“That is, I think, admitted,” replied the man who led such a wonderful life of duplicity. “It seems, however, that information which came into the hands of the authorities was of such a grave character that a warrant was issued against him for war-treason, and—”
“A warrant!” cried Trustram. “Surely that’s not true!”
“Quite true,” was Rodwell’s cold reply. “On the evening of his death he somehow learned the truth, and after you had left him that night he apparently committed suicide.”
Trustram was silent and thoughtful for some time. The story had astounded him. Yet, now he reflected, he recollected how, on that fatal night, while they had been dining together, the doctor had spoken rather gloomily upon the outlook, and had remarked that he believed that all his patriotic efforts had been misunderstood by the red-taped officialdom. In face of what his companion had just told him, it was now revealed that Jerome Jerrold, even while they had been dining together, had been contemplating putting an end to his life. He recollected that envelope in his possession, that envelope in which the man now dead had left something—some mysterious message, which was not to be read until one year after his death. What could it be? Was it, after all, a confession that he, the man so long unsuspected, had been guilty of war-treason!
The doctor’s rather strange attitude, and the fierce tirade he had uttered against the Intelligence Department for their lack of initiative and their old-fashioned methods, he had, at the time, put down to irritability consequent upon over-work and the strain of the war, but, in face of what he had now learnt, he was quite able to understand it. It was the key to the tragedy. No doubt that letter left for Jack Sainsbury contained some confession. Curious that suspicion had now also fallen upon Sainsbury, who had so often assisted him in watching night-signals over the hills in the southern counties, and in making inquiries regarding mysterious individuals suspected of espionage.
“Well,” he said at last, “you’ve utterly astounded me. Where did you hear this rumour?”
“My friend Sir Boyle Huntley is very intimate with a man in the War Office—in the Intelligence Department in fact—and it came from him. So I think there’s no doubt about it. A great pity, for Dr Jerrold was a first-class man, and highly respected everywhere.”
“Yes. If true, it is most terrible. But so many idle and ill-natured rumours get afloat nowadays—how, nobody can tell—that one doesn’t know what to believe, if the information does not come from an absolutely reliable source.”
“What I’ve just told you does come from an absolutely reliable source,” Rodwell assured him. “And as regards young Sainsbury, letters which he forgot and left behind him in his desk at the office are clear proof of his dealings with the enemy. In one was enclosed a ten-pound note sent as payment for information from somebody in Holland.”
“Is that really so? And he forgot it?” asked Trustram.