# The Seen and the Unseen/The Photographs

II. THE PHOTOGRAPHS
CHAPTER I.
THE governor glanced up as Mr. Dodsworth entered.
"Anything the matter, Mr. Dodsworth?"
"Rather a curious thing in connection with the photograph of the man George Solly. If you could spare me a moment I should like to show it you."
Mr. Dodsworth produced a pocket-book. From the pocket-book he took a photograph. It was the photograph of a man who was attired in prison costume. He was seated on a chair, and he held in front of him a slate on which was written in large letters, "George Solly." Mr. Dodsworth handed this photograph to the governor.
"Well, Mr. Dodsworth, what is there peculiar about this?"
"There is something about it which is very peculiar indeed, sir, to my eye. If you will look at the photograph closely, you will see that there is something behind the man."
Mr. Paley brought the photograph nearer to his spectacled eyes.
​"I see—a sort of shadow. Well?"
"You will notice that that shadow looks very much like a veiled figure—as though a veiled figure was standing at the back of the man Solly."
"Exactly! It does bear some resemblance to a veiled figure. What then?"
"This, sir: that no one was standing behind Solly. No one, and nothing."
"I don't quite see what you are aiming at, Mr. Dodsworth."
"I am aiming at obtaining your permission to take another negative of the man."
"Another negative! Why? Isn't this a sufficiently good likeness?"
"The likeness is not exactly a bad one, though it is not a very good one, either. But will you allow me to explain, sir? The day on which I took that plate was, for photographic purposes, a very fair day. Solly sat, where the men generally do sit, about fourteen or fifteen feet from the wall. There was nothing between the wall and him. I ought to have had nothing on the plate but Solly. What I want to know is, how came that veiled figure there?"
"Veiled figure! You call the shadow a veiled figure? Don't you think that the resemblance is somewhat fanciful?"
"No, sir, I don't. The focus is not quite right, so hat it comes out a little dim; but I have not the lightest doubt that a veiled figure has been introduced into my plate, as standing behind George Solly's chain I should very much like to take the man again."
​"In fact, you are a little curious, eh? I am not sure that I should be justified in allowing you to make experiments at prisoners' expense. I don't know why they want this man Solly's likeness at Scotland Yard. It is his first offence, he is a good-conduct man, and I don't know that I am entitled to allow you to put him to unnecessary inconvenience."
"But, to put it on no other grounds, the likeness might be very easily improved."
Dr. Livermore had just come in from his rounds. He stretched out his hand to the governor.
"Let me look at it," he said.
Mr. Paley handed him the photograph. The doctor examined it
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Dodsworth, that there was nothing behind the man when you exposed this plate?"
"I do. Ask Mr. Murray; he was present at the time."
Chief Warder Murray, standing by, corroborated Mr. Dodsworth's word.
"Then what have you done to the plate since you exposed it? You know, Mr, Dodsworth, this looks to me very much like one of those so-called spirit photographs—you know what I mean—printed from two exposures, and that kind of thing."
"I know what you mean. But I assure you, doctor, that that is a print from an ordinary development of the plate which I exposed in Mr. Murray's presence. It seems to me to be rather a curious thing. How did that veiled figure get upon that plate?"
​"Quite so! If what you say is correct, it is a curious thing. Mr. Paley, I think you might allow Mr. Dodsworth to make another trial. No harm will be done."
The governor gave his permission. Some days afterwards Mr. Dodsworth came into the office just as Mr. Paley had concluded his matutinal interviews with such of the prisoners as were "reported," and such others as desired "to see the governor." Dr. Livermore had also just entered the office to sign the report after making his rounds.
"Well, Mr. Dodsworth," inquired the governor, "and what is the result this time?"
"Before showing you the result, sir, I should like to ask a question or two." Mr. Dodsworth turned to Chief Warder Murray, who had been present, in his official capacity, during the governor's recent interviewing. "You were present, Mr. Murray, when I photographed the man George Solly?"
"I was."
"And you also, Slater?" Mr. Dodsworth turned to Warder Slater, who had entered with him. Warder Slater allowed that he was.
"Mr. Murray, where was Solly sitting when I photographed him?"
"He was sitting where the men always do sit—perhaps twenty feet from the wall"
"Was there anything behind him—I mean, any person, or any object of any kind?"
"There was nothing."
"Could there have been anything behind him without your having been aware of the fact?"
"Certainly not. It was a sunny day, half-past two ​in the afternoon, and I myself stood within a dozen feet of Solly, to the left of him."
"Slater, is what Mr. Murray says correct?" Warder Slater allowed that it was. Mr. Dodsworth turned to the governor. "I have asked these questions in your presence, Mr. Paley, because the results of my second attempt at photographing the man Solly have been so curious. I availed myself to the full of your permission. I made up my mind that there should be no doubt about the thing this time. So I exposed three separate plates. This is the result of the first exposure, Mr. Paley."
Mr. Dodsworth handed the governor a photograph.
"I don't understand you, Mr. Dodsworth. Is this a photograph of Solly? Who is the woman standing at the back of his chair?"
"Just so—that is what I should like to know. Who is the woman standing at the back of his chair?"
Mr. Paley glanced up in surprise. "What do you mean, Mr. Dodsworth?"
"I mean, sir, what I say—that I should like to know who the woman is who is standing at the back of his chair. Did you see a woman standing at the back of his chair, Mr. Murray?"
"There was no woman."
"Mr. Murray says that there was no woman; the camera seems to suggest that there was."
"Let me look at the thing."
The doctor took the photograph out of the governor's hand. It was the photograph of a man, in prison dress, who was sitting holding out a slate in front of him, on which was written, in characters ​which were only too legible, his name, "George Solly." Behind the chair on which he was sitting stood a woman. Her pose was curiously natural—not at all the rather-death-than-move pose which is dear to the average photographer. She rested one hand lightly on the man's shoulder, and she was stooping a little forward as if she was curious to see what was written upon the slate which he was holding. Her features were not quite clear, and the whole photograph, so far as she was concerned, was rather dim—but there could be no possible doubt of the fact that she was there.
"Dodsworth," said the doctor, "do you mean to tell me that you have not been trying some little novelty of your own in the way of spirit photographs?"
"Upon my honour, doctor, no. I looked at that negative directly I got home, and when I saw that woman standing there, well—I declare to you that I felt queer. I have brought that negative here, and the other two negatives. Anybody who knows anything about photography will be able to see at a glance that they have not been tampered with since their original exposure. The print which the doctor has is the result of the first, and this, Mr. Paley, is the result of the second exposure."
Mr. Dodsworth handed Mr. Paley a second photograph. It was a repetition of the first, only, in this case, instead of standing at the back of the man's chair, the woman was kneeling on the ground at his side, and was stretching out her hand and arm in such a manner that they screened the words which were written on the slate.
​"You see," commented Mr. Dodsworth, "she has concealed the prisoner's name."
"Do you mean to tell me seriously, Mr. Dodsworth, that you wish me to take this as a bona fide portrait of the man Solly?"
"Here is Mr. Murray, and here is Mr. Slater: they were present at the time—ask them! I took the negatives straight home; they are now lying before you on the table. What you are holding in your hand was printed, in the usual manner and in the ordinary course, from the second plate which I exposed."
"Then do you wish me to infer that about the matter there is something supernatural, Mr. Dodsworth?"
Mr. Dodsworth shrugged his shoulders.
"It is not for me to draw inferences. I am a photographer. It is my duty to lay before you the results of the camera. That is a print from the third exposure, Mr. Paley."
Mr. Dodsworth laid the third photograph before the governor.
"Really, Mr. Dodsworth, this is too much! Do you expect me to take this as a portrait of the man George Solly? Why, there's nothing of the man to be seen!"
"Quite so—the, woman has stepped in front of him, and conceals him wholly."
"Do you wish me to infer that the man is behind the woman then? They will require the magnifying glasses which Sam Weller alluded to, if that portrait is to be of much service to them at Scotland Yard."
​"I repeat, Mr. Paley, that I wish you to infer nothing. That is the portrait of a woman, which was not taken under ordinary conditions, because, when it was taken, there was no woman there. No woman, that is, who was visible to my eyes, or to Mr. Murray's or to Mr. Slater's, and it was broad daylight. We saw George Solly, and George Solly only; but it seems that the camera saw something else, and I believe it is a well-authenticated fact that the camera cannot lie."
"That does not look like an ordinary photograph, Mr. Dodsworth."
"It is an extraordinary photograph, Mr. Paley."
"It looks so dim."
"Perhaps it is because the woman was only dimly visible to the exquisitely sensitised plate that he was invisible to our less sensitive eyes."
"You are, in fact, suggesting a ghost story, Mr. Dodsworth."
"I am suggesting a possible explanation, Mr. Paley."
"And I will suggest another." The doctor was holding the photograph in his hand. He was eyeing it askance. "I suggest that I bring my camera to bear. Let me try my hand at photographing this remarkable Mr. Solly. Have I your permission, Mr. Paley?"
The governor leaned back in his chair. He drummed with his finger-ends upon the table. His manner became official.
"I don't know, doctor, that we are entitled to make experiments upon this man."
"We are entitled to endeavour to get a good ​portrait of him if we can, without adjuncts. I suppose that you hardly intend to send either of these negatives up to Scotland Yard. You will have inquiries made into the matter if you do. I don't wish to suggest anything in the least unkind, but I am inclined to think that, although a mere amateur, I shall be able to obtain more satisfactory results than Mr. Dodsworth, the professional. Perhaps when I try the spooks will be sleeping."
"So far as I am concerned I very earnestly hope that the governor will allow you to make the experiment, doctor."
The governor delivered his decision.
"The circumstances are peculiar. Ordinarily, doctor, I should feel myself bound to decline to accede to your request. The prisoners are not here for us to experiment upon. But—I have received instructions from headquarters to forward to Scotland Yard a negative of the man George Solly. None of Mr. Dodsworth's negatives are suited to the required purpose. It becomes, therefore, my duty to procure one more suitable. It is in the hope that you will be able to provide me with a more suitable negative that, Dr. Livermore, I accede to your request."
CHAPTER II.
"Well, I've done it!"
There were in the office when Dr. Livermore made this remark—the governor, Mr. Dodsworth, the chief warder, and the doctor.
"You were all of you present when I made my little trial, so as to the conditions under which that trial was made I presume that we are all agreed. What I photographed was the man George Solly. There was no one else there to photograph. Upon that point there can be no doubt whatever—is that not so, Mr. Paley?"
"Certainly, no one else was there—that is, within the range of your camera."
"Just so; I mean within the range of my camera, so that there can be no reason why the results should not have been satisfactory."
"No reason with which I am acquainted—none whatever. Are the results not satisfactory?"
"Wait one moment and you shall judge for yourself. As you are aware, I went one better than Mr. Dodsworth—I exposed four plates. As each plate was exposed I sealed it up in your presence, without even glancing at it myself. Directly I reached home I forwarded the sealed plates to a firm in town to be developed. I mentioned to no one that I intended to do so. I have mentioned the fact of having done so to no one since. I simply instructed that firm to develop the plates in the ordinary way, ​to print six impressions from each, and to return both prints and plates to me. The results have only reached me this morning. Here they are. There cannot be the slightest doubt that these are my plates, that they have not in any way been tampered with, that they have simply been developed by ordinary processes, and that these prints are merely reproductions from the plates. Yet, when I saw these prints, I did what I think you will do—I stared. Mr. Paley, here is the result of the first exposure."
The doctor handed Mr. Paley a photograph. The governor directly he saw it gave utterance to an exclamation.
"Doctor! You are dreaming."
"I assure you I am not Mr. Dodsworth, allow me to hand you a print from the first exposure. Mr. Murray, allow me to hand you one. Mr. Dodsworth, you perceive that the laugh is now upon your side."
The photograph which the doctor had handed round was not the photograph of a man at all, but of a woman. She was costumed in ordinary feminine attire. She wore no covering on her head. She was seated squarely on the chair on which prisoners were wont to sit when enjoying the luxury of having their likenesses taken at their country's expense. She was looking straight at the camera. And in the eyes there was a certain defiance, and upon her face a look of stern, resolute determination, which is not in general to be noted upon the countenances of those triumphs of the photographer's art with which we adorn our albums.
"Honestly, doctor," inquired the governor, "aren't ​you having a little joke at our expense? Or perhaps you have made a slight mistake in giving us one print for another. Are you aware that the portrait you have given us is not the portrait of a man at all, but of a woman?"
"I am aware of it, and of a woman who, to my eye, has the light of a great purpose in her face. There can be no doubt that that woman was sitting in George Solly's chair."
"And where is George Solly then?"
"That I cannot tell you. But, as Mr. Dodsworth remarked the other day—and I shall have to make my apologies to Mr. Dodsworth—it is a well-authenticated fact that the camera cannot lie. On this occasion it has seen something which was concealed from our less sensitive vision."
Mr. Paley laid down the photograph with that acid yet courteous smile for which the governor was famous.
"And where is the result of the second exposure? Is the woman still sitting in George Solly's seat!"
"No, she has left it, and this time, as you see, we have at least George Solly's face. Here is the result of the second exposure."
The doctor handed round another photograph. In this the man Solly was seated in the usual attitude, holding out the slate, and the woman was kneeling before him. Her profile was towards the camera, and she had just rubbed out the name upon the slate. At any rate, the slate was blank.
"Isn't that a remarkable photograph?" asked the doctor. "I mean a remarkable photograph from any and every point of view? Just look at the ​expression on the woman's face, and at the suggestion of complete unconsciousness on the face of the man. She looks as though she could, and would, do anything. He seems to be wholly innocent, even of the knowledge of her presence there."
"This photograph is, in some respects, not unlike one of Mr. Dodsworth's."
"Which makes the thing the more remarkable. But I want you particularly to observe that the slate which Solly holds is blank. Now, I ask all of you, whether at any moment during the time I was exposing the plates that slate was blank."
"Certainly not," declared Chief Warder Murray.
The others, by their silence, acquiesced in Mr. Murray's declaration.
"If I could trust my eyes, during the whole time I was exposing the plates, the words 'George Solly' were there, ostentatiously there, upon that slate. You see that in that print the slate is blank. Now look at this—this is the result of the third exposure!"
In the fresh photograph which the doctor produced a curious change had taken place. The blank upon the slate was occupied; a name was written on it from corner to corner. It seemed that it had just been written by the woman, because the handwriting was feminine; and with her face towards the camera, still kneeling on the ground before the man George Solly, she pointed at it with a sort of defiant rage, as though she gloried in the fact of having written it, and dared them to deny the suggestion it conveyed.
"Now, what do you think of that?" cried Dr. ​Livermore. "You will remember that these exposures followed each other at intervals of perhaps a couple of minutes. Just now the slate was blank, now the blank is filled. The name 'George Solly' remained upon the slate throughout the several exposures, so far as we could see. But 'George Solly' is not the name with which the woman, during the couple of minutes which intervened between the two exposures, has filled the blank."
Mr. Paley was peering through his spectacles at the name which, in the photograph, appeared upon the slate.
"It is certainly not 'George Solly.' It looks like 'Evan'—'Evan——’"
"It's 'Evan Bradell.' The thing's as clear as day."
"Evan Bradell—so it is. Really, doctor, this is, in its way, remarkable."
"But I venture to say that the most remarkable part is still to follow. We had, first of all, the woman sitting on the chair, on which, if we can trust the evidence of our senses throughout, no one but George Solly sat. Then we had the woman, having rubbed out the name upon the slate, George Solly now upon the chair. Then we had the woman, having substituted the one name for the other, George Solly still upon the chair. And now, in this fourth exposure, you will see that not only has the woman gone, but George Solly has vanished too, and in George Solly's chair is seated—another man! Here it is, look for yourselves."
It was as the doctor said. In the fourth photograph the woman had disappeared. There was the ​familiar chair, but the individual who was seated on it bore not the least resemblance to Solly. To begin with, this individual, with the exception of the hat—he was hatless—was clad in commonplace civilian costume, decorous frock-coat, and the rest of it. But it was not only a question of difference of clothing; he was altogether a bigger and an older man than Solly. And he dandled on his knee, with an air of curious discomfiture, the slate on which was inscribed, in a clear, feminine hand, the name "Evan Bradell."
While his hearers continued to examine the result of the fourth exposure the doctor delivered himself of a few observations.
"While I do not wish to suggest that we are in the presence of a manifestation from the supernatural, I do insist that we are, at any rate so far, in the presence of a mystery. I doubt if any photographer ever before discovered that, while he supposed himself to having been photographing Mr. Brown, he had, in reality, been photographing Miss Smith. I want you to note one or two points which strike me about the affair, and which may lead to a possible solution. First of all, there is the presence of the woman. In Mr. Dodsworth's original plate it requires no strong effort of the imagination to suppose that the veiled figure at the back of the chair is that of a woman. In Mr. Dodsworth's subsequent three plates the woman is certain. In my first three plates she is, if possible, more certain still. And just observe that Mr. Dodsworth's woman and my woman are identical; she has changed her dress, but the woman is the same. Possibly, Mr. Paley, you will ​be able to offer us an explanation of how it is that Mr. Dodsworth and I should both of us have been photographing a woman whom neither of us have ever seen."
Mr. Paley leaned back in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling. He pressed the tips of his fingers together. And he preserved that silence which is golden.
"It is to be noted that the attitude of the woman is, throughout, one of protection to the man and defiance to us—of defiance, that is, to the manipulator of the camera. She first of all, in Mr. Dodsworth's plate, tries to hide the name upon the slate. Then she actually, with her own person, conceals the man. In my first plate she confronts me boldly, as if to give me to understand that it is with her I have to reckon. Then she rubs out the name upon the slate, she writes another in its place. And, having substituted one name for the other, she seems, by a mere effort of will, to have effected an exchange of men: George Solly is gone, Evan Bradell occupies his place. She appears as Solly's guardian angel, resolute, at all hazards, to prove that she is on his side; and she seems to be making frantic efforts to express her unwavering faith in Solly's innocence, even going so far as to point out the man on whose shoulders the guilt should properly be laid."
The doctor paused, and the governor spoke.
"With regard to Dr. Livermore's fanciful explanation of the somewhat peculiar circumstances connected with these photographs—and the doctor will excuse me if I say that I did not think that he was capable of such flights of imagination——"
"Quite so, doctor, quite so! With regard to your guardian angel theory, about a woman watching over Solly, and so on, I may mention that a letter has been received in the prison, addressed to the man Solly, which comes from a woman—from a woman who is, apparently, his wife. Whoever she is, she is, if one may judge from the evidence of the letter itself, certainly a remarkable woman. And I am bound to allow that, in view of recent events, and of what we have heard from Doctor Livermore, this letter is, in a sense, a coincidence. In pursuance of the powers which are invested in me to make such use of convicted prisoners' letters as may appear to me to be justified by circumstances, I will read to you this letter which has been sent to the prison, addressed to Solly."
The governor read aloud the following letter. It sounded strange in his cool, clear, slightly acid tones. One fancied that it had been written in a different spirit to that in which it was read.
"‘My Own, Dear, Noble Husband,
"‘God bless you, sweetheart! I hope you realise, my dear, that I am with you in Canterstone Jail. Not only in spirit, but actually, and in fact I am with you in the morning when the bell rings, and you rise from your plank bed. I am with you on the treadwheel, love, and I am proud to keep step at your side. And I am with you when, in the evening, you lie down again upon your plank. I lie down on the plank beside you, and I creep into your arms as I used to do when I had you at home, and as I will do when, soon, I have you home again, my love. Do not ​think that I speak figuratively. I have been with you all the time that you have been in jail; I have been ever at your side, I have seen all that you have done, although I do not think, sweetheart, that you have been conscious of my presence. I have kissed you many times upon the lips, although I do not think that you have felt my kisses there. But, now that you know that I am with you, always and ever, and that I often kiss you, watch for me, dear husband. Something, I am sure, will reveal to you my presence, and you will feel my kisses,
"‘But do not think, because I am ever with you in the jail, that I am not outside as well—because indeed I am. There has come to me, during this our time of sorrow, I know not from whence or how, a dual personality. I am with you there; I shall be with you, sweetheart, when you read this letter; watch for me. I shall be leaning over your shoulder as your eyes light upon these words—and I am here, watching and working to establish the truth. And the truth is coming out. I know whose is the guilt. It is his whom we both of us suspected from the first. And soon it shall be proved: by his own conscience and by me. So the time is drawing very near when your innocence shall be made known to all the world—I would not say so if I was not sure.
"‘God bless you, sweetheart; and God permit me to continue with you in your cell. It will not be for long. And God has been so good to us in spite of sorrows, that I have a full assurance that He will not withhold from us this further boon.
"Queer letter!" observed Mr. Murray, when the governor had finished reading.
​"I should say, off-hand," remarked Mr. Dodsworth, "that that woman must be wrong in the head."
The doctor smoothed his shaven chin with his open palm before he spoke. "I am not so sure of that. But of one thing I am sure. I am sure I know who is the original of the woman in the photographs."
The governor glanced up from the letter which he still held in his hand.
"Who is it?"
"The woman who wrote that letter—George Solly's wife."
The governor appeared to consider the matter for a moment.
"That is a point that can be very easily decided. Murray, go and fetch George Solly here."
The chief warder departed. When, in the course of a few minutes, he returned with the object of his quest, it was seen that George Solly was a young man, of perhaps six- or seven-and-twenty years of age. The prison costume which he wore was not a thing of beauty, but its ugliness was not sufficient to conceal the fact that he was a man of gentle breeding, and not only of gentle breeding, but of modest bearing. He was fair, with clear brown eyes, and well-shaped mouth and chin, not by any means the criminal type of man, and he was a man of quiet fortitude. Despite that ghastly uniform, there was about the man a certain dignity.
Directly he had taken up the regulation stand-at-attention attitude in front of the governor's table, Mr. Paley held out to him a photograph.
"Solly, whose portrait is that?"
​As soon as Solly's glance fell upon the portrait, which he took from Mr. Paley, his eyes moistened and his lips twitched.
"Has she sent it to me? May I have it, sir?"
"Whose portrait is it, Solly?"
But the man appeared unconscious of the governor's inquiry. He continued to gaze steadfastly upon the portrait. And he said, as if he had forgotten that anyone was present beside the portrait and himself, in a tone of voice whose tenderness, to a toneless pen, is indescribable—
"How came she to be sitting on that chair? And what a strange look she has upon her face! My darling!"
In the presence of those iron-bound officials he kissed the face which was imaged in the photograph.
"I don't think you can have heard my question, Solly. Whose portrait is that?"
"Whose? My wife's. Are you not aware of that? Has it not come from her for me?"
"No." The governor held out his hand. "Give it to me." Solly shrank back a little. He seemed to hold the portrait with an intenser grasp. Then he gave it back to Mr. Paley. "That portrait is the property of the prison. I merely wished to know if you recognised the subject. Here is another portrait, Solly. Can you tell me who is the original of this?"
Solly stared, as though he could not quite make out the purport of the proceedings. He held out his hand, rather doubtfully, for the fresh photograph which the governor passed to him by way of the chief warder. But when his glance fell upon the ​photograph he started and he stared, and he stared and he started, as though he could not believe the evidence of his own eyes.
"It—it can't be! At last! oh, my God, at last!"
The man's emotion was intense. But the governor paid no heed to that whatever. He repeated his inquiry in his cool, clear, acid voice.
"Are you acquainted with the original of that photograph?"
"Am I? Aren't I? Oh, Mr. Paley, have they found it out—have they discovered it was he? Am I to have my freedom? Is it known at last that I was innocent?"
"Be so good as to answer my question, Solly. Are you acquainted with the original of that photograph?"
"Certainly I am. Here is his name, written on the slate. It is Evan Bradell. From the first I suspected him. I even suspected that it was his deliberate intention to lay the onus of his guilt on me! God knows why; I never did him harm. Is he in custody upon another charge? Or how comes it, if he is in custody for the crime of which they found me guilty—guilty! me!—that I have heard nothing of it, and that I am not set free?"
The man's tones were hot and eager. The governor's, as ever, were cool, and clear, and acid.
"Solly, give me back that photograph. That also is the property of the prison. As in the case of the other, I merely wished to know if you were acquainted with the original. I would advise you, Solly, not to buoy yourself up with any hopes that the verdict which has been pronounced against you ​will be revised, or that the term of imprisonment which was allotted you will be diminished. I have heard nothing which would lead me to suppose anything of the kind. Indeed, I have heard nothing about your case, either one way or the other, since you were tried. I merely sent for you here to put to you certain formal questions—that is all."
As the words were uttered in the governor's judicial, monotonous tones the man shrank back as though he had received a blow.
"There is another matter, Solly, which I wish to mention to you. A letter has been received in the prison addressed to you. It infringes one of the prison rules, which requires that every communication intended for a prisoner should be signed in full, with Christian and proper names. Moreover, the letter is couched in language which I cannot, in some respects, call proper, nor calculated to increase your peace of mind while you are here. However, I am informed that your conduct has, so far, been satisfactory, and I am therefore disposed to waive these matters upon this occasion. But you must distinctly understand that, upon another occasion, I shall not do so. Mr. Murray, see that this man has, in the dinner-hour, the letter which has been addressed to him."
And the governor handed the chief warder George Solly's letter.
CHAPTER III.
They sent up a report to the Commissioners. It was rather a compound document. It was drawn up by the governor, the doctor, and Mr. Dodsworth in concert, with here and there a word or two from Mr. Murray, while in a sort of postscript Warder Slater was brought in. It narrated at some length, and with a considerable amount of circumlocution—in accordance with official traditions—the story of the photographs. The negatives went with the report. They were submitted to the impartial judgment of the Commissioners, to take or leave just as they pleased.
Mr. Paley was particularly anxious that in the report there should not only be no suggestion of the supernatural, but that there should be a distinct disclaimer of any suggestion of the kind. On this point there was a slight difference of opinion. The doctor insisted that the things which had occurred could not have occurred without the interposition of something out of the natural. He wished to insert, in his portion of the report, a gentle hint to the effect that they might have hit—which hit would tend to the advancement of photographic science—upon a novel force. Mr. Dodsworth had, or declared that he had, no theories either one way or the other. He would have liked the report to have contained nothing but a bald statement of facts. While Mr. Murray—however, no one paid the slightest attention ​on this point to Mr. Murray, because, while he had the smallest possible belief in human nature, he had the strongest belief in ghosts. As for Warder Slater—what was Warder Slater's state of mind upon the matter may be better judged from a report which he made to the governor, upon his own account, a couple of days after "the" report had been sent.
The "reports" on that particular morning numbered only one: that one was Warder Slater, and the man "reported" was George Solly. Warder and prisoner took up their positions before the cord which was drawn across the room, and on the other side of which sat the governor at his table. The warder, if small in height, was large in girth—a prodigy of stoutness. The prisoner was tall and slender. As regards physical proportions, they presented a pleasing contrast. The officer seemed, for some cause or other, to be not altogether at his ease. The governor opened the inquiry.
"Well, Slater, what is it?"
"Man talking in his night-cell, sir."
"To himself? Or to whom?"
The officer fidgeted—with Batavian grace.
"It's my belief, sir, he had someone in his night-cell along with him."
"Someone with him in his night-cell?"
"Yes, sir; and it's my belief it was a woman."
"A woman?"
The governor looked at the culprit—probably becoming for the first time fully conscious that that culprit was George Solly. Just then Dr. Livermore entered the office at the back. He stood and listened. The officer explained.
​"I was on night-duty last night, sir, and I was going my rounds about half-past one, when, as I entered Ward C, I heard sounds of someone talking. I found that someone was talking inside of 13 C."
George Solly's prison number was 13 C, the number being that of the cell he occupied.
"I listened outside of 13 C, and I heard two voices."
"Two voices?"
"Yes, sir, two voices—and one of them a woman's."
"A woman's?"
"Yes, sir, a woman's—I heard it most distinct. I could hear what they were saying. They were regularly carrying on. I heard Solly say, 'My own true love!' I heard the woman say, 'Sweetheart!' and a lot more like that."
As if suspecting the presence, somewhere, of a smile. Warder Slater all at once became emphatic.
"I'm willing to take my Bible oath I heard it!"
The governor regarded the slightly excited officer through his spectacles with that calm, passionless, official look which he was famous for. He turned to the culprit
"Solly, what have you to say?"
Solly's reply was somewhat unexpected. "What Mr. Slater says is true."
"You were talking in your night-cell to a woman?"
"I was. I was talking to my wife."
"Don't trifle, my man, with me. I suppose you mean that you were engaged in some little ventriloquial performance?"
Solly hesitated. It was noticed when he spoke that in his manner there was a certain exultation—a suggestion of suppressed excitement.
​"You will remember that, some days ago, I received a letter from my wife. In that letter she told me that she was always with me in the jail, and that I was to watch for her." Solly paused. The governor made a slight gesture as of interruption; but then seemed to change his mind, and the man continued.
"I did watch. It seemed to me that sometimes I felt her touch, that I heard the rustle of her garments, that I even heard her voice. But the consciousness of these things was such a faint one that I supposed, my attention being so acutely strained, that I had allowed myself to be deceived by my imagination. Until last night." Solly paused again. This time the governor made no attempt at interruption. "Last night I could not sleep. I lay, dreaming, wide awake. I was wondering where my wife was, and what she was doing, and whether she was thinking of me, as I was thinking then of her, when—I felt a touch upon my lips, and found that my wife was in my arms. I don't think that I was startled, because I had half expected that she would come to me in some such way as that. But I was very glad. We sat together on the side of the bed, and she talked to me and I to her—as Mr. Slater says, we carried on—until Mr. Slater entered."
"Yes," said Warder Slater, "when I had had enough of listening, and wondering whoever could be carrying on with Solly, I opened the door soft like, so that I might catch 'em at it, whoever it was, and I saw Solly sitting on the side of the bed, and someone—I couldn't quite make out who, because I don't mind owning that I felt a bit flurried, because how anybody, let alone a woman, could have got in to Solly ​was more than I could understand—but I saw it was a woman was sitting by his side, and she had her arms about his neck, and he had his arms about her waist"
"Well?"
The monosyllable came from the governor. Warder Slater had paused.
"Well, sir, I just caught a glimpse of her, and she was gone—gone like a thing of air, before I had a chance to open my mouth. I don't mind owning that I didn't quite like it, at that time of night, and all; but I says to Solly, 'Who's that you had in here along with you?' And he says, 'It was my wife.' 'I shall report you,' I says, and I went outside."
"Did you hear any more talking?"
"No, sir, I did not, although I stopped outside some time and listened. And I came back half a dozen times, and each time I listened, but I never heard a sound."
The prisoner took up the tale.
"She came back once and kissed me, and whispered just one word. And after that I fell asleep, and slept until the morning."
The governor leant back in his chair. He seemed to be considering. He regarded the prisoner intently, the prisoner meeting his glance with perfect self-possession. At last he said—
"That will do. Take the man away." And Warder Slater and the prisoner departed.
As they went out Dr. Livermore came forward. The governor turned to him.
"Is that you, doctor? Have you heard that edify​ing little story? What do you think of it? Murray, you can go."
On that hint the chief warder also went. The governor and the doctor were alone. When they were alone the two officials dropped to a perceptible degree their official manner.
"Frankly, Paley, I don't know what to think."
"You don't mean to say that you believe in the genuineness of that story as it was told to us?"
"I repeat, I don't know what to think. You see, there are not only those photographs and the woman's letter, but there is something else besides. Paley, I've been breaking the rules."
"How?"
"I've been carrying a detective camera about with me, and I've been taking a snap-shot at that man Solly whenever I got the chance."
"You have, have you? It's just as well you didn't tell me, or I should have been down on you, my friend. Well, and what was the idea?"
"Never mind what the idea was, I'll tell you what the result is. The result is nineteen photographs, and in each of them, with the exception of two, there's the woman."
"You don't mean it!"
"I do mean it. Those photographs are my own property. I've half a mind to lay them before the Society for Psychical Research. I flatter myself that they would constitute as neat a case for inquiry as that august society has yet encountered."
"Livermore! None of that! There'll be trouble if you do!"
"I'm only jesting. I'm not likely to give myself ​away. But I mean to keep those photographs; I mean to write their history, and I mean to leave them to my—heirs, and a ghost story to the ages. Seriously, Paley! It's nonsense to suppose that I could have photographed a woman — seventeen times — if she hadn't been there to photograph. She must have been visible to the camera if she was invisible to me. And from being visible to the camera, to being visible, and even audible and tangible, to Solly, and even Slater, it's but one step further. And that's why I say, referring to the story which Solly and Slater have just now told, that I don't know what to think; and candidly, I tell you again, I don't"
"I tell you what I mean to do; I mean to have that man transferred."
"That's one way out of it, certainly — transfer the solution of the ghost story on to someone else's shoulders. Have you heard anything about the report — our report I mean?"
"Yes. This morning. Hardinge's coming down to-morrow."
"Hardinge! Nice sort of man to whom to entrust a case like that! Might as well expect an elephant to dance lightly upon egg-shell china! Blundering bull!"
Major Hardinge, the gentleman thus disrespectfully alluded to, was no less a personage than one of the inspectors of Her Majesty's prisons. As such he was a personage who, as is well known, ought to have been regarded by all properly constituted official minds with awe and respect — to speak of nothing else. On the morrow he appeared. Having ​scampered round the prison in his usual twenty-mile-an-hour fashion, he attacked the subject in hand in that tumultuous, hearty way he had.
"Paley, what's all this stuff and nonsense about those photographs? I'm surprised at you; 'pon my word, I am."
"May I inquire, Major Hardinge, why?"
The governor was the official to the finger-tips again.
"Send up a cock-and-bull story like that to headquarters! What do you think that we're likely to make out of it? A ghost story! There can't be the slightest doubt in the world, Paley, that somebody's been playing tricks with you — that's the general opinion at the office."
"May I ask, Major Hardinge, if I am supposed to be the person who has been playing tricks on Mr. Paley?"
The inquiry came from Dr. Livermore.
"I'm not here to inquire who is, or who isn't. In fact, I'm not here to make any inquiry at all — the case, upon the face of it, is too trivial for inquiry. We've decided to squash it. But since I am here I may as well see this man — eh — what's his name? Solly! — just so! It appears that there are some peculiar circumstances in the case of this man — eh? — Solly, I shouldn't be surprised if you've got the wrong man here after all."
"The wrong man, major! How do you mean?"
"Those wise heads at the Quarter Sessions have made a mistake — one more example of the immaculate perfection of the system of trial by jury. Mind, I don't say that this is so. I say that it ​seems possible that it is so. The circumstances, as they exist at present — and which are not to be disclosed to the man Solly" — the major glared, first at the governor, then at the doctor; these three were closeted together — "are as follows. The other day a man walked into the Yard and gave himself up for embezzlement — the day before yesterday it was. When they began to inquire into the matter, it turned out that the thing of which he accused himself had taken place down here — at Bedingfield, over the way there — and was the very thing for which the man Solly had been tried, found guilty, and sentenced to two years' hard labour."
"What is the name of the man who gave himself up?"
The major scratched his head.
"A nasty name. I know it struck me directly I heard it as being a nasty name. The sort of name you'd rather be hung than have. Let me see — I've got it here." The major took out a bulky pocket-book, and out of the pocket-book a paper. "Here it is — Evan Bradell — that's the fellow's name. I've known men commit suicide for less things than having to own to a name like that."
The doctor took something from his pocket. It was a photograph.
"Do you see the name which is written upon the slate which that man holds?"
"Eh?"
"Do you see, major, the name which is on that slate?"
The major took up the photograph. He peered closely at it.
​"Evan — Evan Bradell, isn't it? Is this the man?"
"That, major, you should know better than I. You may have seen him, I haven't. But that appears to be his name — of which fact I was unaware until you mentioned it. If that is a likeness of the man Bradell, I think, major, that even you will allow that the thing is curious, because that happens to be a print from one of the negatives which we sent to the Commissioners, and which was taken from the man George Solly."
The major glared.
"You're at that cock-and-bull story again; in this age of enlightenment, and you a medical man, sir, I'm surprised at you, I really am! I don't want to discuss the matter; the Office is willing to consider the incident as closed, and I may say that I'm instructed not to discuss the matter. A pretty thing it would be if it got about in the papers! 'Ghost at Canterstone Jail!' Upon my word! There'd be a scandal! I shouldn't be surprised if the Commissioners felt themselves impelled to institute changes; changes, sir! To — to — to return to this man Solly, and the man, eh, what's his name? Bradell! It — it appears that this man Bradell tells a cock-and-bull story——"
"Another cock-and-bull story, major?"
"Yes, sir, another cock-and-bull story; there are always plenty of them in the air, as you will learn for yourself when you reach my age. As I was saying when I was interrupted, it appears that this man Bradell tells a cock-and-bull story about being haunted, and even persecuted by this man Solly's wife, in dreams, and that sort of rubbish, until she ​has driven him to remorse, and that kind of thing. In fact, there seems every probability that the man will be found to be a lunatic."
"1 should like to bet two to one he isn't."
The major glowered at the doctor as though he could scarcely believe his ears.
"Bet, sir! bet, sir! Do I understand you to say that you offer to bet, sir? You appear to have extraordinary notions of the proper method of conducting an official inquiry, sir! In spite of your sporting offer, sir, perhaps you will allow me to repeat—although I have no desire to bet, sir—that I have a strong reason to believe that the man will be found to be a lunatic; and I base that statement to a great extent upon the grounds that, in my opinion, every man who tells a cock-and-bull story, and persists in it in spite of common sense, is, upon the face of it, a lunatic."
The doctor, deeming discretion to be the better part of valour, contented himself with bowing. So the major was free to air himself in another direction.
"But although, as I say, it is my opinion that the man will be found to be a lunatic, and the whole affair fall through, still, as I am here, I may as well see this man Solly, and put to him a question or two."
Solly was seen by the major. The major asked him if his name was Solly, what his age was, if he was married, if he had any children, what he had been charged with, where he had been charged, and such-like questions, and finally he asked him if he had any complaint to make of the treatment he had received in the jail. Solly replied that he had none. ​Then the major drew himself up in a manner which seemed intended to impress the beholders with the fact of what a very remarkable man he was. He threw his frock-coat open, and he thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat.
"There is another question which I wish to ask you, Solly. Have you ever been photographed?"
"Do you mean in prison?"
"No—I am aware that you have been photographed in prison." The major glinted at the doctor out of the comer of his eyes. "I mean outside—before you came to prison?"
"Certainly—several times."
"You will understand, Solly, that you are in no way bound to answer the questions which I am putting to you now. I am only asking them for my own private satisfaction. But have you any objection to tell me whether any difficulty has been experienced in taking your photograph?"
"Difficulty? In what way?"
"In any way. Have the photographs which have been taken of you been satisfactory?"
Solly smiled, a little faintly.
"Perfectly; indeed, I have understood that I am rather a good subject than otherwise. May I ask why you inquire?"
"I ask because the photographs which have been taken of you in the prison have not been satisfactory. That will do; you can take the man away. I am glad that he has no complaint to make."
When Solly had departed the major turned to the doctor.
"I believe, Dr. Livermore, that you are an amateur ​photographer; of course, the fact of your being a medical man explains that you are."
"I am. But my being an amateur has nothing to do with these particular photographs. I have no hesitation in saying that, regarded merely as photographs, they are first-rate."
"In your opinion, doubtless." The major's tone was dry. He rose. "I mean nothing offensive to Dr. Livermore, but the Commissioners object to experiments being made in Her Majesty's prisons. In future you will please, Paley, not to allow them. The treatment to which that man Solly has been subjected can scarcely be justified. Who is the man Dodsworth, who is responsible for some of the photographs? Have you employed him before?"
"Mr. Dodsworth is a highly respectable photographer in the town. He has been frequently employed in the prison, and has always given satisfaction."
"Don't employ him again. Employ somebody else next time. If you can't find anyone the Commissioners will send you a man from town. I'm going, Paley. I think that's all I have to say."
And Major Hardinge shook the dust of Canterstone Jail from off his feet.
That night in Canterstone Jail something rather curious occurred. It was very late. Not only had the prisoners retired—they retired at eight, as they should have done in the days when they were young!—but the warders had retired too—they retired at ten—and even the governor, who, of course, retired when he pleased, but who observed virtuous hours as a rule, had sought his pillows with the rest. It was ​the rule at Canterstone, when the prisoners withdrew to their plank couches, for the day-warders to withdraw from the actual precincts of the jail; they occupied a row of cottages on the other side of the wall. The night-warders came on duty. In list slippers they promenaded, with more or less frequency, the wards, in the silent watches of the night.
At the absolutely sepulchral hour of two a.m., on the occasion which has been referred to, a figure might have been observed stealing along the path which ran outside one of the wards in the direction of the governor's house. The figure was not that of an escaped felon—not at all. The figure was the figure of a warder. He appeared to be in considerable haste, for he had not stayed to remove the list slippers from his feet, and he moved along as fast as he possibly could—he was great in girth—with his lantern in his hand. The governor's house was in the very centre of the prison. When this warder reached it he rang the bell; and he not only rang it, but he gave it a mighty tug. The bell, like a surgeon's, was a night bell. It was hung in the apartment which was occupied, not only by Mr. Paley, but by Mrs. Paley too. So that when the bell was tugged like that the lady could scarcely fail to hear it, if the gentleman deemed it wiser to sleep on. Warder Slater—for the warder was Warder Slater—had no necessity to give a second tug. In a remarkably short space of time a window was opened overhead and a head came out The head was the governor's.
"Who's there?"
"Warder Slater, sir."
"What's the matter?"
​"There's a ghost in Ward C, sir."
"A ghost?"
"Yes, sir—there's that woman in Solly's cell again, sir."
It is no slight thing for the warder of a prison to rouse the governor in the middle of the night, or what is the same thing, at so early an hour as two a.m. It is well understood that there are occasions on which the governor must be roused. But the Commissioners have not distinctly stated whether the occasion of the presence of a ghost is one of them. Perhaps the omission has occurred because a ghost is so rare a visitor—even in a prison, which sees strange visitors—that the thing seemed scarcely worth providing against. Whatever may have been the governor's private opinion on the matter, he contented himself with saying, before he closed the window—
"Wait!—I'm coming!"
And he did come, slipping into some of his clothes with a degree of despatch which would have done credit to the schoolboy who delays his rising from bed until he hears the breakfast bell.
"Some more nonsense, Slater?"
That was the governor's drily-uttered observation as he joined the warder.
"Well, sir, you will see for yourself, sir, when we get there!"
Governor and warder started off together towards Ward C. As they moved over the pebbly path the warder, whose state of mind did not seem to be a state of perfect ease, endeavoured to explain.
"I've been in that ward a dozen times to-night, sir. I thought more than once that I heard the sound of ​someone whispering, but I wasn't quite sure until I went in just now, sir. Directly I went in this last time I knew that there was something up. I stood outside of Number Thirteen's door, and sure enough I heard that woman talking to Solly, and carrying on with him, just as she was the other night, sir. I didn't hardly know what to do, sir, because, I says to myself, if I report the man the governor won't believe me. Then I makes up my mind to come and tell you, sir, so that you could come and see for yourself. I don't know if we shall find her there now, sir: she may have gone. But that she was there a couple of minutes ago, when I came to fetch you, I'll take my Bible oath!"
"That'll do. We shall see if she's there when we get there."
The governor's tone was not reassuring—but then it seldom was. His official tone was not reassuring. Warder Slater heartily hoped that she would be there. He began to be conscious that it was quite within the range of possibility that the governor might be disposed to make an example of a warder who routed him out of bed in the middle of the night to see a ghost which was neither to be seen nor heard.
They entered the prison, which was itself a ghostly place to enter. They went in by the round-house, and there it was not so bad; but when they began to mount the cold, worn, stone steps which wound up between the massive whitewashed walls, the darkness rendered still more visible by the lantern in the warder's hand, one began to realise that, after all, there might be "visions about."
​Canterstone Jail was an old-fashioned jail, built in the good old-fashioned days when stone walls, six feet thick, were considered a sine quâ non in jails. In the broad noonday glare the wards in which the night-cells were were dimly lighted. Entering them at two a.m. one received an object-lesson in "Egyptian darkness." One had but to stretch out one's arms to more than span the flagstoned passage. And when one realised that on one side there was a six-foot wall, and on the other—surrounded, it is true, by other six-foot walls, but none the further off for that—lay the representatives of every shade of crime, one did not need to have an abnormal imagination to begin to comprehend that it is not always the part of wisdom to laugh at the tales which are told of churchyards yawning, and of the graves which yield their dead.
At Canterstone there were, in each ward, four floors: the ground floor, the first floor, the second floor, and the third floor, Solly's sleeping-place was on the third floor, that farthest from the ground and nearest to the sky. The governor and Warder Slater entered the ward at one end, Solly's cell being at the other. Directly they reached the landing the warder laid his hand on Mr. Paley's arm. "Do you hear, sir? She's with him still!"
There was a note of exultation in the officer's voice which seemed, all things considered, to be a little out of place. The governor made no reply. He stood and listened. The general stillness rendered any sound there might be still more audible. That there was a sound there could be no doubt. The governor listened, so as to be quite clear in his own ​mind as to what the sound was. It was the sound of voices. Unless his sense of hearing played him false the speakers were two.
"Which is Solly's cell?"
The governor put the question in a whisper. In a whisper the officer replied—
"Number thirteen—right the other end, sir. That's where they're talking—he and the woman. Come along with me, sir, and we shall catch them at it."
The governor checked the impulsive Slater.
"Darken your lantern. You have your keys? When we reach the door keep perfectly still until I give you the order. Then unlock the door and throw the light of your lantern into Solly's cell."
Warder Slater darkened his lantern. In the pitchy blackness the governor and the warder stole along the corridor. They were guided by the sense of sound. Guided by that sense, they paused at the spot where the talking seemed to be most audible.
"Is this the cell?"
The governor's voice seemed scarcely to penetrate the darkness. The warder's "Yes" was but an echo. The silence was profound, except on the other side the door on the outer side of which they two were standing.
There was someone talking in the cell. The speakers seemed to be two. An attentive ear could catch the words which were being spoken.
"I could not rest unless you knew, and so I came to tell you, so that there might be an end to your suspense, and that you might not need to wait until the morning for the news."
​The speaker was a woman—of a surety, the speaker was a woman!
"My darling!" This time the speaker unmistakably was Solly.
Then there ensued what Warder Slater had described as "carryings-on." The governor's sensations must have been of a somewhat speckled variety as he played the part of eavesdropper to proceedings such as those, because there could be not the slightest possible shadow of doubt that within that cell there were "carryings-on." There came to them who listened the sound of a woman's voice, uttering, in tones so tender they fell like sweet music on the ear, "loves," and "sweethearts," and "my own, own darlings!" and such-like vanities. And to her replied a man, in tones as tender if not as musical, who did his best to give the woman a fair exchange for her conversational sweetmeats of affection. But when it came to kissing, audible, in its prolonged ecstasy, on the outer side of that thick oaken door, the governor seemed to think that it was time that something should be done.
"Now!" he whispered.
And, almost simultaneously, the key was turned in the well-oiled lock. The door was thrown wide open, and Warder Slater's lantern gleamed into the cell. Then there was silence, both in the cell and out of it; and the governor stood within the open doorway, with the warder just in front of him, a little to one side, so as not to obstruct the governor's view, and the lantern in his hand. And both of these officials stared—stared hard! For in front of them stood Solly in considerable undress, and at his side——
​It is probably owing to the governor's proverbial official caution that he could never be induced to say what was at Solly's side—to say positively, that is. It seemed to him it was a woman. Not such a woman as we meet in daily life, but, as it were, the shadow of a woman. It seemed to the governor that she was attired in robe de nuit. Solly held her by the hand. The governor thought he saw so much, but before he had a chance of seeing more she fled, or vanished into air. His eyes never ceased to gaze at Solly's side, and there was nothing there.
When there could be no doubt that the tangible presence of the something which had been standing there had gone, the governor's voice rang out sharp and clear—
"Solly, who was that you were talking to?"
"It was my wife."
"Your wife?" The governor stared. There was a peculiar ring in his voice, which probably no prisoner had ever heard in it before. "I will have you punished in the morning."
The prisoner smiled. In his voice there was also a ring, but it was a ring of a different kind.
"No, Mr. Paley, you will not, because in the morning I shall be free." Solly paused, as if to give the governor an opportunity of speaking; but the opportunity was not taken. So he went on, "My wife has come to bring me good news." He turned; he held out his arms as if to take someone within them, but they could see no one there to take. And he said, "Good-bye until the morning, wife!" He advanced his face as if to kiss someone, and there was the sound of a kiss, but they could see no one who ​could have kissed him. Then he turned again to Mr. Paley, crying, in a voice which was half tears, half laughter, "It's all come out at last! Bradell's confessed! The Home Secretary has procured a free pardon! You will have it in the morning. My wife has been to tell me so."
It is certain that the governor could not have had much sleep that night. Warder Slater roused him at two a.m.; and if, when he returned to bed again, he was inclined to slumber, he had not much opportunity for the indulgence of his inclination. At an unusually early hour he was roused again. A special messenger had arrived from town, bringing with him a communication from the Home Secretary for the governor of Canterstone Jail. The communication took the form of that bitter wrong of which the system of English jurisprudence still is guilty. The Home Secretary informed the governor of Canterstone Jail that Her Majesty the Queen had been graciously pleased to grant a free pardon to the prisoner George Solly for what he had never done.