Half-a-dozen surmises seemed to rush through my mind at that first sight of Uncle Zabdiel lying dead. The first—that he had tried to drive too hard a bargain with Bardolph Just, and had been caught in his own net; the next, that that badly-used youth, Andrew Ferkoe, had turned at last and killed his oppressor. I thought, too, that perhaps some poor creature he had driven to desperation, and ground hard in his money mill, had chosen this way to pay his debts.
One of the men ran off in what I thought was an absurd search for a doctor; the other stood waiting, and keeping, as I thought, a watchful eye upon me. In truth, I was not altogether comfortable, for although Uncle Zabdiel's lips were for ever sealed, I thought it possible that he might have made the bare statement that his supposedly-dead nephew was alive, in writing to the authorities. In which case, it might go hard with me that I should be seen in the neighbourhood of the house in which he had been so recently killed, and that house, too, with its front door open. The man had set down the lamp upon the landing, where it lighted up the dead man horribly; he now began to put a few questions to me.
"Had you an appointment with this gentleman?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes, I had," I answered. "An appointment on a matter of business. I was coming to the house, when I saw you and the other man on your way here. May I ask who you are?" For I thought it better to pretend ignorance, although I knew well that these must be the men for whom Uncle Zabdiel had sent.
"We are police officers," said the man, "andwehad an appointment with Mr. Blowfield for this evening. It seems a pity that we were not a little earlier," he added.
"You might have been useful," I added drily. "What should Mr. Blowfield want with you?"
The man looked at me suspiciously, but did not answer. He turned to look at the dead man with a thoughtful frown on his face. "This is the sort of case that absolutely invites murder, in a manner of speaking," he said. "A lonely old man—probably without a soul in the house—pretty well off, I expect; that sort of thing soon gets spread about among the sort of people to whom it's of interest. Of course, I couldn't say off-hand; but I should judge that robbery was the business here, and that whoever did it has had to make a mighty quick exit, or they would scarcely have left the door as we found it. It's been a touch-and-go business, and, as I say, if we had been a little earlier the old gentleman might have been alive to tell us what he wanted to tell us."
Now, although I had been resolute in my determination to end the matter, and to go back to my prison, I found myself thanking my stars that the old gentleman had not been alive to say what he had to say. Not that I should ever have found it in my heart to do him an injury on my own account, and, indeed, I was a little horrified to find him done to death in this fashion; but you must understand how great a relief it was for me.
By this time the second man had come back, bringing with him a young doctor. The latter glanced quickly from one to the other of us, and then knelt down on the stairs to make his examination. The first police officer stood near to him, holding the lamp; I, with the other man, stood below. In a moment or two the doctor looked up, with pursed lips, and nodded quickly to the man with the lamp.
"Nothing for me to do here," he said quietly. "He's been dead about half an hour—scarcely more, I should think. A weak old man like this wouldn't stand much chance when he came face to face with a strong man armed with that stick. He's had two blows—one clean in front, and the other at the side. He must have died almost on the instant. Anyone suspected?"
The man with the lamp shook his head. "We've only arrived here a matter of minutes ago," he replied, "having been asked by the old gentleman to call here to-night."
"What for?" The doctor, who had risen to his feet, asked the question sharply.
"This Mr. Blowfield," answered the man in a perplexed tone, "has written to Scotland Yard, saying that if someone would call to see him he could give them information concerning a nephew of his—a man called Norton Hyde. This nephew robbed him some time ago, and was sentenced to penal servitude. He escaped, and committed suicide rather than be captured; so that I don't see what the old gentleman could have had to tell us."
I determined that I would strike in boldly for myself; it would seem less suspicious than keeping silence. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed, a little scornfully, "he's had that idea for a long time—he was always talking about it."
"What idea?" asked the doctor.
"The idea that his nephew was alive," I said. "I daresay you may remember the case of the young man?" I added.
"Perfectly," said the doctor. "I wonder where the old chap got that notion from?"
"We'd better go through the house, and see what has been disturbed," said the first man, moving forward with the lamp. Then suddenly, after a whispered word to his companion, he turned again to me. "Were you a friend of Mr. Blowfield?" he asked, and this time I saw the doctor also looking at me curiously.
"Oh, yes! I knew him well," I answered readily. "Believe me," I said, with a little laugh, "I am quite willing to give you every information in my power concerning myself. My name is John New, and I am lodging quite near here. I have been in the habit of coming backwards and forwards on various occasions; as you know, I came in just behind you to-night."
"That's true enough, sir," said the other man.
Now all this time I had quite forgotten the boy Andrew Ferkoe; and suddenly it leapt into my mind that instead of being in the house, as he should properly have been, we had seen nothing of him. My heart sank at that remembrance, for I liked the boy, and had been sorry to think how badly he was treated. I could sympathise with him more than anyone else could well do, for had I not suffered just as he had suffered, and had not I made shipwreck of my life because of this old man who had gone to his account? I felt certain now in my own mind what had happened; Andrew Ferkoe had turned at last upon his master, and had beaten him to death, and then had fled out of the house.
The man with the lamp turned at the door of a room, and looked back at me over his shoulder. "Did you know anything about his habits, sir?" he asked. "Did he live alone?"
I determined to lie. After all, they might not discover anything about the wretched boy if I held my peace. "Quite alone, I believe," I said. "There was an old woman used to come in to clean house for him, and cook his meals; but only for an hour or two a day."
"Just as I thought: this sort of party absolutely asks to be murdered!" he exclaimed.
We found the place in great disorder. Drawers had been wrenched open, and the contents scattered in all directions; desks forced, and cupboards burst open. So far as we could judge, my Uncle Zabdiel must have been in his bedroom at the time of the attack, and must have heard a noise, and come out, armed with that heavy stick of his. There could not have been any struggle, save in the wrenching away of the stick from his grasp; after that it had been a mere matter of the two blows, as the doctor had suggested. The robbery afterwards had been a hurried business, bunglingly done. The great safe in the corner of the study—that room in which I had toiled so many years—was untouched; and, from what I knew of my uncle and his ideas regarding property, I judged that the murderer had got but little for that risking of his neck. That he had tried to cover up the body from his own sight was obvious, from the fact that he must have gone back into the bedroom, and so have dragged out the bed-clothing to put over his victim.
"We'll go through the rest of the house," said the man; and I suddenly leapt to the remembrance that they must discover Andrew Ferkoe's room, and his bed, and must begin to put awkward questions to me. I was on the point of suggesting that I believed the other rooms to be empty; but, on second thoughts, I felt it best to hold my tongue, and to trust that the boy might yet escape.
So the four of us came to the door of the room, and the man with the lamp unsuspiciously opened it, and went in. He stopped with a gasp, and looked back at us.
"There's someone here!" he whispered. "In bed—and asleep!"
Wonderingly we went forward into the room. The man with the lamp bent over the bed and turned back the clothes. Andrew Ferkoe seemed to rouse himself from sleep, and to stretch his arms; he sat up and yawned at us. For my part, I felt that he rather overdid the thing. His face was white and drawn; but then, it was always that. I confess I was a little contemptuous of the cunning he displayed; I was not quite so sorry for him as I had been. There we stood, grouped about his bed, while he sat up and looked round from one to the other of us.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
The doctor gave a short laugh. "Matter enough!" he ejaculated. "Do you mean to say you've been asleep?"
"Of course," said Andrew Ferkoe. "What else should I go to bed for?"
"Do you mean to tell us that you've heard nothing to-night?" asked the man with the lamp sharply. "No struggling—no crying out?"
Andrew Ferkoe slowly shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "Who are you? I know that gentleman," he added, pointing to me. "What do they want, Mr. New?"
I began to have a sneaking admiration for the boy, even though I shuddered at him; I thought how wonderfully he played the game. I answered as calmly as I could.
"Your master has been murdered, Andrew," I said—"brutally done to death. Have you really been asleep?—have you heard nothing?"
"Nothing at all, sir," he said, scrambling out of bed, and standing ghostlike amongst us in his long night-shirt, and with his thin, bare feet and ankles showing. "I don't know anything about it."
He began to whimper, looking from one to the other of us in a terrified way; I began to have my doubts whether, after all, he was not sincere, and had not really slept through the horrible business.
"I thought you said that the old gentleman lived alone?" asked the police officer, turning to me.
"When I said that I'd clean forgotten the boy," I answered easily. "You see, I've never been here except by daylight; how should I know that anyone else slept in the house?"
That explanation seemed simple enough, and, in a fashion, satisfactory. I suggested to the man that Andrew Ferkoe should be allowed to dress; I pledged my word to look after him.
"You see, you can hardly leave the boy in the house alone, after what has occurred," I urged. "You have my address, and you can verify it if you like. Let me take the boy with me, and I will undertake to produce him for any enquiry at any time."
I saw that they hesitated; it was the doctor who put in the final word on Andrew Ferkoe's behalf. He had been looking at the youth curiously, had even put a hand on his shoulder, and had twisted him about to look into his eyes.
"I shouldn't think much suspicion would attach to our young friend here," he said. "A bit of a weakling, I should imagine, not very likely to do any harm to anyone. Certainly it won't do to leave him in this place. Get dressed, my lad," he added to Andrew.
As he turned away I heard him whisper to the man with the lamp, "He's been asleep fast enough. I doubt if the old man even cried out. The whole attack would be too sudden."
I waited with Andrew Ferkoe while he got dressed; the others went downstairs to move the body of Uncle Zabdiel. Once or twice I noticed that the boy looked at me in a furtive way. I began to think that if he had been innocent he would in all probability have said something, or have asked some question. He got into his clothes rapidly, fumbling a great deal with the buttons, as though his fingers trembled. Once he looked up, and opened his mouth as if to speak. I shook my head at him. "Better not say anything, Andrew," I said in a whisper.
He looked at me in a startled way, but finished his dressing without a word. We went out of the room together, and on the stairs I met the doctor and the two men, who were waiting for us. It seemed that one man was to remain in charge of the house, while the other walked with me to my lodging to see that the address I had given was a correct one. In a few minutes Andrew Ferkoe and I were walking along in silence, side by side, with the police officer a little in the rear.
In due course we came to my lodgings, and there the man left us. I roused up the landlady, something to her surprise, and told her that I must have another bed put into my room. I did not mean to lose sight of the youth until I had decided what to do with him.
The woman very obligingly got out a little camp bedstead that was stowed away in an attic, and I assisted her to rig it up in a corner of my room. Then she bade us "Good-night," and Andrew Ferkoe and I were left alone. And for a time there was silence, while I sat on the side of my bed and smoked, and looked at him.
"Why do you look at me in that queer way?" he asked at last, in a trembling voice.
"Look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "let me say quite reverently that at the present moment there's just God and you and me in this room, and God understands a great deal better even than I do what you have had to put up with. Don't speak until I've finished," I exclaimed sternly, "because I want to give you a word of warning. If you want to tell me anything, let's hear it; if you don't want to tell me anything, go to bed, and try to sleep. But if you do speak—speak the truth."
He looked at me round-eyed, and with his mouth wide open, for nearly a minute; then he gasped out a question. "Do you—do you really think I did it?" he asked.
"I don't think about it at all," I answered. "I'm waiting for you to tell me—if you feel you want to."
"I didn't do it—I never touched him. I should never have had the strength or the courage," he began, in a shaking whisper.
"But you were shamming sleep," I reminded him.
"Of course I was," was his surprising answer. "What else could I do? I didn't know who you were, or who was coming into the place, and I'd seen enough in the way of horrors for one night to last me all my life." He shuddered, and covered his face with his hands, and dropped down on to his bed.
"Seen enough horrors!" I echoed. "What had you seen?"
He looked up at me, and began his extraordinary story. "I went to bed a long time before old Blowfield," he said. "I think I went to sleep almost at once; I generally do, you know. At all events I didn't hear the old man come up to his room. When I first woke up I heard a noise down below in the house, just like somebody wrenching open a shutter. I got horribly frightened, and I put my head under the bedclothes, and kept very still; it was just like that night when you broke in and came to my room. After a time the noise stopped, and I began to wonder whether someone had tried to get in and couldn't, or whether they had really got into the house. It must have been about a quarter of an hour after that—only it seemed ever so much longer—that I first heard old Blowfield cry out."
I felt certain now that he was speaking the truth. Watching him narrowly, I saw the terror grow in his eyes at the recollection of what he had heard and seen in that grim old house. I nodded to him to go on.
"I heard old Blowfield shout out, 'Who's there?'" went on the youth. "He shouted that twice, and I got so excited that I crept out of my room in the dark, and leaned over the rail at the top of the staircase. I saw old Blowfield standing there, and just below him was a man, and the man was crouching as if he was going to spring. Old Blowfield struck at him with the stick—he was holding a candle in his left hand, so that he could see what he was doing—and the man dodged, and caught the stick, and pulled it out of his hand. The man struck old Blowfield once, and he went down and lay still; and then he struck him again."
"Why didn't you raise an alarm?" I asked, somewhat needlessly.
"What good would that have been?" murmured Andrew Ferkoe resentfully. "I could see that the man didn't think there was anyone else in the house. What chance should I have had if he'd caught sight of me? I don't know whether I made any noise, but while he stood there with the stick in his hands he looked up towards where I was, but he didn't see me. Then he went back into the bedroom and came out, dragging the bedclothes; he threw them on top of the old man. When he went down into the house I slipped back into my room and got into bed; I simply dared not move or make a sound."
"How long did you stop like that?" I asked.
"I don't rightly know," was his reply, as he shook his head. "It seemed a long time, and at first I could hear him moving about the house here and there, and then there was a silence. I had just got out of bed, meaning to go down, when I heard another movement in the house, and then voices. And I lay there, trembling so that I could feel the bed shaking under me, until at last, after what seemed hours, I heard people coming up the stairs, and coming into my room. And then I gave myself up for lost, and tried hard to pray. I thought if I pretended to be asleep they wouldn't kill me, and so I pretended. You may imagine how relieved I felt when I opened my eyes and saw you."
"That's all very well, my young friend," I said, "but why in the world didn't you tell the truth at once, and say what you'd seen? Why did you lie, and say that you had been asleep and had heard nothing?"
He looked at me with an expression of cunning on his lean face.
"Who was going to believe me?" he asked. "Even you had heard me say how badly the old man had treated me, and how I wished I had the courage to kill him; even you believed to-night, first of all, that I had done it. If I had told any story about a man coming into the place and killing old Blowfield, and going again, they would have laughed at me. I was in a tight corner, and the only thing I could do was to pretend that I had slept through it all."
I saw the reasonableness of that argument; it might have gone hard with the boy if for a moment suspicion had fallen upon him. "Did you see the face of the man clearly?" I asked, after a pause. "What was he like?"
"He was a small man, stooping a little," said Andrew Ferkoe. "I should think he would be about forty-five or fifty years of age. He was dressed like a labourer."
Instantly I remembered the man I had seen on the previous evening lurking outside the house; I wished now that I had taken more note of him. I began to wonder who it could be, and whether it was only some chance loafer who had selected that house as one likely to suit his purpose for burglary. It could scarcely have been anyone who knew Uncle Zabdiel's habits well, or he would not have been surprised on the stairs as he had been; for the fact that he had to snatch a weapon from the hand of the old man proved, I thought, that he had not gone there meaning to kill. For the matter of that, few men enter a place with that deliberate intention; it is only done in the passion of the moment, when they must strike and silence another, or suffer the penalty for what they have done.
Long after the boy was in bed and asleep I sat there watching him. Even now my mind was not clear of doubts concerning Andrew Ferkoe, smooth though his tale was. I wondered if all he had told me was true, or if, after all, he had seized that occasion to strike down the old man, and so pay off old scores. I knew that for the present I must leave the matter, and must wait for time or chance to elucidate the mystery.
It must have been about the middle of the night when I found myself sitting up in bed, very wide awake, with one name seeming to din itself into my ears. I wondered why I had not thought of it before.
"William Capper!"
It had been a little man, who walked with drooping shoulders, a man who might be forty-five or fifty years of age. Well, Capper was older than that, but then Andrew Ferkoe had only seen the man in the dim light of a candle.
And the motive? That was more difficult to arrive at, although even I thought there I saw my way. Capper I knew was determined to kill Bardolph Just if he could, and he would know that Bardolph Just had gone to the house of Zabdiel Blowfield. What more natural than that he should have seen him arrive, but should have missed him when he went away; that would explain the man in labouring clothes I had seen hanging about near the house. Capper would know that he must put on some sort of disguise in order to bring himself into the presence of the doctor, and in order to lull the other's dread of him. I was convinced now that it was Capper who had forced his way into the house late at night, and, finding himself suddenly confronted by a man who demanded his business, had aimed a blow at him at the same time, and killed Zabdiel Blowfield on the impulse of the moment. I lay down again, firmly convinced that I had arrived at a proper solution of the matter.
I further questioned Ferkoe in the morning, and all that he told me served the more to settle the thing in my mind. I wondered if by any chance Capper would be discovered; I wondered also whether, after all, I had been mistaken in my estimate of him, and whether the sudden gusts of passion that had swept over him on the two occasions in regard to Bardolph Just might not have been real madness, and might, in this last case, have found their victim in a man with whom Capper had nothing to do. In that case he was merely a harmful lunatic, dangerous to anyone when those gusts of passion swept him.
I found that during the next day or two I was pretty closely watched and interrogated by one and another, and more than once I trembled for my liberty, and even for my life. For you will understand that I was surrounded now, more than ever, by dangers of every sort; if it could once have been proved or even suggested that I was that convict nephew of the dead man, it would have gone hard with me. For here was I, masquerading under another name, and actually walking up to the house on the night of the murder. And had not Zabdiel Blowfield actually stated in writing that he could tell the authorities something concerning his nephew, Norton Hyde? The motive was clear; it had been vitally necessary that I should silence Uncle Zabdiel at all costs.
So I argued the matter, and I remembered uneasily enough that that weakling, Andrew Ferkoe, knew who I really was, and might, in case of extremity, give my secret away. On the other hand it turned out that the police had found a scrap of writing in the house, which gave the name and address of Dr. Bardolph Just, so that that gentleman was brought into the business, in order that questions might be asked of him. I had gone down to the house, and there we came face to face.
There was no necessity for me to ask him what he thought about the matter; I read in his face that he was certain in his own mind that I was the man. I should not have spoken to him at all, because when next I fought him I meant to fight with other weapons than my tongue, but he came up to me, and looked at me with that evil grin of his.
"This is a bad business," he said. "I understand that you were here almost immediately after the thing was done, eh?"
"Yes, and not before," I replied in a whisper. "You're on the wrong track, I assure you. I've had nothing to do with the matter."
I saw that he had something more to say to me. When presently I left the house he strolled along by my side. His first words were startling enough, in all conscience.
"Well, so for the moment you have succeeded," he said quietly.
I turned and stared at him; I did not understand in the least what he meant. "In what have I succeeded?" I asked. "Don't I tell you that I'm not responsible for the business we've just been talking about."
"You know what I'm referring to," he said, harshly. "I'm speaking of the girl."
I had learnt wisdom, and I controlled myself with an effort. "What of her?" I asked carelessly.
I saw his eyes flash, and noticed that his teeth were clenched hard as he strode along beside me. "You've got her!" he burst out at last, "but you shan't keep her. You've been wise enough, too, to hide her away somewhere where you don't go yourself. I've had you watched, and I know that. But I'll find her, and if I don't find her within a certain time, determined on by myself, I'll tell my story, and you shall hang!"
I was on the point of blurting out that I knew nothing about the matter, but on second thoughts I held my tongue. I guessed in a moment that Debora must have made her escape from the house, and must be somewhere in hiding, and, of course, she would not know where to communicate with me. My heart leapt at the thought that she was free; it sank again at the thought that she might be penniless and unprotected amongst strangers. At the same time I decided that I would not give him any undue advantage over me, by letting him understand that I did not know where the girl was. I merely shrugged my shoulders and laughed.
"You can take my warning, and make the most of it," he said abruptly. "If Debora does not return to me within the time I have mapped out—and I shall not even tell you what that time is—I tell what I know to the right people."
I remembered what Debora had said to me about her certainty that this man had caused the death of Gregory Pennington; I had a shot at that matter now. "And some explanation will be needed regarding the man you allowed to be shut away in a grave in Penthouse Prison," I said quietly.
He turned his head sharply, and looked at me. I regarded him steadily. "That's a matter you'll have to explain," he said, with a grin.
"I?" It was my turn to look amazed.
"Yes—you," he said. "I've got my story ready when the time comes, I assure you. All I've had to do with it has been the covering up of your traces; that was only pity for a forlorn wretch, hunted almost to death. The changing of the clothes was your business. I don't see how it affects me."
We had come to a point where he was turning off in one direction and I going in another. I gave him my final shot at parting. "Not if Gregory Pennington really committed suicide," I said.
I looked back when I had gone a little way, and saw Bardolph Just in the same attitude in which I had left him, looking after me. It was as though I had stricken him dumb and motionless with what I had said, and I was now more than ever convinced that Debora had been right in her conjecture. I had done one good thing, at least; he would scarcely dare to carry out his threat of exposing me; he might think that I had some inside knowledge of which he was ignorant.
Meanwhile I was seriously troubled about Debora. It was impossible for me to know what had become of her, or where she was; my only hope was that there might be an accidental meeting between us. The various places known to us both were known also to our enemies; if Debora had gone to the house of Uncle Zabdiel she would in all probability have been seen there by Bardolph Just, or by some one in his pay. Similarly, she would, of course, keep as far away as possible from his house and from the cottage where once I had left her with Harvey Scoffold. I roamed the streets, looking into every face that passed me, yet never seeing the face for which I longed.
An inquest on Uncle Zabdiel took place in the ordinary course, and a certain John New gave evidence of his slight acquaintance with the murdered gentleman, and of what he had seen on the night of the murder. The astounding fact that Andrew Ferkoe had slept through the whole business came out in court, and was the immediate cause of some extraordinary newspaper headlines, in which more than one reporter developed a hitherto undiscovered talent for wit at Andrew's expense. It may be wondered at, perhaps, that I should have persuaded the boy to stick to his original story, but, apart from anything else, I had strong reasons for preventing any suspicion falling upon the man Capper, and, above all, I did not for a moment believe that Andrew Ferkoe's real story would be believed. I had grown to believe it myself, but I thought that for many reasons it might be well if Ferkoe left it to be imagined that he had really slept, and had seen nothing.
So the matter remained a mystery, with only one curious element in it, for me at least, and that was a little point that came out in the evidence. It seemed that no finger prints had been discovered anywhere, although many things in the house had been handled. It was obvious that the murderer had worn gloves. That seemed to point to a more professional hand than that of poor Capper, and served a little to upset my theory, but on the whole I believed it still.
I was to be undeceived, nevertheless, and that within a little time. On the very day of the inquest, when Andrew Ferkoe and myself were walking away, we turned, with almost a natural impulse, towards the house which had been the scene of the tragedy—perhaps you may call that a morbid impulse. It was a place that would always have a curious attraction for me, by reason of the fact that the greater part of my life had been spent there, and that I had seen many curious things occur there, and that once poor Debora had taken refuge in it. It was all ended now with the death of the man who had worked so much harm to me; I was thinking about it all as I stood outside the place, when I felt my arm clutched convulsively, and looked round, to see that Andrew Ferkoe, with a dropping jaw, was staring at a man who was standing at a little distance from us, also watching the house—a man dressed as a labourer.
"What's the matter?" I whispered. I could not see the man's face from where I stood; his cap was drawn down at one side, so as partially to conceal it.
"That's the man!" whispered Andrew, in a shaking voice. "I know the clothes, and I saw his face for a moment when he turned this way."
"Pull yourself together, and don't look as if you'd seen a ghost," I whispered sharply. "We'll follow the man, and see where he goes. As he hasn't seen you, go on ahead a bit, and then turn so that you can see his face; then come back to me."
The youth hurried away; walked past the man with his long stride; then came back. I saw the man glance at him for a moment sharply as he came past; then Andrew came up to me, his face white with excitement.
"That's the man! I'm certain of it," he said.
We walked for a long way after the man, until at last he seemed to have some suspicion concerning us. Once or twice he stopped, and, of course, we stopped also; then at last he turned about, and came straight back towards where we waited.
He carried his head low, but I thought I knew the bend of his shoulders; I was convinced that in a moment he would look up, and I should see William Capper looking at me.
But I was wrong. For when he looked up, with a sullen glance of defiance, I saw that it was George Rabbit!
Mr. George Rabbit looked me up and down with a new expression of countenance. I noticed, too, that some of his alertness was gone, and that his narrow, shifty eyes avoided mine. He had no reason to think that I should suspect him of the murder of my Uncle Zabdiel; nevertheless, he looked at me resentfully, as though, before even I had spoken, he knew I was going to accuse him of it.
"Wotjer mean by follerin' a honest man about like this 'ere?" he demanded savagely. "If I 'ad my rights, I ought to be follerin' you, Mr. Jail-bird—seein' wot I know abaht yer." Then, as I said nothing, but looked at him steadily, he broke out more fiercely: "W'y don't yer speak? Wot 'ave yer got against me, eh?"
I took him by the arm, and suddenly wrenched his hand round, so that I could look at the palm of it; then I bent forward, and whispered to him swiftly: "There's blood on your hands!"
He struggled faintly for a moment to get free; his face had gone to a sickly green colour. "You're mad—stark, starin', ravin' mad!" he exclaimed. "Don't you say sich things against me, or I'll blab—sure as death!"
"Death's the word," I retorted. "Now, George Rabbit, we've got to talk over this thing, and we may as well do it quietly. Take me to some place where I can say what I have to say."
He hesitated for a moment, undecided whether to treat the matter with defiance, or to accede to my demands; at last he shrugged his shoulders, spat emphatically on the ground, and turned to lead the way. He turned back again a moment later, and looked at Andrew Ferkoe with a new resentment.
"Wot's this chap got to do wiv it?" he asked. "'Ave you bin blabbin' to 'im abaht it?"
"There was no necessity to do that," I replied quietly. "He saw you do it. Now, don't stand talking here; it might be dangerous."
He stood in an amazed silence for a moment, and then turned and walked away. We followed him rapidly, noticing that every now and then he turned to look back over his shoulder, as if undecided whether, after all, he would not turn back altogether, and refuse to go further. But he went on, nevertheless, and at last brought us to a little public house in a side street. Thrusting open a door with his shoulder, he went in, leaving us to follow; and we presently found ourselves in a little room with a sanded floor—a species of bar parlour. There the three of us sat down round a little beer-stained table, and after I had ordered refreshments (with a double quantity for George Rabbit, because he took the first at a gulp), I began to say what was in my mind.
"When I saw you first to-day you were looking at a house where an old man was murdered a few days back," I began.
"Wot of it?" he demanded. "A lot of people 'ave bin lookin' at that 'ouse; they always does w'en anythink like that's 'appened."
"You were obliged to go back to it—the man who commits a murder always must, you know. You wanted to see if any one had suspected you."
The man glanced nervously round the room, and then thrust his face towards mine across the table. "Wot's this 'ere talk abaht a murder?" he whispered. "Wot's this 'ere talk abaht this chap 'aving seen me do it? Wot's this business abaht takin' away a honest man's character?"
"When you broke into the house the other night, and came face to face with Zabdiel Blowfield, and got the stick out of his hand and killed him, someone was watching you," I answered steadily.
"Watchin' me! W'y, the ole chap lived alone!" he exclaimed incautiously. Then, seeing the smile on my face, he went on hurriedly, "Leastways, so I've bin told, on'y I don't know nothink abaht it."
"You were sent there first by Martha Leach. My uncle wanted to see you, because he thought your evidence might be useful in getting me back to my prison," I went on remorselessly. "That gave you the idea of robbing the old man; you didn't stick at murder when you were pushed to it. This lad here"—I indicated Andrew Ferkoe as I spoke—"was asleep in the house at the time, as you would have heard, if you had been at the inquest. He got out of bed and saw you. How else do you suppose he was able to point you out to-day as the man he saw in the house?"
George Rabbit looked from one to the other of us narrowly; then he began to speak almost as if to himself. "Now I comes to think of it, I did 'ear a noise up above in the 'ouse. So it was you, was it?" he said, turning wrathfully on Andrew Ferkoe. "My God! it's a lucky thing for you I didn't find you; I'd 'ave put your light out!"
"I know that," answered Andrew quietly. "That was why I didn't make a noise."
"Well, an' wot's the little game now?" asked Rabbit impudently, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Mr. Jail-bird, let's 'ear wot you've got to say. You can't bring a charge like this against a honest man without some proof. I 'ave 'eard that no finger prints 'ave bin discovered, so that you won't git much that way."
"I can find a dozen ways of running you to earth," I replied. "On the other hand, it may not pay me to do so."
"Yus, that's the trouble, ain't it?" he said with a sneer. "They might ask you awkward questions, or I might 'ave a word to say abaht the gent wot's takin' my character away. Then again, wot's 'is nibs 'ere bin sayin' at the inquest?"
I was bound to confess that Andrew had stated that he had slept soundly on the night of the murder, and had heard nothing and seen nothing. George Rabbit, growing more confident with every moment, grinned and kissed his grimy finger-tips in the direction of Andrew.
"An' now 'e'll 'ave to tell anuvver tale!" he exclaimed. "If it comes to that, 'oo's to say 'e didn't do the job 'imself; 'e was in the 'ouse."
It was not my purpose to bring the man to justice; it would go hard with me, as well, perhaps, with Andrew Ferkoe, if I made any attempt to slip a noose about the fellow's neck. Yet, much as I loathed the man, I realised that the killing of my Uncle Zabdiel had not been any premeditated affair; it had been a blow struck, brutally enough, for his own liberty by this man who now sat before me. My purpose was to use him, if possible, as an instrument for myself, to trade upon my knowledge of what he had done, and so bind him first to silence about myself and who I was, and next to assist me in the finding of Debora and the destruction of Bardolph Just's plans. I set about that now without more ado.
"As I have said, it would be easy enough to prove the matter," I answered, "and I should have the satisfaction of seeing you hang; but that's not my plan. We are the only people who know the truth, and we shall not speak."
I saw Andrew Ferkoe glance at me swiftly for a moment; as for Rabbit, he sat gaping at me as though he had not heard aright. "You mean it?" he gasped.
"Of course I do; I'm a man of my word," I answered him. "But there is a condition attaching to it, and that condition must be respected. I'm not the man to be played with, and I've got you in a tighter place than you think. Play with me, and you'll play with fire; of that I warn you."
"Now, look 'ere, guv'nor," answered the man in an altered tone, "am I likely to play any tricks, seein' 'ow I'm placed? Gents both, I give yer my solemn word I never meant to put the old gent's light out. I jist meant to git wot I could quietly. I 'ad a sort of idea that 'e might keep money on the premises. As it was, I got next to nuffink, an' wot I did git I don't dare part wiv, for fear I should be nabbed. I never thought 'e'd wake up, but w'en 'e come out there, an' tried to 'it me wiv the stick, I jist jerked it out of 'is 'and, an' gave 'im one for 'imself to keep 'im quiet. I ain't excusin' meself; I know I done it, an' that's all there is to it."
"In the first place, you will know me, if you know me at all, always as John New; the other man, once a fellow-prisoner of yours, lies buried in that prison. Am I right?" I asked the question sternly.
"I'll take my oath of it," he asserted solemnly. "W'y, now I come to look at yer," he added, with a grin, "you ain't no more like Norton 'Yde than wot I am."
"Don't overdo it," I suggested. "Now, in the second place, you remember a young lady—a ward of Dr. Just?"
"Yus, I know 'er; wot of it?" he asked.
"She has left the doctor's house—has run away," I answered. "She doesn't know where to find me, and I don't know where to find her. She may be wandering about London friendless and without money. Can you help me to find her?"
"Do yer mean it?" he asked incredulously.
I nodded. "Under ordinary circumstances you are the last man in the world that I would select for such work, but I must use the tools ready to my hand," I said. "If you play tricks with me, you'll know what to expect, because our friend here"—I indicated Andrew—"will be only too ready to speak and to tell what he knows, without bringing me into the matter at all. But I think, for your own sake, you'll play the game fairly."
In his eagerness he began to take all manner of strange oaths as to what he meant to do, and as to the absolute dependence that was to be placed upon his word. I interrupted him sharply by telling him that I looked for deeds, and not words, and quite humbly and gratefully he promised to do all in his power. I gave him an address at which I could be found, and presently saw him go lurching away, with his head turned every now and then to look back at me. I seemed to picture him going through life like that, remembering always the dead thing he had left lying on certain stairs in a dismal old house.
And now I come to that point in my story when my own helplessness was, for a time at least, borne in upon me more strongly than ever. I had no very great hopes that where I had failed George Rabbit would succeed, and I blamed myself for having placed any reliance on him. I wandered about London restlessly for a day or two, as I had done before, hoping always that any slight girlish figure going on before me might in a moment turn its head and show me the face of Debora; but that never happened. What did happen was that I had an unexpected meeting with Bardolph Just.
The newspapers had, of course, given my address, as an important witness at the inquest on Uncle Zabdiel, so that I was not altogether surprised to find, one evening when I went back to my little lodging, tired out, and weary, and dispirited, that Bardolph Just was waiting for me. I was aware of his presence in my room before ever I got to the house, for as I came up the street I happened to raise my eyes to the window, and there he was, lounging half out of it, smoking a cigar and surveying me. I wondered what his visit might portend. I hoped that he might have discovered something about Debora, and that I might get the information from him.
On opening the door of the room and going in I saw that he was not alone; Harvey Scoffold sat there, quite as though he had come, in a sense, as a protector for his patron. I put my back against the closed door, and looked from one man to the other, and waited for what they had to say. Harvey Scoffold smiled a little weakly, and waved a hand to me; Bardolph Just said nothing, but looked me up and down with a fine air of contempt. I judged that he had news for me, and that, for the moment at least, he felt that he had triumphed. Almost I seemed to read into his mind, and to know what that news was. But though I thought I knew the man well, I was not prepared for the vindictiveness he now displayed.
"You must excuse this intrusion," he said quietly, "but I felt sure that you would be anxious concerning my ward, and I thought it best to let you know at once that she is quite safe. I did you an injustice in suggesting that she was with you; for that I apologise most humbly."
"Where is she?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Is it likely that I shall tell you?" he asked. "I won't tell you where she is; for your satisfaction, however, you may understand that you have been the cause of her passing several miserable nights and days penniless in London——"
"You were the cause of that!" I broke in hotly.
"Pardon me; had you never appeared upon the scene she would have been quite content to remain under my care," he retorted.
"Had I never appeared upon the scene, she would before this have been in her grave," I said.
He showed his teeth for a moment in a grin, but said nothing to that. "She was discovered in almost a dying condition. I was communicated with and went to her at once," he proceeded. "She is now in a private nursing home, and so soon as she has recovered I intend to take her abroad. I need not assure you that she is receiving, and will receive, every possible attention and luxury that money can command."
"And you came to tell me this?" I enquired bitterly.
"Out of pure kindness," he answered with a grin. "I knew you would be anxious, and I knew that you took a deep interest in the young lady." He rose to his feet, and carefully polished his hat upon his sleeve, holding the hat in his right hand, and turning it dexterously round and round against the arm he still carried in a sling. "But I came also to say," he went on in a sterner tone, "that with this ends your connection with her and with me. I am not to be trifled with again; keep out of my way."
"One moment, Dr. Just," I interposed, keeping my place before the door. "As you have been so frank with me, it is fair that I should be as frank with you. I warn you that I shall take not the faintest notice of your request, and that I shall, if possible, discover the lady. My power is a greater one than yours, because my power is from the heart. I shall beat you yet; I shall save her yet!"
He laughed and raised his eyebrows, and turned towards Harvey Scoffold. "Did you ever see such a fellow?" he asked. "He is as full of words as ever, although he knows that he can do nothing."
I opened the door, and saw the two men pass out and go down the street. I watched them gloomily for a moment or two from the open window. I was almost in a mood to follow them, but I realised that they were scarcely likely to lead me to Debora. I must be patient; I must hope for a miracle to happen to show me the way to Debora.
After all, it was no miracle that happened, for one could scarcely connect a miracle with the prosaic figure of Andrew Ferkoe. As I looked from my window I saw Andrew coming down the street, reading a newspaper, and reading it so intently that he was continually knocking against people on the same pavement, and continually, as I could see, muttering apologies, and then resuming his reading. I was not best pleased to see him at that time; for although he still lodged with me until such time as I could decide what to do with him, he spent a great part of the day abroad in the streets. Now, however, after knocking at the door and being admitted, he came upstairs at a great rate, and burst into my room with the newspaper in his hand.
"I've found her!" he exclaimed, excitedly waving the paper. "I've found her!"
I snatched the paper from him, and began to read it eagerly at the place where his trembling finger had pointed. The paragraph was headed, "Strange Loss of Memory," and referred to a young lady bearing the name of Debora Matchwick, who had been found in an almost unconscious condition from privation, on a seat in a public park, and had been conveyed to the Great Southern Hospital. For a time it had been impossible to discover who she was, as she appeared to have entirely forgotten any of the past events of her life, or even her own name; but at last she had given the name, and enquiries had elicited the fact that she had a guardian living in the neighbourhood of Highgate. This gentleman—the famous scientist and retired physician, Dr. Bardolph Just—had been communicated with, and had at once visited the young lady. So soon as she had recovered she would go abroad for rest and change. There seemed to be no doubt that she would ultimately recover completely.
I almost hugged Andrew Ferkoe in my delight. I laughed to think how easily the discovery had been made. I laughed also at the remembrance of how Dr. Just had spoken of the "private nursing home," and how now I was, after all, to take the wind out of his sails. I rushed off at once to the Great Southern Hospital.
Every sort of difficulty was placed in my way. It was not an ordinary visiting day, and I could not be admitted. The young lady had been placed in a private ward, it was true, but the regulations were very strict. More than that, it was imperative that she should not be excited in any way.
"I will not excite her; I am her greatest friend, and I know that she has been longing to see me," I pleaded.
"But she has a visitor with her now," the young doctor urged. "That visitor is her guardian."
I was now more than ever determined that I would see Debora; I pleaded again that one extra visitor, under the circumstances, could surely make no difference. "Besides," I added, "I know Dr. Just very well."
So at last I had my way, and I followed the young doctor through the quiet place until I came to the little private room where Debora lay—a room formed by raising walls nearly to the ceiling in a great ward, leaving a corridor down the centre. I went in, with my heart beating heavily; and the first person I faced was Dr. Just.
I never saw a man so astonished in all my life; I was afraid he was going to lose his presence of mind, and have me bundled out then and there, after making something of a scene. But I will do him the justice to say that his conduct was admirable; he accepted the inevitable, and bowed slightly in my direction as the doctor left me inside the little room and closed the door.
Then, for the first time, I saw Debora, lying white-faced among her pillows. I noted with gratitude how her eyes lighted up as she turned slightly in my direction, and held out a white hand towards me. I could not help it; I fell on my knees beside the bed, and put the hand to my lips as the tears sprang to my eyes.
"Thank God!" I said, "thank God!"
"So you don't heed warnings," said the doctor, in a sarcastic tone. "It is only for the sake of this dear girl that I have not had you turned out of the place; I can't understand how in the world you found out where she was."
I took no notice of him. I turned to the girl, and, still holding her hands, began to speak earnestly.
"Debora," I said, "my sweet Debora, I want you to listen to me, and not to this man. I have found you, and I do not mean to lose sight of you again. You will soon be well and strong, and then you will go away from this place—with me."
"Yes, with you," she answered, with her eyes turned to mine, and her hands gripping mine convulsively. "With you!"
I knew that the time was short, and that at any moment the young doctor or a nurse might appear, and might cut short our interview. I saw, too, that Debora was getting excited, and I judged that Bardolph Just might take it upon himself to act the part of doctor as well as guardian, and have me turned away. Therefore I said what I had to say quickly.
"You will wait for me here, Debora; you will not let anyone take you away without letting me know. See, I am writing my address here, and that I will give to the doctor I saw just now—he can send for me if necessary. You are not to go away with anyone else."
"I promise," she said, weakly.
"And now listen to me," broke in the harsh voice of Bardolph Just. "This is a crisis in the lives of the three of us, and I am not to be set aside. When the time comes that you can be removed, Debora, you are going away with me!"
"I am not! I am not!" she cried, still clinging to my hand.
"You are going away with me, or else your friend there goes back to his prison. Choose!" He stood looking at her, and I saw as well as she did that now his mind was made up.
"You wouldn't do that?" she said breathlessly.
"I would," he said. "You go away with me, or I follow this man when he leaves this place, and I give him in charge to the first constable I meet, as the escaped convict, Norton Hyde. And I follow that charge up until I see him back within his prison walls, with something more than nine years of servitude before him. If you want him to keep his liberty, send him away now."
She began to weep despairingly, while I, on the horns of this new dilemma, did my best to comfort her. And suddenly, with all her heart set on my welfare, she announced her decision.
"I promise that I will go with you," she said to Bardolph Just in a whisper.
"No—no! you must not promise that!" I urged, springing to my feet, and facing the other man. "You shall not!"
"I must, I must, for your sake!" she answered. "My dear, it will all come right in time, if you will be patient. We shall meet when all this is over and done with. Good-bye!"
I would have said more then, but at that moment the door opened, and the young doctor came in. One glance at the girl was sufficient; with an impatient gesture he ordered Bardolph Just and myself to go, and hastily summoned the nurse. So we marched out, side by side, without a word until we reached the street.
"Understand me," said Bardolph Just quietly, "I shall keep my word."
"And I shall keep mine," I retorted, as I turned on my heel and left him.
Brave words, as you will doubtless think; yet even as I said them I realised how helpless I was. Debora, for my sake, would go back to that horrible house, there to live, perhaps, in safety for a time, until the doctor could devise some cunning death for her. And I supposed that in due course I should hear of that; and should know the truth, and yet should be able to say nothing. Almost I was resolved to risk my own neck in saving her; almost I determined to put that old threat into execution, and kill the man. But I had no stomach for murder when I came to think of the matter: I could only beat my brains in a foolish attempt to find some way out of the tangle.
Thus nearly a week went by—a miserable week, during which I haunted the neighbourhood of the hospital and wandered the streets aimlessly, turning over scheme after scheme, only to reject each one as useless. Then, at last, one day I went to the hospital, and enquired for Miss Debora Matchwick, and asked if I might see her.
I was told that she was gone. Her guardian had called on the previous day with a carriage, and had taken her home; he had made a generous donation to the funds of the hospital, in recognition of his gratitude for the kindness the young lady had received. So I understood that he had succeeded, and that I had failed.
The man had succeeded, too, in putting the strongest possible barrier between the girl and myself, in invoking that bogey of my safety. I knew that he could hold her more strongly with that than with anything else; I felt that she would refuse, for my sake, to have anything to do with me. Nevertheless, I came to the conclusion that I must make one last desperate effort to see her, or to see Bardolph Just. In a sense, I was safe, because I knew I was always a standing menace to the man, and that he feared me.
I went straight from the hospital to the house at Highgate. I had no definite plan in my mind; I determined to act just as circumstances should suggest. I rang the bell boldly, and a servant whom I knew appeared at the door. He was in the very act of slamming it again in my face, when I thrust my way in and closed the door behind me.
"Don't try that game again," I said sternly, "or you'll repent it. Where's your master?"
"I have my orders, sir," he began, "and I dare not——"
"I'll see you don't get into trouble," I broke in. "I want to see Dr. Just."
"But he's not here, sir," said the man, and I saw that he was speaking the truth. "Dr. Just and the young lady have gone away, sir."
"Do you know where they've gone?" I asked; but the man only shook his head.
I stood there debating what to do, and wondering if by chance the doctor might have carried out his original intention of going abroad. Then a door opened at the end of the hall, and Martha Leach came out and advanced towards me. She stopped on seeing who the intruder was; then with a gesture dismissed the servant, and silently motioned to me to follow her into another room. It was the dining-room, and when I had gone in she shut the door, and stood waiting for me to speak. I noticed that she seemed thinner than of old, and that there were streaks of grey in her black hair. She stood twisting her white fingers over and over while she watched me.
"I came to see the doctor," I said abruptly. "Where is he?"
"Why do you want to know?" she demanded. "You've been turned out of this place; you ought not to have been admitted now."
"I do not forget the assistance you rendered in turning me out," I said. "Nevertheless I am here now, and I want an answer to my question. I want to find the girl Debora Matchwick."
She stood for a long time, as it seemed to me, in a rigid attitude, with her fingers twining and twisting, and with her eyes bent to the floor. Then suddenly she looked up, and her manner was changed and eager.
"I wonder if you would help me?" was her astonishing remark.
"Try me," I said quietly.
"I suppose you love this slip of a girl—in a fashionyoucall love," she flashed out at me. "I can't understand it myself—but then, my nature's a different one. You would no more understand what rages here within me"—she smote herself ruthlessly on the breast with both hands—"than I can understand how any man can be attracted by a bread-and-butter child like that. But, perhaps, you can grasp a little what I suffer when I know that that man and that girl are together—miles away from here—and that I am here, tied here by his orders."
"I think I can understand," I said quietly, determined in my own mind to play upon that mad jealousy for my own ends. "And I am sorry for you."
"I don't want your sorrow, and I don't want your pity!" she exclaimed, fiercely brushing away tears that had gathered in her eyes. "Only I shall go mad if this goes on much longer; I can't bear it. He insulted me to my face before her on the day they left for Green Barn together—yesterday that was."
"And yet you love him—you would get this girl out of his hands if you could?"
"I would kill her if I could," she snarled. "I would tear her limb from limb; I would mark her prettiness in such a fashion that no man would look at her again. That's what I'd do."
"You want me to help you," I reminded her.
"Why don't you have some pluck?" she demanded fiercely. "Why don't you tear her out of his hands, and take her away?"
"There are reasons why I cannot act as I would," I said. "But I'll do this; I'll go down to Green Barn, and I'll try to persuade her to go away with me. You've fought against that all the time, or I might have succeeded before."
"I know—I know!" she said. "I hoped to please him by doing that; I hoped that some day he might get tired of her, and might look at me again as he looked at me in the old days. But now I'm hopeless; I can do nothing while she is with him. I'm sorry—sorry I fought against you," she added, in a lower tone.
"I'll do my best to help you—and the girl," I said. "It may happen that you may get your wish sooner than you anticipated; I believe that Bardolph Just means to kill her."
"If he doesn't, I shall!" she snapped at me as I left the house.
So far I had done no good, save in discovering where Bardolph Just and Debora had gone. It was a relief to me to know that they had not gone abroad; for then I should have been helpless indeed. I determined that I would go at once down into Essex; it would be some satisfaction at least to be near her.
I was walking rapidly away from the house when I heard someone following me; I turned suspiciously, and saw that it was the man Capper. He came up to me with that foolish smile hovering over his face, and spoke in that strange, querulous whisper I had heard so often.
"Forgive an old man speaking to you, sir," he said—"an old man all alone in the world, and with no friends. I saw you come from Dr. Just's house—good, kind Dr. Just!"
I felt my suspicions of him beginning to rise in my mind again, despite the fact that the face he turned to me was that of a simpleton. I recalled Debora's words to me when she had wondered if this man would ever speak.
"What do you want?" I asked him, not ungently.
"I want to find Dr. Just—good, kind Dr. Just," he whispered. "I have followed him a long time, but have been so unfortunate as to miss him. I missed him in a crowd in a street; now I find that he is not at his house."
"You are very devoted to Dr. Just," I observed. "What do you hope to gain by it?"
"To gain?" He stared at me with that curious smile on his face. "What should I gain?"
"I don't know," I answered him, "but it seems to me that you may some day gain what you want."
"God grant I may!" The answer was given in an entirely different voice, and I looked at him in a startled way as I realised at last the truth that for some time at least he had been shamming. I dropped my hand on his shoulder, and spoke sternly enough.
"Come now, let this pretence be ended," I said. "You're as sane as I am—you have all your wits about you. Your brain is clear; you remember everything."
We were in a quiet lane near the house, and there was no one in sight. He clasped his hands, and raised his face—a changed face, stern-set, grim and relentless—to the sky. "Dear God!" he exclaimed passionately, "I do remember! I do remember!"
"What?" I asked.
He looked at me for a moment intently, as if debating within himself whether to trust me; then at last he laid a hand tremulously on my arm, and stared up into my face.
"I have shammed, sir," he said. "I have lied; I have plotted. I shall not fail now; I have come out of the darkness into the light. I have come to life!"
His excitement, now that he had once let himself go, was tremendous; he seemed a bigger and a stronger man than I had imagined. He stood there, shaking his clenched fists above his head, and crying out that he was alive, and almost weeping with excitement.
"What are you going to do?" I asked him, breathlessly.
"I am going to kill Bardolph Just, as he killed my young master, Mr. Gregory Pennington! I have tried twice; the third time I shall succeed!" he replied.