# Stamped in Gold/Chapter 13

pp. 83–87

#### CHAPTER XII.
##### A CONFESSION.

TOM SCATWELL dressed himself with unusual care, rejecting waistcoat after waistcoat which the anxious professor brought. He was a good-looking man of thirty-nine, powerfully built. That he was not in the best of tempers the conciliating attitude of Rosie showed. Even the somber Mr. Featherstone, who never shrunk from an encounter with his superior, made himself scarce.
“What time will you be back, Tom?” asked Rosie.
“Mind your own business,” growled the man,
“Sam and I wanted to know,” said the professor apologetically, “because we have an engagement this afternoon at three, and we shouldn't like to be out when you come in,”
“I am unlikely to be back before three or four,” said Scatwell. “You have all the baggage packed?”
“Every bit of it,” said the professor. “When do you think we shall make the get-away?”
“Don't worry about that,” replied the other. “I'll give you plenty of notice.”
“There's a boat sails to-day?” suggested Rosie.
“We shan't take that. Maybe we'll go to Canada.”
Rosie watched him fussing about, brushing his hair and brushing it again, fixing it at the back, changing and rechanging his cravat.
“Tom,” he said presently, “I'm short of ready money. Could you give me a check?”
“How much do you want?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said the professor in his vague way.
“Well, make up your mind,” growled Scatwell, who stood looking at his watch.
“Are you expecting anybody, Tom?” asked the professor,
The man turned on him in a fury.
“What's worrying you, Rosie?” he snarled. “You're as jumpy as a cat. What the devil do you want to know my business for? You go on like a man who's expecting to be double crossed.”
The professor laughed, a tittering little laugh of amusement.
“Oh, no, Tom, not that,” he said. “That's the last thing one would expect from you. If anybody dared suggest such a thing about you, Tom, I'd—I'd strike him down at my feet.”
“A devil of a lot of striking you'd do,” said Tom contemptuously, “if you want to know. I'm waiting for that dago—there's the bell; show him in here and leave me alone with him.”
He had put on his coat and was surveying himself in a long mirror when the visitor came in.
“Sit down, Guiseppe,” he said in Italian. “You are late.”
“I had to wait for a taxi,” said the other in the same language. “I find it very difficult to have the courage.”
“Courage for what?”
“To call a taxi,” said the man. “I fear they will detect me and say: “Who is this poor Italian man who begs rides in my taxi?”
“You've got the money, haven't you?” said Scatwell. “Now listen. I am taking you away to a grand house in the country. There you will see a lady who will mistake you for somebody else.”
“This is a joke, eh?” demanded the other.
“This is a joke,” said Scatwell grimly.
“What shall I do?”
“You'll sit quiet and say nothing,” answered Tom Scatwell. “You have merely to be seen and no more. If the lady speaks to you, you will say: 'Yes.'”
“Yes,” said the other mincingly in English.
Tom nodded his head satisfied.
“Now, Guiseppe, my car's at the door, and we will go along. While you're riding, keep your face out of sight. You understand, I do not want you to be seen.”
“I understand perfectly, signor,” said the other as he led the way from the room, Scatwell following.
In the lobby the professor was waiting, an ingratiating grin on his face, an open check book in his hand. Scatwell hesitated.
“Can't this wait?” he asked. “How much do you want?”
“Make it a hundred dollars, Tom,” pleaded the professor.
“Fill it in,” said Scatwell, and scrawled his name at the bottom of the check.
The door banged behind him, and presently they heard the whine of his car as it sped on its way. The professor watched the car out of sight, craning his neck through the window; and when it had disappeared he took up the telephone and called a number.
“In twenty-five minutes,” was the message he sent.
He went out into the hall and called: “Sam!”
Mr. Featherstone came immediately.
“What time does that boat leave?” asked the professor.
“At half past eleven,” replied the other.
“Good! We've plenty of time. Have you booked the stateroom?”
“Of course I've booked the stateroom,” said the other, aggrieved. “I booked it with the Boston Agency in the name of Miller and Dore. Here are the tickets.”
He produced a leather pocketbook.
“That's all right,” said the professor quickly. “Now just fill up that blank check.”
“How much shall I make it for?”
“What is his balance?” asked the professor.
“About fifty thousand dollars.”
“Make it about forty-five and be on the safe side,” said the professor. “I hate to leave the swine anything, but he asked for trouble. Oh! the greed of these low crooks!”
While Featherstone was filling in the check, the professor was busy clipping his spidery whiskers.
“You've never seen me clean shaven, have you, Sam? I'm some sight—but you'll have to endure me.”
Featherstone went out with the check, and was back in twenty minutes with a roll of bills.
“What about the safe deposit?” he asked, and the professor's chin, covered with lather, shook.
“No, thank you,” he said. “That stuff has The Golden Hades printed on it, and that's the totem I don't want to carry around just now. Forty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money, Sam. It ain't all we deserve, but it's enough to get away on with the stuff we've sent to England. How do you like me?”
He turned a tiny rosy face to the other.
“Good Lord!” said Sam, genuinely shocked. “Do you look like that? Gee! I'll never say a word against whiskers after this.”
The professor looked out of the window.
“There's our taxi,” he said. “Where's the suit case?”
“Ready,” said the other promptly.
“Get 'em down. I'll follow you.”
He had a last look round, a regretful look as he surveyed his by no means modest library, for Rosie Cavanagh was a genuine book lover. Then he, too, left the apartment, closing the door behind him. Five hours later, as the Aquitania dropped over the eastern horizon with Sandy Hook a faint blur on her port quarter, the professor remarked, scratching his chin regretfully:
“I ought to have left a note for Tom.”
“You can carry politeness too far,” said Sam.
Whatever may be said to the discredit of Tom Scatwell, this credit is his, that he played big and played boldly. He was a man without ruth or pity, but ruthlessness calls for a certain kind of courage, which he possessed to the full. He had a premonition that the net was closing round him, that only by one master coup could he save all his carefully conceived plans from utter ruin.
While his companion chatted incessantly all the way out to Bertram's house, hailing such sights as might be novel to a friendly alien, or speaking of Italy and the life he had left behind him, Scatwell was silent, answering only in monosyllables. The talk of the man neither disturbed nor irritated him. It was empty but soothing, and gave him a background against which he could work out his own designs. As the car turned into the drive he gave his last instructions.
“You will stay in the car, which I shall stop at some distance from the house. When you see me coming back with a lady, you will get out of the car and stand near the door, but you will not speak or smile or do anything save stand where I tell you. You understand?”
“Yes, signor.”
Less than fifty yards from the house the car was stopped. Usually its driver has been Sam Featherstone, but to-day Scatwell had hired a man from the garage, and for him also he had instructions,
“Son,” he said, “you get down and stroll back to the gate. When I want you I'll send for you.”
“Do you want me to leave the car here?” asked the man in surprise. “Suppose you want me——”
“Don't argue. Do as you're told,” said Scatwell, “and if I'm wearing out your shoe leather you can put it on the bill.”
The man touched his hat.
“Remember, Guiseppe, if you see me with a lady you step down.”
“Yes, signor,” said the man again.
José knew—but how she knew she could not tell—that Scatwell would call that morning. Since breakfast time she had been pacing the long veranda in front of the house, and she had heard the sound of the motor's wheels long before Scatwell came into sight. She walked slowly to meet him.
“I thought you would come,” she said, with such self-possession that he marveled.
He stood, hat in hand, before her, a trifle nervous, for the stake for him was a big one.
“How is your father?” he began.
She stopped him with her uplifted hand.
“Please do not talk about my father,” she said. “This is hardly the time for polite inquiries, Mr. Scatwell. What is your proposition?”
He was embarrassed and showed it.
“Shall we go into the house?” he said.
“We will talk here,” she replied. “What is your proposition?”
“It is a very simple one, Miss Bertram,” he said after a pause. “The game is up so far as we are concerned, and we want to get out of our trouble—and to avoid worse. I have reason to believe that the police have got on to us, and I reckon I have forty-eight hours to get across the border. In fact, I'm on the way there now.”
“With your friends?” she asked.
He laughed.
“In a case like this,” he said, “it is every man for himself. They'll have to shift as well as they can. I am going back to New York to draw my money from the bank, and then——”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“And then?” she said.
“Everything depends upon you, Miss Bertram,” he said. “It is not my intention or my desire to go alone. In fact, I do not think I should get away alone. With you as my wife, matters would be simplified. I think you are the only person who has any real evidence, and, frankly, marriage would deprive the State of its principal witness if it came to a trial.”
“That I can see,” she said. “But supposing I agree, what other reward do I have than the dubious honor of bearing the name of a crook?”
He made a little grimace, as though her cold scorn had hurt him.
“I clear your father,” he said. “Miss Bertram, there is no evidence at all, either for or against him. If you will do as I wish, if you will promise to marry me, I will make a statement before a mutual friend of ours, which will exonerate your father——”
“A mutual friend of ours?” she said suspiciously. “To whom do you refer?”
“I am talking of Peter Correlly,” he said. “I have brought him with me.”
He expected this statement to create a mild sensation, but he was unprepared for the effect of his words upon the girl. Her hand went up to her mouth, as if to check her cry of amazement. She went red and white.
“Mr. Correlly?” she said unsteadily, “I don't understand.”
“He's here,” said Scatwell, well satisfied with the impression he had made.
“But how can he take your statement and not arrest you? It isn't true. This is a trap.”
He half turned away from her.
“Come with me,” he said. “You need not be afraid. I will not take you out of sight of the house. How Peter Correlly and I squared matters doesn't concern anybody but ourselves. As you are probably aware, certain men are not exactly angels.”
She was white with anger now.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Do you suggest that Mr. Correlly can be bribed? That is a lie, and you know it is a lie.”
“I suggest nothing,” he said hastily. “I am not giving you theories but facts in this matter.”
A wild panic seized her. Perhaps Peter would betray his service and help this man escape. That would be worse than the other dreadful remedy he had suggested, and she shook at the thought.
Then they came in sight of the car and the man stepped out.
“Who is that?” she whispered.
Her eyes never left the face of the man by the car as the distance between them lessened.
“Peter!” she whispered, half to herself.
Thus they stood, the man by the car, the white-faced girl, and Tom Scatwell, eminently satisfied with the success of his plan.
“Now, Miss Bertram, in the presence of Mr. Correlly, I am keeping my promise. You know the statement I am going to make?” he said, turning to the man.
“Yes,” replied the other.
It was like Peter's voice, and yet it was not, she thought. Yet she could swear to him, the tan of his face, the stoop of his shoulders, the humor of his eyes.
“I'm saying this,” Scatwell went on, “that Mr. Bertram had nothing to do with any of the crimes which were committed in the name of The Golden Hades. He is as innocent as his daughter. It was I who shot the woman Laste; it was I who kidnaped Frank Alwin, the actor, and then Wilbur Smith. In all three acts, I was assisted by Rosie Cavan and by Sam Featherstone. Does that satisfy you?”
He turned to the girl. She could not speak. Her eyes were fixed on Peter's face and she could only nod her reply.
“Now, Miss Bertram, are you prepared to carry out your contract?”
“Yes,” she said in a low voice, but could not take her eyes off Peter.
How strange it was that he could stand listening unmoved to all this!
“In ten minutes I will have the car waiting for you,” said Scatwell.
“Why not now?”
Scatwell wheeled round, staring at Guiseppe Gatti.
“Why wait ten minutes?”
“Who—who are you?” asked Scatwell hoarsely,
“What a question to ask when you've just introduced me! I'm Peter Correlly.”
“Where is Gatti?” whispered Scatwell.
“There never was a Gatti,” said Peter calmly. “I came to your apartments to mend the windows I smashed the day before, because I wanted to see what you looked like when you were all at home. Anybody who knows me well will tell you that Italian is my long suit. I——”
Scatwell was quick on the draw, and Peter had flung himself aside in the nick of time. A bullet sped through the bushes, and before Correlly could pull his gun, the man had plunged through the hedge which fringed either side of the drive, and was lost to view. Peter did not attempt to follow.
“I hope——” he began, and then three shots rang out in rapid succession and he drew a long breath.
“Unless Wilbur Smith has lost his nerve,” he said soberly, “we ought to have heard of The Golden Hades for the last time.”
The girl had collapsed into his arms. He was holding her, his cheek against hers, when Wilbur Smith and Alwin came slowly through the plantation, their smoking revolvers in their hands.