CHAPTERXCVI.THE GIPSY AMD MRS. BOURNE—THE SURPRISE.Rawton deemed it best not to venture paying a visit to Mrs. Bourne without first of all making sure that the doctor was from home.How this was to be ascertained, he could not at first determine, but after some consideration had been spent in reflection, he elected to send Cooney with a note addressed to Mrs. Bourne, with strict injunctions that it was to be delivered into her hands, and if this could not be conveniently done, Cooney was to return with the letter and wait a more favourable opportunity.It took him some time to indite the brief epistle, which was couched in very guarded, albeit not in very elegant, language but it sufficed for the purpose.Cooney was as hang-dog a looking rascal as it was well possible to conceive, but the gipsy had no other person to send upon whom he could rely—his messenger was by no means a fool—although of a common coarse type and as ignorant as a “hack horse;” but he was artful and was not easily “cornered,” to make use of an American phrase, so away he went upon his mission. The maid servant opened the door and Cooney asked if her mistress was disengaged.“Suppose she is. What do you want with her?” inquired the girl, looking at the speaker with evident mistrust and suspicion.“I don’t want anything with her, my dear,” returned Cooney, in oleaginous accents.“Don’t dear me, man,” cried the girl. “What’s your business?”“Is the doctor in?”“I don’t know.”“Is your mistress alone?”“If she is I’m sure she won’t see you.”“Well, you’re a nice-looking girl, but a little sharp, but that don’t matter. Now listen.”“I am listening. Go on, and be as quick as possible.”“I’ve got a letter for your mistress,” said Cooney, in a strange whisper, “which must be delivered into her own hands.”“A begging letter I suppose.”“No, it aint no begging letter, nuffin of the sort. You were never more mistaken in your life, but it’s a letter from a friend, and is of the greatest importance.”The girl laughed derisively.“You’re on the wrong tack, my lady,” observed Cooney, reprovingly. “Don’t be so cheeky, because it aint becoming in young females to be cheeky.”“Get out with your impudence. Give me the letter at once, and I will take it up to Mrs. Bourne.”“All right, my lass, there it is; but don’t you be agivin’ it to anybody else. Do yer hear?”“Yes, I hear,” cried the maid, tripping lightly upstairs with the missive in question.“She is a pretty creature,” murmured Cooney, as he was waiting in the passage. “A jolly nice gal, but a little pert; but I like her all the better for that. Don’t care a bit about your smooth-tongued wenches.”In a minute or so the maid returned and handed an envelope with no name or address upon it to Rawton’s messenger.“You are to give that to him,” said the maid, in a more subdued tone of voice.“Thank you kindly,” returned Cooney. “Oh, but you are a darling, and no mistake.”“Get along with your impudence. I never met with such a rude man in all my life.”“Oh—don’t say that.”“Go away at once. You’ve got your answer—so now be off.”Cooney sallied forth, and the door was slammed to the moment he had passed out of the house.He took the answer he had received to his pal, Bill Rawton, who tore open the envelope, and drew forth a slip of paper, on which was written these words—“If you desire to see me, call to-morrow evening at about half-past seven.”“That’s all right,” cried the gipsy. “I’ll be there.”“She aint altogether the most amiable girl I’ve met with,” observed Cooney.“Who aint?”“Why the maid-servant. But she’s jolly good-looking, and I ’xpect she knows it.”“You haven’t been fool enough to chaff the doctor’s servant? Why, she’s a most respectable, well-behaved young woman.”“Aint no manner of doubt about that ere,” returned Cooney.“I am sorry I sent you.”“Why, it’s all right enough—aint it?”“Yes; but it strikes me you’ve been too forward with the girl.”“Nuffin of the sort. Is it likely?”“Well, if I must say what I think, I feel certain that there’s nothing more likely. You ought to know better.”“Well, I’m blest! Do you expect a bloke to stand like a mute at the door of a gentleman’s house?”“There, shut up! Enough of this,” observed Rawton, who made a shrewd guess of what had taken place. “He never could keep his tongue still,” murmured Rawton, “and I suppose never will. However, it doesn’t much matter I suppose.”On the following evening, at a little before the appointed time, Bill Rawton left the lodging-house, and made direct for the doctor’s house.As he came within sight of this he observed the boy in the street with a basket of medicine bottles on his arm.“Hallo, young gallipot!—just one moment, my lad,” cried Rawton.“Yes, sir.”“Is your master in?”“No.”“Oh, then, I’ll just call and leave my card. When do you expect him to return?”“He didn’t say when he would be back.”“All right. I may as well call. Good night.”“Good night, sir.”“Oh, he’s not in; so much the better for my purpose,” said the gipsy, as he gave a gentle knock at the door, which was opened by the girl Amy.“Do you want to see missus?” said she.“Yes, if she’s disengaged and alone.”“She’s quite disengaged, and told me to show you upstairs.”Bill was conducted into the front room, first floor, where he found Mrs. Bourne, pale and anxious, awaiting his appearance.“So,” said she, “you are here again. I concluded you had something to communicate, and am glad you have come at the specified time. My husband is not in the way, and we can converse without fear of interruption. Be seated, and proceed to business at once.”The gipsy dropped into the nearest chair.“It would be a sore trouble to me if I thought my presence here and my interview with the doctor, and the words I have spoken, might cause you trouble or anxiety.”“They have caused me great trouble and anxiety, but let that pass. I do not blame you. What you have done—the information you have given—places me in the utmost peril: but, as I before observed, it is no fault of yours. Pray tell me what you purpose doing? It appears to me, if you have any consideration for me, that you had better avoid this house, and not present yourself here again. You will thereby avoid being cross-questioned by my husband, who, from what I can gather, wishes to extract all he can get from you.”“He will get nothing more from me—remember, not a smell. Of that I will be as silent as the grave. If I do open my mouth at all it will be to deny all I have said. You say I have placed you in a situation of extreme peril?”“I believe you have. And you would agree with me if you knew all. Doctor Bourne will not rest, night or day, till he has found out the church where we were married. This done, he will have proof which will be fatal to me.”“He will find no proof, madam,” said Bill Rawton. “I have taken good care of that.”“How can you talk in such an inconsistent and unreasonable way? How is it possible for you to remove a record so indisputable? The books in the church contain a register of this unfortunate and fatal marriage.”“I told you, when last here, that I would repair the evil I had done. I have kept my word. There is no record of our union—none whatever. And no living man can procure it—except myself,” cried Rawton, in a solemn tone of voice.“You are speaking more like a madman than a sane person.”“Am I?”“I should imagine so.”“You are mistaken. Listen to me for one moment. I say there is no record. The leaf in the book containing the certificate of the marriage between William Rawton and Hester Teige is no longer in the books of the church. I have it here.”As he said this Bill Rawton drew forth the page he had abstracted from the breast pocket of his coat. He handed it to his companion, who was bewildered and awe-struck.“In Heaven’s mercy what have you done?” she ejaculated.“Read and judge for yourself,” he returned.She did read, and her face became as pale as death.She was so overwhelmed with astonishment and fear that she could not find words to express herself.“I have kept my word,” he said slowly, and with something like melancholy and remorse in his tone. “I have at all risks contrived to make you a free woman—free, as far as I am concerned, and free also from the danger which threatened you. Bear witness, Mrs. Bourne, for you alone can do so, that I have been mindful of your interest, that I have shown a desire to shelter and shield you. The tie which bound us was cancelled years and years ago. Now it no longer has existence. It has passed away, and will never rise up in judgment against either of us—never.”He took the paper in his hand, thrust it into the fire, where in a few moments it was consumed.Mrs. Bourne looked at him in a state of stupefaction, but he was calm and quite unmoved.“William Rawton,” she presently exclaimed, “I never would have believed this of you, certainly not, unless I had been witness of it and seen it with my own eyes. I have found a champion and friend where I least expected to meet with one. I know not how to express myself. I never dreamed you had so much magnanimity in your nature. How can I possibly recompense you?”“I don’t want any recompense,” observed the gipsy. “What I have done has been done for your sake. Perhaps you will find it hard to believe this, but it is a fact nevertheless. I aint of much good in this world, and nobody has a good word for Bill Rawton the gipsy. Nobody cares about him, who is at best an outcast and a blot upon the face of the earth; but it may be in the years that are to come that one person will think well of him, and remember he was not altogether the selfish and abandoned wretch people suppose him to be. If that one thinks well of him—remembers him with something like gratitude—he will be amply rewarded for the favour he has conferred upon her.”Mrs. Bourne was touched, her eyes were moist with tears, and she stretched forth her hand which the gipsy clasped fervently, and respectfully raised to his lips.“I am glad to have been of service to you,” he cried. “This is the brightest hour I have known for many a day, and the remembrance of it will last my life.”“Oh! Rawton, how much I have reason to be thankful for what you have done. I tremble when I reflect upon the act you have committed. Suppose it should be discovered, what then? What a risk you have run!”“It will not be discovered—rest assured of that. I am in no fear of the consequences.”“But it’s a dreadful alternative, and a most discreditable proceeding. It’s direct robbery.”“Nothing of the sort.”“Oh, yes, it is—there’s no denying it.”“Well, suppose it is, what does it matter. You are not bound to know anything about it—nobody is bound to do so. Don’t you be concerned about the matter; it’s right enough.”“Right! I think it’s very wrong, sinful, and wicked.”“Ah, that all depends upon the way you look at these things. I see no harm in it—not a morsel of harm. However, it’s done, and done to save you.”“I know that, and am, of course, duly grateful; but it is a terrible alternative.”“There was no other left, as I could see, and it was the wisest course. Any way, it makes you safe, and that’s all I care about.”The conversation was cut short by the sudden and unexpected entrance of Dr. Bourne into the room in which his wife and the gipsy were seated.They were both astonished, and not a little alarmed at his appearance.“You here, eh!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anger, addressing himself to Rawton.“Right you be, doctor,” returned the gipsy. “I’m here, as you see.”“And pray, sir, if it is not an impudent question,” observed the doctor, with bitter irony, “may I inquire how it is that I find you holding a secret conference with my wife? But I need not ask. I can make a pretty shrewd guess.”“If you can guess, I wouldn’t trouble myself to inquire, if I were you,” said Rawton, nothing moved.“You are an impudent, low-bred fellow,” cried Bourne, in a towering passion. “How dare you have the impertinence to address this lady, and what can you be thinking of to encourage the visits of such a low ruffian, madam?”This last observation was made to his wife, who was too distressed and overcome to make any reply.“You were out,” said Bill, “and I asked to see your lady. ’spose there’s no great harm in that?”“Harm!” cried Bourne. “Don’t imagine you can deceive me. I ask you again, what brought you hither?”“Why my legs, of course; I ain’t got a carriage, and so had to walk.”“Hark ye, my man, let me have no more of your impudence, or I shall find means to punish you. I say, again, what business have you here holding a conference with Mrs. Bourne, who ought to be ashamed of herself to be seen conversing with such a ruffian. Answer my question without any more ado.”“You’re so sharp upon a cove that you don’t give a chap time to answer. Well, if you must know, I wanted to leave a message with the lady.”“It’s a lie—an impudent lie; you wanted to do nothing of the sort. You think I cannot see through you, I suppose, you shameless woman.”“Hold hard, guv’nor—one at a time, if you please,” cried Bill.“You will be pleased to address me in a more respectful manner, my man. Do you hear?”“Yes, I hear.”“Now, madam,” said Bourne, turning to his wife, “will you kindly enlighten me on this subject? What is the reason for this man being here?”“He is your acquaintance, not mine,” said Mrs. Bourne.“Thank you for the compliment. He’s a robber, a thief, and a disgrace to a civilised community; and this is the man you choose to encourage here, is it?”“I do not encourage him—I have told him to go away.”“Yes, that’s quite true; she has told me to go away and not come here any more, and I have promised to do so.”“You are not going away just yet, my man,” cried the doctor. “I have a goodish bit to say to you.”“Ah, that being the case, it’s lucky I am here.”“You are very well acquainted with this lady it would appear—eh?”“I don’t know what you mean,” returned Bill.“Don’t you?”“No.”“I know what I mean—look at her.”“Well, I am looking at the lady.”“You’ve seen her before years ago—haven’t you?”“Me, no; not as I know of.”“You can’t deceive me, you scoundrel—she is your wife.”At this, Bill Rawton burst out into a loud laugh, which a little disconcerted the doctor.“My wife,” cried Bill. “Why, doctor, you’re a little touched in the upper story, I’m thinking.”“I say she is your wife.”“Do you?”“Yes.”“And I say she’s not.”“And never was?”“And never was.”“Well, my man, you have any amount of audacity—that I frankly admit; but it won’t be of much service to you in this case. You have already acknowledged your name to be William Rawton.”“I have passed as William Rawton.”The doctor started.“You haven’t got the right sow by the ear as yet, doctor,” observed the gipsy, with the most admirable self-possession. “Him as you call Will Rawton was drowned years agone in Harcott’s millstream.”“Audacious liar!” exclaimed Bourne, in a fury; “think not to disprove your identity.”“I don’t intend to do so; but, as I observed before, you’ve got the wrong pig by the ear.”“Then you are not William Rawton?”“I have passed as him—that’s all.”The doctor made no answer to this. He quietly walked into an adjoining room, without even so much as uttering a word. Presently he returned with something in his hand.It was a miniature.“Look at this,” he said, holding it before the gipsy.“Yes, I see it; it’s a picture, and a very pretty one, too—a likeness of somebody, I ’spose?”“A likeness of yourself, my man,” said Bourne, in high glee.“Of me?”“Most certainly, and an admirable one it is, or was, for it was taken about twenty years ago. It must have been wonderfully like at that time—I should say most remarkably like the original.”“Not having seen the original I can’t say,” said Bill, perfectly unmoved.“The original is yourself, my man.”Bill shook his head.“That won’t do; look at the nose, it’s a mile too long, and the picture is not in any way like me—leastways as far as I can see—but if you say it is, of course I give in to your superior judgment.”“I say it is a portrait of William Rawton, and that you are he.”“Very good—have it your own way. It does not make much difference to me. I don’t quite see what you are driving at, but that is of no great consequence, I suppose?”“It is of very great consequence to me though.”“Is it?”“Yes, and so, my very excellent friend, you may as well confess all. You will have to do so, you know, sooner or later. You are the lawful husband of this lady.”“Get out—me her husband!—it’s false,” exclaimed Bill. “You must think me a fool to believe what you say.”“I shall find means to prove the truth of what I’m saying,” said Bourne, in a confident tone.“I am sure you won’t. What’s your little game? Do you want to get rid of your wife—eh?”“Your wife.”“No; yours, if you please. Of all the capers I ever heard of this is about the rummest. Why, you must have been swallowing some of your own medicine, doctor, and it has flown to your head, and driven you silly.”“Don’t you give me any more of your impudence, fellow,” cried Bourne, in a fury. “I am in no mood to stand it. Your audacity is exceeding all bounds; but I know very well how to deal with a man of your type. You will find it difficult, or, indeed, I may say impossible, to deceive me. This miniature which I hold in my hand is in itself quite sufficient to prove your identity. You are William Rawton, the gipsy—the same William Rawton who was wedded some twenty years ago to Hester Teige—the beauteous and fascinating Hester Teige, as she was afterwards called,” continued the doctor, in a sarcastic tone.“Am I?”“Yes, you are; and I think you will find it difficult to disprove my statement.”“All right, governor; have it your own way,” cried Bill, with an aggravating laugh. “All right. Have it your own way. It does so happen, however, that Rawton was drowned in a mill-stream, and that, for special reasons, best known to myself, I chose to call myself by his name.”“Then you told me a false and wicked lie on the evening when we first met, but I know which story to believe.“Pray, sir, how is it I find you here in company with this lady? Answer me that. Shall I tell you?”“If you like.”“It is just this: you are here plotting together for the purpose of determining how you can best deeeive me. But do not think you will succeed in your nefarious plans. Still at the same time I have to apologize for disturbing a tête-à-tête between husband and wife,” observed the doctor, with aggravating sarcasm.Mrs. Bourne, who had purposely abstained from saying anything more than the occasion absolutely required, now observed in a deprecatory tone—“I do hope and trust, Mr. Bourne, that this conversation will be brought to a close as speedily as possible, if it be only for my sake.”“For your sake, madam!” exclaimed her husband with a sneer. “Upon my word that is really a good joke. It is really amusing. I think, madam, I shall have no very great difficulty in dissolving the galling and odious tie which binds me to so amiable a partner. A prior marriage with a gentleman who is still aliveNo.51.will suffice for the purpose. Mr. William Rawton, who is here present——”Illustration: YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT“YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT,” CRIED BOURNE, STRIKING THE GIPSY WITH HIS WALKING STICK.“I am not William Rawton,” interrupted the gipsy.“Then who are you?”“What do you want to know for?”“No matter; I do want to know—let that suffice.”“Then I don’t choose to tell you; let that suffice; but even if you could prove me to be Rawton, which you never can, what would it matter?”“Then this lady would be the wife of two husbands,” cried the doctor, bowing with mock gravity; “don’t you see that?”“No, I don’t.”“Ah! but I do.”“Oh, so you think; but you are mistaken,” observed the gipsy, perfectly unmoved; “never were more mistaken in your life.”“Am I?”“Yes; you are most miserably mistaken. Shall I tell you why?”“I am always glad to receive information, especially in this case, as it is a subject which concerns myself.”“Right you are, doctor; I s’pose it does concern yourself. Well, then, the young girl named Hester Teige was married to a gipsy; there’s no denying that; but what sort of marriage was it?”“What sort?”“Aye, what sort, indeed! She was married in the gipsy’s camp—after the manner of gipsies—married by the father of the tribe, with the sun for a witness, and the greensward for her couch. As far as the legal part of the business is concerned, it wasn’t any marriage at all. So you may take your change out of that.”As he brought this brief speech to a conclusion, he burst out into a mocking laugh.“You lying scoundrel!” exclaimed Bourne, in a paroxysm of rage. “You contemptible, deceptive hound—it is false—and I will prove you to be a liar as well as a thief—you unmitigated ruffian!”“Go on, governor, lay it on thick. Your hard words won’t hurt me; cause why? I’m too much used to them.”“You shameless abandoned woman,” cried Bourne, turning towards his wife. “I have disgraced myself by my connection with you. What have you to say to this fellow’s declaration?”“I don’t choose to say anything. You have heard all he has said, and can judge for yourself. You have brought this scandal upon yourself; but it was not done without a cause. I decline to argue the question with you.”“Insolent strumpet!” exclaimed the doctor, striking his wife on the side of the head. “Hence—get out of this house at once.”“Hold hard!” cried Bill, stepping between the enraged husband and his ill-used wife. “Hit a woman! You are a coward and a bully. If you want to hit anyone pitch into me.”“Stand out of my way—you dirty lying thief,” cried Bourne.“Look here, if you give me any more of your cheek,” said the gipsy, “or attempt to lay hands on this lady I’ll smash you—that’s what I’ll do with you, and no flies.”“You audacious miscreant!” cried Bourne, almost beside himself with rage, and striking the gipsy over the head with his walking stick.Bill at once let out with his right and left in rapid succession, hitting the doctor some terrible blows in the face, which were delivered direct from the shoulder. Bourne was so taken aback by the suddenness and vigour of the attack that he had not time to recover himself.“I’ll make you smart for this,” he said, presently. “You can’t escape me, you scoundrel. I’ve two officers below.” And as he uttered these words he rushed towards the door, calling out for assistance at the same time.The gipsy intercepted his passage, and levelled him to the floor with one powerful blow from his clenched fist.In falling the doctor’s head came in contact with the fender, and he lay on the hearthrug, speechless and senseless.At this crisis the sound of a low whistle fell upon the ears of Bandy-legged Bill, who judged rightly enough that danger was at hand. He went at once to the door of the apartment, closed and locked it, then he bethought him of what to do.“Oh merciful heaven, save and succour me,” ejaculated Mrs. Bourne, wringing her hands. “What have you done?” She glanced at the prostrate form of her husband. “Perhaps murder.”The noise of ascending footsteps on the stairs was now heard, and another whistle was given by somebody outside the house.“This is indeed terrible. You will be captured; ruin and disgrace will fall upon me. Oh, unhappy and fatal was the hour you set foot in this house.”“I’ll leave it for good and for all,” returned Bill, “and never of my own free will enter it again.”“Leave—but how?” inquired Mrs. Bourne. “Hark, they are knocking at the door and endeavouring to break it open.”Bill Rawton felt that not a moment was to be lost; he flew to the back window of the apartment and threw it open.Then he thrust his head forth and took a rapid survey of the surrounding yards. Abutting out from the window was the roof of a washhouse. To drop on this was no very difficult task, but even when this had been done, the gipsy did not see any way of getting clear of the yards in the rear, and the sides of the doctor’s residence were surrounded by walls and houses, and he did not see any place for concealment. Nevertheless, he felt that to remain where he was would most assuredly end in his capture. There were one or two little matters against him which rendered an interview with police officers in no way desirable. Rawton had risked much for the sake of Mrs. Bourne. He had acted towards her with a spirit of magnanimity, which was the one bright spot in his shadowy character, and it is but fair that he should have full credit for the better impulse of his nature, which prompted him to save the woman whom he had once loved.The officers were beating violently against the door of the apartment, and demanding immediate admittance.“Fly!” cried Mrs. Bourne. “Get clear off while there is yet time.”“It is evident you have done something wrong, and the police are on your track. Doubtless my husband has brought them hither. Fly! for mercy’s sake hesitate no longer!”“Hammer away, my sweet pets,” cried Bill, as he heard the thumps at the door. “My name’s Walker.”He crept through the window, hung by his hands for a moment from the sill, and dropped safely on the roof of the outhouse. From here he slid down into the yard. Then he looked about him for a moment or two, not knowing very well what next to be at. He felt pretty certain that some of the neighbours would soon observe his movements from the backs of the surrounding houses, and therefore prompt action was required in his present emergency, for he did not intend to be taken if he could help it.He jumped over the wall and reached another yard, which was paved. He soon discovered he was in close proximity to a stable.A man was cleaning some harness in the yard, where he now found himself, and while thus occupied he looked at the gipsy in an inquiring and, it might be, a suspicious manner.“All right, mate,” said Bill. “You’ve no call to be afeard. I’ve just given a bloke a prop in the eye, and another on the sneezer. We’ve had a bit of a scrimmge, and the bobbies are after me.”“Who have you been mugging, then?” said the ostler, with a laugh.“Why, a doctor.”“What name?”“Bourne.”“Oh, scissors! What, that varmint!”“Ah, you’re right, he is a varmint. But, I say, just let me come inside—there’s a good fellow.”“Inside where?”“The stable. Anywhere to get out of sight.”“I’d step it, if I were you.”“That’s just what I want to do.”“Come in, mate, I won’t turn my back upon a man whose in a bit of a mess, which I ’xpect you are.”“In a jolly mess, and no flies.”The gipsy crept into the stable, and his newly-formed friend went on cleaning the harness as if nothing had happened.Both remained for some time inside the stable without saying a word. Presently his friend, the ostler, said, in a low whisper—“I say, old fellow, there’s some blokes a looking out of the window of the doctor’s house.”“The devil,” murmured Bill, “I wish I was out of this. They’ll be in the yard presently I expect. Tell me when they draw in their ugly heads.”“Hush, stow magging,” cried the man in a whisper. “Hold your row, you fool.”The gipsy did not venture to speak after this timely admonition, but awaited the issue in breathless suspense.In a few moments after this the harness cleaner entered the stable.“You’d better step it,” he observed.“Yes, that’s all very well, but how? Show me the way, and I’ll be off in the twinkling of a bedpost.”“I don’t know who you are,” said the ostler. “You may have committed murder, for aught I know; but I don’t like to give a cove up, unless he’s a downright bad un.”“Oh, get out—murder, indeed! I tell you, all I’ve done is to floor the doctor; but he’s got his knife into me for other reasons. I can’t explain all to you now, but show me the way to escape. Could you take me through the house?”“I can, of course, but you may be seen, and then there will be the devil to pay!”“Well, I’m sure you’re a good sort. Take pity on a poor chap. Come, now, just think it over. A man is never the worse for doing another a good turn.”“Who and what are you?”“Well, if you must know, I was a jockey. Now, I’m in the horse-training line.”“I guessed as much by your looks. Wait a bit; I’ll just have a squint, and see if the blokes are there or not.”The speaker went out into the yard again, and glanced at the back window of the doctor’s residence, then he returned to the stable.“They’ve hooked it,” he ejaculated. “Now’s your time. Follow me.”Bill Rawton did not need a second bidding. He passed quickly out, went up a narrow passage by the side of the stable, and then entered the back door of the house to which it was attached. Passing quickly along this until he reached the end of the hall, he came to the front door of the establishment.The ostler opened this, placed his finger on his lips to enjoin silence, and Bill emerged into the street.It is needless to say perhaps that he walked as fast as his legs would carry him.He had succeeded, thanks to the ostler, in getting clear off.Leaving him for awhile, we will return to the room from which he had escaped.The hammering at the door continued for some time after Bill had dropped on to the outhouse. Mrs. Bourne did not know what to do.On the floor lay her husband in an insensible condition. Who the men were outside the room she could not very well determine, but she judged rightly enough that they were officers of the law.She was, however, in no way disposed to admit them till Rawton had sufficient time afforded him to effect his escape.The poor woman was in a terrible state of fright and trepidation, and she stood, pale and irresolute, wringing her hands, in the centre of the apartment.“If you don’t unlock the door, we will break it open,” cried a voice from the outside.“For mercy’s sake, what’s the matter? Do say what you want!” cried Mrs. Bourne.“We want to see the doctor. Open the door without further ado.”“But I am afraid. Doctor Bourne has had a desperate struggle with some man, and is lying senseless on the floor. Are you friends or enemies?”“Friends. We are detective officers.”Mrs. Bourne unlocked the door, and our old friend, Mr. Wrench, entered, in hot haste. He was accompanied by another person, who was a detective from New York.“What is the meaning of all this, madam?” said Wrench. “Your husband lying senseless, and you alone with him! Please to account for this as best you can.”Mrs. Bourne briefly explained the conflict that had taken place, and said that the man who had struck her husband threatened to take her life if she opened the door. She wound up by declaring that he had made his escape through the window.“Foiled!” ejaculated Wrench. “Our man has given us the slip. But no matter, I shall be able to find him.”“What has he been doing, gentlemen?” inquired Mrs. Bourne.“We have to arrest him upon the charge of horse-stealing—that’s all,” observed Wrench.“But my poor husband? Pray see to him at once.”The two officers lifted up the doctor and placed him on the sofa.The movement seemed to revive him, for he slowly opened his eyes and exclaimed, in an anxious tone—“Where is he?”“Who, sir?” inquired Wrench.“That infamous wretch, the gipsy.”“He has escaped, but don’t trouble yourself about that, we shall catch him. How do you feel now?”“Very bad—my head swims—I——”He ceased speaking, having swooned.A doctor in the immediate neighbourhood was sent for, who at once proceeded to make an examination of the injuries received.He said there was nothing to be alarmed at; there was a contused wound at the base of the skull. This had, in all probability, been caused by the head coming in contact with the fender, but in addition to this there were two or three abrasures and contusions on the face.The patient was weak from shock to the system and loss of blood, but there was no danger to be apprehended.The injuries were strapped up, and the doctor ordered him to keep his bed till his medical adviser’s next visit.“I care not for myself,” said he to Wrench; “all I am anxious about is that miscreant. Lose no time in hunting him down. Don’t let him escape if you can possibly help.”“I dare say we shall be able to find him, sir. Leave that matter to me and my friend Shearman.”“Ah, just so, you have not introduced me to the gentleman.”“I beg pardon, I have not. Mr. Shearman, of the New York detectives; Shearman, Doctor Bourne.”“I should have liked to make the doctor’s acquaintance under more favourable circumstances,” observed Shearman, dryly. “But, let us hope he will be himself again in a day or two.”“There is not the least doubt of that,” said Bourne; “but, meanwhile, do your best to capture that ruffian.”“Wrench and Shearman drew aside and had a long conversation, which was carried on in whispers.“Not at present; there will be time enough for that,” cried Wrench, in a louder tone—“plenty of time.”“Good; so be it, then,” ejaculated the Yankee.“I tell you no time is to be lost,” exclaimed the doctor, who was under the impression that they were discussing the mode of proceeding to be adopted in reference to Rawton.“We will do our best, rest assured of that, sir,” observed Wrench, quietly. “In the meantime, keep as quiet as possible. Good evening. We both wish you a speedy recovery.”“Thank you. Good evening, gentlemen.”The two detectives then left the patient to himself.Doctor Bourne’s head and temples were throbbing, and he was in great pain, but consciousness had returned, and he was already much better than anyone would have supposed.“I wonder who that fellow is Wrench brought with him? A detective from New York, he said. Strange! What made him bring him here, I wonder. Our constabulary is sufficiently effective without enlisting the services of officers belonging to America. It seems a strange thing to me that Wrench should be in such close companionship with a mysterious man like that. From New York, eh?”He tossed about in an uneasy manner, and kept harping upon the subject for some time; presently the medicine he had swallowed took effect, and he sank into a sound slumber.
Rawton deemed it best not to venture paying a visit to Mrs. Bourne without first of all making sure that the doctor was from home.
How this was to be ascertained, he could not at first determine, but after some consideration had been spent in reflection, he elected to send Cooney with a note addressed to Mrs. Bourne, with strict injunctions that it was to be delivered into her hands, and if this could not be conveniently done, Cooney was to return with the letter and wait a more favourable opportunity.
It took him some time to indite the brief epistle, which was couched in very guarded, albeit not in very elegant, language but it sufficed for the purpose.
Cooney was as hang-dog a looking rascal as it was well possible to conceive, but the gipsy had no other person to send upon whom he could rely—his messenger was by no means a fool—although of a common coarse type and as ignorant as a “hack horse;” but he was artful and was not easily “cornered,” to make use of an American phrase, so away he went upon his mission. The maid servant opened the door and Cooney asked if her mistress was disengaged.
“Suppose she is. What do you want with her?” inquired the girl, looking at the speaker with evident mistrust and suspicion.
“I don’t want anything with her, my dear,” returned Cooney, in oleaginous accents.
“Don’t dear me, man,” cried the girl. “What’s your business?”
“Is the doctor in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is your mistress alone?”
“If she is I’m sure she won’t see you.”
“Well, you’re a nice-looking girl, but a little sharp, but that don’t matter. Now listen.”
“I am listening. Go on, and be as quick as possible.”
“I’ve got a letter for your mistress,” said Cooney, in a strange whisper, “which must be delivered into her own hands.”
“A begging letter I suppose.”
“No, it aint no begging letter, nuffin of the sort. You were never more mistaken in your life, but it’s a letter from a friend, and is of the greatest importance.”
The girl laughed derisively.
“You’re on the wrong tack, my lady,” observed Cooney, reprovingly. “Don’t be so cheeky, because it aint becoming in young females to be cheeky.”
“Get out with your impudence. Give me the letter at once, and I will take it up to Mrs. Bourne.”
“All right, my lass, there it is; but don’t you be agivin’ it to anybody else. Do yer hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” cried the maid, tripping lightly upstairs with the missive in question.
“She is a pretty creature,” murmured Cooney, as he was waiting in the passage. “A jolly nice gal, but a little pert; but I like her all the better for that. Don’t care a bit about your smooth-tongued wenches.”
In a minute or so the maid returned and handed an envelope with no name or address upon it to Rawton’s messenger.
“You are to give that to him,” said the maid, in a more subdued tone of voice.
“Thank you kindly,” returned Cooney. “Oh, but you are a darling, and no mistake.”
“Get along with your impudence. I never met with such a rude man in all my life.”
“Oh—don’t say that.”
“Go away at once. You’ve got your answer—so now be off.”
Cooney sallied forth, and the door was slammed to the moment he had passed out of the house.
He took the answer he had received to his pal, Bill Rawton, who tore open the envelope, and drew forth a slip of paper, on which was written these words—
“If you desire to see me, call to-morrow evening at about half-past seven.”
“That’s all right,” cried the gipsy. “I’ll be there.”
“She aint altogether the most amiable girl I’ve met with,” observed Cooney.
“Who aint?”
“Why the maid-servant. But she’s jolly good-looking, and I ’xpect she knows it.”
“You haven’t been fool enough to chaff the doctor’s servant? Why, she’s a most respectable, well-behaved young woman.”
“Aint no manner of doubt about that ere,” returned Cooney.
“I am sorry I sent you.”
“Why, it’s all right enough—aint it?”
“Yes; but it strikes me you’ve been too forward with the girl.”
“Nuffin of the sort. Is it likely?”
“Well, if I must say what I think, I feel certain that there’s nothing more likely. You ought to know better.”
“Well, I’m blest! Do you expect a bloke to stand like a mute at the door of a gentleman’s house?”
“There, shut up! Enough of this,” observed Rawton, who made a shrewd guess of what had taken place. “He never could keep his tongue still,” murmured Rawton, “and I suppose never will. However, it doesn’t much matter I suppose.”
On the following evening, at a little before the appointed time, Bill Rawton left the lodging-house, and made direct for the doctor’s house.
As he came within sight of this he observed the boy in the street with a basket of medicine bottles on his arm.
“Hallo, young gallipot!—just one moment, my lad,” cried Rawton.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your master in?”
“No.”
“Oh, then, I’ll just call and leave my card. When do you expect him to return?”
“He didn’t say when he would be back.”
“All right. I may as well call. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Oh, he’s not in; so much the better for my purpose,” said the gipsy, as he gave a gentle knock at the door, which was opened by the girl Amy.
“Do you want to see missus?” said she.
“Yes, if she’s disengaged and alone.”
“She’s quite disengaged, and told me to show you upstairs.”
Bill was conducted into the front room, first floor, where he found Mrs. Bourne, pale and anxious, awaiting his appearance.
“So,” said she, “you are here again. I concluded you had something to communicate, and am glad you have come at the specified time. My husband is not in the way, and we can converse without fear of interruption. Be seated, and proceed to business at once.”
The gipsy dropped into the nearest chair.
“It would be a sore trouble to me if I thought my presence here and my interview with the doctor, and the words I have spoken, might cause you trouble or anxiety.”
“They have caused me great trouble and anxiety, but let that pass. I do not blame you. What you have done—the information you have given—places me in the utmost peril: but, as I before observed, it is no fault of yours. Pray tell me what you purpose doing? It appears to me, if you have any consideration for me, that you had better avoid this house, and not present yourself here again. You will thereby avoid being cross-questioned by my husband, who, from what I can gather, wishes to extract all he can get from you.”
“He will get nothing more from me—remember, not a smell. Of that I will be as silent as the grave. If I do open my mouth at all it will be to deny all I have said. You say I have placed you in a situation of extreme peril?”
“I believe you have. And you would agree with me if you knew all. Doctor Bourne will not rest, night or day, till he has found out the church where we were married. This done, he will have proof which will be fatal to me.”
“He will find no proof, madam,” said Bill Rawton. “I have taken good care of that.”
“How can you talk in such an inconsistent and unreasonable way? How is it possible for you to remove a record so indisputable? The books in the church contain a register of this unfortunate and fatal marriage.”
“I told you, when last here, that I would repair the evil I had done. I have kept my word. There is no record of our union—none whatever. And no living man can procure it—except myself,” cried Rawton, in a solemn tone of voice.
“You are speaking more like a madman than a sane person.”
“Am I?”
“I should imagine so.”
“You are mistaken. Listen to me for one moment. I say there is no record. The leaf in the book containing the certificate of the marriage between William Rawton and Hester Teige is no longer in the books of the church. I have it here.”
As he said this Bill Rawton drew forth the page he had abstracted from the breast pocket of his coat. He handed it to his companion, who was bewildered and awe-struck.
“In Heaven’s mercy what have you done?” she ejaculated.
“Read and judge for yourself,” he returned.
She did read, and her face became as pale as death.
She was so overwhelmed with astonishment and fear that she could not find words to express herself.
“I have kept my word,” he said slowly, and with something like melancholy and remorse in his tone. “I have at all risks contrived to make you a free woman—free, as far as I am concerned, and free also from the danger which threatened you. Bear witness, Mrs. Bourne, for you alone can do so, that I have been mindful of your interest, that I have shown a desire to shelter and shield you. The tie which bound us was cancelled years and years ago. Now it no longer has existence. It has passed away, and will never rise up in judgment against either of us—never.”
He took the paper in his hand, thrust it into the fire, where in a few moments it was consumed.
Mrs. Bourne looked at him in a state of stupefaction, but he was calm and quite unmoved.
“William Rawton,” she presently exclaimed, “I never would have believed this of you, certainly not, unless I had been witness of it and seen it with my own eyes. I have found a champion and friend where I least expected to meet with one. I know not how to express myself. I never dreamed you had so much magnanimity in your nature. How can I possibly recompense you?”
“I don’t want any recompense,” observed the gipsy. “What I have done has been done for your sake. Perhaps you will find it hard to believe this, but it is a fact nevertheless. I aint of much good in this world, and nobody has a good word for Bill Rawton the gipsy. Nobody cares about him, who is at best an outcast and a blot upon the face of the earth; but it may be in the years that are to come that one person will think well of him, and remember he was not altogether the selfish and abandoned wretch people suppose him to be. If that one thinks well of him—remembers him with something like gratitude—he will be amply rewarded for the favour he has conferred upon her.”
Mrs. Bourne was touched, her eyes were moist with tears, and she stretched forth her hand which the gipsy clasped fervently, and respectfully raised to his lips.
“I am glad to have been of service to you,” he cried. “This is the brightest hour I have known for many a day, and the remembrance of it will last my life.”
“Oh! Rawton, how much I have reason to be thankful for what you have done. I tremble when I reflect upon the act you have committed. Suppose it should be discovered, what then? What a risk you have run!”
“It will not be discovered—rest assured of that. I am in no fear of the consequences.”
“But it’s a dreadful alternative, and a most discreditable proceeding. It’s direct robbery.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Oh, yes, it is—there’s no denying it.”
“Well, suppose it is, what does it matter. You are not bound to know anything about it—nobody is bound to do so. Don’t you be concerned about the matter; it’s right enough.”
“Right! I think it’s very wrong, sinful, and wicked.”
“Ah, that all depends upon the way you look at these things. I see no harm in it—not a morsel of harm. However, it’s done, and done to save you.”
“I know that, and am, of course, duly grateful; but it is a terrible alternative.”
“There was no other left, as I could see, and it was the wisest course. Any way, it makes you safe, and that’s all I care about.”
The conversation was cut short by the sudden and unexpected entrance of Dr. Bourne into the room in which his wife and the gipsy were seated.
They were both astonished, and not a little alarmed at his appearance.
“You here, eh!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anger, addressing himself to Rawton.
“Right you be, doctor,” returned the gipsy. “I’m here, as you see.”
“And pray, sir, if it is not an impudent question,” observed the doctor, with bitter irony, “may I inquire how it is that I find you holding a secret conference with my wife? But I need not ask. I can make a pretty shrewd guess.”
“If you can guess, I wouldn’t trouble myself to inquire, if I were you,” said Rawton, nothing moved.
“You are an impudent, low-bred fellow,” cried Bourne, in a towering passion. “How dare you have the impertinence to address this lady, and what can you be thinking of to encourage the visits of such a low ruffian, madam?”
This last observation was made to his wife, who was too distressed and overcome to make any reply.
“You were out,” said Bill, “and I asked to see your lady. ’spose there’s no great harm in that?”
“Harm!” cried Bourne. “Don’t imagine you can deceive me. I ask you again, what brought you hither?”
“Why my legs, of course; I ain’t got a carriage, and so had to walk.”
“Hark ye, my man, let me have no more of your impudence, or I shall find means to punish you. I say, again, what business have you here holding a conference with Mrs. Bourne, who ought to be ashamed of herself to be seen conversing with such a ruffian. Answer my question without any more ado.”
“You’re so sharp upon a cove that you don’t give a chap time to answer. Well, if you must know, I wanted to leave a message with the lady.”
“It’s a lie—an impudent lie; you wanted to do nothing of the sort. You think I cannot see through you, I suppose, you shameless woman.”
“Hold hard, guv’nor—one at a time, if you please,” cried Bill.
“You will be pleased to address me in a more respectful manner, my man. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear.”
“Now, madam,” said Bourne, turning to his wife, “will you kindly enlighten me on this subject? What is the reason for this man being here?”
“He is your acquaintance, not mine,” said Mrs. Bourne.
“Thank you for the compliment. He’s a robber, a thief, and a disgrace to a civilised community; and this is the man you choose to encourage here, is it?”
“I do not encourage him—I have told him to go away.”
“Yes, that’s quite true; she has told me to go away and not come here any more, and I have promised to do so.”
“You are not going away just yet, my man,” cried the doctor. “I have a goodish bit to say to you.”
“Ah, that being the case, it’s lucky I am here.”
“You are very well acquainted with this lady it would appear—eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” returned Bill.
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“I know what I mean—look at her.”
“Well, I am looking at the lady.”
“You’ve seen her before years ago—haven’t you?”
“Me, no; not as I know of.”
“You can’t deceive me, you scoundrel—she is your wife.”
At this, Bill Rawton burst out into a loud laugh, which a little disconcerted the doctor.
“My wife,” cried Bill. “Why, doctor, you’re a little touched in the upper story, I’m thinking.”
“I say she is your wife.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And I say she’s not.”
“And never was?”
“And never was.”
“Well, my man, you have any amount of audacity—that I frankly admit; but it won’t be of much service to you in this case. You have already acknowledged your name to be William Rawton.”
“I have passed as William Rawton.”
The doctor started.
“You haven’t got the right sow by the ear as yet, doctor,” observed the gipsy, with the most admirable self-possession. “Him as you call Will Rawton was drowned years agone in Harcott’s millstream.”
“Audacious liar!” exclaimed Bourne, in a fury; “think not to disprove your identity.”
“I don’t intend to do so; but, as I observed before, you’ve got the wrong pig by the ear.”
“Then you are not William Rawton?”
“I have passed as him—that’s all.”
The doctor made no answer to this. He quietly walked into an adjoining room, without even so much as uttering a word. Presently he returned with something in his hand.
It was a miniature.
“Look at this,” he said, holding it before the gipsy.
“Yes, I see it; it’s a picture, and a very pretty one, too—a likeness of somebody, I ’spose?”
“A likeness of yourself, my man,” said Bourne, in high glee.
“Of me?”
“Most certainly, and an admirable one it is, or was, for it was taken about twenty years ago. It must have been wonderfully like at that time—I should say most remarkably like the original.”
“Not having seen the original I can’t say,” said Bill, perfectly unmoved.
“The original is yourself, my man.”
Bill shook his head.
“That won’t do; look at the nose, it’s a mile too long, and the picture is not in any way like me—leastways as far as I can see—but if you say it is, of course I give in to your superior judgment.”
“I say it is a portrait of William Rawton, and that you are he.”
“Very good—have it your own way. It does not make much difference to me. I don’t quite see what you are driving at, but that is of no great consequence, I suppose?”
“It is of very great consequence to me though.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, and so, my very excellent friend, you may as well confess all. You will have to do so, you know, sooner or later. You are the lawful husband of this lady.”
“Get out—me her husband!—it’s false,” exclaimed Bill. “You must think me a fool to believe what you say.”
“I shall find means to prove the truth of what I’m saying,” said Bourne, in a confident tone.
“I am sure you won’t. What’s your little game? Do you want to get rid of your wife—eh?”
“Your wife.”
“No; yours, if you please. Of all the capers I ever heard of this is about the rummest. Why, you must have been swallowing some of your own medicine, doctor, and it has flown to your head, and driven you silly.”
“Don’t you give me any more of your impudence, fellow,” cried Bourne, in a fury. “I am in no mood to stand it. Your audacity is exceeding all bounds; but I know very well how to deal with a man of your type. You will find it difficult, or, indeed, I may say impossible, to deceive me. This miniature which I hold in my hand is in itself quite sufficient to prove your identity. You are William Rawton, the gipsy—the same William Rawton who was wedded some twenty years ago to Hester Teige—the beauteous and fascinating Hester Teige, as she was afterwards called,” continued the doctor, in a sarcastic tone.
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are; and I think you will find it difficult to disprove my statement.”
“All right, governor; have it your own way,” cried Bill, with an aggravating laugh. “All right. Have it your own way. It does so happen, however, that Rawton was drowned in a mill-stream, and that, for special reasons, best known to myself, I chose to call myself by his name.”
“Then you told me a false and wicked lie on the evening when we first met, but I know which story to believe.
“Pray, sir, how is it I find you here in company with this lady? Answer me that. Shall I tell you?”
“If you like.”
“It is just this: you are here plotting together for the purpose of determining how you can best deeeive me. But do not think you will succeed in your nefarious plans. Still at the same time I have to apologize for disturbing a tête-à-tête between husband and wife,” observed the doctor, with aggravating sarcasm.
Mrs. Bourne, who had purposely abstained from saying anything more than the occasion absolutely required, now observed in a deprecatory tone—
“I do hope and trust, Mr. Bourne, that this conversation will be brought to a close as speedily as possible, if it be only for my sake.”
“For your sake, madam!” exclaimed her husband with a sneer. “Upon my word that is really a good joke. It is really amusing. I think, madam, I shall have no very great difficulty in dissolving the galling and odious tie which binds me to so amiable a partner. A prior marriage with a gentleman who is still aliveNo.51.will suffice for the purpose. Mr. William Rawton, who is here present——”
Illustration: YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT“YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT,” CRIED BOURNE, STRIKING THE GIPSY WITH HIS WALKING STICK.
“YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT,” CRIED BOURNE, STRIKING THE GIPSY WITH HIS WALKING STICK.
“I am not William Rawton,” interrupted the gipsy.
“Then who are you?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“No matter; I do want to know—let that suffice.”
“Then I don’t choose to tell you; let that suffice; but even if you could prove me to be Rawton, which you never can, what would it matter?”
“Then this lady would be the wife of two husbands,” cried the doctor, bowing with mock gravity; “don’t you see that?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Ah! but I do.”
“Oh, so you think; but you are mistaken,” observed the gipsy, perfectly unmoved; “never were more mistaken in your life.”
“Am I?”
“Yes; you are most miserably mistaken. Shall I tell you why?”
“I am always glad to receive information, especially in this case, as it is a subject which concerns myself.”
“Right you are, doctor; I s’pose it does concern yourself. Well, then, the young girl named Hester Teige was married to a gipsy; there’s no denying that; but what sort of marriage was it?”
“What sort?”
“Aye, what sort, indeed! She was married in the gipsy’s camp—after the manner of gipsies—married by the father of the tribe, with the sun for a witness, and the greensward for her couch. As far as the legal part of the business is concerned, it wasn’t any marriage at all. So you may take your change out of that.”
As he brought this brief speech to a conclusion, he burst out into a mocking laugh.
“You lying scoundrel!” exclaimed Bourne, in a paroxysm of rage. “You contemptible, deceptive hound—it is false—and I will prove you to be a liar as well as a thief—you unmitigated ruffian!”
“Go on, governor, lay it on thick. Your hard words won’t hurt me; cause why? I’m too much used to them.”
“You shameless abandoned woman,” cried Bourne, turning towards his wife. “I have disgraced myself by my connection with you. What have you to say to this fellow’s declaration?”
“I don’t choose to say anything. You have heard all he has said, and can judge for yourself. You have brought this scandal upon yourself; but it was not done without a cause. I decline to argue the question with you.”
“Insolent strumpet!” exclaimed the doctor, striking his wife on the side of the head. “Hence—get out of this house at once.”
“Hold hard!” cried Bill, stepping between the enraged husband and his ill-used wife. “Hit a woman! You are a coward and a bully. If you want to hit anyone pitch into me.”
“Stand out of my way—you dirty lying thief,” cried Bourne.
“Look here, if you give me any more of your cheek,” said the gipsy, “or attempt to lay hands on this lady I’ll smash you—that’s what I’ll do with you, and no flies.”
“You audacious miscreant!” cried Bourne, almost beside himself with rage, and striking the gipsy over the head with his walking stick.
Bill at once let out with his right and left in rapid succession, hitting the doctor some terrible blows in the face, which were delivered direct from the shoulder. Bourne was so taken aback by the suddenness and vigour of the attack that he had not time to recover himself.
“I’ll make you smart for this,” he said, presently. “You can’t escape me, you scoundrel. I’ve two officers below.” And as he uttered these words he rushed towards the door, calling out for assistance at the same time.
The gipsy intercepted his passage, and levelled him to the floor with one powerful blow from his clenched fist.
In falling the doctor’s head came in contact with the fender, and he lay on the hearthrug, speechless and senseless.
At this crisis the sound of a low whistle fell upon the ears of Bandy-legged Bill, who judged rightly enough that danger was at hand. He went at once to the door of the apartment, closed and locked it, then he bethought him of what to do.
“Oh merciful heaven, save and succour me,” ejaculated Mrs. Bourne, wringing her hands. “What have you done?” She glanced at the prostrate form of her husband. “Perhaps murder.”
The noise of ascending footsteps on the stairs was now heard, and another whistle was given by somebody outside the house.
“This is indeed terrible. You will be captured; ruin and disgrace will fall upon me. Oh, unhappy and fatal was the hour you set foot in this house.”
“I’ll leave it for good and for all,” returned Bill, “and never of my own free will enter it again.”
“Leave—but how?” inquired Mrs. Bourne. “Hark, they are knocking at the door and endeavouring to break it open.”
Bill Rawton felt that not a moment was to be lost; he flew to the back window of the apartment and threw it open.
Then he thrust his head forth and took a rapid survey of the surrounding yards. Abutting out from the window was the roof of a washhouse. To drop on this was no very difficult task, but even when this had been done, the gipsy did not see any way of getting clear of the yards in the rear, and the sides of the doctor’s residence were surrounded by walls and houses, and he did not see any place for concealment. Nevertheless, he felt that to remain where he was would most assuredly end in his capture. There were one or two little matters against him which rendered an interview with police officers in no way desirable. Rawton had risked much for the sake of Mrs. Bourne. He had acted towards her with a spirit of magnanimity, which was the one bright spot in his shadowy character, and it is but fair that he should have full credit for the better impulse of his nature, which prompted him to save the woman whom he had once loved.
The officers were beating violently against the door of the apartment, and demanding immediate admittance.
“Fly!” cried Mrs. Bourne. “Get clear off while there is yet time.”
“It is evident you have done something wrong, and the police are on your track. Doubtless my husband has brought them hither. Fly! for mercy’s sake hesitate no longer!”
“Hammer away, my sweet pets,” cried Bill, as he heard the thumps at the door. “My name’s Walker.”
He crept through the window, hung by his hands for a moment from the sill, and dropped safely on the roof of the outhouse. From here he slid down into the yard. Then he looked about him for a moment or two, not knowing very well what next to be at. He felt pretty certain that some of the neighbours would soon observe his movements from the backs of the surrounding houses, and therefore prompt action was required in his present emergency, for he did not intend to be taken if he could help it.
He jumped over the wall and reached another yard, which was paved. He soon discovered he was in close proximity to a stable.
A man was cleaning some harness in the yard, where he now found himself, and while thus occupied he looked at the gipsy in an inquiring and, it might be, a suspicious manner.
“All right, mate,” said Bill. “You’ve no call to be afeard. I’ve just given a bloke a prop in the eye, and another on the sneezer. We’ve had a bit of a scrimmge, and the bobbies are after me.”
“Who have you been mugging, then?” said the ostler, with a laugh.
“Why, a doctor.”
“What name?”
“Bourne.”
“Oh, scissors! What, that varmint!”
“Ah, you’re right, he is a varmint. But, I say, just let me come inside—there’s a good fellow.”
“Inside where?”
“The stable. Anywhere to get out of sight.”
“I’d step it, if I were you.”
“That’s just what I want to do.”
“Come in, mate, I won’t turn my back upon a man whose in a bit of a mess, which I ’xpect you are.”
“In a jolly mess, and no flies.”
The gipsy crept into the stable, and his newly-formed friend went on cleaning the harness as if nothing had happened.
Both remained for some time inside the stable without saying a word. Presently his friend, the ostler, said, in a low whisper—
“I say, old fellow, there’s some blokes a looking out of the window of the doctor’s house.”
“The devil,” murmured Bill, “I wish I was out of this. They’ll be in the yard presently I expect. Tell me when they draw in their ugly heads.”
“Hush, stow magging,” cried the man in a whisper. “Hold your row, you fool.”
The gipsy did not venture to speak after this timely admonition, but awaited the issue in breathless suspense.
In a few moments after this the harness cleaner entered the stable.
“You’d better step it,” he observed.
“Yes, that’s all very well, but how? Show me the way, and I’ll be off in the twinkling of a bedpost.”
“I don’t know who you are,” said the ostler. “You may have committed murder, for aught I know; but I don’t like to give a cove up, unless he’s a downright bad un.”
“Oh, get out—murder, indeed! I tell you, all I’ve done is to floor the doctor; but he’s got his knife into me for other reasons. I can’t explain all to you now, but show me the way to escape. Could you take me through the house?”
“I can, of course, but you may be seen, and then there will be the devil to pay!”
“Well, I’m sure you’re a good sort. Take pity on a poor chap. Come, now, just think it over. A man is never the worse for doing another a good turn.”
“Who and what are you?”
“Well, if you must know, I was a jockey. Now, I’m in the horse-training line.”
“I guessed as much by your looks. Wait a bit; I’ll just have a squint, and see if the blokes are there or not.”
The speaker went out into the yard again, and glanced at the back window of the doctor’s residence, then he returned to the stable.
“They’ve hooked it,” he ejaculated. “Now’s your time. Follow me.”
Bill Rawton did not need a second bidding. He passed quickly out, went up a narrow passage by the side of the stable, and then entered the back door of the house to which it was attached. Passing quickly along this until he reached the end of the hall, he came to the front door of the establishment.
The ostler opened this, placed his finger on his lips to enjoin silence, and Bill emerged into the street.
It is needless to say perhaps that he walked as fast as his legs would carry him.
He had succeeded, thanks to the ostler, in getting clear off.
Leaving him for awhile, we will return to the room from which he had escaped.
The hammering at the door continued for some time after Bill had dropped on to the outhouse. Mrs. Bourne did not know what to do.
On the floor lay her husband in an insensible condition. Who the men were outside the room she could not very well determine, but she judged rightly enough that they were officers of the law.
She was, however, in no way disposed to admit them till Rawton had sufficient time afforded him to effect his escape.
The poor woman was in a terrible state of fright and trepidation, and she stood, pale and irresolute, wringing her hands, in the centre of the apartment.
“If you don’t unlock the door, we will break it open,” cried a voice from the outside.
“For mercy’s sake, what’s the matter? Do say what you want!” cried Mrs. Bourne.
“We want to see the doctor. Open the door without further ado.”
“But I am afraid. Doctor Bourne has had a desperate struggle with some man, and is lying senseless on the floor. Are you friends or enemies?”
“Friends. We are detective officers.”
Mrs. Bourne unlocked the door, and our old friend, Mr. Wrench, entered, in hot haste. He was accompanied by another person, who was a detective from New York.
“What is the meaning of all this, madam?” said Wrench. “Your husband lying senseless, and you alone with him! Please to account for this as best you can.”
Mrs. Bourne briefly explained the conflict that had taken place, and said that the man who had struck her husband threatened to take her life if she opened the door. She wound up by declaring that he had made his escape through the window.
“Foiled!” ejaculated Wrench. “Our man has given us the slip. But no matter, I shall be able to find him.”
“What has he been doing, gentlemen?” inquired Mrs. Bourne.
“We have to arrest him upon the charge of horse-stealing—that’s all,” observed Wrench.
“But my poor husband? Pray see to him at once.”
The two officers lifted up the doctor and placed him on the sofa.
The movement seemed to revive him, for he slowly opened his eyes and exclaimed, in an anxious tone—
“Where is he?”
“Who, sir?” inquired Wrench.
“That infamous wretch, the gipsy.”
“He has escaped, but don’t trouble yourself about that, we shall catch him. How do you feel now?”
“Very bad—my head swims—I——”
He ceased speaking, having swooned.
A doctor in the immediate neighbourhood was sent for, who at once proceeded to make an examination of the injuries received.
He said there was nothing to be alarmed at; there was a contused wound at the base of the skull. This had, in all probability, been caused by the head coming in contact with the fender, but in addition to this there were two or three abrasures and contusions on the face.
The patient was weak from shock to the system and loss of blood, but there was no danger to be apprehended.
The injuries were strapped up, and the doctor ordered him to keep his bed till his medical adviser’s next visit.
“I care not for myself,” said he to Wrench; “all I am anxious about is that miscreant. Lose no time in hunting him down. Don’t let him escape if you can possibly help.”
“I dare say we shall be able to find him, sir. Leave that matter to me and my friend Shearman.”
“Ah, just so, you have not introduced me to the gentleman.”
“I beg pardon, I have not. Mr. Shearman, of the New York detectives; Shearman, Doctor Bourne.”
“I should have liked to make the doctor’s acquaintance under more favourable circumstances,” observed Shearman, dryly. “But, let us hope he will be himself again in a day or two.”
“There is not the least doubt of that,” said Bourne; “but, meanwhile, do your best to capture that ruffian.”
“Wrench and Shearman drew aside and had a long conversation, which was carried on in whispers.
“Not at present; there will be time enough for that,” cried Wrench, in a louder tone—“plenty of time.”
“Good; so be it, then,” ejaculated the Yankee.
“I tell you no time is to be lost,” exclaimed the doctor, who was under the impression that they were discussing the mode of proceeding to be adopted in reference to Rawton.
“We will do our best, rest assured of that, sir,” observed Wrench, quietly. “In the meantime, keep as quiet as possible. Good evening. We both wish you a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you. Good evening, gentlemen.”
The two detectives then left the patient to himself.
Doctor Bourne’s head and temples were throbbing, and he was in great pain, but consciousness had returned, and he was already much better than anyone would have supposed.
“I wonder who that fellow is Wrench brought with him? A detective from New York, he said. Strange! What made him bring him here, I wonder. Our constabulary is sufficiently effective without enlisting the services of officers belonging to America. It seems a strange thing to me that Wrench should be in such close companionship with a mysterious man like that. From New York, eh?”
He tossed about in an uneasy manner, and kept harping upon the subject for some time; presently the medicine he had swallowed took effect, and he sank into a sound slumber.