Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.A Broken Reed.Harry Clayton walked hastily back towards Lionel’s chambers, his mind confused by what he had seen and heard. He was half pained, half pleased; at one moment he felt elate, and his heart swelled joyfully. He stopped once; should he go to Duplex Street? Then he would think of conflicting circumstances, and depression would ensue. Thoughts that he had believed to be crushed out were again asserting themselves; and so pre-occupied was he, that he did not see the peering curious face of D. Wragg, as it passed within a yard of his own, watchful as that of a terrier after a rat.So conflicting were Harry Clayton’s thoughts, that for a while, though not driven out, the recollection of the mission upon which he was sent was certainly dimmed. He had been so surprised—matters had turned out so differently to what he had anticipated; and he was so pleased to. And that he had been in the wrong that for a time he strode on pondering upon the pleasant vision he had left behind, till, rapidly approaching Regent Street, the thoughts of the missing man came back with full force, and with them a feeling of sorrow and remorse for what he was ready now to call his forgetfulness.Rousing himself then to a sense of duty, he hurried up the stairs, but not so quickly that he had not time to think that there was not the slightest necessity for the people at D. Wragg’s to be put to further trouble or annoyance. If ill had befallen Lionel on his way to or from Decadia, they were not to blame; and it was his duty, he told himself, to protect them. And after all, it seemed, as matters would turn out, that Lionel had been in some other direction.But suppose, suspicion whispered, he had been too ready, after all, to trust to appearances; that the dark deformed girl was frightened because she knew that he was in search of his friend, and the old Frenchman was, after all, only an oily-tongued deceiver; while Patty—There was a warm flush in his face as he strode up the few remaining stairs to the room where Sir Richard Redgrave was seated, ready to start up as the young man entered.“Well,” exclaimed the elder, “what news?”“None, sir—at present,” responded Clayton, gloomily. “I was leaning upon a reed, and I found that it was broken.”Two days after, the following advertisement appeared in the second column of theTimes:—“Two Hundred Pounds Reward.—Disappeared from his Chambers, 660 Regent Street, on the 6th instant, Lionel George Francis Redgrave, aged 24; 5 feet 11 inches high; muscular, fair open countenance, slight moustache, and the scar of a hunting-fall over the left temple; aquiline nose, light-blue eyes, and closely-curling fair brown hair. Supposed to have worn a black evening-dress suit, with light-grey Warwick overcoat. Whoever will give such information as shall lead to his discovery, shall receive the above reward.“660Regent Street.”“That will bring us some news, I hope, Clayton,” said Sir Richard. “If it does not at the end of a week, I shall increase it to five hundred, and at the end of another week, I shall double it. Money must find him if he is to be found. But we will find him,” he exclaimed, fiercely, “dead or alive—alive or dead,” he repeated, with quivering lips. “With all his light carelessness, he never let a whole week pass without writing to me, and something fearful must have happened, I feel sure.”“Be hopeful, sir, pray,” said Clayton, as he gazed in the worn and haggard countenance of the stately old gentleman.“I will, Clayton—I will, as long as I can; but this is hard work; and if he is dead, it will break my heart. You ought never to have left him,” he added, reproachfully.“I would not have done so,” said Clayton, “had I possessed the slightest influence; but during the latter part of my stay I found that he would not submit to the slightest restraint.”“Yes, yes!” said Sir Richard; “I know how obstinate the poor boy was,” said the old man, in tremulous tones.“Is, sir—is” exclaimed Clayton, laying his hand upon Sir Richard’s arm.“Yes,is—we will not yet despair,” said Sir Richard; “but you had influence—the influence of your quiet, firm example. But did I tell you that I have had reward-billspostedabout the streets?” he added hastily, upon seeing Harry’s pained and troubled aspect.“You did not, sir; but it was wisely done. And now it seems to me necessary that one of us should be always here in case of information of any kind arriving.”“I will stay,” said Sir Richard; “it is my duty, though the inaction is extremely hard to bear; but I am weak and troubled, and unable to get about.”“You may be the first to get good news,” said Harry, smiling.“Perhaps so—perhaps so,” was the reply. “I never knew before how old I had grown. You must carry on the search; but you will come back often, Clayton?”“I will, sir,” said Harry, gently, and soon after he left the house.Harry’s first visit was to Great Scotland Yard, where he was passed up-stairs to a quiet ordinary-looking person, in plain clothes, who, however, only shook his head.“Nothing at present, sir,” he said; “but do you know, sir, I think Sir Richard Redgrave is making a mistake, sir—‘too many cooks spoil the broth!’ Better have left the matter entirely to us; we’re doing all we can. Private inquiries are all very well; and Mr Whittrick’s a good man—was here, you know; but he’s only good for a runaway-match or a slope, or anything of that kind. Sir Richard’s wrong, sir, depend upon it he is.”“You must excuse it all on account of the old gentleman’s anxiety,” said Harry, quietly, as, after being told for the twentieth time that information should be forwarded the moment it arrived, he took his leave, so as to seek the renowned Mr Whittrick, of private-inquiry fame; but here the interview was very similar to the last; and he returned to Sir Richard to find him restlessly pacing the room with a telegram in his hand.“News?” exclaimed Harry, excitedly.“For you,” said the old man, kindly; “and I hope it is good.”He handed the telegram, which had been sent down to Cambridge, and re-transmitted. It was short and painful. Richard Pellet was the sender, and he announced the sudden and serious illness of Mrs Richard at Norwood—Harry arriving at his mother’s bedside, but just in time to receive her farewell.This was a check to future proceedings, for Harry was deeply affected at the loss. He could not recall the weak woman who had been flattered into marriage without proper settlements by Richard Pellet, but only the tender loving mother, who had always been ready to indulge his every whim; and till after the funeral he was too much unhinged to do more than quietly talk with Sir Richard, who had, on his part, little news to give, save the usual disappointments that follow upon the offering of a reward.The last sad duties performed to the dead, Harry gladly returned to the task left incomplete, seeing in it relief from his oppressive thoughts, and an opportunity of serving one whom he looked upon as a benefactor.
Harry Clayton walked hastily back towards Lionel’s chambers, his mind confused by what he had seen and heard. He was half pained, half pleased; at one moment he felt elate, and his heart swelled joyfully. He stopped once; should he go to Duplex Street? Then he would think of conflicting circumstances, and depression would ensue. Thoughts that he had believed to be crushed out were again asserting themselves; and so pre-occupied was he, that he did not see the peering curious face of D. Wragg, as it passed within a yard of his own, watchful as that of a terrier after a rat.
So conflicting were Harry Clayton’s thoughts, that for a while, though not driven out, the recollection of the mission upon which he was sent was certainly dimmed. He had been so surprised—matters had turned out so differently to what he had anticipated; and he was so pleased to. And that he had been in the wrong that for a time he strode on pondering upon the pleasant vision he had left behind, till, rapidly approaching Regent Street, the thoughts of the missing man came back with full force, and with them a feeling of sorrow and remorse for what he was ready now to call his forgetfulness.
Rousing himself then to a sense of duty, he hurried up the stairs, but not so quickly that he had not time to think that there was not the slightest necessity for the people at D. Wragg’s to be put to further trouble or annoyance. If ill had befallen Lionel on his way to or from Decadia, they were not to blame; and it was his duty, he told himself, to protect them. And after all, it seemed, as matters would turn out, that Lionel had been in some other direction.
But suppose, suspicion whispered, he had been too ready, after all, to trust to appearances; that the dark deformed girl was frightened because she knew that he was in search of his friend, and the old Frenchman was, after all, only an oily-tongued deceiver; while Patty—
There was a warm flush in his face as he strode up the few remaining stairs to the room where Sir Richard Redgrave was seated, ready to start up as the young man entered.
“Well,” exclaimed the elder, “what news?”
“None, sir—at present,” responded Clayton, gloomily. “I was leaning upon a reed, and I found that it was broken.”
Two days after, the following advertisement appeared in the second column of theTimes:—
“Two Hundred Pounds Reward.—Disappeared from his Chambers, 660 Regent Street, on the 6th instant, Lionel George Francis Redgrave, aged 24; 5 feet 11 inches high; muscular, fair open countenance, slight moustache, and the scar of a hunting-fall over the left temple; aquiline nose, light-blue eyes, and closely-curling fair brown hair. Supposed to have worn a black evening-dress suit, with light-grey Warwick overcoat. Whoever will give such information as shall lead to his discovery, shall receive the above reward.
“660Regent Street.”
“That will bring us some news, I hope, Clayton,” said Sir Richard. “If it does not at the end of a week, I shall increase it to five hundred, and at the end of another week, I shall double it. Money must find him if he is to be found. But we will find him,” he exclaimed, fiercely, “dead or alive—alive or dead,” he repeated, with quivering lips. “With all his light carelessness, he never let a whole week pass without writing to me, and something fearful must have happened, I feel sure.”
“Be hopeful, sir, pray,” said Clayton, as he gazed in the worn and haggard countenance of the stately old gentleman.
“I will, Clayton—I will, as long as I can; but this is hard work; and if he is dead, it will break my heart. You ought never to have left him,” he added, reproachfully.
“I would not have done so,” said Clayton, “had I possessed the slightest influence; but during the latter part of my stay I found that he would not submit to the slightest restraint.”
“Yes, yes!” said Sir Richard; “I know how obstinate the poor boy was,” said the old man, in tremulous tones.
“Is, sir—is” exclaimed Clayton, laying his hand upon Sir Richard’s arm.
“Yes,is—we will not yet despair,” said Sir Richard; “but you had influence—the influence of your quiet, firm example. But did I tell you that I have had reward-billspostedabout the streets?” he added hastily, upon seeing Harry’s pained and troubled aspect.
“You did not, sir; but it was wisely done. And now it seems to me necessary that one of us should be always here in case of information of any kind arriving.”
“I will stay,” said Sir Richard; “it is my duty, though the inaction is extremely hard to bear; but I am weak and troubled, and unable to get about.”
“You may be the first to get good news,” said Harry, smiling.
“Perhaps so—perhaps so,” was the reply. “I never knew before how old I had grown. You must carry on the search; but you will come back often, Clayton?”
“I will, sir,” said Harry, gently, and soon after he left the house.
Harry’s first visit was to Great Scotland Yard, where he was passed up-stairs to a quiet ordinary-looking person, in plain clothes, who, however, only shook his head.
“Nothing at present, sir,” he said; “but do you know, sir, I think Sir Richard Redgrave is making a mistake, sir—‘too many cooks spoil the broth!’ Better have left the matter entirely to us; we’re doing all we can. Private inquiries are all very well; and Mr Whittrick’s a good man—was here, you know; but he’s only good for a runaway-match or a slope, or anything of that kind. Sir Richard’s wrong, sir, depend upon it he is.”
“You must excuse it all on account of the old gentleman’s anxiety,” said Harry, quietly, as, after being told for the twentieth time that information should be forwarded the moment it arrived, he took his leave, so as to seek the renowned Mr Whittrick, of private-inquiry fame; but here the interview was very similar to the last; and he returned to Sir Richard to find him restlessly pacing the room with a telegram in his hand.
“News?” exclaimed Harry, excitedly.
“For you,” said the old man, kindly; “and I hope it is good.”
He handed the telegram, which had been sent down to Cambridge, and re-transmitted. It was short and painful. Richard Pellet was the sender, and he announced the sudden and serious illness of Mrs Richard at Norwood—Harry arriving at his mother’s bedside, but just in time to receive her farewell.
This was a check to future proceedings, for Harry was deeply affected at the loss. He could not recall the weak woman who had been flattered into marriage without proper settlements by Richard Pellet, but only the tender loving mother, who had always been ready to indulge his every whim; and till after the funeral he was too much unhinged to do more than quietly talk with Sir Richard, who had, on his part, little news to give, save the usual disappointments that follow upon the offering of a reward.
The last sad duties performed to the dead, Harry gladly returned to the task left incomplete, seeing in it relief from his oppressive thoughts, and an opportunity of serving one whom he looked upon as a benefactor.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.At Austin Friars.“What name?” asked a clerk.“Pellet—Jared Pellet,” said the owner of that name.“Pellet,”—repeated the clerk, hesitatingly; “I’m afraid he’s engaged;” and he looked hard at the shabby visitor to Austin Friars, as much as to say, “You’re a poor relation, or I’m no judge.”“Tell him his brother would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation,” said Jared, desperately; and he stood gazing over his brother’s offices, where, over their gas-lit desks, some half-score clerks were busy writing.It was a bitter day, with a dense yellow fog choking the streets, so that eleven o’clock a.m. might have been eleven o’clock p.m., save for the business going on around. The smoke-burdened vapour had even made its way with Jared into the offices; but the glowing fire in the polished stove was too much for it, and the fog soon shrank away, leaving Jared shivering alone, as much from a strange new-born feeling as from cold, as he was gazed at from time to time by some inquisitive eye.“This way, sir, if you please,” said the clerk, and the next minute Jared was standing like a prisoner at the bar before his justice-like brother in a private room—standing, for Richard did not offer him a chair.“I have come to you for advice,” said Jared, plunging at once into the object of his visit.“If you had come sooner to me for advice, you would not have been in this plight,” said Richard, coldly, as he glanced at his brother’s shabby garments, and the worn hat he held in his hand. “But what is it?”Jared stared, for, to the best of his belief, his brother had never given him any advice worth taking.“Time is money to business people,” said Richard, for Jared remained silent.“Yes, yes, I know—I know,” he said; and then he paused again, as if nerving himself for his task, till once more Richard turned hastily in his chair, and was about to speak.“Bear with me for a few minutes, Dick, and I will tell you all,” exclaimed Jared. “I am in bitter affliction.”“I suppose so,” said Richard, “or you would not have come. There! speak out; how much do you want?”“What! money?” replied Jared; “none. But don’t be hard upon me, Dick—the world can do that.”“The world is to any man his lord or his servant—a hard master or a cringing slave, whichever a man pleases,” sneered Richard. “Let him keep poor, and the world is his ruler; let him get rich, and the world will be ruled.”“But I am in trouble—in great trouble,” cried Jared, pleadingly. “The poor-boxes at our church have been robbed.”“Well!”“Great endeavours have been made to discover the thief.”“Well!”“And by some means a key got into the locker of my organ-loft.”“Yes!”“And it was found by the vicar, who cruelly wrongs me with his suspicions.”“Yes!”“And I am accused, and dismissed from my post.”“Well!”“What shall I do? Help me with your advice. How am I to prove my innocence? What is best for me to do under the circumstances? I feel my head confused, and am at a loss how to proceed, for I cannot let it be known at home. The vicar seems to be so convinced of my guilt that he refuses to see me, and returns my letters. All I get from the churchwarden when I assert my innocence is, ‘Prove it, sir, prove it.’ I have thought by day and by night. I have struggled hard—I have done all that a man can do, but I am as far off as ever. I was not born, Dick, with your business head—I’m not clever. You know that I never was, and now I have turned to you—”“To mix myself up in the affair?” said Richard, coldly.“No, no; to advise me—to tell me what I should do,” said Jared.“Who committed the theft?” said Richard, scowling.“Indeed, indeed, I have not an idea,” replied Jared, humbly.“No, of course not. Well, I can tell you, Some of your fine Decadia friends—that wretched fiddler, perhaps, that you disgraced yourself, your family, andme, by making a companion. And now you want me to get my name sullied, and the substantiality of my house shaken, and my credit disgraced, by being drawn into connection with a beggarly, low, contemptible piece of petty larceny? Do you think I am mad?”“Oh, no, Richard.”“Hold your tongue. I’ve heard you—now hear me. Do you think I have gone backwards into an idiot? Do I look childish, or in my dotage? But there—some people are such fools!”To do Richard Pellet justice, he looked neither mad, idiotic, nor childish, but the image of an angry sarcastic prosperous man, as he threw himself back in his morocco-covered chair, and, stretching out his glossy legs towards the fire, scowled at his brother.“O Richard!” groaned Jared, in despair.“Look here, sir,” said the city man, in a deep voice—angry, but not such a one as could reach the clerks—“look here! We were born brothers, I suppose; we bear the same name—curse it since it is yours too. You have taken your path in life, and I have taken mine, and they are paths that grow daily more and more apart, never to join again. I have never meddled with you, nor asked your help. I have never troubled you in any way; while you—you—what have you ever been but a disgrace—a clog—a drawback to me in my every project to raise our name from the dust? I forget all this, and, to be brotherly try to heal all old sores. I ask you and your family to my house, and what do you do? You disgrace it not only by your appearance, but also by your behaviour, making my very servants to laugh in their sleeves; and as if that were not enough, your well-trained trull of a child must begin to set her snares and traps, acting with less modesty and decorum than the veriest creature of our streets, until she has by her artful tactics disturbed the peace of a happy family, driven a foolish boy from his home, and his sorrowing mother to a premature grave.”At this point Richard seemed to consider that it would be effective to display a little emotion instead of anger; but he soon merged again into the upbraiding.Jared started at the news, for he had not heard of his sister-in-law’s decease, but he had noticed a deep band round his brother’s hat—and noticed even the very stitches, as he stood there smarting and indignant. For a few moments the news of the death checked him, but his indignation began to assert itself, and he was about to reply. Richard waved him to be silent, and continued—“And now—what now? You come to me with a lame pitiful tale, that I may employ counsel for you, have my name dragged into the public courts and papers to be the talk of the whole city—to be more disgraced by you than ever I have been before. I don’t know you. I hold no communication with you. You bear my name, but I renounce all relationship. I will not be dragged into the matter. It is no business of mine. Go and ask your French friend from Decadia, or the lame bird-fancier. You see I know your companions and associates, great musician as you are. You always were a fool, and now you have taken the step which lay between folly and roguedom. Leave my place at once and quietly. Dare so much as to speak an abusive or reviling word in the outer office, and I’ll have you given into custody for trying to extort money; and then, with your present character of thief, and the poor-box money behind, how will you stand?”Richard Pellet, like many more bad men, was gifted with a tongue which, given an inch, took an ell, and said more than ever its owner had power or will to perform. It backed verbal bills that its master would never be able to take up; and now he had risen and stood glaring at his visitor, with his hand resting upon the heavy chair he had placed between them. For, as he stood completely dumbfoundered before his brother, Jared had involuntarily taken up a ruler from the desk; but not to strike, he only handled and tapped it with his long pliant fingers. He could not speak; indignation and sorrow choked him; and he stood there panting, crushing down anger, bitterness, the whole host of emotions that rose.Was this his brother—nursed at the same breast—the last of all men who should have turned against him—apparently snatching at the chance of erecting a greater barrier between them—a barrier that should last till the grave separated the living from the dead? This his brother, who most likely, by his business shrewdness and advice, could have cleared the way towards freeing him from his difficulty, employed some keen investigator in his behalf, and had the matter sifted to the bottom? The remarks directed against the man whom, for his musical talent, he had made his friend, also stung him, but not as did the insults hurled against poor Patty.A groan almost burst from Jared’s breast, but he smothered it as it rose. He would go on his path, let it lead where it would, and trouble his brother no more. He would bear his disgrace how he could—for how dared he, a poverty-stricken beggar, conscious though he might be of his innocence—how dared he appeal to the law to clear him? Had not the innocent been transported before now—suffered even unto death upon the gallows? while, if they had not felt sure of their array of evidence, would the vicar and churchwarden ever have accused him? What could he bring up by way of defence? Nothing but his bare word. He confessed to himself that the matter looked black against him. Perhaps his character for integrity ought to have borne him up in their estimation; but then, as he told himself bitterly, he was poor; and where money was concerned, the poor were always held to be liable to fall into temptation. The vicar had been merciful, and would not prosecute; should he then carry the matter before the face of justice, and have it investigated? He might be cleared, but he might fail; and then, as he would have forced the matter upon the vicar, and called in the aid of the law, what would be the consequences if the case went against him? He dared not think; but stood before his brother gazing vacantly about, till Richard spoke again—“I would have helped you, and done anything, if you had acted like a brother; or had it been anything where you had not been dishonest.”“Sir, I have not been,” exclaimed Jared, almost fiercely.“Then prove it,” cried Richard; “but now—there—there—there!” thrusting one hand into his breast, “you had better go.”“I am going, Richard,” said Jared, meekly, as he gazed round at the luxurious office—at everything, in fact, but his brother—till the sharp “ting-ting” of a table-gong aroused him. “God forgive you, Dick!” he murmured; “we may never meet again.”“Show this person out,” said Richard, harshly, as the clerk appeared; and then, throwing himself back in his chair, he made a violent rustle as he took up theTimes.This was the last cruel stab—one that brought forth a mild reproachful, even sorrowful look, from Jared—a look that made Richard wince more than would the most bitter scowl. Then the broken man walked slowly, and with bent head, till his hand could be laid upon the door-post, when turning to look upon his prosperous brother for the last time in his life, he took in the sleek portly form, the heavy insolent countenance; and then, in spite of the clerk’s impatient, “This way, sir!” he said, in a low clear voice—“God above, who knows my innocence, forgive you, Dick, even as I do!”The heavy door closed, and crossing the office, Jared stood once more in the fog—mental and real—till, crossing the road, he turned for Duplex Street; while, though glad at heart to have rid himself of so troublesome an incubus as a poor relative accused of theft, there was a strange chill fell upon Richard Pellet. It might only have been the dread of another visitor whom he might receive, but he blamed the fog and denounced it heartily, but without effect, for it still hung gloomily over Austin Friars.
“What name?” asked a clerk.
“Pellet—Jared Pellet,” said the owner of that name.
“Pellet,”—repeated the clerk, hesitatingly; “I’m afraid he’s engaged;” and he looked hard at the shabby visitor to Austin Friars, as much as to say, “You’re a poor relation, or I’m no judge.”
“Tell him his brother would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation,” said Jared, desperately; and he stood gazing over his brother’s offices, where, over their gas-lit desks, some half-score clerks were busy writing.
It was a bitter day, with a dense yellow fog choking the streets, so that eleven o’clock a.m. might have been eleven o’clock p.m., save for the business going on around. The smoke-burdened vapour had even made its way with Jared into the offices; but the glowing fire in the polished stove was too much for it, and the fog soon shrank away, leaving Jared shivering alone, as much from a strange new-born feeling as from cold, as he was gazed at from time to time by some inquisitive eye.
“This way, sir, if you please,” said the clerk, and the next minute Jared was standing like a prisoner at the bar before his justice-like brother in a private room—standing, for Richard did not offer him a chair.
“I have come to you for advice,” said Jared, plunging at once into the object of his visit.
“If you had come sooner to me for advice, you would not have been in this plight,” said Richard, coldly, as he glanced at his brother’s shabby garments, and the worn hat he held in his hand. “But what is it?”
Jared stared, for, to the best of his belief, his brother had never given him any advice worth taking.
“Time is money to business people,” said Richard, for Jared remained silent.
“Yes, yes, I know—I know,” he said; and then he paused again, as if nerving himself for his task, till once more Richard turned hastily in his chair, and was about to speak.
“Bear with me for a few minutes, Dick, and I will tell you all,” exclaimed Jared. “I am in bitter affliction.”
“I suppose so,” said Richard, “or you would not have come. There! speak out; how much do you want?”
“What! money?” replied Jared; “none. But don’t be hard upon me, Dick—the world can do that.”
“The world is to any man his lord or his servant—a hard master or a cringing slave, whichever a man pleases,” sneered Richard. “Let him keep poor, and the world is his ruler; let him get rich, and the world will be ruled.”
“But I am in trouble—in great trouble,” cried Jared, pleadingly. “The poor-boxes at our church have been robbed.”
“Well!”
“Great endeavours have been made to discover the thief.”
“Well!”
“And by some means a key got into the locker of my organ-loft.”
“Yes!”
“And it was found by the vicar, who cruelly wrongs me with his suspicions.”
“Yes!”
“And I am accused, and dismissed from my post.”
“Well!”
“What shall I do? Help me with your advice. How am I to prove my innocence? What is best for me to do under the circumstances? I feel my head confused, and am at a loss how to proceed, for I cannot let it be known at home. The vicar seems to be so convinced of my guilt that he refuses to see me, and returns my letters. All I get from the churchwarden when I assert my innocence is, ‘Prove it, sir, prove it.’ I have thought by day and by night. I have struggled hard—I have done all that a man can do, but I am as far off as ever. I was not born, Dick, with your business head—I’m not clever. You know that I never was, and now I have turned to you—”
“To mix myself up in the affair?” said Richard, coldly.
“No, no; to advise me—to tell me what I should do,” said Jared.
“Who committed the theft?” said Richard, scowling.
“Indeed, indeed, I have not an idea,” replied Jared, humbly.
“No, of course not. Well, I can tell you, Some of your fine Decadia friends—that wretched fiddler, perhaps, that you disgraced yourself, your family, andme, by making a companion. And now you want me to get my name sullied, and the substantiality of my house shaken, and my credit disgraced, by being drawn into connection with a beggarly, low, contemptible piece of petty larceny? Do you think I am mad?”
“Oh, no, Richard.”
“Hold your tongue. I’ve heard you—now hear me. Do you think I have gone backwards into an idiot? Do I look childish, or in my dotage? But there—some people are such fools!”
To do Richard Pellet justice, he looked neither mad, idiotic, nor childish, but the image of an angry sarcastic prosperous man, as he threw himself back in his morocco-covered chair, and, stretching out his glossy legs towards the fire, scowled at his brother.
“O Richard!” groaned Jared, in despair.
“Look here, sir,” said the city man, in a deep voice—angry, but not such a one as could reach the clerks—“look here! We were born brothers, I suppose; we bear the same name—curse it since it is yours too. You have taken your path in life, and I have taken mine, and they are paths that grow daily more and more apart, never to join again. I have never meddled with you, nor asked your help. I have never troubled you in any way; while you—you—what have you ever been but a disgrace—a clog—a drawback to me in my every project to raise our name from the dust? I forget all this, and, to be brotherly try to heal all old sores. I ask you and your family to my house, and what do you do? You disgrace it not only by your appearance, but also by your behaviour, making my very servants to laugh in their sleeves; and as if that were not enough, your well-trained trull of a child must begin to set her snares and traps, acting with less modesty and decorum than the veriest creature of our streets, until she has by her artful tactics disturbed the peace of a happy family, driven a foolish boy from his home, and his sorrowing mother to a premature grave.”
At this point Richard seemed to consider that it would be effective to display a little emotion instead of anger; but he soon merged again into the upbraiding.
Jared started at the news, for he had not heard of his sister-in-law’s decease, but he had noticed a deep band round his brother’s hat—and noticed even the very stitches, as he stood there smarting and indignant. For a few moments the news of the death checked him, but his indignation began to assert itself, and he was about to reply. Richard waved him to be silent, and continued—
“And now—what now? You come to me with a lame pitiful tale, that I may employ counsel for you, have my name dragged into the public courts and papers to be the talk of the whole city—to be more disgraced by you than ever I have been before. I don’t know you. I hold no communication with you. You bear my name, but I renounce all relationship. I will not be dragged into the matter. It is no business of mine. Go and ask your French friend from Decadia, or the lame bird-fancier. You see I know your companions and associates, great musician as you are. You always were a fool, and now you have taken the step which lay between folly and roguedom. Leave my place at once and quietly. Dare so much as to speak an abusive or reviling word in the outer office, and I’ll have you given into custody for trying to extort money; and then, with your present character of thief, and the poor-box money behind, how will you stand?”
Richard Pellet, like many more bad men, was gifted with a tongue which, given an inch, took an ell, and said more than ever its owner had power or will to perform. It backed verbal bills that its master would never be able to take up; and now he had risen and stood glaring at his visitor, with his hand resting upon the heavy chair he had placed between them. For, as he stood completely dumbfoundered before his brother, Jared had involuntarily taken up a ruler from the desk; but not to strike, he only handled and tapped it with his long pliant fingers. He could not speak; indignation and sorrow choked him; and he stood there panting, crushing down anger, bitterness, the whole host of emotions that rose.
Was this his brother—nursed at the same breast—the last of all men who should have turned against him—apparently snatching at the chance of erecting a greater barrier between them—a barrier that should last till the grave separated the living from the dead? This his brother, who most likely, by his business shrewdness and advice, could have cleared the way towards freeing him from his difficulty, employed some keen investigator in his behalf, and had the matter sifted to the bottom? The remarks directed against the man whom, for his musical talent, he had made his friend, also stung him, but not as did the insults hurled against poor Patty.
A groan almost burst from Jared’s breast, but he smothered it as it rose. He would go on his path, let it lead where it would, and trouble his brother no more. He would bear his disgrace how he could—for how dared he, a poverty-stricken beggar, conscious though he might be of his innocence—how dared he appeal to the law to clear him? Had not the innocent been transported before now—suffered even unto death upon the gallows? while, if they had not felt sure of their array of evidence, would the vicar and churchwarden ever have accused him? What could he bring up by way of defence? Nothing but his bare word. He confessed to himself that the matter looked black against him. Perhaps his character for integrity ought to have borne him up in their estimation; but then, as he told himself bitterly, he was poor; and where money was concerned, the poor were always held to be liable to fall into temptation. The vicar had been merciful, and would not prosecute; should he then carry the matter before the face of justice, and have it investigated? He might be cleared, but he might fail; and then, as he would have forced the matter upon the vicar, and called in the aid of the law, what would be the consequences if the case went against him? He dared not think; but stood before his brother gazing vacantly about, till Richard spoke again—
“I would have helped you, and done anything, if you had acted like a brother; or had it been anything where you had not been dishonest.”
“Sir, I have not been,” exclaimed Jared, almost fiercely.
“Then prove it,” cried Richard; “but now—there—there—there!” thrusting one hand into his breast, “you had better go.”
“I am going, Richard,” said Jared, meekly, as he gazed round at the luxurious office—at everything, in fact, but his brother—till the sharp “ting-ting” of a table-gong aroused him. “God forgive you, Dick!” he murmured; “we may never meet again.”
“Show this person out,” said Richard, harshly, as the clerk appeared; and then, throwing himself back in his chair, he made a violent rustle as he took up theTimes.
This was the last cruel stab—one that brought forth a mild reproachful, even sorrowful look, from Jared—a look that made Richard wince more than would the most bitter scowl. Then the broken man walked slowly, and with bent head, till his hand could be laid upon the door-post, when turning to look upon his prosperous brother for the last time in his life, he took in the sleek portly form, the heavy insolent countenance; and then, in spite of the clerk’s impatient, “This way, sir!” he said, in a low clear voice—
“God above, who knows my innocence, forgive you, Dick, even as I do!”
The heavy door closed, and crossing the office, Jared stood once more in the fog—mental and real—till, crossing the road, he turned for Duplex Street; while, though glad at heart to have rid himself of so troublesome an incubus as a poor relative accused of theft, there was a strange chill fell upon Richard Pellet. It might only have been the dread of another visitor whom he might receive, but he blamed the fog and denounced it heartily, but without effect, for it still hung gloomily over Austin Friars.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.Friends on Failings.“I’m getting soft and stupid and blue-moulded,” said Mr Timson, as he stood warming himself with his hands under his coat, and twitching them tail-fashion before the fire; “but I’ve got it this time, and no mistake.”“Got what?” said the vicar, as he sat looking at the golden caverns amongst the coals.“Got what! Why, the right man—down upon him regularly.”“Do not, pray, say any more, Timson?” said the vicar, sadly.“But I will,” said Timson; “and how it was that we never thought of him before’s a wonder to me. ’Tain’t Pellet, but that little French fiddler that’s so often with him. My word, sir, if ever there was ‘thief’ written in any man’s countenance, it’s there. What business has he in our church? Why, the scoundrel is a follower of the scarlet woman, and sits on seven hills when he’s at home, I’ll be bound; and that’s why he chose Decadia to live in.”“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the vicar.“I don’t care; it’s a fact,” said Timson. “That fellow would light the fires in Smithfield again, as soon as look at you; he ought never to have been admitted into our church. Why, sir, he’s one of those scoundrels who would think it a meritorious act to rob our poor-boxes, and go and get absolution foritdirectly.”“O Timson—Timson—Timson!” sighed the vicar; “thou art sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.”“You’re another!” puffed Timson, angrily. “What do you mean?”“Where is your charity, my friend? where is your charity?”“Stolen out of the poor-box!” cried Timson, in a huff; “that’s where. And you mark my words if they don’t come true, andyou’llfind it out one of these days in Smithfield.”“Psh!” ejaculated the vicar, as near to angrily as he could get, and then there was silence till the effervescence had subsided.“I don’t like it—I don’t like it,” said Timson, after a pause. “There! I hate it. You may look, sir; but I’ve had that Pellet with me this afternoon, and I can’t stand those sort of meetings. Why wasn’t it some one else, and not that poor sensitive struggling fellow? I’m sure it was the French Papist. Why didn’t we discharge old Purkis, or Mrs Ruggles, or the clerk? It was pitiful to see that poor fellow—pitiful! Why didn’t you suspect and find out the Frenchman? I should like to see him in custody.”“Don’t talk nonsense, Timson,” said the vicar. “But it’s a bad job!” and the old gentleman sighed.“Bad job! Ah! I should think it is a bad job,” said the churchwarden. “Now, what would it take to square the matter?”“Square!”“Yes! make up for what has been stolen.”“Nothing!” said the vicar, indignantly—“no amount. The sin is there, and we cannot remove it.”“’Spose not!” said Timson; “but if twenty or thirty pounds put in the poor-box on the sly would make you feel all right again, and let poor old Pellet off with a good bullying, upon my soul I should feel half disposed to find the money.”“Don’t be irreverent, Timson; a man’s words are never strengthened by an oath. I detest swearing.”“Swearing! That’s not swearing,” said Timson; “that’s only being emphatic.”“Then don’t be emphatic, Timson, but speak plainly, like a man.”“Humph!” ejaculated the churchwarden; and then followed a long period devoted to smoking.“Only think of a man of his talent being a thief!” said the vicar, at last.“What! the Papist?” exclaimed Timson; “why, you could see—”“No—no—no—no!” said the vicar, testily; “you know whom I mean. He came here; but I would not see him—Pellet you know.”“Why not?” said Timson, bluntly.“Because I’m weak, my friend—weak, and might be tempted to give way, when I know it would not be right.”“Well, ’tis hard—’tis hard,” said Timson; “I was ready to give way myself; and I don’t know now but what I believe the poor fellow is telling the truth.”“What did he say, Timson?” said the vicar, “for I won’t see him. I would not believe in his guilt till it was forced upon me; but now I am fixed.”“What did he say! Why, that it’s all a mistake.”“I wish it were—I wish it were,” said the vicar, who seemed truly grieved; “but let him prove it—let him prove it.”“Just so, I quite agree with you,” said Timson. “The very words I said to him. ‘Prove it, Pellet,’ I said—‘prove it, and there’s my hand;’ and I thought then that he was going to snatch it, so I put it out of his reach.”“Such a musician!” said the vicar, “and to think of his proving a thief!”“Just like ’em,” said Timson. “Those musicians are all thieves. They steal one another’s work, and call it inspiration. But don’t you think we might put it a little milder? ‘Thief’ is an ugly word; and—er—er—er—”“Well?” said the vicar.“What do you say to embezzlement? Embezzled the moneys of the poor.”“Embezzlement!” exclaimed the vicar, indignantly; “why, sir, it’s sacrilege—an abomination!”“But you know it might turn out to be a mistake after all, and it would be better to have charged a man with embezzling than being a thief.”“Ah! Timson, I wish I could think so—I do indeed; but it can’t be a mistake. You had your own suspicions of him.”“Well, yes,” said Timson, drily; “but I hadn’t then thought of the Papist. That’s the man, sir. Leadenhall Street to a China orange on it.”“But you remember how confused he was in the church that day.”“What! the Papist fiddler?”“No, no—Pellet. I couldn’t help thinking something of it then. And, besides, look at the long hours he has been in the habit of spending in the church alone. I’ve known him to be there for hours, and not a sound escape from the organ—no boy there, in fact.”“Ah!” said Timson, “I’d give five shillings or a pound of my best green for leave to give that boy a good sound quilting.”“It all points to the fact that he has yielded to temptation when hampered by poverty,” said the vicar, without noticing the interruption.“Well,” said Mr Timson, “it’s a bad job; but I’m glad that you don’t mean to prosecute.”“You think with me then, Timson?”“Of course—yes. Do you want to put the father of about a score of children on the treadmill? Why, they run about his house like rabbits; and if you do that, you’ll have them come and shriek in your ears for bread.”“God forbid! I will hold to your way of thinking. I should never have done for a magistrate, Timson. They wanted me on the bench when I was down in the country; but I backed out; for I knew I should be too easy. No, Timson; I would not deprive the poor fellow of a chance of making an honest living in the future; for, you see, he is a man who has yielded once to temptation, and will repent to the end of his life. No, sir, I would not mar his future, for the world. I’m not one of those men who prosecute upon what they call principle. Perhaps I am wrong, but I am not unmerciful. I believe him to be a good man at heart; and I think, when he leaves, Timson, if we were to put say ten pounds a-piece, and send to him anonymously, it would be giving him a fresh start in life, eh? What do you say?”“Good thing to do,” said Timson, “but better let him have it in tea. Say an annuity of so many pounds of tea per annum—mixed—for so many years.”“Oh, no, Timson; it must be the money. The poor fellow was oppressed by poverty when he—er—er—took the money.”“Then why didn’t he come like a man and ask me to advance him a few pounds, or let them have so much tea on credit?”“The wrong sort of man, Timson—the wrong sort of man! But I’m sorry for him, very.”“So am I—so will everybody be,” said Timson, gruffly; and then they had another long smoke.“You won’t tell him at the very last that he may stop on, I ’spose?” said Timson,—“let him think, like, that he’s going to be hanged, and then at the last moment send him a reprieve? My wig, sir, what a voluntary we should have the next Sunday!”“No, Timson, no. Duty is duty, and I should not be doing mine if I looked over so flagrant an offence.”“But you won’t alter your mind?—you won’t prosecute?”“No, sir, no,” said the vicar. “In spite of all, I respect the man and the way in which he has brought up his family. I am sorry, deeply sorry, for Mr Pellet and his wife and daughter; and really, sir, I’d give a heavy sum to have proved him innocent—I would, indeed;” and to give emphasis to his assertion, the old gentleman brought his fist down heavily upon the table.“Mind the glasses!” said the churchwarden, in a warning voice, and he pushed them a little farther from his friend.“It’s very sad, and with such a family, too!” said the vicar. “How many has he?”“Scores!” said the churchwarden.“Don’t be absurd, Timson—don’t be a fool,” said the vicar; “this is no laughing matter. Suppose that you were in the poor man’s position?”“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo!” exclaimed Mr Timson. “What do you mean? who is absurd—who is a fool? I’m not one, am I? And what’s the good of supposing me the thief? Absurd, indeed!”“I only said don’t be absurd, don’t be a fool, Timson,” said the vicar.“I believe that’s prevaricating,” said Mr Timson. “I consider ‘fool’ a strange title to call an old friend, Mr Gray.”“Sit still, Timson, and shake hands, and don’t be an ass,” said the old gentleman, warmly; and as he spoke he held out his hand, with the accompaniment of a look that wiped away the epithet that had escaped inadvertently during his excitement; for the churchwarden shook the hand as warmly as it was offered.“But,” said Timson, just to show that it still rankled a little, “it seems too bad to pity the poor man now, when a little assistance would have kept him from whatyousay he has done.”“Whatwe; say he has done,” replied the vicar; “for look at the proofs. Have I not my duty to perform as well as any other man?”“But it does seem a very hard case,” said Timson, “and I should let him off. I’ve none of your fine susceptibilities; they don’t seem to go with tea-dealing.”“Won’t do, Timson—won’t do,” said the vicar. “I’m a very homespun man, and have forgotten the greater part of my college polish. Half a life in rough Lincolnshire does not improve one; but I can’t think as you do. I would that I could go to the poor fellow and say, ‘Mr Pellet, it’s a mistake—forgive me.’”“I should like to go with you,” said Timson.“But not a word to any one else,” said the vicar; “we won’t have the finger of scorn pointed at him. Let him stay till his time’s expired, and then go where he will, and begin life afresh, with what we send.”Timson nodded.“If it becomes known, let the onus rest on himself. It shall not come from us. And besides, if we put it about, people would blame us for letting him stay out his time. I don’t want to do him a mortal injury. Let him see the evil of his ways, and do better in future. Let him, as I said in my letter, seek forgiveness from Him whom he has sinned against!”“Amen!” said Timson, solemnly; and then the two friends sat on far into the night smoking pipe after pipe, while the little kettle steamed away until it was quite dry, a fact discovered by Mr Timson just as he had placed more sugar and spirit in his tumbler, which he pushed aside with a sigh. The subject was brought up no more then, and there was no cribbage; but when Mr Timson rose and took his hat, and had shaken hands and said “good-night,” he came hurrying back after taking half a dozen steps to tap softly at the door, which had the effect of bringing the vicar to the window.Timson ran to the area rails and leaned over as far as he could, gesticulating furiously with one arm, as he exclaimed loud enough for his friend to hear—“I couldn’t go away without telling you I’m sure of it, sir. There! I’ll take my oath it’s the Papist.”
“I’m getting soft and stupid and blue-moulded,” said Mr Timson, as he stood warming himself with his hands under his coat, and twitching them tail-fashion before the fire; “but I’ve got it this time, and no mistake.”
“Got what?” said the vicar, as he sat looking at the golden caverns amongst the coals.
“Got what! Why, the right man—down upon him regularly.”
“Do not, pray, say any more, Timson?” said the vicar, sadly.
“But I will,” said Timson; “and how it was that we never thought of him before’s a wonder to me. ’Tain’t Pellet, but that little French fiddler that’s so often with him. My word, sir, if ever there was ‘thief’ written in any man’s countenance, it’s there. What business has he in our church? Why, the scoundrel is a follower of the scarlet woman, and sits on seven hills when he’s at home, I’ll be bound; and that’s why he chose Decadia to live in.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the vicar.
“I don’t care; it’s a fact,” said Timson. “That fellow would light the fires in Smithfield again, as soon as look at you; he ought never to have been admitted into our church. Why, sir, he’s one of those scoundrels who would think it a meritorious act to rob our poor-boxes, and go and get absolution foritdirectly.”
“O Timson—Timson—Timson!” sighed the vicar; “thou art sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.”
“You’re another!” puffed Timson, angrily. “What do you mean?”
“Where is your charity, my friend? where is your charity?”
“Stolen out of the poor-box!” cried Timson, in a huff; “that’s where. And you mark my words if they don’t come true, andyou’llfind it out one of these days in Smithfield.”
“Psh!” ejaculated the vicar, as near to angrily as he could get, and then there was silence till the effervescence had subsided.
“I don’t like it—I don’t like it,” said Timson, after a pause. “There! I hate it. You may look, sir; but I’ve had that Pellet with me this afternoon, and I can’t stand those sort of meetings. Why wasn’t it some one else, and not that poor sensitive struggling fellow? I’m sure it was the French Papist. Why didn’t we discharge old Purkis, or Mrs Ruggles, or the clerk? It was pitiful to see that poor fellow—pitiful! Why didn’t you suspect and find out the Frenchman? I should like to see him in custody.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Timson,” said the vicar. “But it’s a bad job!” and the old gentleman sighed.
“Bad job! Ah! I should think it is a bad job,” said the churchwarden. “Now, what would it take to square the matter?”
“Square!”
“Yes! make up for what has been stolen.”
“Nothing!” said the vicar, indignantly—“no amount. The sin is there, and we cannot remove it.”
“’Spose not!” said Timson; “but if twenty or thirty pounds put in the poor-box on the sly would make you feel all right again, and let poor old Pellet off with a good bullying, upon my soul I should feel half disposed to find the money.”
“Don’t be irreverent, Timson; a man’s words are never strengthened by an oath. I detest swearing.”
“Swearing! That’s not swearing,” said Timson; “that’s only being emphatic.”
“Then don’t be emphatic, Timson, but speak plainly, like a man.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the churchwarden; and then followed a long period devoted to smoking.
“Only think of a man of his talent being a thief!” said the vicar, at last.
“What! the Papist?” exclaimed Timson; “why, you could see—”
“No—no—no—no!” said the vicar, testily; “you know whom I mean. He came here; but I would not see him—Pellet you know.”
“Why not?” said Timson, bluntly.
“Because I’m weak, my friend—weak, and might be tempted to give way, when I know it would not be right.”
“Well, ’tis hard—’tis hard,” said Timson; “I was ready to give way myself; and I don’t know now but what I believe the poor fellow is telling the truth.”
“What did he say, Timson?” said the vicar, “for I won’t see him. I would not believe in his guilt till it was forced upon me; but now I am fixed.”
“What did he say! Why, that it’s all a mistake.”
“I wish it were—I wish it were,” said the vicar, who seemed truly grieved; “but let him prove it—let him prove it.”
“Just so, I quite agree with you,” said Timson. “The very words I said to him. ‘Prove it, Pellet,’ I said—‘prove it, and there’s my hand;’ and I thought then that he was going to snatch it, so I put it out of his reach.”
“Such a musician!” said the vicar, “and to think of his proving a thief!”
“Just like ’em,” said Timson. “Those musicians are all thieves. They steal one another’s work, and call it inspiration. But don’t you think we might put it a little milder? ‘Thief’ is an ugly word; and—er—er—er—”
“Well?” said the vicar.
“What do you say to embezzlement? Embezzled the moneys of the poor.”
“Embezzlement!” exclaimed the vicar, indignantly; “why, sir, it’s sacrilege—an abomination!”
“But you know it might turn out to be a mistake after all, and it would be better to have charged a man with embezzling than being a thief.”
“Ah! Timson, I wish I could think so—I do indeed; but it can’t be a mistake. You had your own suspicions of him.”
“Well, yes,” said Timson, drily; “but I hadn’t then thought of the Papist. That’s the man, sir. Leadenhall Street to a China orange on it.”
“But you remember how confused he was in the church that day.”
“What! the Papist fiddler?”
“No, no—Pellet. I couldn’t help thinking something of it then. And, besides, look at the long hours he has been in the habit of spending in the church alone. I’ve known him to be there for hours, and not a sound escape from the organ—no boy there, in fact.”
“Ah!” said Timson, “I’d give five shillings or a pound of my best green for leave to give that boy a good sound quilting.”
“It all points to the fact that he has yielded to temptation when hampered by poverty,” said the vicar, without noticing the interruption.
“Well,” said Mr Timson, “it’s a bad job; but I’m glad that you don’t mean to prosecute.”
“You think with me then, Timson?”
“Of course—yes. Do you want to put the father of about a score of children on the treadmill? Why, they run about his house like rabbits; and if you do that, you’ll have them come and shriek in your ears for bread.”
“God forbid! I will hold to your way of thinking. I should never have done for a magistrate, Timson. They wanted me on the bench when I was down in the country; but I backed out; for I knew I should be too easy. No, Timson; I would not deprive the poor fellow of a chance of making an honest living in the future; for, you see, he is a man who has yielded once to temptation, and will repent to the end of his life. No, sir, I would not mar his future, for the world. I’m not one of those men who prosecute upon what they call principle. Perhaps I am wrong, but I am not unmerciful. I believe him to be a good man at heart; and I think, when he leaves, Timson, if we were to put say ten pounds a-piece, and send to him anonymously, it would be giving him a fresh start in life, eh? What do you say?”
“Good thing to do,” said Timson, “but better let him have it in tea. Say an annuity of so many pounds of tea per annum—mixed—for so many years.”
“Oh, no, Timson; it must be the money. The poor fellow was oppressed by poverty when he—er—er—took the money.”
“Then why didn’t he come like a man and ask me to advance him a few pounds, or let them have so much tea on credit?”
“The wrong sort of man, Timson—the wrong sort of man! But I’m sorry for him, very.”
“So am I—so will everybody be,” said Timson, gruffly; and then they had another long smoke.
“You won’t tell him at the very last that he may stop on, I ’spose?” said Timson,—“let him think, like, that he’s going to be hanged, and then at the last moment send him a reprieve? My wig, sir, what a voluntary we should have the next Sunday!”
“No, Timson, no. Duty is duty, and I should not be doing mine if I looked over so flagrant an offence.”
“But you won’t alter your mind?—you won’t prosecute?”
“No, sir, no,” said the vicar. “In spite of all, I respect the man and the way in which he has brought up his family. I am sorry, deeply sorry, for Mr Pellet and his wife and daughter; and really, sir, I’d give a heavy sum to have proved him innocent—I would, indeed;” and to give emphasis to his assertion, the old gentleman brought his fist down heavily upon the table.
“Mind the glasses!” said the churchwarden, in a warning voice, and he pushed them a little farther from his friend.
“It’s very sad, and with such a family, too!” said the vicar. “How many has he?”
“Scores!” said the churchwarden.
“Don’t be absurd, Timson—don’t be a fool,” said the vicar; “this is no laughing matter. Suppose that you were in the poor man’s position?”
“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo!” exclaimed Mr Timson. “What do you mean? who is absurd—who is a fool? I’m not one, am I? And what’s the good of supposing me the thief? Absurd, indeed!”
“I only said don’t be absurd, don’t be a fool, Timson,” said the vicar.
“I believe that’s prevaricating,” said Mr Timson. “I consider ‘fool’ a strange title to call an old friend, Mr Gray.”
“Sit still, Timson, and shake hands, and don’t be an ass,” said the old gentleman, warmly; and as he spoke he held out his hand, with the accompaniment of a look that wiped away the epithet that had escaped inadvertently during his excitement; for the churchwarden shook the hand as warmly as it was offered.
“But,” said Timson, just to show that it still rankled a little, “it seems too bad to pity the poor man now, when a little assistance would have kept him from whatyousay he has done.”
“Whatwe; say he has done,” replied the vicar; “for look at the proofs. Have I not my duty to perform as well as any other man?”
“But it does seem a very hard case,” said Timson, “and I should let him off. I’ve none of your fine susceptibilities; they don’t seem to go with tea-dealing.”
“Won’t do, Timson—won’t do,” said the vicar. “I’m a very homespun man, and have forgotten the greater part of my college polish. Half a life in rough Lincolnshire does not improve one; but I can’t think as you do. I would that I could go to the poor fellow and say, ‘Mr Pellet, it’s a mistake—forgive me.’”
“I should like to go with you,” said Timson.
“But not a word to any one else,” said the vicar; “we won’t have the finger of scorn pointed at him. Let him stay till his time’s expired, and then go where he will, and begin life afresh, with what we send.”
Timson nodded.
“If it becomes known, let the onus rest on himself. It shall not come from us. And besides, if we put it about, people would blame us for letting him stay out his time. I don’t want to do him a mortal injury. Let him see the evil of his ways, and do better in future. Let him, as I said in my letter, seek forgiveness from Him whom he has sinned against!”
“Amen!” said Timson, solemnly; and then the two friends sat on far into the night smoking pipe after pipe, while the little kettle steamed away until it was quite dry, a fact discovered by Mr Timson just as he had placed more sugar and spirit in his tumbler, which he pushed aside with a sigh. The subject was brought up no more then, and there was no cribbage; but when Mr Timson rose and took his hat, and had shaken hands and said “good-night,” he came hurrying back after taking half a dozen steps to tap softly at the door, which had the effect of bringing the vicar to the window.
Timson ran to the area rails and leaned over as far as he could, gesticulating furiously with one arm, as he exclaimed loud enough for his friend to hear—
“I couldn’t go away without telling you I’m sure of it, sir. There! I’ll take my oath it’s the Papist.”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.At Fault.Harry Clayton was fortunate, for he was shown into the great Mr Whittrick’s presence directly; and, as soon as seated, he had the pleasure of feeling that the private inquirer was mentally photographing him, though, all the same, his words were quiet and urbane. But it seemed as if Mr Whittrick made use of all his faculties at once; he talked to his visitor; he listened to him; he gazed at him tremendously at times; he seemed to be smelling him; and, from the motion of his fingers, he evidently had a strong inclination to feel his visitor, for purposes of future recognition.“No, sir—at present, none; but we are doing all that is possible.”“But have you nothing definite to communicate?” said Harry, despondently.“No, sir—at present, nothing,” said Mr Whittrick. “But—if I might be so bold—there was an advertisement in theTimesthis morning, placed there of course by Sir Francis Redgrave. I was not consulted over the matter. I think, you know, sir, that Sir Francis is wrong. I see that he has the Scotland Yard people at work. Not a good plan, I think, sir. They are very able men there—Falkner’s good; but too many cooks, you know, spoil the broth. Humble aphorism, but true, sir. However, Sir Francis may depend upon my doing my best.”Harry Clayton rose with a sigh and left the office, feeling very little hope of success in this direction. Jealousy was evidently at work, and he could not but own to himself that Sir Francis had taken a wrong step.What should he do next? he asked himself. He had not been to Brownjohn Street the last day or two; why should he not go there again? He might obtain some news.It was hardly worth while going, he thought, only it was possible he might see the bird-dealer himself, and perhaps obtain some little information likely to prove of use.But D. Wragg was not in, when he reached Brownjohn Street; and in place of seeing either him or poor Janet, Clayton encountered the round pleasant playbill-rayed face of Mrs Winks, rising like a fleshy sun from behind the paint-cloudy counter, to the loud song of the larks; for Mrs Winks had just been stooping to hide the weakness which she kept for her own private use in a ginger-beer bottle. Mrs Winks’ head was only to be seen without curl-papers when she attended the theatres by night, in the full-dress of curls and blue merino, ready to supply the mental and bodily wants of the frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre gallery. Upon this occasion, the playbill used had been one of the newest, the result being, that a good deal of ink had been transferred from the larger letters to Mrs Winks’ forehead, giving it a somewhat smudgy look.The good lady, though, was quite in ignorance of her personal aspect, and after laying aside her weakness, carefully corked, she was bringing out of a capacious pocket a saveloy, wrapped in another of the never-failing play-bills—the delicacy being intended for her lunch—when the appearance of Harry Clayton arrested her, and, escaping from the paper, the saveloy slipped back to the depths of her pocket, to be kept warm till required.Mrs Winks rose to meet the visitor with a smile, which gave place to a puzzled look upon his inquiring for D. Wragg, and then for Janet.“I’ll go and tell her, sir,” said the old lady, and she puffed up-stairs to Janet’s room, whence she returned in a few minutes, saying—“She’ve got a bad ’eadache, sir, and ain’t well; but if you’d leave any message?”“No!” said Clayton, thoughtfully. “You might, though, tell the French gentleman that I called.”“Which he really is a thorough gentleman,” said. Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; “as you’d say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle. I mean—I beg your pardon, sir—seen him play on the fiddle and paint. He’s a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain’t nothing after all, is it, sir? But I’ll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?”Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing—“Two hundred pounds reward!” and then he shuddered, as one of the party said—“I ’spose they’d hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead ’un?”There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.“I think I will go out now, Clayton,” said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner. “It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring. You’ll take my place—you won’t leave—you won’t leave, in case of a call while you are away.”“You may trust me, Sir Francis.”“Yes, yes, I know—I know,” said the old gentleman, wringing his hands, “I feel it! But, Clayton,” he said, anxiously, “if any people should come with information in answer to the advertisements, keep them till I come back.”“I will, decidedly!” said Clayton; “but may I ask where you are going now?”“Only to see if the bills are well posted; and, you know, I might see some one who had news,—it is possible.”“I did see one bill posted up,” said Harry, but he did not mention the remark he had heard made.“That’s well, Clayton—that’s well! and I hope and trust that this state of anxiety may soon be at an end.”The young man walked with Sir Francis to the door, and felt shocked to see the way in which he had altered during the past few days; then, returning to his seat, he began to think over the strange disappearance, recalling, too, that evening when he had determined to part from Lionel—their visit to the dog-fancier’s, and the strange feelings that had been aroused; and now, troubled at heart and reluctant, he was pondering upon whether it was not his duty to place in the hands of the police the knowledge he possessed of Lionel’s many visits to Decadia. He could not quite reconcile himself to the task, for he knew that it must result in much unpleasantness to Janet; but it struck him suddenly that the behaviour of the deformed girl was strange, though it had not appeared so at the time. Could she know anything? Had the foolish young man been inveigled to some den, robbed, and murdered? and did the horrified aspect Janet had worn mean that she was in possession of the secret? He shuddered as such thoughts arose, and again and again asked himself what he should do, ending by coming to the determination that he would wait, at least until the following day, and then go to the house and warn them of what was about to be done. And yet, if anything were wrong, it would be putting them upon their guard. But their treatment of him seemed to demand that courtesy, and whatever was wrong, he felt that it would be hard for the innocent to be amongst the sufferers. He could not put them to unnecessary pain.Then came again a cloud of doubt and suspicion, which hung over him till a couple of hours later, when Sir Francis Redgrave returned—pale, anxious, and tired—to look inquiringly at Harry, and receive for answer a shake of the head, the young man feeling the while that he was not acting openly with his elder, in keeping from him all he knew—information which he was unable to decide whether or not he should impart.In the evening, as they were seated together—Harry thoughtful and silent, and Sir Francis with his face turned from the light—the baronet spoke—“I cannot suffer this inaction much longer,” he said. “It is always the same answer from the police—‘Leave it in our hands, sir; we are hard at work; though, so far, we have nothing to show.’ They say that every—every deadhouse has been searched; the men at the water-side have been told to be on the look-out; hospitals have been visited; everything possible done; but who can be satisfied? We must begin on fresh ground to-morrow, Clayton. What’s that? Did some one knock?”Mr Stiff entered to announce that there was a man below waiting to see some one respecting the reward.Sir Francis started instantly to his feet.“Show him up at once, Stiff!” he exclaimed; and then, not content to wait, in his anxiety he followed the landlord to the stairs, re-entering the room in a few minutes with the heavy-faced young fellow before introduced as Mr John Screwby.“Now, my man, sit down; don’t stand there!” exclaimed Sir Francis, thrusting a chair forward; “now, tell us quickly.”“Don’t keer to sit down, thanky,” said the fellow, surlily, taking a sidelong glance round the room, ending by fixing his eyes for a moment on the door, as if to make sure that there was a retreat open in case of need.“Well, well!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “now tell us what you know, and why you have come. Did you see the advertisement, or one of those placards?”“Bla’guards?” said the fellow, inquiringly.“Yes, yes! the bills.”“Yes; I saw a bill—two ’underd pound reward—and I’ve come for that there two ’underd pound reward.”“But your information—what do you know?” broke in Harry.The man turned and stared at him heavily.“Ah! I didn’t know you at first, without no hat on; but I knows you now. You was with him once when he came down our way. I seed you then, and I ain’t forgot you. But, first of all, who’s going to pay this here money? Is it you, or is it him?”“I’ll pay you—I’ll pay you, my man!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “and what is your information?—what do you know?”“What I know’s worth two ’underd pound now,” said the fellow, winking at Harry; “but if I tells it, then, praps, it won’t be worth nothin’ to me.”“You are dealing with a gentleman, my good fellow,” said Harry, “and you need be under no apprehension.”“But how do I know as I shan’t be done?” was the offensive reply. “Nobody don’t trust me nothin’; and I don’t see why I should trust nobody. I’m a plain-spoke sort of a chap, I am; and I allers says what’s in my mind. So now, lookye here—you says as you’ll give two ’underd pound to them as’ll tell you where a tall young man’s gone—that’s it, ain’t it?”Harry nodded.“Werry good, then. I comes here, and I says, ‘’And over the stiff!’ ‘What for?’ says you. ‘’Cos I knows wheer he is,’ says I. ‘So, now then,’ I says, ‘hand over the tin.’”Without another word, Sir Francis went to a small writing-case, opened it, and took from a book a ready-signed cheque for the amount.“Stop!” exclaimed Harry. “Excuse me, Sir Francis; but your anxiety overleaps your caution. How do we know that this man’s information is worth having?”“He says he knows where—where—you know what he says,” said Sir Francis, piteously.“Yes,” said Harry; “but let him prove his words.”“What! are yer agoin’ to run back from it, or are yer agoin’ to hand over the stiff?” said the man, uneasily.“When you have earned it,” said Harry, almost fiercely. “Now, look here, my man, show us the value of your information, and restore this gentleman to his friends; and without any reference to such complicity as you may have had in the transaction, the two hundred pounds are yours.”“But lookye here,” said the man, leaning towards him; “suppose as he’s—you know what?” and he whispered the last words.“The money is yours all the same,” said Harry, in the same tone.But the man was apparently still far from satisfied, muttering, biting pieces out of his cap-lining, and spitting them upon the carpet, till a bright thought seemed to strike him, to which he gave birth.“Lookye here, gents. Let’s have the money posted fair for both sides. I knows a genleman down our way as keeps a beer-shop as’d see fair, and make all square. Now, what do you say?”What would have been said was arrested by a sudden start, or rather jump, on the part of Mr John Screwby, who, following the direction of Sir Francis’ eyes, found that another person had entered the room, and taken a place at his elbow, where he had stood for some few moments listening to the conversation.
Harry Clayton was fortunate, for he was shown into the great Mr Whittrick’s presence directly; and, as soon as seated, he had the pleasure of feeling that the private inquirer was mentally photographing him, though, all the same, his words were quiet and urbane. But it seemed as if Mr Whittrick made use of all his faculties at once; he talked to his visitor; he listened to him; he gazed at him tremendously at times; he seemed to be smelling him; and, from the motion of his fingers, he evidently had a strong inclination to feel his visitor, for purposes of future recognition.
“No, sir—at present, none; but we are doing all that is possible.”
“But have you nothing definite to communicate?” said Harry, despondently.
“No, sir—at present, nothing,” said Mr Whittrick. “But—if I might be so bold—there was an advertisement in theTimesthis morning, placed there of course by Sir Francis Redgrave. I was not consulted over the matter. I think, you know, sir, that Sir Francis is wrong. I see that he has the Scotland Yard people at work. Not a good plan, I think, sir. They are very able men there—Falkner’s good; but too many cooks, you know, spoil the broth. Humble aphorism, but true, sir. However, Sir Francis may depend upon my doing my best.”
Harry Clayton rose with a sigh and left the office, feeling very little hope of success in this direction. Jealousy was evidently at work, and he could not but own to himself that Sir Francis had taken a wrong step.
What should he do next? he asked himself. He had not been to Brownjohn Street the last day or two; why should he not go there again? He might obtain some news.
It was hardly worth while going, he thought, only it was possible he might see the bird-dealer himself, and perhaps obtain some little information likely to prove of use.
But D. Wragg was not in, when he reached Brownjohn Street; and in place of seeing either him or poor Janet, Clayton encountered the round pleasant playbill-rayed face of Mrs Winks, rising like a fleshy sun from behind the paint-cloudy counter, to the loud song of the larks; for Mrs Winks had just been stooping to hide the weakness which she kept for her own private use in a ginger-beer bottle. Mrs Winks’ head was only to be seen without curl-papers when she attended the theatres by night, in the full-dress of curls and blue merino, ready to supply the mental and bodily wants of the frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre gallery. Upon this occasion, the playbill used had been one of the newest, the result being, that a good deal of ink had been transferred from the larger letters to Mrs Winks’ forehead, giving it a somewhat smudgy look.
The good lady, though, was quite in ignorance of her personal aspect, and after laying aside her weakness, carefully corked, she was bringing out of a capacious pocket a saveloy, wrapped in another of the never-failing play-bills—the delicacy being intended for her lunch—when the appearance of Harry Clayton arrested her, and, escaping from the paper, the saveloy slipped back to the depths of her pocket, to be kept warm till required.
Mrs Winks rose to meet the visitor with a smile, which gave place to a puzzled look upon his inquiring for D. Wragg, and then for Janet.
“I’ll go and tell her, sir,” said the old lady, and she puffed up-stairs to Janet’s room, whence she returned in a few minutes, saying—
“She’ve got a bad ’eadache, sir, and ain’t well; but if you’d leave any message?”
“No!” said Clayton, thoughtfully. “You might, though, tell the French gentleman that I called.”
“Which he really is a thorough gentleman,” said. Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; “as you’d say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle. I mean—I beg your pardon, sir—seen him play on the fiddle and paint. He’s a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain’t nothing after all, is it, sir? But I’ll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?”
Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing—“Two hundred pounds reward!” and then he shuddered, as one of the party said—“I ’spose they’d hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead ’un?”
There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.
“I think I will go out now, Clayton,” said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner. “It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring. You’ll take my place—you won’t leave—you won’t leave, in case of a call while you are away.”
“You may trust me, Sir Francis.”
“Yes, yes, I know—I know,” said the old gentleman, wringing his hands, “I feel it! But, Clayton,” he said, anxiously, “if any people should come with information in answer to the advertisements, keep them till I come back.”
“I will, decidedly!” said Clayton; “but may I ask where you are going now?”
“Only to see if the bills are well posted; and, you know, I might see some one who had news,—it is possible.”
“I did see one bill posted up,” said Harry, but he did not mention the remark he had heard made.
“That’s well, Clayton—that’s well! and I hope and trust that this state of anxiety may soon be at an end.”
The young man walked with Sir Francis to the door, and felt shocked to see the way in which he had altered during the past few days; then, returning to his seat, he began to think over the strange disappearance, recalling, too, that evening when he had determined to part from Lionel—their visit to the dog-fancier’s, and the strange feelings that had been aroused; and now, troubled at heart and reluctant, he was pondering upon whether it was not his duty to place in the hands of the police the knowledge he possessed of Lionel’s many visits to Decadia. He could not quite reconcile himself to the task, for he knew that it must result in much unpleasantness to Janet; but it struck him suddenly that the behaviour of the deformed girl was strange, though it had not appeared so at the time. Could she know anything? Had the foolish young man been inveigled to some den, robbed, and murdered? and did the horrified aspect Janet had worn mean that she was in possession of the secret? He shuddered as such thoughts arose, and again and again asked himself what he should do, ending by coming to the determination that he would wait, at least until the following day, and then go to the house and warn them of what was about to be done. And yet, if anything were wrong, it would be putting them upon their guard. But their treatment of him seemed to demand that courtesy, and whatever was wrong, he felt that it would be hard for the innocent to be amongst the sufferers. He could not put them to unnecessary pain.
Then came again a cloud of doubt and suspicion, which hung over him till a couple of hours later, when Sir Francis Redgrave returned—pale, anxious, and tired—to look inquiringly at Harry, and receive for answer a shake of the head, the young man feeling the while that he was not acting openly with his elder, in keeping from him all he knew—information which he was unable to decide whether or not he should impart.
In the evening, as they were seated together—Harry thoughtful and silent, and Sir Francis with his face turned from the light—the baronet spoke—
“I cannot suffer this inaction much longer,” he said. “It is always the same answer from the police—‘Leave it in our hands, sir; we are hard at work; though, so far, we have nothing to show.’ They say that every—every deadhouse has been searched; the men at the water-side have been told to be on the look-out; hospitals have been visited; everything possible done; but who can be satisfied? We must begin on fresh ground to-morrow, Clayton. What’s that? Did some one knock?”
Mr Stiff entered to announce that there was a man below waiting to see some one respecting the reward.
Sir Francis started instantly to his feet.
“Show him up at once, Stiff!” he exclaimed; and then, not content to wait, in his anxiety he followed the landlord to the stairs, re-entering the room in a few minutes with the heavy-faced young fellow before introduced as Mr John Screwby.
“Now, my man, sit down; don’t stand there!” exclaimed Sir Francis, thrusting a chair forward; “now, tell us quickly.”
“Don’t keer to sit down, thanky,” said the fellow, surlily, taking a sidelong glance round the room, ending by fixing his eyes for a moment on the door, as if to make sure that there was a retreat open in case of need.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “now tell us what you know, and why you have come. Did you see the advertisement, or one of those placards?”
“Bla’guards?” said the fellow, inquiringly.
“Yes, yes! the bills.”
“Yes; I saw a bill—two ’underd pound reward—and I’ve come for that there two ’underd pound reward.”
“But your information—what do you know?” broke in Harry.
The man turned and stared at him heavily.
“Ah! I didn’t know you at first, without no hat on; but I knows you now. You was with him once when he came down our way. I seed you then, and I ain’t forgot you. But, first of all, who’s going to pay this here money? Is it you, or is it him?”
“I’ll pay you—I’ll pay you, my man!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “and what is your information?—what do you know?”
“What I know’s worth two ’underd pound now,” said the fellow, winking at Harry; “but if I tells it, then, praps, it won’t be worth nothin’ to me.”
“You are dealing with a gentleman, my good fellow,” said Harry, “and you need be under no apprehension.”
“But how do I know as I shan’t be done?” was the offensive reply. “Nobody don’t trust me nothin’; and I don’t see why I should trust nobody. I’m a plain-spoke sort of a chap, I am; and I allers says what’s in my mind. So now, lookye here—you says as you’ll give two ’underd pound to them as’ll tell you where a tall young man’s gone—that’s it, ain’t it?”
Harry nodded.
“Werry good, then. I comes here, and I says, ‘’And over the stiff!’ ‘What for?’ says you. ‘’Cos I knows wheer he is,’ says I. ‘So, now then,’ I says, ‘hand over the tin.’”
Without another word, Sir Francis went to a small writing-case, opened it, and took from a book a ready-signed cheque for the amount.
“Stop!” exclaimed Harry. “Excuse me, Sir Francis; but your anxiety overleaps your caution. How do we know that this man’s information is worth having?”
“He says he knows where—where—you know what he says,” said Sir Francis, piteously.
“Yes,” said Harry; “but let him prove his words.”
“What! are yer agoin’ to run back from it, or are yer agoin’ to hand over the stiff?” said the man, uneasily.
“When you have earned it,” said Harry, almost fiercely. “Now, look here, my man, show us the value of your information, and restore this gentleman to his friends; and without any reference to such complicity as you may have had in the transaction, the two hundred pounds are yours.”
“But lookye here,” said the man, leaning towards him; “suppose as he’s—you know what?” and he whispered the last words.
“The money is yours all the same,” said Harry, in the same tone.
But the man was apparently still far from satisfied, muttering, biting pieces out of his cap-lining, and spitting them upon the carpet, till a bright thought seemed to strike him, to which he gave birth.
“Lookye here, gents. Let’s have the money posted fair for both sides. I knows a genleman down our way as keeps a beer-shop as’d see fair, and make all square. Now, what do you say?”
What would have been said was arrested by a sudden start, or rather jump, on the part of Mr John Screwby, who, following the direction of Sir Francis’ eyes, found that another person had entered the room, and taken a place at his elbow, where he had stood for some few moments listening to the conversation.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.Screwby’s “Tip.”Mr John Screwby’s face would have formed a worthy study for a painter; or, could some instantaneous photographer have secured his aspect, acartecould have been produced that would have made the fortune of any speculator in heads of eminent men. For, as he started away, his jaw half dropped, his eyes staring, and fists clenched, he seemed, for the moment, turned into stone—a statue gazing at the quiet unmoved intruder upon the scene.“How do, Jack?” said the new-comer, quietly, as he took a slight glance from the corners of his eyes at the informer.“You’re werry civil all ’twunst,” said the fellow, recovering himself a little; “but you ain’t got nothin’ agen me!”“Not I, Jack—at least, not yet,” said the new-comer, smiling. “But what brings you here? Smelt the reward?”The man stared, sniffed, rubbed his nose viciously upon his sleeve, and shuffled uneasily from foot to foot; but he did not answer.“He professes to hold the required information,” said Sir Francis; “and he is afraid that we shall not duly perform our part of the contract. He is suspicious lest we should withhold part of the money—my friend here thinking that he ought first to prove the value of his tidings.”“Of course,” said the new-comer, with a commendatory nod of the head at Clayton; “he knows what business is, evidently. Not though, that our friend Jack Screwby here would do anything but what was of the most honourable description. He’s a gent who would scorn a mean action, and as to taking advantage of anybody, there, bless your heart, you might trust him with a baby unborn.”“None o’ your gammon, now, can’t you?” growled Jack.“Gammon! nonsense, Jack! It’s all straightforward and above-board. You shall be all right. Now, look here—what do you know? If it’s worth the two hundred pounds, you shall have the money clean down in your fist. I’ll see that you do. Now are you satisfied?”“Fain sweatings,” growled Mr Screwby, who was apparently far from being in as confident a state as he could have wished.“What does he say?” exclaimed Sir Francis.“He means, sir, that he don’t want the reward money to be fiddled.”“Fiddled?” said Sir Francis.“Yes, sir—thinned down, and deducted from.”“Oh, no! let him earn the reward, and he shall have it in full,” exclaimed Sir Francis.“To be sure,” said the new-comer. “There, Jack, do you hear? All fair and above-board. Money down as soon as the gentleman is found—by your information, mind.”“Well, never mind about no informations,” growled Screwby; “if I find him, eh?”“Yes, if you find the gentleman.”“Dead or alive?” said Screwby, brutally.“Dead or alive,” said the new-comer, turning, as did also Clayton, to glance at Sir Francis Redgrave, who was very pale, but who remained unmoved, save for the corners of his mouth, which twitched sharply.Mr John Screwby evidently had great faith in his own powers as a reader of physiognomy, for he glanced from one to the other, and allowed his eyes to rest long upon each face; then he had a long stare at the door, and another at the window, as if meditating flight, or probably from his foxy wild-beast-like nature, which prompted him to mistrust everybody, and to have both an avenue of entrance and another for escape. Then he took another vicious rub at his nose, and refreshed himself with a nibble at his cap, off which he evidently obtained a few woolly scraps; but at last he allowed his furtive-looking eyes to rest upon the new-comer, who had been all the time thoughtfully tapping his teeth with his pencil, and apparently taking not the slightest notice of him whatever.The fellow then prepared to speak, by hitching himself closer to the stranger, who only gave him a nod, which was interpreted to mean—“Stay where you are!”For Mr John Screwby stood shuffling from foot to foot, and then placed his hand before his mouth, to direct the flow of his discourse only into the stranger’s ear.“Speak out, Jack!” said the latter, coolly; “you needn’t be afraid.”“Who’s afeard?” growled Jack, sourly.“Oh! not you, Jack, of course,” said the other; “you’ve a heart above that sort of thing, you know.”“You’re gallus witty, you are,” growled Jack, below his breath.“Well, speak up, Jack; the gentlemen would like to hear what you have to say, I’m sure.”“Look ye here, then, Master Falkner,” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper, that sounded as harsh and grating as the sharpening of a saw,—“look ye here; that there young chap’s been hanging about D. Wragg’s crib for months past.”“To be sure he has, Jack—to be sure; we know that; and what does it mean? Pigeons, or rats, or dogs, or something of that sort, eh?”Mr Falkner, sergeant of police, half closed his eyes as he spoke, and thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails, as, with head on one side, he waited to hear further news.“Pigins—dorgs! Not a bit of it. He warn’t arter them,” said Screwby. “Gents like him don’t have no ’casion to come our way; ’cos why? Lots o’ dealers comes arter them, and’ll bring ’em any number o’ rats, or dorgs either, for the matter o’ that. You knows better nor that, Master Falkner. If I was to tell you as I come down here to make these here gents’ minds easy, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Screwby,” said the sergeant, “no, I should not.”“No,” said the fellow, chuckling, “in coorse you wouldn’t; and no more you don’t believe as he went down our way arter rats or dorgs.”“Well, suppose he did not: what then?” said the sergeant.“Don’t you hurry no man’s cattle; you may have a moke o’ your own some day,” said Screwby, with a grin. “I’m a coming to it fast, I am; so look out. Look ye here, governor,” he said in his hoarse whisper, and he craned his neck towards the impassive officer, “lars Chewsday night was a week as I see him go in theer all alone.”“Go in where, Jack—in where?” said the sergeant, quietly, but with his eyes a little closer, his ears twitching, and every nerve evidently on the strain.“Why, ain’t I a tellin’ on ye?—in theer!”“To be sure, yes, of course,” said the sergeant, quietly, “in there—all right!”“Yes,” continued Screwby, “in theer—in at D. Wragg’s; and,” continued the fellow, in deep tones, harsh, husky, and like a hoarse whisper sent through some large tube—“and he didn’t come out no more.”
Mr John Screwby’s face would have formed a worthy study for a painter; or, could some instantaneous photographer have secured his aspect, acartecould have been produced that would have made the fortune of any speculator in heads of eminent men. For, as he started away, his jaw half dropped, his eyes staring, and fists clenched, he seemed, for the moment, turned into stone—a statue gazing at the quiet unmoved intruder upon the scene.
“How do, Jack?” said the new-comer, quietly, as he took a slight glance from the corners of his eyes at the informer.
“You’re werry civil all ’twunst,” said the fellow, recovering himself a little; “but you ain’t got nothin’ agen me!”
“Not I, Jack—at least, not yet,” said the new-comer, smiling. “But what brings you here? Smelt the reward?”
The man stared, sniffed, rubbed his nose viciously upon his sleeve, and shuffled uneasily from foot to foot; but he did not answer.
“He professes to hold the required information,” said Sir Francis; “and he is afraid that we shall not duly perform our part of the contract. He is suspicious lest we should withhold part of the money—my friend here thinking that he ought first to prove the value of his tidings.”
“Of course,” said the new-comer, with a commendatory nod of the head at Clayton; “he knows what business is, evidently. Not though, that our friend Jack Screwby here would do anything but what was of the most honourable description. He’s a gent who would scorn a mean action, and as to taking advantage of anybody, there, bless your heart, you might trust him with a baby unborn.”
“None o’ your gammon, now, can’t you?” growled Jack.
“Gammon! nonsense, Jack! It’s all straightforward and above-board. You shall be all right. Now, look here—what do you know? If it’s worth the two hundred pounds, you shall have the money clean down in your fist. I’ll see that you do. Now are you satisfied?”
“Fain sweatings,” growled Mr Screwby, who was apparently far from being in as confident a state as he could have wished.
“What does he say?” exclaimed Sir Francis.
“He means, sir, that he don’t want the reward money to be fiddled.”
“Fiddled?” said Sir Francis.
“Yes, sir—thinned down, and deducted from.”
“Oh, no! let him earn the reward, and he shall have it in full,” exclaimed Sir Francis.
“To be sure,” said the new-comer. “There, Jack, do you hear? All fair and above-board. Money down as soon as the gentleman is found—by your information, mind.”
“Well, never mind about no informations,” growled Screwby; “if I find him, eh?”
“Yes, if you find the gentleman.”
“Dead or alive?” said Screwby, brutally.
“Dead or alive,” said the new-comer, turning, as did also Clayton, to glance at Sir Francis Redgrave, who was very pale, but who remained unmoved, save for the corners of his mouth, which twitched sharply.
Mr John Screwby evidently had great faith in his own powers as a reader of physiognomy, for he glanced from one to the other, and allowed his eyes to rest long upon each face; then he had a long stare at the door, and another at the window, as if meditating flight, or probably from his foxy wild-beast-like nature, which prompted him to mistrust everybody, and to have both an avenue of entrance and another for escape. Then he took another vicious rub at his nose, and refreshed himself with a nibble at his cap, off which he evidently obtained a few woolly scraps; but at last he allowed his furtive-looking eyes to rest upon the new-comer, who had been all the time thoughtfully tapping his teeth with his pencil, and apparently taking not the slightest notice of him whatever.
The fellow then prepared to speak, by hitching himself closer to the stranger, who only gave him a nod, which was interpreted to mean—“Stay where you are!”
For Mr John Screwby stood shuffling from foot to foot, and then placed his hand before his mouth, to direct the flow of his discourse only into the stranger’s ear.
“Speak out, Jack!” said the latter, coolly; “you needn’t be afraid.”
“Who’s afeard?” growled Jack, sourly.
“Oh! not you, Jack, of course,” said the other; “you’ve a heart above that sort of thing, you know.”
“You’re gallus witty, you are,” growled Jack, below his breath.
“Well, speak up, Jack; the gentlemen would like to hear what you have to say, I’m sure.”
“Look ye here, then, Master Falkner,” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper, that sounded as harsh and grating as the sharpening of a saw,—“look ye here; that there young chap’s been hanging about D. Wragg’s crib for months past.”
“To be sure he has, Jack—to be sure; we know that; and what does it mean? Pigeons, or rats, or dogs, or something of that sort, eh?”
Mr Falkner, sergeant of police, half closed his eyes as he spoke, and thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails, as, with head on one side, he waited to hear further news.
“Pigins—dorgs! Not a bit of it. He warn’t arter them,” said Screwby. “Gents like him don’t have no ’casion to come our way; ’cos why? Lots o’ dealers comes arter them, and’ll bring ’em any number o’ rats, or dorgs either, for the matter o’ that. You knows better nor that, Master Falkner. If I was to tell you as I come down here to make these here gents’ minds easy, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Screwby,” said the sergeant, “no, I should not.”
“No,” said the fellow, chuckling, “in coorse you wouldn’t; and no more you don’t believe as he went down our way arter rats or dorgs.”
“Well, suppose he did not: what then?” said the sergeant.
“Don’t you hurry no man’s cattle; you may have a moke o’ your own some day,” said Screwby, with a grin. “I’m a coming to it fast, I am; so look out. Look ye here, governor,” he said in his hoarse whisper, and he craned his neck towards the impassive officer, “lars Chewsday night was a week as I see him go in theer all alone.”
“Go in where, Jack—in where?” said the sergeant, quietly, but with his eyes a little closer, his ears twitching, and every nerve evidently on the strain.
“Why, ain’t I a tellin’ on ye?—in theer!”
“To be sure, yes, of course,” said the sergeant, quietly, “in there—all right!”
“Yes,” continued Screwby, “in theer—in at D. Wragg’s; and,” continued the fellow, in deep tones, harsh, husky, and like a hoarse whisper sent through some large tube—“and he didn’t come out no more.”