CHAPTER XVIII.
In which the Green Overcoat triumphs and comes home.
In a couple of minutes Mr. Kirby returned. He had Mr. Brassington closely locked by the right arm, and was walking easily with him into the room. Booby sheepishly followed.
"Mr. McAuley," said Mr. Kirby genially, "this is Mr. Brassington."
Young men do not control their faces well (unless they are the sons of scoundrels and have inherited their fathers' talents). Jimmy looked exactly like a man who knows nothing of the sea and has just come to the lump on the bar.
Mr. Brassington gave a very violent movement, which Mr. Kirby, his arm securely linked in his friend's, checked with a wrench of iron.
"You don't know Professor Higginson, I think, do you, Brassington?"
"Mr. McAuley," said Mr. Kirby genially, "this is Mr. Brassington."
He introduced the two men, and the Philosopher knew more of the Merchant than the Merchant did of the Philosopher.
"And now," continued Mr. Kirby pleasantly, but a little pompously (it was not in his nature to be pompous, but the occasion needed it), "now we all go upstairs. I 've asked one of Mr. McAuley's friends to dinner. He is also a friend of yours, Mr. Algernon," he said, turning to Booby kindly. "I don't know him myself, but Mr. McAuley vouches for him, and that ought to be enough for us, eh? By the way, just before we dine, would you mind coming into my sitting-room, all of you, there 's something I want to discuss—something that you all want to hear, I 'm sure, something political," he added, lest panic should seize the more guilty of the tribe.
He led the procession upstairs. Melba was waiting in the hall. Jimmy picked him up on the way, and squeezed his hand for courage.
They all filed into Mr. Kirby's private sitting-room, and they found it conveniently large.
As for their host, he began fussing about like a man who is arranging a meeting of directors, and finally took his seat at the head of the large table.
"I think you 'd better sit here, Brassington," he said, pointing to a chair on his right. "And you, Professor Higginson, would you come here?" pointing to the chair upon his left. "The rest," he added abruptly, "can sit where they like. My lord! it 's beginning to rain!"
They sat awkwardly round him. Mr. Brassington, at least, was used enough to his irrelevancy not to notice the last remark, but Professor Higginson stared. He had had enough to do with mental aberration in the last few days; he didn't want any more of it.
"It 's beginning to rain," continued Mr. Kirby, turning to Mr. Brassington, "and I 'm sure you didn't bring your Overcoat. It 's May, and you didn't think you 'd want it. Well, I 've taken the liberty of an old friend, and I 've got it here; it 's hanging up." He jerked his head backwards.
They followed his gesture with their eyes, and sure enough the Green Overcoat was hanging there ponderously and silently upon a peg. It had one will and one purpose, and it had accomplished it: it had found its master.
"You 're a careless fellow, Brassington," said Kirby, hitting that Capitalist rather affectedly upon the shoulder. "Do you know you left your cheque book in the pocket?"
"Yes," said Mr. Brassington not very pleasantly, "I did."
Mr. Kirby left not a moment for thought.
"Well, gentlemen, I haven't come to talk about that. I 've come to give you some good news. I saw Hogg this morning. You all know Hogg? He 's the man who handles the dibs at Westminster. He 's a really good fellow, collects stuffed frogs, has hundreds of 'em! Well, they 've done the straight thing at last, and" (turning to Mr. Brassington) "they 've put you in the Birthday Honours, Brassington!"
Mr. Brassington jumped.
"It 's a Baronetcy!"
Then at last Mr. Kirby was silent.
It grew clearer and clearer to Mr. Brassington that the presence of all these gentlemen round the table was not needed; but in the course of the next few minutes he had cause to change his mind.
Professor Higginson, as the only elderly man present, thought it was his duty to say, "I congratulate you, sir," to which Brassington answered shortly, "Yes."
Mr. Kirby stroked his chin.
"Professor Higginson," he said pleasantly, "why did you forge that cheque?"
"Wha—" half gasped, half roared the Philosopher, and then he made a great gulping noise with his throat.
The clock on the mantelshelf ticked loudly. Jimmy tried to sit still. Mr. Brassington didn't try to do anything of the sort. He had half risen, when Mr. Kirby with a firm hand pushed him back into his chair.
For a minute nothing was said. Mr. Kirby occupied the minute by tapping slowly at intervals with his fountain pen upon the table. At the end of the interval Professor Higginson saved himself by speech.
He pushed his chair back from him, and stood up as a man does to address the Flap-Doodles at a political meeting.
"Mr. Brassington," he said, ignoring all the others, "it was I who forged your name. I was imprisoned, I was tortured, I was constrained by these" (and his voice trembled as he pointed to Jimmy and Melba), "these two young scoundrels, sir, these"
"That 'll do, Professor Higginson," said Mr. Kirby, "it 's actionable."
And at that dread word from a lawyer the Professor sat down defeated.
"Kirby," said Mr. Brassington, turning to his friend, addressing him alone, and trying to speak without excitement in a low tone, "I don't understand."
"No, Brassington, you wouldn't," said Kirby kindly, turning as familiarly to him. "You see, Professor Higginson here borrowed your coat."
"He?" began Mr. Brassington explosively.
"Yes, yes," continued Mr. Kirby, "don't mix up big things with little, that 's what he did—any man would have done it. It was a terrible night, and someone had taken his cape. He just borrowed your coat. It was that night at Perkin's, you remember? The night you were going to Belgium and didn't—ten days ago?"
"Oh, yes, I remember well enough," said Mr. Brassington bitterly.
"Well, there you are," said Mr. Kirby with the utmost simplicity. "It 's all quite natural. Just a misunderstanding. Always happening. They thought he was 'you'. Eh? So, why! they just took him off and kidnapped him. That 's all!"
All this explanation Mr. Kirby delivered in the easy tones of the man of the world who is setting things to rights and preventing hysterical people from tearing each other's eyes out.
"There you are," went on Mr. Kirby, flourishing his hands gently in front of him, "there you are! Mr. McAuley couldn't get his money. Thought he 'd got you. Cheque book, no conscious fraud. …"
Here Mr. Brassington was no longer to be controlled. He pushed back his chair, leant over the table, looked at poor Jimmy with a Day of Judgment look, and said with intense determination—
"You shall answer for it, sir, and I will not listen to your father or to your friends."
Mr. Kirby looked up at the ceiling, then he looked straight down the table, then he looked up at Mr. Brassington, and Mr. Brassington sat down.
"Brassington," said Kirby, when he had got his audience, "you have no action against Mr, McAuley, your action is against Professor Higginson. If you bring it, Professor Higginson is ruined, and your son is besmirched, and you look a fool, and the Government has done with you; and, Brassington, remember that you owed that money."
"I did nothing of the sort," said the merchant sternly.
"Father," said the wretched Booby, "I 'd won more than that off Jimmy, I had, really! And when I lost back again, unless he 'd been paid I don't know what would have happened. I 'd have cut my throat, father," said Booby.
He meant it, but it was exceedingly unlikely.
James McAuley for the first time defended his honour.
"Upon my soul, sir, I thought that I was dealing with you, and, good God, if a debt …"
Mr. Kirby intervened.
"Be quiet, Mr. McAuley," he said authoritatively, "you are a young man, and I am trying to save you. Brassington," he continued, turning to his friend, and still talking in a strict, authoritative tone, "the money is irrecoverable. Your son had won it, and his winnings had gone in University debts. I know what they are. His friend won it back—he was still a loser, mind—and at once he settled debts of his own, which he could not bear. You have nothing to recover but revenge, and if you take that revenge you publicly ruin your own son, you make yourself a laughing stock, you throw away your future honours and his, and you disgrace a man of high Academic distinction whom you know perfectly well to have acted only weakly and foolishly. You or I might have acted in precisely the same fashion. He has not had a penny of your money."
"I am the loser," said Mr. Brassington quietly. "I have lost through ridicule and I have lost materially—I have lost Two Thousand Pounds."
"The Government," said Mr. Kirby, with a sudden change of tone to the commonplace, "inform me, Brassington, that you 've planned a very generous act. They inform me—anyhow, Hogg informed me this morning, or, to be more accurate, I informed Hogg—that, as the most prominent citizen of Ormeston, you have put Ten Thousand Pounds at the disposal of Professor Higginson, whose present fame throughout the world" (he bowed pleasantly to the Don, who was fool enough to bow in return) "I need not—er—dwell upon—you have put Ten Thousand Pounds, I say, at his disposal for Research work in the magnificent field of Subliminal Intimations of a Future Life, in which he is at this moment our chief pioneer."
"I?" said the bewildered Brassington, catching the table. "I promised Professor Higginson £10,000 for Research Work?"
"Yes, you," said Mr. Kirby firmly; "it 'll be in the papers to-morrow, and very right the Government were," he continued, "to recognise generosity of that sort by a Baronetcy! Hogg told me he heard it was only a thousand or two, but I gave him the real figures."
"But I never" began Mr. Brassington.
"Well, there you are," interrupted Mr. Kirby in a matter-of-fact tone. "They think it, and that 's the important thing. You, of course," and here he turned to Professor Higginson, "you will never see that money. It isn't there."
"No," said the Professor humbly.
A German in the livery of Cinderella's coachmen solemnly entered the room and told them in broken English that the dinner was served.
Mr. Kirby rose briskly, and they all rose with him.
He went to the Green Overcoat, held it up before him with both hands, and said to Mr. Brassington—
"Now, Brassington, which is it to be?"
The Merchant, not knowing what he did, slipped into the familiar garment.
How warm was its fur, how ancient its traditional comfort about his person! What a companion!
"I leave it to you, Kirby," he said in a changed voice. "I 've only to move and I shall do harm all round, and if I sit tight I save eight thousand pounds—and I win."
They were moving to the door, when suddenly Mr. Brassington added—
"Good Heavens! what am I doing in this coat? I thought I was going out!"
"Never mind," said Mr. Kirby, "take it off again. Familiar things remain. They are the only things that do."
And sure enough the bargain held.
****
Now as to what followed, Reader, or as I hope Readers (for it would be a pity to have only one), I am too tired to tell you much, and there is also an excellent rule that when you 've done telling a story you should tack nothing on.
How the miserable Professor was deluged with begging letters; how he nearly went mad until Babcock suggested a plan; how that plan was to pretend that he had left all the ten thousand pounds to the University upon his death and could not touch it; how his colleagues marvelled that with this new fortune he went on plodding as industriously as ever; how Sir John Brassington secretly but thoroughly enjoyed his Baronetcy; how Mr. Kirby delivered three addresses for nothing upon Racial Problems, two in Ormeston and one in the East End of London; how Professor Higginson was compelled for many years to review the wildest books about spooks, and to lecture until he was as thin as a rail (often for nothing) upon the same subject—all these things you will have to read in some other book, which I most certainly do not mean to write, and which I do not think anybody else will write for you.
How the Guelph University looked when it found there was no Ten Thousand Pounds at all after Professor Higginson's death none of us know, for the old idiot is not yet dead. How they will look does not matter in the least, for the whole boiling of them are only people in a story, and there is an end of them.
THE END.
J. W. Arrowsmith Ltd., Printers, Quay Street, Bristol, England.