“The burglary season seems to have recommenced in earnest,” Mark's chief said some nine months after he had been at work. “For a time there had been a lull, as you know, but I have had three reports this week, and it strikes me that they are by the same hand as before; of course I may be mistaken, but they are done in a similar way, the only difference being that there is ground for believing that only one man is engaged in them. I fancy the fellow that you are after has either been away from London for some time, or has been keeping very quiet. At any rate, we have every ground for believing that he keeps himself aloof from London thieves, which is what I should expect from such a man. If one has nerve enough to do it, there is nothing like working singly; when two or three men are engaged, there is always the risk of one being caught and turning Queen's evidence, or of there being a quarrel, and of his peaching from revenge.
“If your man has been away from town, he has certainly not been working any one district; of course, one gets the usual number of reports from different quarters; but although burglaries are frequent enough, there has been no complaint of a sudden increase of such crimes as there would have been judging from the numerous daring attempts here, had Bastow been concerned; therefore I feel sure that he has been living quietly. He would have his mate's share—that man you shot, you know—of the plunder they made together; he would know that after that affair at your place there would be a vigilant hunt for him, and it is likely enough that he has retired altogether from business for a time.
“However, men of that sort can never stand a quiet life long, and are sure sooner or later to take to their trade again, if only for the sake of its excitement. Now that the burglaries have begun again, I shall be glad if you will devote yourself entirely to this business. You have served a good apprenticeship, and for our sake as well as yours I should be glad for you to have it in hand.”
“I shall be very pleased to do so, sir. Although we do not know where he is to be found, I think I can say that it is not in the slums of London; it seems to me that he may be quietly settled as an eminently respectable man almost under our noses; he may show himself occasionally at fashionable resorts, and may be a regular attendant at horse races.
“He would not run any appreciable risk in doing so, for his face is quite unknown to anyone except the constables who were present at his trial, and even these would scarcely be likely to recognize him, for he was then but eighteen, while he is now six or seven and twenty, and no doubt the life he has led must have changed him greatly.”
“I quite agree with you,” the chief said. “After the first hunt for him was over, he might do almost anything without running much risk. Well, I put the matter in your hands, and leave it to you to work out in your own way; you have given ample proof of your shrewdness and pluck, and in this case especially I know that you will do everything that is possible. Of course you will be relieved of all other duties, and if it takes you months before you can lay hands upon him, we shall consider it time well spent, if you succeed at last. From time to time change your quarters, but let me know your address, so that, should I learn anything that may be useful, I can communicate with you at once. You had better take another name than that by which you are known in the force. I shall be glad if, after thinking the matter over, you will write me a few lines stating what you propose to do in the first place.”
Mark went back to his lodgings, and sat there for some time, thinking matters over. His first thought was to attend the races for a time, but seeing the number of people there, and his own ignorance of Bastow's appearance, he abandoned the idea, and determined to try a slower but more methodical plan. After coming to that conclusion he put on his hat and made his way to Mrs. Cunningham's.
“Well, Mr. Constable,” Millicent said saucily, as he entered, “any fresh captures?”
“No, I think that I have for the present done with that sort of thing; I have served my apprenticeship, and am now setting up on my own account.”
“How is that, Mark?”
“There is reason to believe that Bastow has begun his work again near London. As I have told you, it is absolutely certain that he is not hiding in any of the places frequented by criminals here, and there is every reason for supposing that he has been leading a quiet life somewhere, or that he has been away in the country. As long as that was the case, there was nothing to be done; but now that he seems to have set to work again, it is time for me to be on the move. I have seen the chief this morning, and he has released me from all other' duty, and given me carte blanche to work in my own way.”
“Then why don't you leave the force altogether, Mark? You know that I have always thought it hateful that you should be working under orders, like any other constable.”
“Of course, women don't like to be under orders, Millicent; but men are not so independent, and are quite content to obey those who are well qualified to give orders. I have had a very interesting time of it.”
“Very interesting!” she said scornfully. “You have nearly been killed or shot half a dozen times; you have been obliged to wear all sorts of dirty clothes, to sleep in places where one would not put a dog, and generally to do all sorts of things altogether unbecoming in your position.”
“My dear, I have no particular position,” he laughed, and then went on more seriously: “My one position at present is that of avenger of my father's murder, and nothing that can assist me in the task is unbecoming to me; but, as I said, it has been interesting, I may almost say fascinating, work. I used to be fond of hunting, but I can tell you that it is infinitely more exciting to hunt a man than it is to hunt a fox. You are your own hound, you have to pick up the scent, to follow it up, however much the quarry may wind and double, and when at last you lay your hand upon his shoulder and say, 'In the King's name,' there is an infinitely keener pleasure than there is when the hounds run down the fox. One sport is perhaps as dangerous as the other: in the one case your horse may fail at a leap and you may break your neck, in the other you may get a bullet in your head; so in that respect there is not much to choose between man and fox hunting. There is the advantage, though, that in the one you have to depend upon your horse's strength, and in the other on your own courage.”
“I know that you are an enthusiast over it, Mark, and I can fancy that if I were a big strong man, as you are, I might do the same; but if you are going now to try by yourself, why should you not leave the force altogether?”
“Because, in the first place, I shall get all the information they obtain, and can send for any assistance that I may require. In the next place, by showing this little staff with its silver crown, I show that I am a Bow Street runner, and can obtain information at once from all sorts of people which I could not get without its aid.”
“Well, I won't say anything more against it, Mark. How are you going to begin?”
“I mean to go the round of all the places near London—say, within ten miles. I shall stay from a week to a fortnight in each, take a quiet lodging, give out that I am on the lookout for a small house with a garden, and get to talk with people of all kinds.”
“But I cannot see what you have to inquire for.”
“I imagine that Bastow will have taken just the sort of house that I am inquiring for, and in the course of my questions I may hear of someone living in just that sort of way—a retired life, not making many friends, going up to London sometimes, and keeping, perhaps, a deaf old woman as a servant, or perhaps a deaf old man—someone, you see, who would not be likely to hear him if he came home in the middle of the night, or in the early morning. Once I hear of such a man, I should ascertain his age, and whether generally he agreed in appearance with what Bastow is likely to be by this time, then get down one of the constables who was at the trial, and take his opinion on the subject, after which we should only have to watch the house at night and pounce upon him as he came back from one of his excursions. That is the broad outline of my plan. I cannot help thinking that in the long run I shall be able to trace him, and of course it will make it all the easier if he takes to stopping coaches or committing murderous burglaries.”
“Then I suppose we are not going to see you often, Mark?”
“Well, not so often as you have done, Millicent, for some time, at any rate. I shall not be more than five or six miles away, and I shall often ride into town for the evening, and return late with some sort of hope that I may be stopped on the road again; it would save me a world of trouble, you see, if he would come to me instead of my having to find him.”
“Which side of London are you going to try first?”
“The south side, certainly; there are a score of places that would be convenient to him—Dulwich, Clapham, Tooting, Wimbledon, Stockwell; the list is a long one. I should say Wimbledon was about the most distant, and I should think that he would not go so far as that; if he only acted as a highwayman he might be as far off as Epsom; but if he is really the man concerned in these burglaries he must be but a short distance away. He would hardly risk having to ride very far with the chance of coming upon the patrols. I think that I shall begin at Peckham; that is a central sort of position, and from there I shall work gradually west; before I do so perhaps I shall try Lewisham. He is likely, in any case, to be quite on the outskirts of any village he may have settled in, in order that he may ride in and out at any hour without his coming and going being noticed.”
“You certainly seem to have thought it over in all ways, Mark; you almost infect me with your ardor, and make me wish that I was a man and could help you.”
“You are much nicer as you are, Millicent.”
The girl tossed her head in disdain at the compliment.
“It is all very well, Mark,” she went on, ignoring his speech, “but it seems to me that in finding out things a woman would be able to do just as much as a man; she can gossip with her neighbors and ask about everyone in a place quite as well, if not better, than a man.”
“Yes I don't doubt that,” Mark laughed, “and if I want your aid I shall have no hesitation in asking for it. Until then I hope you will go on with your painting and harping steadily, like a good little girl.”
“I am nearly eighteen, sir, and I object to be called a good little girl.”
“Well, if I were to say a good young woman you would not like it.”
“No, I don't think I should. I don't know why, but when anyone says a girl is a good young woman or a nice young woman, there always seems something derogatory about it; it is almost as bad as saying she is a very respectable young person, which is odious.”
“Then, you see,” he went on, “you are quite getting on in society; since Mr. Cotter's introduction to Mrs. Cunningham and his mother's subsequent call you have got to know a good many people and go about a good deal.”
“Yes, it has been more lively of late,” she admitted. “At first it was certainly monstrously dull here, and I began to think that we should have to change our plans and go down again to Weymouth, and settle there for a time. Now I am getting contented; but I admit, even at the risk of making you conceited, that we shall certainly miss you very much, as you have been very good, considering how busy you have been, to come in three or four evenings every week for a chat.”
“There has been nothing very good about it, Millicent; it has been very pleasant to me; it is like a bit of old times again when I am here with you two, and seem to leave all the excitement of one's work behind as I come in at the door.”
“I wonder whether the old time will ever come back again, Mark?” she said sadly.
“It never can be quite the old time again, but when you are back at the old place it may be very near it.”
She looked at him reproachfully.
“You think that I shall change my mind, Mark, but at heart you know better. The day I am one and twenty I hope to carry out my intentions.”
“Well, as I have told you before, Millicent, I cannot control your actions, but I am at least master of my own. You can give away Crowswood to whom you like, but at least you cannot compel me to take it. Make it over to one of the hospitals if you like—that is within your power; but it is not in your power to force me into the mean action of enriching myself because you have romantic notions in your mind. I should scorn myself were I capable of doing such an action. I wonder you think so meanly of me as to suppose for a moment that I would do so.”
“It is a great pity my father did not leave the property outright to your father, then all this bother would have been avoided,” she said quietly. “I should still have had plenty to live upon without there being any fear of being loved merely for my money.”
“It would have been the same thing if he had,” Mark said stubbornly. “My father would not have taken it, and I am sure that I should not have taken it after him; you are his proper heiress. I don't say if he had left a son, and that son had been a second Bastow, that one would have hesitated, for he would probably have gambled it away in a year, the tenants might have been ruined, and the village gone to the dogs. Every man has a right to disinherit an unworthy son, but that is a very different thing from disinheriting a daughter simply from a whim. Well, don't let us talk about it any more, Millicent. It is the only thing that we don't agree about, and therefore it is best left alone.”
The next day Mark established himself at an inn in Peckham, and for six weeks made diligent inquiries, but without success. There were at least a dozen men who lived quietly and rode or drove to their business in town. Many of them were put aside as needing no investigation, having been residents there for years. Some of the others he saw start or return, but none of them corresponded in any way with the probable appearance of the man for whom he was in search. During this time he heard of several private coaches being held up on the road between Epsom and London, and three burglaries took place at Streatham.
He then moved to Stockwell. Before proceeding there he had his horse up again from Crowswood, and rode into Stockwell from the west. He was dressed now as a small country squire, and had a valise strapped behind his saddle. The inn there was a busy one.
“I want a room,” he said, as he alighted. “I shall probably stay here a few days.”
Presently he had a talk with the landlord.
“I am on the lookout,” he said, “for a little place near town. I have come in for a small estate in the country, but I have no taste for farming, and want to be within easy reach of town, and at the same time to have a place with a paddock where I can keep my horse and live quietly. I don't much care whether it is here or anywhere else within a few miles of town, and I intend to ride about and see if I can find a place that will suit me. I do not want to be nearer the town than this, for I have not money enough to go the pace; still, I should like to be near enough to ride or walk in whenever I have a fancy for it.”
“I understand, sir. Of course there are plenty of places round here, at Clapham and Tooting, and I may say Streatham, but most of them are a deal too large for a bachelor, still I have no doubt you would find a place to suit you without much difficulty. These sort of places are most in request by London tradesmen who have given up business and want to get a little way out of town and keep a gig. I should say there must be a score of such people living round here. I am often asked about such places, but I don't know of one to let just at the present moment.
“Still, there ought to be, for of late people have not cared so much to come out here; there has been such a scare owing to highwaymen and burglars, that men with wives and families don't fancy settling out of town, though there aint much work about it, for to every one house that is broken into there are thousands that are not, and besides, the houses that these fellows try are large places, where there is plenty of silver plate and a few gold watches, and perhaps some money to be had.”
Mark soon made the acquaintance of the stablemen, and a few pints of beer put them on good terms with him. Every day he took rides round the neighborhood, going out early, stabling his horse, and after having a chat with the ostlers, strolling round the place. Clapham, Ewell, and Streatham were also visited.
“I know of a place that would just suit you,” the ostler at the Greyhound at Streatham said to him, on the occasion of his third visit there; “but it is let; my old mother is the gentleman's housekeeper. He took the place through me, for he rode up just as you have done, one afternoon, nigh a year ago. He was from town, he was; he told me that he had been going the pace too hard, and had to pull in, and wanted a little place where he could keep his horse and live quiet for a time. I told him of a place that I thought would suit him just outside the town, and he called in the next day and told me he had taken it. 'Now,' he said, 'I want a woman as house keeper; an old woman, you know. I cannot be bothered with a young one. If you speak a civil word to a wench she soon fancies you are in love with her. I want one who can cook a chop or a steak, fry me a bit of bacon, and boil an egg and keep the place tidy. I intend to look after my horse myself.'
“'Well, sir,' I said, 'there is my old mother. She is a widow, and it is as much as she can do to keep off the parish. She is reckoned a tidy cook and a good cleaner, and she could keep herself well enough if it wasn't that she is so hard of hearing that many people don't care to employ her.'
“'I don't care a rap about that,' he said. 'I shall not need to talk to her except to tell her what I will have for dinner, and if she is deaf she won't want to be away gossiping. Does she live near here?'
“'She lives in the town,' I said. 'I can fetch her down in half an hour.'
“'That will do,' says he. 'I am going to have lunch. When I have, done I will come out and speak with her.'
“Well, sir, he engaged her right off, and he tipped me a guinea for finding the place for him, and there he has been ever since. It was a lucky job for mother, for she says there never was a gentleman that gave less trouble. He is a wonderful quiet man, and in general stops at home all the day smoking and reading. He has a boy comes in two or three times a week to work in the garden. Sometimes of an evening he rides up to town. I expect he cannot keep away from the cards altogether.”
“Is he an elderly man?” Mark asked.
“Lor', no, sir; under thirty, I should say. He is a free handed sort of chap, and though he aint particular about his eating, he likes a bottle of good wine, the old woman says, even if it is only with a chop. He never rides past here and I happen to be outside without tossing me a shilling to drink his health.”
Mark went into the house and ordered lunch. It would not have done to have asked any more questions or to have shown any special interest in the matter, but he felt so excited that he could not have avoided doing so had he waited longer with the ostler. After he had finished his meal he strolled out again into the stable yard.
“Well,” he said to the ostler, “can't you put me up to another good thing, just as you told that gentleman you were speaking to me about?”
“There are two or three places that I know of that might suit you, sir. There is a house on the hill. I know that it has got a paddock, but I don't know how big it is; it is in general known as Hawleys—that is the name of the last people who lived there. Anyone will tell you which is the house. Then there is another place. You turn to the right the third turning on the hill; it stands by itself two or three hundred yards down; it has got a goodish bit of ground. There is only one house beyond it; that is the one where my mother lives. That was an old farm once, but this was built later. I believe the ground belonged to the farm. You will know it by a big tree in front of it; it stands back forty feet or so from the road.”
“Where does the road lead to?”
“Well, sir, it aint much of a road beyond the next house; it is only a lane, but you can get through that way into the main road, through Tooting down into Balham, and on to Wimbledon.”
“'I think I will go and have a look at both those places,” Mark said.
“Will you take your horse, sir?”
“No; I suppose it is not much above half a mile?”
“About that, sir.”
“Then I will walk; I shall not be likely to find anyone to hold my horse there.”
Mark had no difficulty in finding the house. It looked as if it had been untenanted for some time, and in the window was a notice that for keys and information applications were to be made at a shop in the High Street. Well pleased to find that there was no one in the house, Mark entered the gate and passed round into what at one time had been a kitchen garden behind it; at the bottom of this was a field of three or four acres.
The ground was separated by a hedge from that of the house beyond. This was fully a hundred yards away. A well bred horse was grazing in the field, a man smoking a pipe was watching a boy doing gardening work behind the house. Mark remained for nearly an hour concealed behind the hedge in hopes that he would come nearer. At the end of that time, however, he went into the house, and after waiting another ten minutes Mark also left, resisting the temptation to walk along the road and take a closer look at it, for he felt that such a step would be dangerous, for should the man notice anyone looking at the place his suspicions might be aroused.
It was evident that the lane was very little used; in many cases the grass grew across it. There were marks of horses' feet, but none of wheels, and he concluded that when going up to town the man came that way and rode quietly through Streatham, for the hoof prints all pointed in that direction, and that on his return at night he came up the lane from the other road.
“Well, master, what do you think of the houses?” the ostler asked on his return to the inn.
“I have only been to the one in the lane that you spoke of, for I want to get back to town. I had a good look at it, but it is rather a dreary looking place, and evidently wants a lot of repairs before it can be made comfortable. The next time that I am down I will look at the other.”
Mounting his horse, he rode at a rapid pace into London, and dismounted at Bow Street.
“You have news, I see, Mr. Thorndyke,” the chief said when he entered.
“I have, sir; I believe that I have marked the man down; at any rate, if it is not he, it is a criminal of some sort—of that I have no doubt.”
“That is good news indeed,” the chief said. “Now tell me all about it.”
Mark repeated the story the ostler had told him, and the result of his own observations.
“You see,” he said, “the man, whether Bastow or not, has clearly taken the place for the purpose of concealment, for he can approach it by the lane, which is a very unfrequented one, on his return from his expeditions. He has taken on a deaf old woman who will not hear him ride in at night, and will have no idea at what hours he comes home. Riding out through the main street in the afternoon he would excite no notice, and the story to the ostler would very well account for his taking the house and for his habit of coming up here of an afternoon and returning late. I thought it best to come back and tell you, and I will adopt any plan that you suggest for his capture.”
“You say that he has been there for nearly a year?”
“About a year, the ostler said.”
“Then one of my men, at least, must have been very careless not to have found him out long ago. Let me see;” and he took down a volume of reports. “Streatham. Tomlinson has been here a fortnight making every inquiry. 'No man of suspicious appearance or of unknown antecedents here.'
“Humph! That is not the first time that Tomlinson has failed altogether in his duty. However, that does not matter for the moment. What is your own idea, Mr. Thorndyke?”
“My idea is that a couple of good men should go down with me to Streatham, and that we should be always on the watch in High Street until we see him ride past. Directly it is dark we will go to his house, fasten the old woman up, and search it thoroughly. If we find stolen property so much the better; but in any case we shall wait inside the house until he returns, and as he comes in throw ourselves upon him before he has time to draw a pistol. I should say it would be as well the men should go down in a trap. There is an empty house next door, and when we go to search the place we can leave the horse and trap inside the gate. Directly we have him secure we can fetch up the trap, put him in, and one of the men and myself can drive him back here, leaving the other in charge of the house, which can then be searched again next day.”
“I think that will be a very good plan, and will avoid all unnecessary fuss. I will send Malcolm and Chester down with you tomorrow. Where will you meet them?”
“I should say that they had better put up at the Greyhound. I don't suppose he will go out until six or seven o'clock, but they had better be there earlier. One should station himself in the main street, the other concealing himself somewhere beyond the fellow's house, for it is likely enough that sometimes he may take the other way. I will go down to the Greyhound at six, and will wait there until one of them brings me news that he has left.”
“I think you had better come in in the morning, and give your instructions to the men; there will be less fear of any mistake being made. I should say you had better put your horse up and come here on foot; one can never be too careful when one is dealing with so crafty a rogue as this; he certainly does not work with an accomplice, but for all that he may have two or three sharp boys in his pay, and they may watch this place by turns and carry him news of any stir about the office.”
“I will walk in,” Mark replied. “It is no distance from Stockwell.”
Mark slept but little that night. He had believed all along that he should be finally successful, but the discovery had come so suddenly that it had taken him completely by surprise. It might not be the man, and he tried hard to persuade himself that the chances were against his being so, so that he should not feel disappointed should it turn out that it was some other criminal, for that the man was a criminal he had not a shadow of doubt.
The next morning he was at the office early. The chief arrived half an hour later, and the two officers were at once called in.
“You will go with Mr. Thorndyke,” the chief said, “and he will give you instructions. The capture is a very important one, and there must be no mistake made. We believe the man to be Bastow. I think you were present at his trial, Chester; he escaped from Sydney Convict Prison some three years ago, and is, I believe, the author of many of the highway robberies and burglaries that have puzzled us so. Of course, you will take firearms, but if he is alone you will certainly have no occasion to use them, especially as you will take him completely by surprise. You will order a gig from Morden, and leave here about three o'clock. I should say you had better get up as two countrymen who have been up to market. However, Mr. Thorndyke will explain the whole matter to you fully.”
Mark then went off with the two officers to a private room, and went into the whole matter with them.
“I think, Chester,” he said, “that you had better watch in the High Street, because you know the man. At least, you have seen him, and may recognize him again.”
“I think I should know him, however much he has changed. I took particular notice of him at the trial, and thought what a hardened looking young scamp he was. It is very seldom I forget a face when once I have a thorough look at it, and I don't think I am likely to forget his.”
“Malcolm, I think you cannot do better than take your place in the garden of the house next to his; it is a place that has stood empty for many months, and there is no chance of anyone seeing you. His paddock comes up to the garden, and you can, by placing yourself in the corner, see him as he comes out into the lane. As soon as you see that he has gone, come back to the Greyhound with the news. I shall be there, and you will pick up Chester in the High Street as you come along; of course you won't pretend to know me, but the mere fact of your coming back will be enough to tell me that he has gone. As soon as it gets dark we will pay our reckoning, and drive off in the gig, leaving it in the drive in front of the house this side of his. I shall have strolled off before, and shall be waiting for you there. If he does not come out by ten o'clock we can give it up for tonight. You had better say that you have changed your mind, and will take beds at the Greyhound; and the next morning drive off in your gig and put up again at the inn at the other end of the town, the White Horse. I will come over again at two o'clock in the afternoon. You will bring handcuffs, and you had better also bring a stout rope to tie him with.”
When every detail had been arranged, Mark strolled to Dick Chetwynd's lodgings.
“Well, Mark what has become of you? I have not seen you for the last two months, and I hear that you have not been near Ingleston's crib since I saw you.”
“No, I have been away on business. You know I told you that I was spending much of my time in endeavoring to hunt down my father's murderer. I can tell you now that I have been working all the time with the Bow Street people, and I think I know every thieves' slum in London as well as any constable in the town.”
“You don't say so, Mark! Well, I should not like such work as that. The prize fighters are a pretty rough lot, but to go to such dens as those is enough to make one shudder. But that does not explain where you have been now.”
“No. Well, having persuaded myself at last that his headquarters were not in town, I have been trying the villages round, and I believe that I have laid my hands on him at last.”
“You don't say so, Mark! Well, I congratulate you heartily, both on your having caught the fellow and for having got rid of such horrid work. Where is he? Have you got him lodged in jail?”
“No, we are going to capture him tonight; or if not tonight, tomorrow night. Two of the Bow Street officers are going down with me, and we shall have him as he comes home from one of his expeditions either on the highway or as a house breaker. If he does not go this evening we shall wait until tomorrow, but at any rate, the first time that he goes out we shall have him.”
“I have got a special engagement for this evening, Mark, or I would offer to go with you and lend you a hand, if necessary.”
“There is no occasion for that, Dick. We shall take the fellow by surprise as he goes into his own house, and have him handcuffed before he can draw a pistol. Then, when we have got him fairly tied up, we shall put him into a light cart that we shall have handy, and bring him straight to Bow Street. To tell you the truth, I am so excited over the thought that I do not know how I should have got through the day if I had not come in to have a chat with you.”
“I can quite understand that, old fellow. Well, the best thing we can do is to take a stroll out and look at the fashions. It is early yet, but just at present it is all the rage to turn out early. It will do me good too, for I was at Ingleston's last night, and the smoke and row has given me a headache. I shall really have to give up going there, except when there is an important fight on. It is too much to stand, and the tobacco is so bad that I am obliged to keep a suit of clothes for the purpose. Let us be off at once.”
At four o'clock Mark put up his horse at the Greyhound, and chatted for a quarter of an hour with the ostler, who had been making inquiries, and had heard of one or two other houses in the neighborhood which were untenanted. Mark then strolled up the town, exchanging a passing glance with Chester, who, in a velveteen coat, low hat and gaiters, was chatting with a wagoner going with a load of hay for the next morning's market in London. He turned into an inn, called for a pint of the best port, and sat down in the parlor at a table close to the window, so that he could see all who went up or down. He entered into conversation with two or three people who came in, and so passed the time till seven, when he felt too restless to sit still longer, and went out into the street.
When he was halfway to the Greyhound he heard the sound of a horse's hoofs behind him, and saw a quietly dressed man coming along at an easy trot. Had it not been that he recognized the horse, he could not have felt sure that its rider was the man whose coming he had been waiting for, there being nothing in his appearance that would excite the slightest suspicion that he was other than a gentleman of moderate means and quiet taste, either returning from a ride or passing through on his way to town. He had a well built and active figure, carried himself with the ease of a thorough horseman, and nodded to one or two persons of his acquaintance, and checking his horse at the principal butcher's, ordered some meat to be sent in that evening.
Mark could trace no resemblance in the face to that of the young fellow he remembered. It was a quiet and resolute one. If this were Bastow, he had lost the sneering and insolent expression that was so strongly impressed on his memory. It might be the man, but if so, he was greatly changed. Mark's first impression was that it could not be Bastow; but when he thought over the years of toil and confinement in the convict prison, the life he had led in the bush, and the two years he had passed since he returned home, he imagined that the insolence of youth might well have disappeared, and been succeeded by the resolute daring and dogged determination that seemed to be impressed on this fellow's face.
Mark paused fifty yards before he reached the inn. In a few minutes he saw Chester coming along. There was no one else in sight.
“Is it Bastow?” he asked, as the officer came up.
“It's Bastow sure enough, sir. But he is so changed that if I had not had him in my mind I should not have recognized him. I calculate that a man who has gone through what he has would have lost the expression he had as a boy. He must have learnt a lot in the convict prison, and the fact that he headed the mutiny and escaped from the searchers and managed to get home showed that he must have become a resolute and desperate man. All those burglaries, and the way in which he has several times stopped coaches single handed, show his nerve and coolness. I had all that in my mind as he came along, and his face was pretty much as I expected to see it. He is a cool hand, and I can understand how he has given us the slip so long. There is none of the shifty look about his eyes that one generally sees in criminals, no glancing from side to side; he rode with the air of a man who had a right to be where he was, and feared no one. He will be an awkward customer to tackle if we do not take him by surprise.”
“Yes, I agree with you there. However, he won't have much chance of using either his pistols or his strength. Here is Malcolm coming, so I will walk away for a few minutes, and let you go in first. You can tell the ostler now that you will have your horse put in at nine o'clock. I have been thinking, by the way, that we had better take the trap round behind the house instead of leaving it in the drive. The man may come back this way, and if so, he might hear the horse stamp or make some movement, and that would at once put him on his guard.”
As the officers entered the inn Mark went into the yard and told the ostler that he had met some friends, and should let his horse remain there for the night.
“It is possible that they may drive me into the town in the morning,” he said; “and I shall very likely send a man down for the horse.”
At a quarter to nine he went out again, and walked to the house he had before visited; in ten minutes he heard the sound of wheels, threw open the gate, and the men, jumping down, led the horse in.
“You may as well take him out of the trap,” he said. “We cannot very well get that round the house, but there is no difficulty about taking the horse.”
The officers had brought a halter and a nosebag full of corn. The horse was fastened to a tree with soft ground round it, the nosebag put on, and a horse cloth thrown over its back; then Mark and his two companions went out into the lane, and in a couple of minutes entered the next gate, treading lightly, and going round to the back of the house.
A light burned in the kitchen, and an old woman could be seen knitting. They lifted the latch and walked in. Dropping her knitting, she rose with an exclamation of terror.
Mark advanced alone.
“Do not be frightened,” he said; “we are not going to do you any harm.” He took out his little ebony staff. “We are constables,” he went on, “and have orders to search this house. We must secure you, but you will be released in the morning. Now, which is your room?”
In spite of Mark's assurance, the old woman was almost paralyzed with terror. However, the two constables assisted her up to her room, and there secured her with a rope, taking care that it was not so tightly bound as to hurt her. Then they placed a gag in her mouth, and left her.
“Now let us search his room in the first place,” Mark said, when they came downstairs again. “I hardly expect we shall find anything. You may be sure that he will have taken great pains to hide away any booty that he may have here, and that it will need daylight and a closer search than we can give the place now, before we find anything.”
The search of the house was indeed fruitless. They cut open the bed, prized up every loose board in the bedroom and the parlor, lifted the hearth stone, tapped the walls, and searched every drawer; then, taking a lantern, went out into the stable. The officers were both accustomed to look for hiding places, and ran their hands along on the top of the walls, examining the stone flooring and manger.
“That is a very large corn bin,” Mark said, as he looked round, when they desisted from the search.
“You are right, sir. We will empty it.”
There were two or three empty sacks on the ground near it, and they emptied the corn into these, so that there should be no litter about. Chester gave an exclamation of disappointment as they reached the bottom. Mark put his hand on the bin and gave it a pull.
“It is just as I thought,” he said. “It is fastened down. I saw an ax in the woodshed, Malcolm; just fetch it here.”
While the man was away Mark took the lantern and examined the bottom closely. “We shan't want the ax,” he said, as he pointed out to Chester a piece of string that was apparently jammed in the form of a loop between the bottom and side. “Just get in and clear those few handfuls of corn out. I think you will see that it will pull up then.”
There was, however, no movement in the bottom when Mark pulled at the loop.
“Look closely round outside,” he said, handing Malcolm, who had now returned, the lantern. “I have no doubt that there is a catch somewhere.”
In a minute or two the constable found a small ring between two of the cobblestones close to the foot of the wall. He pulled at it, and as he did so Mark felt the resistance to his pull cease suddenly, and the bottom of the bin came up like a trapdoor.
“That is a clever hiding place,” he said. “If I had not happened to notice that the bin was fixed we might have had a long search before we found it here.”
Below was a square hole, the size of the bin; a ladder led down into it. Mark, with a lantern, descended. Four or five sacks piled on each other lay at the bottom, leaving just room enough for a man to stand beside them.
“The top one is silver by the feel,” he said, “not yet broken up; these smaller sacks are solid. I suppose it is silver that has been melted down. This—” and he lifted a bag some eighteen inches deep, opened it, and looked in “—contains watches and jewels. Now I think we will leave things here for the present, and put everything straight. He may be back before long.”
Mark ascended, the bottom of the trap was shut down again, the corn poured in, and the bags thrown down on the spot from which they had been taken. They returned to the house, shut the door, and extinguished the light.
“That has been a grand find,” he said; “even if this is not Bastow, it will be a valuable capture.”
“That it will, Mr. Thorndyke. I have no doubt that this fellow is the man we have been in search of for the last eighteen months; that accounts for our difficulty in laying hold of him. He has been too crafty to try to sell any of his plunder, so that none of the fences have known anything about him. No doubt he has taken sufficient cash to enable him to live here quietly. He intended some time or other to melt down all the rest of the plate and to sell the silver, which he could do easily enough. As for the watches and jewels, he could get rid of them abroad.”
“No doubt that is what he intended,” Mark agreed. “It is not often these fellows are as prudent as he has been; if they were, your work would be a good deal more difficult than it is.”
“You are right, sir; I don't know that I ever heard of such a case before. The fellow almost deserves to get away.”
“That would be rewarding him too highly for his caution,” Mark laughed. “He is a desperate villain, and all the more dangerous for being a prudent one. Now, I think one of us had better keep watch at the gate by turns. We shall hear him coming in plenty of time to get back here and be in readiness for him. We must each understand our part thoroughly. I will stand facing the door. It is possible that he may light that lantern we saw hanging in the stable, but I don't think it likely he will do so; he will take off the saddle, and either take the horse in there—there is plenty of food in the manger—or else turn it out into the paddock. As he comes in I will throw my arms round him and you will at once close in, one on each side, each catch an arm tightly, handcuff him, and take the pistols from his belt. Don't leave go of his arms until I have lit the candle; he may have another pistol inside his coat, and might draw it.”
It was now one o'clock, and half an hour later Malcolm, who was at the gate, came in quietly and said he could hear a horse coming along the lane.
“Which way, Malcolm?”
“Tooting way.”
“That is all right. I have been a little nervous lest if he came the other way our horse might make some slight noise and attract his attention; that was our only weak point.”
They had already ascertained that the front door was locked and bolted, and that he must therefore enter through the kitchen. They heard the horse stop in front, a moment later the gate was opened, and through the window they could just make out the figure of a man leading a horse; then the stable door opened, and they heard a movement, and knew that the horse was being unsaddled; they heard it walk into the stable, the door was shut behind it, and a step approached the back door. It was opened, and a voice said with an oath, “The old fool has forgotten to leave a candle burning;” then he stepped into the kitchen.
In an instant there was a sound of a violent struggle, deep oaths and curses, two sharp clicks, then all was quiet except heavy breathing and the striking of flint on a tinderbox; there was the blue glare of the sulphur match, and a candle was lighted. Mark then turned to the man who was standing still grasped in the hands of his two captors.
“Arthur Bastow,” he said, producing his staff, “I arrest you in the King's name, as an escaped convict, as a notorious highwayman and house breaker.”
As his name was spoken the man started, then he said quietly:
“You have made a mistake this time, my men; my name is William Johnson; I am well known here, and have been a quiet resident in this house for upwards of a year.”
“A resident, but not a quiet resident, Bastow. I don't think we are mistaken; but even if you can prove that you are not Bastow, but William Johnson, a man of means and family, we have evidence enough upon the other charges. We have been in search of you for a long time, and have got you at last. You don't remember me, though it is but eighteen months since we met; but I fancy that I then left a mark upon you that still remains on your shoulder. I am Mark Thorndyke, and you will understand now why I have hunted you down.”
“The game is not finished yet,” the man said recklessly. “The hunting down will be the other way next time, Mark Thorndyke.”
“I don't think so. Now, Chester, you may as well tie his feet together, and then search him. When that is done I will look after him while you fetch the trap round.”
In his pockets were found two gold watches, forty-eight pounds in gold, and a hundred pounds in bank notes.
“We shall hear where this comes from tomorrow,” Malcolm said, as he laid them on the table; “it will save us the trouble of getting evidence from Australia.”
The prisoner was placed in a chair, and then the two officers went out to fetch the trap round.
“So you have turned thief catcher, have you?” he said in a sneering tone, that recalled him to Mark's memory far more than his face had done, “and you carry a Bow Street staff about with you, and pretend to belong to the force: that is a punishable offense, you know.”
“Yes, it would be if I had no right to use it,” Mark said quietly; “but it happens that I have a right, having been for a year and a half in the force. I joined it solely to hunt you down, and now that I have done so my resignation will be sent in tomorrow.”
“And how is the worthy squire?”
Mark started to his feet, and seized one of the pistols lying before him.
“You villain!” he exclaimed, “I wonder you dare mention his name—you, his murderer.”
“It was but tit for tat,” the man said coolly; “he murdered me, body and soul, when he sent me to the hulks. I told him I would be even with him. I did not think I had hit him at the time, for I thought that if I had you would have stopped with him, and would not have chased me across the fields.”
“You scoundrel!” Mark said. “You know well enough that you came back, stole into his room, and stabbed him.”
Bastow looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“I don't know what you are talking about,” he said. “I fired at him through the window—I don't mind saying so to you, because there are no witnesses—and saw him jump up, but I fancied I had missed him. I saw you bolt out of the room, and thought it better to be off at once instead of taking another shot. You gave me a hard chase. It was lucky for you that you did not come up with me, for if you had done so I should have shot you; I owed you one for having killed as good a comrade as man ever had, and for that bullet you put in my shoulder before. If I had not been so out of breath that I could not feel sure of my aim I should have stopped for you, but I rode straight to town.”
“A likely story,” Mark said shortly. “What, you will pretend that there were two murderers hanging round the house that night?—a likely tale indeed.”
“I tell you that if your father was killed by a knife or dagger, I had nothing to do with it,” the man said. “I am obliged to the man, whoever he was. I had intended to go down again to Reigate to finish the job myself; I should scarcely have missed a second time. So it is for that you hunted me down? Well, I don't blame you; I never forgive an injury, and I see your sentiments are mine. Whether I killed your father or not makes no difference; he was killed, that is the principal point; if I was going to be put on my trial for that I could prove that at eight o'clock I was in a coffee house in Covent Garden. I purposely kicked up a row there, and was turned out, so that if I were charged with that shooting affair I could prove that I was in London that evening.”
“I can't quite believe that,” Mark said; “a fast horse would have brought you up to town in an hour and a half, and another fast horse would have taken you back again as quickly; so you might have been in London at eight and back again at Crowswood by half past twelve or one, even if you stopped a couple of hours at a coffee house. However, you won't be tried for that. Those things on the table and the contents of that corn bin are enough to hang you a dozen times.”
“Curse you! have you found that out?” Bastow exclaimed furiously.
“We have,” Mark replied. “It would have been wiser if you had got rid of your things sooner. It was a clever hiding place, but it is always dangerous to keep such things by you, Bastow.”
The man said no more, but sat quietly in his chair until they heard the vehicle stop outside the gate. Then the two constables came in, and lifting Bastow, carried him out and placed him in the bottom of the cart.
“You can loose the old woman now, Malcolm,” Mark said as he took his seat and gathered the reins in his hand. “By eleven o'clock, no doubt, one of the others will be down with the gig again, and you can empty out the contents of that hole, and bring them up with you. I don't think that it will be of any use searching further. You might have a good look all round before you come away. There may be some notes stowed away, though it is likely enough that they have been sent away by post to some receiver abroad.”
For some time after starting they could hear the prisoner moving about uneasily in the straw.
“I suppose there is no fear of his slipping out of those handcuffs, Chester?”
“Not a bit; they are full tight for him. I expect that that is what is making him uncomfortable.”
Presently the movement ceased.
“He is still enough now, Mr. Thorndyke. I should not be at all surprised if he has dropped off to sleep. He is hardened enough to sleep while the gibbet was waiting for him.”
It was four o'clock in the morning when they drove up at Bow Street. Two constables on duty came out to the cart.
“We have got a prisoner, Inspector,” Chester said. “He is the man we have been looking for so long. I fancy we have got all the swag that has been stolen for the last eighteen months—bags of jewels and watches, and sacks of silver. He is handcuffed, and his legs are tied, so we must carry him in.”
The officer fetched out a lantern. The other constable helped him to let down the backboard of the cart.
“Now, Bastow, wake up,” Chester said. “Here we are.”
But there was no movement!
“He is mighty sound asleep,” the constable said.
“Well, haul him out;” and, taking the man by the shoulders, they pulled him out from the cart.
“There is something rum about him,” the constable said; and as they lowered his feet to the pavement his head fell forward, and he would have sunk down if they had not supported him.
The Inspector raised the lantern to his face.
“Why, the man is dead,” he said.
“Dead!” Chester repeated incredulously.
“Aye, that he is. Look here;” and he pointed to a slim steel handle some three inches long, projecting over the region of the heart. “You must have searched him very carelessly, Chester. Well, bring him in now.”
They carried him into the room, where two candles were burning. Mark followed them. The inspector pulled out the dagger. It was but four inches long, with a very thin blade. The handle was little thicker than the blade itself. Mark took it and examined it.
“I have not a shadow of doubt that this is the dagger with which he murdered my father. The wound was very narrow, about this width, and the doctor said that the weapon that had been used was certainly a foreign dagger.”
“I don't think this is a foreign dagger,” the Inspector said on examining it, “although it may be the one that was used, as you say, Mr. Thorndyke. It has evidently been made to carry about without being observed.”
He threw back the dead man's coat.
“Ah, here is where it was kept. You see, the lining has been sewn to the cloth, so as to make a sheath down by the seam under the arm. I expect that, knowing what would happen if he were caught, he had made up his mind to do it all along. Well, I don't know that you are to be so much blamed, Chester, for, passing your hand over his clothes, you might very well miss this, which is no thicker than a piece of whalebone. Well, well, he has saved us a good deal of trouble. You say you have got most of the booty he has collected?”
“I don't know that we have got all of it, sir, but we have made a very big haul, anyhow; it was a cunningly contrived place. There was a big corn bin in the stable, and when we had emptied out the corn it seemed empty. However, Mr. Thorndyke discovered that the bin was fixed. Then we found that the bottom was really a trap door, and under it was a sort of well in which were sacks and bags. One of the sacks was full of unbroken silver, two others contained silver ingots, things that he had melted down, and there was a large bag full of watches and jewels. In his pocket we found a hundred pounds in bank notes, about fifty guineas, and a couple of gold watches.”
“That he must have got tonight from the Portsmouth coach; we heard half an hour ago that it had been stopped near Kingston, the coachman shot, and the passengers robbed. It will be good news to some of them that we have got hold of their valuables. Well, Mr. Thorndyke, I have to congratulate you most heartily on the skill with which you have ferreted out a man who had baffled us for so long, and had become a perfect terror to the south of London. No doubt we shall be able to trace a great portion of the property in that sack. The capture has been splendidly effected.”
“You will understand,” Mark said, “that I do not wish my name to appear in the matter at all. I have, as you know, been actuated by private reasons only in my search, and I see no occasion why my name should be mentioned; the evidence of Chester and Malcolm will be ample. From information received, they went down to this place, searched it in his absence, discovered the stolen goods, and captured them. Having handcuffed and bound him, one drove him up to town, the other remaining to guard the treasure. On his way he got at this hidden dagger and stabbed himself. My evidence would not strengthen the case at all.”
“No, I don't see that it will be necessary to call you, Mr. Thorndyke. The discovery of this hidden booty and the proceeds of the coach robbery would be quite sufficient. Beyond the coroner's inquest there will be no inquiry. Had it been otherwise it might probably have been necessary to call you at the trial. However, as it is, it will save a lot of trouble; now we shall only need to find the owners of these bank notes. I will send off a cart for the things as early as I can get one, and will send a couple of constables round to the houses where burglaries have been committed to request the owners to come over and see if they can identify any of their property; and those who do so can attend the inquest tomorrow, though I don't suppose they will be called. The chief will be mightily pleased when he hears what has taken place, for he has been sadly worried by these constant complaints, and I fancy that the authorities have been rather down upon him on the subject. The announcement that the career of this famous robber has been brought to an end will cause quite a sensation, and people round the commons on the south side will sleep more quietly than they have done lately. I expect that if he had not put an end to himself we should have had to send him across to Newington today, for of course it is a Surrey business, though we have had the luck to take him. I suppose we shall not see much of you in the future, Mr. Thorndyke?”
“No indeed,” Mark said. “My business is done, and I shall send in my resignation this morning. I don't regret the time that I have spent over it; I have learned a great deal, and have seen a lot of the shady side of life, and have picked up experience in a good many ways.”
Mark, after requesting the Inspector to find a man to go over to Streatham and bring back his horse, and writing an order to the ostler to deliver it, walked across to his lodgings. Upon the whole, he was not sorry that Bastow had taken the matter into his own hands; he had, certainly, while engaged in the search, looked forward to seeing him in the dock and witnessing his execution, but he now felt that enough had been done for vengeance, and that it was as well that the matter had ended as it had. He was wearied out with the excitement of the last forty-eight hours. It was one o'clock when he awoke, and after dressing and going into Covent Garden to lunch at one of the coffee houses, he made his way up to Islington.
“Taking a day's holiday?” Millicent asked as he came in.
“Well, not exactly, Millicent; I have left school altogether.”
“Left school, Mark? Do you mean that you have decided that it is of no use going on any longer?”
“I have given it up because I have finished it. Arthur Bastow was captured last night, and committed suicide as he was being taken to the station.”
An exclamation of surprise broke from Mrs. Cunningham and Millicent.
“It seems horrid to be glad that anyone has taken his own life,” the latter said; “but I cannot help feeling so, for as long as he lived I should never have considered that you were safe, and besides, I suppose there is no doubt that if he had not killed himself he would have been hung.”
“There is not a shadow of doubt about that,” Mark replied. “We found the proceeds of a vast number of robberies at his place, and also in his pockets the money he had taken from the passengers of the Portsmouth coach an hour before we captured him. So that putting aside that Australian business altogether, his doom was sealed.”
“Now, please, tell us all about it,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “But first let us congratulate you most warmly not only on the success of your search, but that the work is at an end.”
“Yes, I am glad it is over. At first I was very much interested; in fact, I was intensely interested all along, and should have been for however long it had continued. But, at the same time, I could do nothing else, and one does not want to spend one's whole life as a detective. At last it came about almost by chance, and the only thing I have to congratulate myself upon is that my idea of the sort of place he would have taken was exactly borne out by fact.”
And Mark then gave them a full account of the manner in which the discovery had been made and the capture effected.
“You see, Millicent, I followed your injunction, and was very careful. Taking him by surprise as I did, I might have managed it single handed, but with the aid of two good men it made a certainty of it, and the whole thing was comfortably arranged.”
“I think you have done splendidly, Mark,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “It was certainly wonderful that you should have found him doing exactly what you had guessed, even down to the deaf servant. Well, now that is done and over, what do you think of doing next?”
“I have hardly thought about that,” he replied; “but, at any rate, I shall take a few weeks' holiday, and I suppose after that I shall settle down to the search for my uncle's treasure. I am afraid that will be a much longer and a vastly more difficult business than this has been. Here there were all sorts of clews to work upon. Bastow ought to have been captured months ago, but in this other affair, so far, there is next to nothing to follow up. We don't even know whether the things are in India or in England. I believe they will be found, but that it will be by an accident. Besides, I fancy that we shall hear about them when you come of age, Millicent. There was to have been no change till that time, and I cannot help thinking that Uncle George must have made some provisions by which we should get to know about them in the event of his death without his having an opportunity of telling anyone where they are.
“He might have been killed in battle; he might have been drowned on his way home. He had thought the whole matter over so thoroughly, I do think the possibilities of this could not have escaped him. As I told you, Mr. Prendergast made inquiries of all the principal bankers and Indian agents here, and altogether without success. After he had done that, I got a list of all the leading firms in Calcutta and Madras, and wrote to them, and all the replies were in the negative. It is true that does not prove anything absolutely. Eighteen years is a long time, and the chances are that during those years almost every head of a firm would have retired and come home. Such a matter would only be likely to be known to the heads; and if, as we thought likely, the box or chest was merely forwarded by a firm there to England, the transaction would not have attracted any special attention. If, upon the other hand, it remained out there it might have been put down in a cellar or store, and have been lying there ever since, altogether forgotten.”
“I don't see myself why you should bother any more about it; perhaps, as you say, it will turn up of itself when I come of age. At any rate, I should say it is certainly as well to wait till then and see if it does, especially as you acknowledge that you have no clew whatever to work on. It is only three more years, for I am eighteen next week, and it certainly seems to me that it will be very foolish to spend the next three years in searching about for a thing that may come to you without any searching at all.”
“Well, I will think it over.”
“You see, you really don't want the money, Mark,” she went on.
“No, I don't want it particularly, Millicent; but when one knows that there is something like 50,000 pounds waiting for one somewhere, one would like to get it. Your father worked for twenty years of his life accumulating it for us, and it seems to me a sort of sacred duty to see that his labor has not all been thrown away.”
Millicent was silent.
“It is very tiresome,” she said presently. “Of course my father intended, as you say, that his savings should come to us, but I am sure he never meant that they should be a bother and a trouble to us.”
“I don't see why they should ever be that, Millicent. As it is we have both sufficient for anything any man or woman could reasonably want, and neither of us need fret over it if the treasure is never found. Still, he wished us to have it, and it is properly ours, and I don't want it to go to enrich someone who has not a shadow of a right to it.”
On the following morning Mark went to attend the inquest on Bastow. He did not go into the court, however, but remained close at hand in the event of the coroner insisting upon his being called. However, the two men only spoke casually in their evidence of their comrade Roberts, who had been also engaged in the capture. One of the jurymen suggested that he should also be called, but the coroner said: