words he was confronted with the double charge of murder and fraud. Then, for the first time, that marvellous self-control which had enabled him to mask his frightful guilt for years, failed him. He fell to the floor at the police-inspector's feet in a deadly swoon. Illness and intense mental anxiety — doubtless, too, some measure of remorse — had unstrung him, and he had no strength to withstand the shock of the charges made against him.

      From that hour the wretched manager knew he was a doomed man. Escape was hopeless. Too ill yet to be removed to prison, he was watched night and day by a constable. He had really no defence against either charge. The evidence before the magistrate showed that Walton and Marling were the last people in the bank — indeed, on a former occasion Walton himself had testified to this. No One had access to the strong-room save the manager, the accountant, and Messrs. Farley and Jerrold. These two last were at home at the time of the murder.

      No one in effect could have killed Newton Marling except the manager, who had also a strong possible motive for the crime. In fact the onus of disproof rested upon the accused. By what weapon the murder has been committed could only be conjectured. It was impossible in the present state of the body to discover any traces of a wound, but there was blood on the clothes. The manager had already committed himself on the statement that he saw Mr. Marling quit the bank. The cashier could not possibly have re-entered the premises without being admitted by someone, nor could the suggestion that an unauthorised person had got into the strong-room be advanced with any show of reason. Walton was committed for trial on both counts.

      When the case came on the prisoner pleaded guilty to the charge of malversation. The proofs against him were overwhelming. On the capital charge his counsel made a defence which in its very nature was weak. He tried to cast the onus of the proof upon the prosecution; but there was no surmounting the fact of the man being buried in a place to which only he and the manager had access, and the obvious lie of the latter about Marling leaving the bank.

      Richard Walton was condemned to death. For many days he maintained a sullen silence. Perhaps he vaguely hoped for a reprieve; but just before the end he made a full confession.

      Newton Marling had discovered his defalcations. Walton found out this discovery, and saw that only the death of the cashier could secure his own safety. He held his peace and watched his opportunity, preparing his victim's grave meanwhile. On the evening of the 18th he sent Mr. Marling to the strong-room on some plausible pretext, followed him, and, felling him with a sudden blow, finished the deed with a knife; then he buried his victim, and afterwards flung the knife into the river. But to the last the manager was callous. He expressed no regret either for this awful crime or for his black treason to those who had honoured and trusted him. His only regret seemed to be for the "folly" of showing so much anxiety to return to the bank; that had been, through Brian Desmond's astuteness, his undoing. Perhaps some of this callousness was bravado; but he kept it up to the very scaffold. "He died, and made no sign."

      Nora, at this time, and for weeks afterwards, lay on a sick-bed, and for many days she held her life by a thread; but youth and strength conquered in the end, and then her husband took her abroad. They are in Italy still, and it will probably be long before Nora will be able to endure the associations of a country where she had suffered first the tortures of suspense, and then a certainty more terrible than her wildest fears had pictured. But there was at least this consolation: Newton Marling's name was cleared. He died doing his duty; he sleeps in an honoured grave.

(THE END)