“Why, your partner; that fellow who has been masquerading as a lord.”
“Lord who?”
“Come, now,” Simms laughed. “Why, me Lord Beauchamp! Surprised, eh?” and again Simms laughed and looked at Jack questioningly. “Well,” he continued at length, “you must be a cheap guy to believe that fellow true to you. See here, he gave the whole thing away. Don’t believe it, eh? Well, I’ll prove it. We knew the time Miss Thorpe was to be at the cabin. We knew the dog was on watch and removed it. We knew the exact time Rutley was to be with you, and arranged for him to get away without your suspicion. Why, our man was waiting with a boat as soon as he got out of the cabin.”
“Did he get away?” It was the first question that Jack had asked, though non-committal, in which Simms detected a faint anxiety. Simms was the very embodiment of coolness and indifference. “Not from us, no; but he is out on bail.”
That assertion was a masterstroke of ingenuity, and he followed it up with the same indifference. “Would you like to know who his sureties are?”
Jack maintained a gloomy silence.
“Just to convince you that I am not joking, I will show you the document.” And Simms turned lazily on his heel and left him. Returning a few moments later with a document, he held it for Jack to look at.
“Do you note the amount? And the signatures?—James Harris, John Thorpe. You must be familiar with them,” and the detective smiled as he thought of the trick he was employing to fool the prisoner, for he had himself written the signatures for the purpose.
“Jack’s breathing was heavier and his face somewhat whiter, yet by a superhuman effort he still maintained a gloomy frown of apparent indifference.
“The reward was paid to him this morning,” continued the detective, between his puffs of smoke.