The Man Who Bought London | Page 8

man, he could
help. He was a toff, he was; he lived in a grand house.
What was his name?
Baggin paced his cell for some quarter of an hour, racking his aching
brain for the name which eluded him. Yes, curiously enough, he had
seen the name, though the other might not have suspected the fact. In
the hallway of the house to which the stranger took him was a tiny
stand with glass and silver things, fragile and dainty, on which, as they
had entered, Baggin had seen some letters addressed to the man, and he,
naturally curious, and gifted moreover with the ability to read
handwriting, had deciphered the name as--as--Zeberlieff!

That was the name, "Zeberlieff," and Park Lane, too--the house was in
Park Lane. He remembered it now. He was elated at the result of his
thought, a little exhausted too.
He called the gaoler again, and the weary official obeyed, not without
resentment.
"What do you want now?" he asked bitterly.
"Can you let me have a sheet of paper, an envelope and a pencil?"
"I can," said the gaoler. "Who do you want to write to---a lawyer?"
"That's it," said Baggin. "He is my own private lawyer," he said
proudly. "A regular 'nut' he is, too; he won't half put it across you
people if you don't behave properly."
"Not so much lip!" said the gaoler, and went away, to return in a few
moments with the necessary vehicles of communication.
He passed them through the open grating in the door, and Horace sat
down to the unaccustomed task of composing a letter, which was not
incriminating to his employer, but which conveyed to him a sense of
his responsibility, and the danger in which he stood if he did not offer,
the succour which was required of him.
"Honoured Sir," the letter ran (it would serve no useful purpose to
faithfully expose the liberties he took with the English language),
"some time ago I did a job of work for you. I am now in great trouble
having shot the gentleman, and I should be very much obliged if you
would assist me to the best of your ability."
It was a noteworthy contribution to the literature of artfulness. Horace
Baggin had been inspired to remember Zeberlieff as an old employer in
the mythical period when Horace Baggin preferred hard work to the
illicit calling which had ended so disastrously for him.
"Zeberlieff," said the gaoler as he read the address and scanned the

letter; "why, that's an American millionaire, ain't it?"
"That's so," said Horace Baggin complacently; "he's been a good friend
of mine. I used to be his "--he hesitated--"his gamekeeper," he said.
"He had an estate down our way," he went on grimly. "Very good shot,
too."
"I will send it down if you like," said the gaoler; "though he will
probably only give you the cold shoulder. You know when a man gets
into trouble he can't expect his old master to come prancing round
getting him out. Not in these days, anyway."
Nevertheless, he sent it on at Baggin's request.
After that effort of thought and diplomacy Horace Baggin felt at peace
with the world. In the afternoon he was called before the magistrate.
Formal evidence was taken, and he was remanded for one day and
removed back to the cell; that meant another day at the police court.
Well, he was prepared to face it. It was not the first time he had been in
trouble, but it was the first time he had been in a position where, in
spite of the enormity of the crime, hope had extended so rosy a vista of
possibilities. He had received news that his letter had been delivered,
and waited hopefully for his partner in crime to make a move. It was
fine, he thought, to have such a pal. The prospect of succour had almost
entirely eclipsed the seriousness of the charges which the man had to
face.
Morning found Baggin more sober and more bitter. So this sweet pal of
his had gone back on him, had made no attempt to answer his call of
distress, even though the imprisoned man had made it apparent that no
immediate danger threatened the confederate. Well, there was another
way out of it, another way in which he might excuse his conduct and
find himself the centre of a sensational case. He waited till the gaoler
passed, and then--
"I want to see the inspector in charge of this case," he said. "I have got
a statement to make."

"Right-o!" said the gaoler. "You had better have your breakfast first.
You will be one of the first to go into court, you know."
Baggin nodded.
"Coffee and toast have been sent in for