After what seemed an incredibly long period of suspense, the door opened and Marsh ushered them in––Morrow, his face wreathed in triumph and smiles; a brown-haired, serene-eyed girl whom Blaine remembered from his memorable interview with her at the Anita Lawton Club; and a tall, grizzled, smooth-shaven man, who held himself proudly erect, as if the weight of years had fallen from his shoulders.
“Yes, sir, I’m Brunell,” the latter announced, when the incidental salutations were over, “––Jimmy Brunell, the forger. I’ve lived straight, and tried to keep the truth from my little girl, for her own sake, but perhaps it is better as it is. She knows everything now, and has forgiven much, because she’s a woman like her mother, God bless her! I’ve come of my own free will, to tell you all you want to know, and prove it, too!”
“Sit down, all of you. Brunell, you forged the signature to the mortgage on Pennington Lawton’s home, at Paddington’s instigation?”
“Yes, sir. And the signature on the note given for 295 the loan from Moore, and the whole letter supposed to be from Mr. Lawton to Mallowe, asking him to procure that loan for him, and all the other crooked business which helped sweep Mr. Lawton’s fortune away. But I didn’t understand how big the job was, nor just what they were trying to put over, or I wouldn’t have done it. I wish to heaven I hadn’t, now, but it’s too late for that; I can only do what’s left me to help repair the damage. I wish I’d taken the consequences Paddington threatened me with, through Charley Pennold––curse them both!
“For it wasn’t because of the money I did it, sir, although what they offered me was a small fortune, and would have been a mighty hard temptation in the old days. It was because if I refused they were going to strike at me through my little girl, the one thing on earth I’ve got left to love! They were going to have me sent up on an old score which no one else even had suspected I’d been mixed up in. I didn’t know––until just now when this young friend here, Mr. Morrow, told me––that it had been outlawed long years ago, and I can see that they counted on my not knowing. How they found out about it, anyway, is a mystery to me, but that Paddington is the devil himself! However, if I didn’t do the trick for them, they’d have me convicted, and once out of the way, my little girl would be helpless in their hands. They talked of sweatshops, and worse––”
The old man broke down, and shuddering, covered his face with his thin fingers. But in a moment, before the pitying, outstretched hand of his daughter could reach his shoulder, he had regained control of himself, and resumed:
“I did what they asked of me––all they asked. But I was suspicious, not only because they didn’t take me 296 fully into their confidence, but because I knew Paddington and his breed; and also, Miss Lawton had been kind to my little girl. If they meant any harm to Pennington Lawton’s daughter, or if their scheme, whatever kind of a hold-up it was, failed to pan out as they expected, and they tried to make me the scape-goat––well, I meant to protect myself and Lawton. My word would have to be proof against theirs that they forced me into what I did, but I could fix it so that I could prove to anybody, without any doubt, that Lawton never wrote that note to Mallowe from Long Bay about that loan two years ago, and that would sort of substantiate my word that the signatures weren’t his, either.”
“How could you prove such a thing?” Blaine leaned forward tensely.
“Young Morrow, here, tells me that you’ve got that note––the note asking Mallowe to arrange the loan for Lawton. Will you get it, please, sir? I don’t want to see it; I want you to read it to me, and then I’ll tell you something about it. They thought they were clever, the rascals, but I fooled them at their own game! I cut out the words from a bundle of Lawton’s old letters which they gave me, and I manufactured the note, all right. I did it, word for word, just like they wanted me to––but I put my own private mark on it, that they couldn’t discover, so that I could prove anywhere, any time, that it was a forgery!”
In a concealed fever of excitement, the detective produced the fateful note from his private file.