Driven from Home: Carl Crawford's Experience

Brought to bay.

Phil Stark made an effort to get away, but the officer was too quick for him.  In a trice he was handcuffed.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” demanded Stark, boldly.

“I have already explained,” said the manufacturer, quietly.

“You are quite on the wrong tack,” continued Stark, brazenly.  “Mr. Gibbon was just informing me that the safe had been opened and robbed.  It is the first I knew of it.”

Julius Gibbon seemed quite prostrated by his arrest.  He felt it necessary to say something, and followed the lead of his companion.

“You will bear me witness, Mr. Jennings,” he said, “that I was the first to inform you of the robbery.  If I had really committed the burglary, I should have taken care to escape during the night.”

“I should be glad to believe in your innocence,” rejoined the manufacturer, “but I know more about this matter than you suppose.”

“I won’t answer for Mr. Gibbon,” said Stark, who cared nothing for his confederate, if he could contrive to effect his own escape.  “Of course he had opportunities, as bookkeeper, which an outsider could not have.”

Gibbon eyed his companion in crime distrustfully.  He saw that Stark was intending to throw him over.

“I am entirely willing to have my room at the hotel searched,” continued Stark, gathering confidence.  “If you find any traces of the stolen property there, you are welcome to make the most of them.  I have no doubt Mr. Gibbon will make you the same offer in regard to his house.”

Gibbon saw at once the trap which had been so craftily prepared for him.  He knew that any search of his premises would result in the discovery of the tin box, and had no doubt that Stark would be ready to testify to any falsehood likely to fasten the guilt upon him.  His anger was roused and he forgot his prudence.

“You—­scoundrel!” he hissed between his closed teeth.

“You seem excited,” sneered Stark.  “Is it possible that you object to the search?”

“If the missing box is found on my premises,” said Gibbon, in a white heat, “it is because you have concealed it there.”

Phil Stark shrugged his shoulders.

“I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that settles it.  I am afraid Mr Gibbon is guilty.  I shall be glad to assist you to recover the stolen property.  Did the box contain much that was of value?”

“I must caution you both against saying anything that will compromise you,” said one of the officers.

“I have nothing to conceal,” went on Stark, brazenly.  “I am obliged to believe that this man committed the burglary.  It is against me that I have been his companion for the last week or two, but I used to know him, and that will account for it.”

The unhappy bookkeeper saw the coils closing around him.

“I hope you will see your way to release me,” said Stark, addressing himself to Mr. Jennings.  “I have just received information that my poor mother is lying dangerously sick in Cleveland, and I am anxious to start for her bedside to-day.”

“Why did you come round here this morning?” asked Mr. Jennings.

“To ask Mr. Gibbon to repay me ten dollars which he borrowed of me the other day,” returned Stark, glibly.

“You—­liar!” exclaimed Gibbon, angrily.

“I am prepared for this man’s abuse,” said Stark.  “I don’t mind admitting now that a few days since he invited me to join him in the robbery of the safe.  I threatened to inform you of his plan, and he promised to give it up.  I supposed he had done so, but it is clear to me now that he carried out his infamous scheme.”

Mr. Jennings looked amused.  He admired Stark’s brazen effrontery.

“What have you to say to this charge, Mr. Gibbon?” he asked.

“Only this, sir, that I was concerned in the burglary.”

“He admits it!” said Stark, triumphantly.

“But this man forced me to it.  He threatened to write you some particulars of my past history which would probably have lost me my position if I did not agree to join him in the conspiracy.  I was weak, and yielded.  Now he is ready to betray me to save himself.”

“Mr. Jennings,” said Stark, coldly, “you will know what importance to attach to the story of a self-confessed burglar.  Gibbon, I hope you will see the error of your ways, and restore to your worthy employer the box of valuable property which you stole from his safe.”

“This is insufferable!” cried the bookkeeper “You are a double-dyed traitor, Phil Stark.  You were not only my accomplice, but you instigated the crime.”

“You will find it hard to prove this,” sneered Stark.  “Mr. Jennings, I demand my liberty.  If you have any humanity you will not keep me from the bedside of my dying mother.”  “I admire your audacity, Mr. Stark,” observed the manufacturer, quietly.  “Don’t suppose for a moment that I give the least credit to your statements.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbon.  “I’m ready to accept the consequences of my act, but I don’t want that scoundrel and traitor to go free.”

“You can’t prove anything against me,” said Stark, doggedly, “unless you accept the word of a self-confessed burglar, who is angry with me because I would not join him.”

“All these protestations it would be better for you to keep till your trial begins, Mr. Stark,” said the manufacturer.  “However, I think it only fair to tell you that I am better informed about you and your conspiracy than you imagine.  Will you tell me where you were at eleven o’clock last evening?”

“I was in my room at the hotel—­no, I was taking a walk.  I had received news of my mother’s illness, and I was so much disturbed and grieved that I could not remain indoors.”

“You were seen to enter the office of this factory with Mr. Gibbon, and after ten minutes came out with the tin box under your arm.”

“Who saw me?” demanded Stark, uneasily.

Carl Crawford came forward and answered this question.

“I did!” he said.

“A likely story!  You were in bed and asleep.”

“You are mistaken.  I was on watch behind the stone wall just opposite.  If you want proof, I can repeat some of the conversation that passed between you and Mr. Gibbon.”

Without waiting for the request, Carl rehearsed some of the talk already recorded in a previous chapter.

Phil Stark began to see that things were getting serious for him, but he was game to the last.

“I deny it,” he said, in a loud voice.

“Do you also deny it, Mr. Gibbon?” asked Mr. Jennings.

“No, sir; I admit it,” replied Gibbon, with a triumphant glance at his foiled confederate.

“This is a conspiracy against an innocent man,” said Stark, scowling.  “You want to screen your bookkeeper, if possible.  No one has ever before charged me with crime.”

“Then how does it happen, Mr. Stark, that you were confined at the Joliet penitentiary for a term of years?”

“Did he tell you this?” snarled Stark, pointing to Gibbon.

“No.”

“Who then?”

“A customer of mine from Chicago.  He saw you at the hotel, and informed Carl last evening of your character.  Carl, of course, brought the news to me.  It was in consequence of this information that I myself removed the bonds from the box, early in the evening, and substituted strips of paper.  Your enterprise, therefore, would have availed you little even if you had succeeded in getting off scot-free.”

“I see the game is up,” said Stark, throwing off the mask.  “It’s true that I have been in the Joliet penitentiary.  It was there that I became acquainted with your bookkeeper,” he added, maliciously.  “Let him deny it if he dare.”

“I shall not deny it.  It is true,” said Gibbon.  “But I had resolved to live an honest life in future, and would have done so if this man had not pressed me into crime by his threats.”

“I believe you, Mr. Gibbon,” said the manufacturer, gently, “and I will see that this is counted in your favor.  And now, gentlemen, I think there is no occasion for further delay.”

The two men were carried to the lockup and in due time were tried.  Stark was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, Gibbon to five.  At the end of two years, at the intercession of Mr. Jennings, he was pardoned, and furnished with money enough to go to Australia, where, his past character unknown, he was able to make an honest living, and gain a creditable position.