The journey of Lady Eversleigh and her companion, the Bow Street officer, was as rapid as the journey of Captain Copplestone. Along the same northern road as that which he had travelled a few days before flew the post-chaise containing the anguish-stricken mother and her strange ally. In this hour of agony and suspense, Honoria Eversleigh looked to the queer, wizened little police-officer, Andrew Larkspur, as the best friend she had on earth.
"You'll find my child for me?" she cried many times during the course of that long journey, appealing to Mr. Larkspur, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. "Oh, tell me that you'll find her for me. For pity's sake, give me some comfort—some hope."
"I'll give you plenty of comfort, and plenty of hope, too, mum, if you'll only cheer up and trust in me," answered the luminary of Bow Street, with that stolid calmness of manner which seemed as if it would scarcely have been disturbed by an earthquake. "You keep up your spirits, and don't give way. If the little lady is alive, I'll bring her back to you safe and sound. If—if—so be as she's—contrarywise," added Mr. Larkspur, alarmed by the wild look in his companion's eyes, as he was about to pronounce the terrible word she so much feared to hear, "why, in that case I'll find them as have done the deed, and they shall pay for it."
"Oh, give her back to me!" exclaimed Honoria; "give her back! Let me hold her in my arms once more. I abandon all thought of revenge upon those who have so basely wronged me. Let Providence alone deal with them and their crime. It may be this punishment has come to me, because I have sought to usurp the office of Providence. Let me have my darling once more, and I will banish from my heart every feeling which a Christian should abjure."
Bitter remorse was mingled with the agony which rent the mother's heart in those terrible hours. All at once her eyes were opened to the deep and dreadful guilt involved in those vengeful feelings she had so long nourished, to the exclusion of all tender emotions, all generous instincts.
Bitterly did the mother upbraid herself as she sat, with her hands clasped tightly together, her pale face turned to the window, her haggard eyes looking out at every object on the road, eager to behold any landmark that would tell her that she was so many miles nearer the end of her journey.
She had concluded that, as a matter of course, the disappearance of the child had been directly or indirectly the work of Sir Reginald Eversleigh; and she said as much to Mr. Larkspur. But, to her surprise, she found that he did not share her opinion upon this subject.
"If you ask me whether Sir Reginald is in it, I'll tell you candidly, no, my lady, I don't think he is. I don't need to tell you that I've had a deal of experience in my time; and, if that experience is worth a brass button, Sir Reginald hasn't any hand in this business down in Yorkshire."
"Not directly, perhaps, but indirectly," interrupted Honoria.
"Neither one nor the other," answered the great man of Bow Street. "I've had my eye upon the baronet ever since you put me up to watching him; and there's precious little he could do without my spotting him. I know what letters he has written, and I know more or less what has been in those letters. I know what people he has seen, and more or less what he has said to them; and I don't see that it's possible he could have carried on such a game as this abduction of Missy without my having an inkling of it."
"But what of his ally—his bosom-friend and confederate—VictorCarrington? May not his treacherous hand have struck this blow?"
"I think not, my lady," replied Mr. Larkspur. "I've had my eye upon that gentleman likewise, as per agreement; for when Andrew Larkspur guarantees to do a thing, he ain't the man to do it by halves. I've kept a close watch upon Mr. Carrington; and with the exception of hisparleyvous francais-ing with that sharp-nosed, shabby-genteel lady-companion of Madame Durski's, there's very few ofhisgoings-on I haven't been able to reckon up to a fraction. No, my lady, there's some one else in this business; and who that some one else is, it'll be my duty to find out. But I can't do anything till I get on the ground. When I get on the ground, and have had time to look about me, I shall be able to form an opinion."
Honoria was fain to be patient, to put her trust in heaven, and, beneath heaven, in this pragmatical little police-officer, who really felt as much compassion for her sorrow as it was possible for a man so steeped in the knowledge of crime and iniquity, and so hardened by contact with the worst side of the world, to feel for any human grief. She was compelled to be patient, or, at any rate, to assume that outward aspect of calmness which seems like patience, while the heart within her breast throbbed tumultuously as storm-driven waves.
At last the wearisome journey came to an end. She entered the arched gateway of Raynham Castle; and, as she looked out of the carriage window, she saw the big black letters, printed on a white broadside, offering a reward of three hundred pounds for the early restoration of the missing child.
Mr. Larkspur gave a scornful sniff as he perceived this bill.
"That won't bring her back," he muttered. "Those who've taken her away will play a deeper game than to bring her back for the first reward that's offered, or the second, or the third. She'll have to be found by those that are a match for the scoundrel that stole her from her home; and perhaps hewillfind his match before long, clever as he is."
The meeting between Honoria and Captain Copplestone was a very quiet one. She was far too noble, far too just to reproach the friend in whom she had trusted, even though he had failed in his trust.
He had heard the approach of the post-chaise, and he awaited her on the threshold of the door. He had gone forth to many a desperate encounter; but he had never felt so heart-piercing a pang as that which he endured this day when he went to meet Lady Eversleigh.
She held out her hand to him as she crossed the threshold. "I have done my duty," he said, in low, earnest tones, "as I am a man of honour and a soldier, Lady Eversleigh; I have done my duty, miserable as the result has been."
"I can believe that," answered Honoria, gravely. "Your face tells me there are no good tidings to greet me here. She is not found?"
The captain shook his head sadly.
"And there are no tidings of any kind?—no clue, no trace?"
"None. The constable of this place, and other men from the market-town, are doing their utmost; but as yet the result has been only new mystification—new conjecture."
"No; nor wouldn't be, if the constables were to have twenty years to do their work in, instead of three days," interrupted Mr. Larkspur. "Perhaps you don't know what country police-officers are? I do; and if you expect to find the little lady by their help, you may just as well look up to the sky yonder, and wait till she drops down from it, for of the two things that's by far the most likely. I can believe in miracles," added Mr. Larkspur, piously; "but I can't believe in rural police-constables."
The captain looked at the speaker with a bewildered expression, andLady Eversleigh hastened to explain the presence of her ally.
"This is Mr. Larkspur, a well-known Bow Street officer," she said: "and I rely on his aid to find my precious one. Pray tell me all that has happened in connection with this event. He is very clever, and he may strike out some plan of action that will be better than anything which has yet been attempted."
They had passed into a small sitting-room, half ante-room, half study, leading out of the great hall, and here the police-officer seated himself, as much at home as if he had spent half his life within the walls of Raynham, and listened quietly while Captain Copplestone gave a circumstantial account of the child's disappearance, taking care not to omit the smallest detail connected with that event.
Mr. Larkspur made occasional pencil-notes in his memorandum-book; but he did not interrupt the captain's narration by a single remark.
When all was finished, Lady Eversleigh looked at him with anxious, inquiring eyes, as if from his lips she expected to receive the sentence of fate itself.
"Well?" she muttered, breathlessly, "is there any hope? Do you see any clue?"
"Half a dozen clues," answered the police-officer, "if they're properly handled. The first thing we've got to do is to offer a reward for that silk coverlet that was taken away with the little girl."
"Why offer a reward for the coverlet?" asked Captain Copplestone.
"Bless your innocent heart!" answered Mr. Larkspur, contemplating the soldier with a pitying smile; "don't you see that, if we find the coverlet, we're pretty sure to find the child? The man who took her away made a mistake when he carried off the coverlet with her, unless he was deep enough to destroy it before he had taken her far. If he didn't do that—if he left that silk coverlet behind him anywhere, I consider his game as good as up. That is just the kind of thing that a police-officer gets his clue from. There's been more murders and burglaries found out from an old coat, or a pair of old shoes, or a walking-stick, or such like, than you could count in a day. I shan't make any stir about the child just yet, my lady: but before forty-eight hours are over our heads, I'll have a handbill posted in every town in England, and an advertisement in every newspaper, offering five pounds reward for that dark blue silk coverlet you talk of, lined with crimson."
"There seems considerable wisdom in the idea," said the captain, thoughtfully. "It would never have occurred to me to advertise for the coverlet."
"I don't suppose it would," answered the great Larkspur, with a slight touch of sarcasm in his tone. "It has took me a matter of thirty years to learn my business; and it ain't to be supposed as my knowledge will come to other folks natural."
"You are right, Mr. Larkspur," replied the captain, smiling at the police-officer's air of offended dignity; "and since you seem to be thoroughly equal to the difficulties of the situation, I think we can scarcely do better than trust ourselves entirely to your discretion."
"I don't think you'll have any occasion to repent your confidence," said Mr. Larkspur. "And now, if I may make so bold as to mention it, I should be glad to get a morsel of dinner, and a glass of brandy-and-water, cold without; after which I'll take a turn in the village and look about me. There may be something to be picked up in that direction by a man who keeps his eyes and ears open."
Mr. Larkspur was consigned to the care of the butler, who conducted him at once to the housekeeper's room, where that very important person, Mrs. Smithson, received him with almost regal condescension.
Mrs. Smithson and the butler both would have been very glad to converse with Mr. Larkspur, and to find out from that gentleman's conversation who he was, and all about him; but Mr. Larkspur himself had no inclination to be communicative. He responded courteously, but briefly, to all Mrs. Smithson's civilities; and after eating the best part of a cold roast chicken, and a pound or so of ham, and drinking about half a pint of cognac, he left the housekeeper's room, and retired to an apartment to which the butler ushered him—a very comfortable little sitting-room, leading into a small bedchamber, which two rooms were to be occupied by Mr. Larkspur during his residence at the castle.
Here he employed himself until dark in writing short notes to the chief police-officers of all the principal towns in England, ordering the printing and posting of the handbills of which he had spoken to Lady Eversleigh and the captain. When this was done he put on his hat, and went out at the great arched gateway of the castle, whence he made his way to the village street. Here he spent the rest of the evening, and he made very excellent use of his time, though he passed the greater part of it in the parlour of the "Hen and Chickens," drinking very weak brandy-and-water, and listening to the conversation of the gentry who patronized that house of entertainment.
Among those gentry was the good-tempered, but somewhat weak-minded,Matthew Brook, the coachman.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mat Brook," said a stout, red-faced individual, who was butler at one of the mansions in the neighbourhood of Raynham, "you've not been yourself for the last week; not since little Missy was stolen from the castle yonder. You must have been uncommonly fond of that child."
"I was fond of her, bless her dear little heart," replied Matthew.
But though this assertion, so far as it went, was perfectly true, there was some slight hesitation in the coachman's manner of uttering it—a hesitation which Andrew Larkspur was not slow to perceive.
"And you've lost your new friend down at the 'Cat and Fiddle,' where you was beginning to spend more of your evenings than you spent here. What's become of that man Maunders—eh, Brook?" asked the butler. "That was a rather queer thing—his leaving Raynham so suddenly, leaving his house to take care of itself, or to be taken care of by a stupid country wench, who doesn't know her business any more than a cow. Do you know why he went, or where he's gone, Mat?"
"Not I," Mr. Brook answered, rather nervously, and reddening as he spoke.
The police-officer watched and listened even more intently than before.The conversation was becoming every moment more interesting for him.
"How should I know where Mr. Maunders has gone?" asked Matthew Brook, rather peevishly, as he paused from smoking to refill his honest clay pipe. "How should I know where he's gone, or how long he means to stay away? I know nothing of him, except that he seems a jolly, good-hearted sort of a chap in his own rough-and-ready way. James Harwood brought him up to the castle one night for a hand at whist and a bit of supper, and he seemed to take a regular fancy to some of us, and asked us to take a glass now and then down at his place, which we did; and that's all about it; and I don't mean to stand any more cross-questioning."
"Why, Brook," cried his friend, the butler, "what's come to you? It isn't like you to answer any man in that way, least of all such on old friend as me."
Mr. Brook took no notice of this reproach. He went on smoking silently.
"I say, Harris," said the butler, presently, when the landlord of the "Hen and Chickens" came into the room to attend upon his customers, "do you know whether the landlord of the 'Cat and Fiddle' has come back yet?"
"No, he ain't," answered Mr. Harris; "and folks complain sadly of being served by that awkward lass he's left in charge of the house. I've had a many of his old customers come up here for what they want."
"Does anybody know where he's gone?"
"That's as may be," answered Mr. Harris. "Anyhow, I don't. Some say he's gone to London for a fortnight's pleasure; but if he has, he's a very queer man of business; and it strikes me, when he comes back he will find his customers all left him."
"Do you think he's cut and run?"
"Well, you see, he might be in debt, and want to give his creditors the slip."
"But folks down the village say he didn't owe a five-pound note," returned the landlord, who was a great authority with regard to all local gossip. "It's rather a queer business altogether, that chap taking himself off without why or wherefore, and just about the time as the little girl disappeared from the castle."
"Why, you don't think he had anything to do withthat, Joe Harris?" exclaimed the butler.
Andrew Larkspur took occasion to look at Matthew Brook at this moment; and he saw the coachman's honest face grow pallid, as if under the influence of some sudden terror.
"You don't believe as Maunders had a hand in stealing the child, eh,Joe Harris?" repeated the butler.
Joe Harris shook his head solemnly.
"I don't think nothing, and I don't believe nothing," he answered, with a mysterious air. "It ain't my place to give an opinion upon this here subjick. It might be said as I was jealous of the landlord of the 'Cat and Fiddle,' and owed him a grudge. All I says is this: it's a very queer circumstance as the landlord of the 'Cat and Fiddle' should disappear from the village directly after little Miss Eversleigh disappeared from the castle. You may put two and two together, and you may make 'em into four, if you like," added Mr. Harris, with profound solemnity; "or you may leave it alone. That's your business."
"I'll tell you what it is," said the butler; "I've had a chat with old Mother Smithson since the disappearance of the young lady; and from what I've heard, it's pretty clear to my mind that business wasn't managed by any one outside the castle. It couldn't be. There was some one inside had a hand in it. I wouldn't mind staking a twelvemonth's wages on that, Matthew and you musn't be offended if I seem to go against your fellow-servants."
"I ain't offended, and I ain't pleased," answered Matthew, testily; "all I can say is, as I don't like so much cross-questioning. There's a sort of a lawyer chap has come down to-day with my lady, I hear, though I ain't set eyes on him yet; and I suppose he'll find out all about it."
No more was said upon the subject of the lost heiress, or the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle."
The subject was evidently, for some reason or other, unpleasant to Mr. Brook, the coachman; and as Matthew Brook was a general favourite, the subject was dropped. Mr. Larkspur devoted the next morning to a careful examination of all possible entrances to the castle. When he saw the half-glass door opening from the quadrangle into the little bedchamber occupied by Stephen Plumpton, the footman, he gave a long, low whistle, and smiled to himself, with the triumphant smile of a man who has found a clue to the mystery he wishes to solve.
Mrs. Smithson, the housekeeper, conducted Andrew Larkspur from room to room during this careful investigation of the premises; and she and Stephen Plumpton alone were present when he examined this half-glass door.
"Do you always bolt your door of a night?" Mr. Larkspur asked of the footman.
"A ways, sir."
The tone of the man's voice and the man's face combined to betray him to the skilled police-officer.
Andrew Larkspur knew that the man had told him a deliberate falsehood.
"Are you certain you bolted this door on that particular night?"
"Oh, quite certain, sir."
The police-officer examined the bolt. It was a very strong one; but it moved so stiffly as to betray the fact that it was very rarely used.
Mrs. Smithson did not notice this fact; but Mr. Larkspur did. It was his business to take note of small facts.
"Can you remember what you were doing on that particular night?" he asked, presently, turning again to the embarrassed Stephen.
"No, sir; I can't say I do remember exactly," faltered the footman.
"Were you at home that night?"
"Well, yes, sir, I think I was."
"You are not certain?"
"Well, yes, sir; perhaps I might venture to say as I'm certain," answered the miserable young man, who in his desire to screen his fellow-servant, found himself led on from one falsehood to another.
He knew that he could rely on the honourable silence of the servants; and that none among them would betray the secret of the party at the "Cat and Fiddle."
After completing the examination of the premises, Mr. Larkspur dined comfortably in the housekeeper's room, and then once more sallied forth to the village to finish his afternoon. But on this occasion it was to the "Cat and Fiddle," and not the "Hen and Chickens," that the police-officer betook himself. Here he found only a few bargemen and villagers, carousing upon the wooden benches of a tap-room, drinking their beer out of yellow earthenware mugs, and enjoying themselves in an atmosphere that was almost suffocating from the fumes of strong tobacco.
Mr. Larkspur did not trouble himself to listen to the conversation of these men; he looked into the room for a few minutes and then returned to the bar, where he ordered a glass of brandy-and-water from the girl who served Mr. Maunders's customers in the absence of that gentleman.
"So your master is away from home, my lass," he said, in his most insinuating tone, as he slowly stirred his brandy-and-water.
"Yes, he be, sir."
"Do you know when he's coming back?" inquired Larkspur.
"Lawks, no, sir."
"Or where he's gone?"
"No, sir, I don't know that neither. My master's a good one to hold his tongue, he is. He never tells nobody nothing, in a manner of speaking."
"When did he go away?"
The girl named the morning on which had been discovered the disappearance of Sir Oswald's daughter.
"He went away pretty early, I suppose?" said Mr. Larkspur, with assumed indifference.
"I should rather think he did," answered the girl. "I was up at six that morning, but my master had gone clean off when I came down stairs. There weren't a sign of him."
"He must have gone very early."
"That he must; and the strangest part of it is that he was up very late the night before," added the girl, who was one of those people who ask nothing better than the privilege of telling all they know about anything or anybody.
"Oh," said Mr. Larkspur; "he was up late the night before, was he?"
"Yes. It was eleven when he sent me to bed, ordering me off as sharp as you please, which is just his way. And he couldn't have gone to bed for above an hour after that, for I lay awake, on the listen, as you may say, wondering what he was up to downstairs. But though I lay awake above an hour, I didn't hear him come up stairs at all; so goodness knows what time he went to bed. You see he had a party that night."
"Oh, he had a party, had he?" remarked the police-officer, who saw that he had no occasion to question this young lady, so well-inclined was she to tell him all she knew.
"Yes, sir. His friends came to have a hand at cards and a hot supper; and didn't it give me plenty of trouble to get it all ready, that's all. You see, master's friends are some of the gentlemen up at the castle; and they live so uncommon well up there, that they're very particular what they eat. It must be all of the best, and done to a turn, master says to me; and so it was. I'm sure the steak was a perfect picture when I laid it on the dish, and the onions were fried a beautiful golden brown, as would have done credit to the Queen of England's head-cook, though I says it as shouldn't perhaps," added the damsel, modestly.
"And which of the gentlemen from the castle came to supper with your master that night?" Mr. Larkspur asked, presently.
"Well, sir, you see there was three of them. Mr. Brook, the coachman, a good-natured, civil-spoken man as you'd wish to meet, but a little given to drink, folks say; and there was James Harwood, the under-groom; and Stephen Plumpton, the footman, a good-looking, fresh-coloured young man, which is, perhaps, beknown to you."
"Oh, yes," answered Mr. Larkspur, "I know Stephen, the footman."
Mr. Larkspur and the damsel conversed a good deal after this; but nothing of particular interest transpired in this conversation. The gentleman departed from the "Cat and Fiddle" very well satisfied with his evening's work, and returned to the castle in time to take a comfortable cup of tea in the housekeeper's room.
He was quite satisfied in his own mind as to the identity of the delinquent who had stolen the child.
The next thing to be discovered was the manner in which the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle" had left Raynham. It must have been almost impossible for him to leave in any public vehicle, carrying the stolen child with him, as he must have done, without attracting the attention of his fellow-passengers. Andrew Larkspur had taken care to ascertain all possible details of the man's habits from the communicative barmaid, and knew that he had no vehicle or horse of his own. He must, therefore, have either gone in a public vehicle, or on foot.
If he had left the village on foot, under cover of darkness, he might have left unseen; but he must have entered some other village at daybreak; he must sooner or later have procured some kind of conveyance; and wherever he went, carrying with him that stolen child, it was more than probable his appearance would attract attention.
After a little trouble, the astute Andrew ascertained that Mr. Maunders had certainly not left the village by any public conveyance.
It was late when Mr. Larkspur returned to the castle, after having mastered this fact. He found that Lady Eversleigh had been inquiring for him; and he was told that she had requested he might be sent to her apartments at whatever time he returned.
In obedience to this summons, he followed a servant to the room occupied by the mistress of Raynham Castle.
"Well, Mr. Larkspur," Honoria asked, eagerly, "do you bring many hope?"
"I don't exactly know about that, my lady," answered the ever-cautious Andrew; "but I think I may venture to say that things are going on pretty smoothly. I ain't wasting time, depend upon it; and I hope in a day or two I may have something encouraging to tell you."
"But you will tell me nothing yet?" murmured Honoria, with a despairing sigh.
"Not yet, my lady."
No more was said. Lady Eversleigh was obliged to be content with this small comfort.
Early the next morning Mr. Larkspur set out on his voyage of discovery to the villages within two, three, four, and five hours' walk of Raynham.
The next day Mr. Larkspur spent in the same manner, and returned to the castle late at night, and very much out of sorts. He had of late been spoiled by tolerably easy triumphs, and the experience of failure was very disagreeable to him.
On both evenings he was summoned to Lady Eversleigh's apartments, and on each occasion declined going. He sent a respectful message, to the effect that he had nothing to communicate to her ladyship, and would not therefore intrude upon her.
But early on the morning after the second day's wasted labour, the post brought Mr. Larkspur a communication which quite restored him to his accustomed good humour.
It was neither more nor less than a brief epistle from one of the officials of the police-staff at Murford Haven, informing Mr. Larkspur that an old woman had produced the silken coverlet advertised for, and claimed the offered reward.
Mr. Larkspur sent a servant to inquire if Lady Eversleigh would be pleased to favour him with a few minutes' conversation that morning. The man came back almost immediately with a ready affirmative.
"My lady will be very happy to see Mr. Larkspur."
"Oh, Mr. Larkspur!" exclaimed Honoria, as the police-officer entered the room, "I am certain you bring me good news; I can see it in your face."
"Well, yes, my lady; certainly I've got a little bit of good news this morning."
"You have found a clue to my child?"
"I have found out something about the coverlet," answered Andrew; "and that's the next best thing, to my mind. That has turned up at Murford Haven, thirty miles from here; though how the man who stole Miss Eversleigh can have got there without leaving a single trace behind him is more than I can understand."
"At Murford Haven!—my darling has been taken to Murford Haven!" criedHonoria.
"So I conclude, my lady, by the coverlet turning up there," replied Mr. Larkspur. "I told you the handbills would do the trick. Murford Haven is a large manufacturing town, and the sort of place a man who wanted to keep himself out of sight of the police might be likely enough to choose. Now, with your leave, my lady, I'll be off to Murford Haven as soon as I can have a post-chaise got ready for me."
"And I will go with you," exclaimed Lady Eversleigh; "I shall feel as if I were nearer my child if I go to the town where you hope to find the clue to her hiding-place."
"I, too, will accompany you," said Captain Copplestone.
"Begging you pardon, sir," remonstrated Mr. Larkspur, "if three of us go, and one of those three a lady, we might attract attention, even in such a busy place as Murford Haven. And if those that have got little missy should hear of it, they'd smell a rat. No, my lady, you let me go alone. I'm used to this sort of work, and you ain't, and the captain ain't either. I can slip about on the quiet anywhere like an eel; and I've got the eye to see whatever is to be seen, and the ear to pick up every syllable that's to be heard. You trust matters to me, and depend upon it, I'll do my duty. I've got a clue, and a clue is all I ever want. You keep to this spot, my lady, and you, too, captain; for there may come some kind of news in my absence, and you may have to act without me. I shan't waste time, you may rely upon it; and all you've got to do, my lady, is to trust to me, and hope that I shall bring you back good news from Murford Haven."
Very little more was said, and half an hour after this interview, the police-officer left Raynham in a post-chaise, on the first stage of the journey to Murford Haven.
Words are too weak to describe the sufferings of the mother of the lost child, and of the friends to whom she was hardly less dear. They waited very quietly, with all outward show of calmness, but the pain of suspense was not less keen. They sat silent, unoccupied, counting the hours—the minutes even—during the period which must elapse before the return of the police-officer.
He came earlier than Honoria had dared to expect him, and he brought with him so much comfort that she could almost have fallen on her knees, like Thetis at the feet of Jove, in the extremity of her gratitude for his services.
"I've got the coverlet," said Mr. Larkspur, dragging the little silken covering from his carpet-bag, and displaying it before those to whom it was so familiar. "That's about the ticket, I think, my lady. Yes, just so. I found a nice old hag waiting to claim her five pounds reward; for, you see, the men at the police-office at Murford Haven contrived to keep her dancing attendance backward and forwards—call again in an hour, and so on—till I was there to cross-question her. A precious deep one she is, too; and a regular jail-bird, I'll wager. I soon reckoned her up; and I was pretty sure that whatever she knew she'd tell fast enough, if she was only paid her price. So, after a good deal of shilly-shally, and handing her over five-and-twenty pounds in solid cash, and telling her that she'd better beware how she trifled with a gentleman belonging to Bow Street, she consented to tell me all about the little girl. The man that stole little missy had been to her precious hovel, and old Mother Brimstone had found a change of clothes for little missy, in token of which, and on payment of another sovereign, the old harpy gave me little missy's own clothes; and there they are."
Hereupon Mr. Larkspur dragged from his capacious carpet-bag the delicate little garments of lawn and lace which had been worn by the cherished heiress of Raynham. Ah! who can describe the anguish of the mother's heart as she gazed upon those familiar garments, so associated with the form of the lost one?
"Well," gasped Honoria, "go on, I entreat! She told you the child had been there. But with whom? Did she tell you that?"
"She did," returned Andrew Larkspur. "She told me that the scoundrel who holds little missy in his keeping is no other than the man suspected of a foul murder—a man I have long been looking for—a man who is well known amongst the criminal classes of London by the name of Black Milsom."
Black Milsom! the face of Lady Eversleigh, pale before, grew almost ghastly in its pallor, as that hated name sounded in her ears, ominous as a death-knell.
"Black Milsom!" she exclaimed at last. "If my child is in the power of that man, she is, indeed, lost."
"You know him, my lady?" cried Andrew Larkspur, with surprise. "Ah, I remember, you seemed familiar with the details of the Jernam murder. You know this man, Milsom?"
"I do know him," answered Honoria, in a tone of utter despair. "Do not ask me where or when that man and I have met. It is enough that I know him. My darling could not be in worse hands."
"He can have but one motive, and that to extort money," said CaptainCopplestone. "No harm will come to our darling's precious life. Youhave reason to rejoice that your child has not fallen into the hands ofSir Reginald Eversleigh."
"Tell me more," said Honoria to Mr. Larkspur. "Tell me all you have discovered."
"All I could discover was that the man Milsom had taken the child to London by a certain coach. I went to the inn from which that particular coach always starts; and here, after much trouble and delay, I was lucky enough to see the guard. From him I derived some valuable information; or perhaps, I ought to say some information that I think may turn up trumps. He perfectly remembered the man Milsom by my description of him, I having got the description from old Mother Brimstone; and he remembered the child, because of her crying a deal, and the passengers pitying her, and being pleased with her pretty looks, and trying to comfort her, and so on. The guard himself took a deal of notice of the child, and thought the man was not much good; and when they got to London, he felt curious like, he said, to know where the two would go, and what would become of them."
"And did he find out?" gasped Lady Eversleigh.
"As good luck would have it, he did. The man got into a hackney-coach, and the guard heard the driver tell him to go to Ratcliff Highway—that was all."
"Then I will find him," exclaimed Honoria, with feverish excitement. "I know the place well—too well! I will go with you to London, Mr. Larkspur, and I myself will help you to find my treasure."
In the extremity of her excitement she was reckless what secrets she betrayed. She had but one thought, one consideration, and that to her was life or death.
"Don't question me," she said to Captain Copplestone, who stared at her in amazement; "my girlhood was spent in a den of thieves—my womanhood has been one long struggle against pitiless enemies. I will fight bravely to the last. And now, in this most bitter trial of my life, the experience of my miserable youth shall serve in the contest with that villain."
She would brook no delay; she would explain nothing.
"Do not question me," she repeated. "You have counselled me to trust in the experience of Mr. Larkspur, and I will confide myself to his wisdom; but I must and will accompany him in his search for my child. Let a post-chaise be ordered immediately. Can you dispense with rest, and take a hurried dinner before you start, Mr. Larkspur?" she added, turning to her ally.
"Dispense with rest? Bless your innocent heart, my lady, I don't know the meaning of rest when I'm in business; and as for dinner, a ham sandwich and a glass of brandy out of a pocket-pistol is as much as I ask for when my blood's up." "You shall be richly rewarded for your exertions."
"Thank you kindly, ma'am. The promise of a reward is very encouraging, of course; but, upon my word, my heart's more in this business than it ever was before in anything under a murder; and I feel as if it was in me to do wonders."
No more was said. Andrew Larkspur hurried away to eat as good a dinner as he could get through in ten minutes, and Honoria went to her dressing-room to prepare herself for her journey.
"Pray for me, kind and faithful friend," she said, earnestly, as she bade adieu to the captain.
In a few minutes more she was once again speeding along the familiar road which she had travelled under such different circumstances, and with such different feelings. She remembered the first time she had driven through those rustic villages, past those swelling uplands, those woods and hills.
Then she had come as a bride, beloved, honoured, seated by the side of an adoring husband—a happy future shining before her, a bright horizon without one cloud.
Only one shadow to come between her and the sunshine, and that the shadow of a cruel memory—the haunting recollection of that foul deed which had been done beneath the shelter of the darkness, by the side of the ever-flowing river. Even to-day, when her heart was full of her child's sweet image, that dark memory still haunted her. It seemed to her as if some mystic influence obliged her to recall the horrors of that night.
"The curse of innocent blood has been upon me," she thought to herself. "I shall never know rest or peace till the murder of Valentine Jernam has been avenged."
Lady Eversleigh went at once to her rooms in Percy Street, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur betook himself to certain haunts, in which he expected to glean some information. That he was not entirely unsuccessful will appear from his subsequent conversation with Lady Eversleigh. After an absence, in reality short, but which, to her suspense and impatience appeared of endless duration, Mr. Larkspur presented himself before her.
"Well, Mr. Larkspur, what news?" she cried, eagerly, as he entered the room.
"Not much, my lady; but there's something done, at any rate. I've found out one fact."
"And what is that?"
"That the little lady has not been taken out of the country. Now, you seem to know something of the man Milsom, my lady. Have you any idea whether there is any particular place where he'd belikelyto take little missy?"
For some minutes Lady Eversleigh remained silent, evidently lost in thought.
"Yes," she said, at last, "I do know something of that man's past career; so much, that the very mention of his name sends a thrill of horror through my heart. Yes, Mr. Larkspur, it is my misfortune to have known Black Milsom only too well in the bitter past."
"If your ladyship wouldn't consider it a liberty," said the police-officer, with some hesitation, "I should very much like to put a question."
"You are free to ask me what questions you please."
"What I should like to ask is this," replied Mr. Larkspur, "when and where did your ladyship happen to meet Black Milsom? If you would only be so kind as to speak freely, it might be a great help to me in the work I've got in hand."
Honoria did not answer him for some moments. She had risen from her chair, and was walking up and down the room in deep thought.
"Will it help you in your search for my child," she said, at length, "if I tell you all I know?"
"It may help me. I cannot venture to say more than that, my lady."
"If there is even a chance, I must speak," replied Honoria. "I will tell you, then," she said, throwing herself into a chair, and fixing her grave, earnest eyes upon the face of her companion. "In order to tell you what I know of Black Milsom, I must go back to the days of my childhood. My first memories are bright ones; but they are so vague, so shadowy, that it is with difficulty I can distinguish realities from dreams; and yet I believe the things which I remembermusthave been real. I have a faint recollection of a darkly beautiful face, that bent over me as I lay in some bed or cradle, softer and more luxurious than any bed I ever slept in for many years after that time. I remember a soft, sweet voice, that sang me to sleep. I remember that in the place I called home everything was beautiful."
"And do you not even know where this home was?"
"I know nothing of its locality. I was too young to remember the names of persons or places. But I have often fancied it was in Italy."
"In Italy!"
"Yes; for the first home which I really remember was a fisherman's hut, in a little village within a few miles of Naples. I was the only child in that miserable hovel—lonely, desolate, miserable, in the power of two wretches, whose presence filled me with loathing."
"And they were—?"
"An old woman, called Andrinetta—I know that, though I called her 'nurse' when she was with me in the beautiful home I so dimly remember—and the man whom you have heard of under the name of Black Milsom."
"Is he an Italian?" asked Andrew, astonished.
"I don't know," replied Honoria. "In England he calls himself an Englishman—in Italy he is supposed to be an Italian. What his real calling was in those days I do not know; but I feel assured that it must been dark and unlawful as all his actions have been since that time. He pretended to get his living like the other fishermen in the neighbourhood; but he was often idle for a week at a time, and still more often, absent. I have seen him count over gold and jewels with old Andrinetta on his return from some expedition. To me he was harsh and cruel. I hated him, and he knew that I hated him. He ordered me to call him father, and I was more than once savagely beaten by him because I refused to do so. Under such treatment, in such a wretched home, deprived of all natural companionship, I grew wild and strange. My will was indomitable as the will of my tyrant; and on many occasions I resisted him boldly. Sometimes I ran away, and wandered for days together among the neighbouring hills and woods; but I returned always sooner or later to my miserable shelter, for I knew not where else to go. My lonely life had made me shrink from all human creatures, except the two wretches with whom I lived; and when the few neighbours would have shown me some kindness, I ran from them in wild, unreasoning terror."
"Strange!" muttered the police-officer.
"Yes; a strange history, is it not?" returned Lady Eversleigh. "And you wonder, no doubt, to hear of such a childhood from the lips of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's widow. One day I heard a neighbour reproaching the man with his cruel treatment of me. 'It is bad enough to have stolen the child,' he said; 'you shouldn't beat her as well.' From that hour I knew that I was a stolen child. I told him as much one night, and the next morning he took me to Naples, where, in the most obscure and yet most crowded part of the city, I lived for some years. 'Nobody will trouble himself about you here, my young princess,' my tyrant said to me. 'Children swarm by hundreds in all the alleys; you will only be one more drop of water in the ocean.'"
There was a pause, during which Honoria sat in a meditative attitude, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy. It seemed as if she was looking back into the shadowy past.
"I cannot tell you how wretched my life was for some time. Andrinetta had accompanied us to Naples; and soon I saw she was very ill, and she had fits of violence that approached insanity. Within doors she was my sole companion. The man only slept in the house, and at times was absent for months. How he earned his livelihood I knew no more than I had known in the little sea-side village. I now rarely saw jewels or gold in his possession; but at night, after he had gone to his chamber, I often heard the chink of golden coin through the thin partition which divided my room from his. I think in these days I must have perished body and soul if Providence had not sent me a friend in the person of a good Catholic priest—a noble and saintly old man—who visited the wretched dens of poverty and crime, and who discovered my desolate state. I need not dwell on that man's goodness to me; it is, doubtless, remembered in heaven, whither he may have gone before this time. He taught me, he comforted me, he rescued me from the abyss of wretchedness into which I had fallen. I took care to conceal his visits from my tyrant, for I knew how that wicked heart would revolt against my redemption from ignorance and misery. When I was fifteen years of age, Andrinetta died. One day, soon after her death—for me a most sorrowful day—Tomaso (as they called him there) told me that he was going to bring me to England, I came with him, and for two years I remained his companion. I will not speak of that time. I have told you now all that I can tell."
"But the murder of Valentine Jernam!" exclaimed Andrew. "Suspicion pointed to this man; and you—you know something of that?"
"I will not speak of that now," replied Honoria. "I have said enough. The day may come when I may speak more freely; but it has not yet arrived. Trust me that I will not impede the course of justice where this man is concerned. And now tell me, does my revelation afford one ray of light which may help to dispel the darkness that surrounds my Gertrude's fate?"
"No, I cannot say it does. I cannot find out anything to indicate that she has been taken far away. I am sure she is in England, and that one of Milsom's pals, a man named Wayman—"
Lady Eversleigh started, and exclaimed, "I know him! I know him! Go on! go on!"
Larkspur directed a glance of keen and eager curiosity towards LadyEversleigh. "You know Wayman?" he said.
"Well, well," she repeated. "I know him to be an unscrupulous ruffian. If he knows where my child is, he will sell the secret for money, and we will give him money—any sum; do you think I shall count the cost of her safety?"
"No, no," said Andrew Larkspur, "but you must not get so excited; keep quiet—tell me all you know of Wayman, and then we shall see our way."
At this point of the conversation Jane Payland knocked at the door of her mistress's sitting-room, and the interview between Honoria and the police-officer was interrupted.
Victor Carrington was very well content with the state of affairs at Hilton House in all but one respect. The fulfilment of his purpose was not approaching with sufficient rapidity. The rich marriage which he had talked about for Reginald was a pure figment; the virtuous ironmonger, with the richly dowered daughter, existed only in his prolific brain—the need of money was growing pressing. He had done much, but there was still much to do, and he must make haste to do it. He had also been mistaken on one point of much importance to his success; he had not calculated on the strength of Douglas Dale's constitution. Each day that he dined with Paulina—and the days on which he did not were exceedingly few—Dale drank a small quantity of curaçoa, into which Carrington had poured poison of a slow but sure nature. As the small carafon in which the liquor was placed upon the table was emptied, the poisoner never found any difficulty in gaining access to the fresh supply.
The antique liquor-chest, with its fittings of Venetian glass was always kept on the side-board in the dining-room, and was never locked. Paulina had a habit of losing anything that came into her hands, and the key of the liquor-chest had long been missing.
But the time was passing, and the poison was not telling, as far as he, the poisoner, could judge from appearances, on Douglas Dale. He never complained of illness, and beyond a slight lassitude, he did not seem to have anything the matter with him. This would not do. It behoved Carrington to expedite matters. His project was to accomplish the death of Douglas Dale by poison, throwing the burthen of suspicion—should suspicion arise—upon Paulina. To advance this purpose, he had industriously circulated reports of the most injurious character respecting her; so that Douglas Dale, if he had not been blinded and engrossed by his love, must have seen that he was regarded by the men whom he was in the habit of meeting even more coldly and curiously than when he had first boldly announced his engagement to Madame Durski. He made it known that Douglas Dale had made a will, by which the whole of his disposable property was bequeathed to Paulina, and circulated a rumour that the Austrian widow was utterly averse to the intended marriage, in feeling, and was only contracting it from interested motives.
"If Dale was only out of the way, and his heir had come into the money, she would rather have Reginald," was a spiteful saying current among those who knew the lady and her suitor, and which had its unsuspected origin with Carrington. Supposing Dale to come to his death by poison, and that fact to be ascertained, who would be suspected but the woman who had everything to gain by his death, whose acknowledged lover was his next heir, and who succeeded by his will to all the property which did not go immediately into the possession of that acknowledged lover? The plan was admirably laid, and there was no apparent hitch in it, and it only remained now for Carrington to accelerate his proceedings. He still maintained reserve with Reginald Eversleigh, who would go to his house, and lounge purposelessly about, sullen and gloomy, but afraid to question the master-mind which had so completely subjugated his weak and craven nature.
The engagement between Paulina and Douglas had lasted nearly two months, when a cloud overshadowed the horizon which had seemed so bright.
Madame Durski became somewhat alarmed by a change in her lover's appearance, which struck her suddenly on one of his visits to the villa. For some weeks past she had seen him only by lamplight—that light which gives a delusive brightness to the countenance.
To-day she saw him with the cold northern sunlight shining full upon his face; and for the first time she perceived that he had altered much of late.
"Douglas," she said, earnestly, "how ill you are looking!"
"Indeed!"
"Yes; I see it to-day for the first time, and I can only wonder that I never noticed it before. You have grown so much paler, so much thinner, within the last few weeks. I am sure you cannot be well."
"My dearest Paulina, pray do not look at me with such alarm," said Douglas, gently. "Believe me, there is nothing particular the matter. I have not been quite myself for the last few weeks, I admit—a touch of low fever, I think; but there is not the slightest occasion for fear on your part."
"Oh, Douglas," exclaimed Paulina, "how can you speak so carelessly of a subject so vital to me? I implore you to consult a physician immediately."
"I assure you, my dearest, it is not necessary. There is nothing really the matter."
"Douglas, I beg and entreat you to see a physician directly. I entreat it as a favour to me."
"My dear Paulina, I am ready to do anything you wish."
"You will promise me, then, to see a doctor you can trust, without an hour's unnecessary delay?"
"I promise, with all my heart," replied Douglas. "Ah, Paulina, what happiness to think that my life is of some slight value to her I love so fondly!"
No more was said upon the subject; but during dinner, and throughout the evening, Paulina's eyes fixed themselves every now and then with an anxious, scrutinizing gaze upon her lover's face.
When he had left her, she mentioned her fears to herconfidanteand shadow, Miss Brewer.
"Do you not see a change in Mr. Dale?" she asked.
"A change! What kind of change?"
"Do you not perceive an alteration in his appearance? In plainer words, do you not think him looking very ill?"
Miss Brewer, generally so impassive, started, and looked at her patroness with a gaze in which alarm was plainly visible.
She had hazarded so much in order to bring about a marriage between Douglas and her patroness; and what if mortality's dread enemy, Death, should forbid the banns?
"Ill!" she exclaimed; "do you think Mr. Dale is ill?"
"I do, indeed; and he confesses as much himself, though he makes light of the matter. He talks of low fever. I cannot tell you how much he has alarmed me."
"There may be nothing serious in it," answered Miss Brewer, with some hesitation. "One is so apt to take alarm about trifles which a doctor would laugh at. I dare say Mr. Dale only requires change of air. A London life is not calculated to improve any one's health."
"Perhaps that is the cause of his altered appearance," replied Paulina, only too glad to be reassured as to her lover's safety. "I will beg him to take change of air. But he has promised to see a doctor to-morrow: when he comes to me in the afternoon I shall hear what the doctor has said."
Douglas Dale was very much inclined to make light of the slight symptoms of ill-health which had oppressed him for some time—a languor, a sense of thirst and fever, which were very wearing in their effect, but which he attributed to the alternations of excitement and agitation that he had undergone of late.
He was, however, too much a man of honour to break the promise made toPaulina.
He went early on the following morning to Savile Row, where he called upon Dr. Harley Westbrook, a physician of some eminence, to whom he carefully described the symptoms of which he had complained to Paulina.
"I do not consider myself really ill," he said, in conclusion; "but I have come to you in obedience to the wish of a friend."
"I am very glad that you have come to me," answered Dr. Westbrook, gravely.
"Indeed! do you, then, consider the symptoms alarming?"
"Well, no, not at present; but I may go so far as to say that you have done very wisely in placing yourself under medical treatment. It is a most interesting case," added the doctor with an air of satisfaction that was almost enjoyment.
He then asked his patient a great many questions, some of which Douglas Dale considered frivolous, or, indeed, absurd; questions about his diet, his habits: questions even about the people with whom he associated, the servants who waited upon him.
These latter inquiries might have seemed almost impertinent, if Dr.Westbrook's elevated position had not precluded such an idea.
"You dine at your club, or in your chambers, eh, Mr. Dale?" he asked.
"Neither at my club, nor my chambers; I dine every day with a friend."
"Indeed; always with the same friend?"
"Always the same."
"And you breakfast?"
"At my chambers."
Here followed several questions as to the nature of the breakfast.
"These sort of ailments depend so much on diet," said the physician, as if to justify the closeness of his questioning. "Your servant prepares your breakfast, of course—is he a person whom you can trust?"
"Yes; he is an old servant of my father's. I could trust him implicitly in far more important matters than the preparation of my breakfast."
"Indeed! Will you pardon me if I ask rather a strange question?"
"Certainly, if it is a necessary one."
"Answered like a lawyer, Mr. Dale," replied Dr. Westbrook, with a smile. "I want to know whether this old and trusted servant of yours has any beneficial interest in your death?"
"Interest in my death—"
"In plainer words, has he reason to think that you have put him down in your will—supposing that you have made a will; which is far from probable?"
"Well, yes," replied Douglas, thoughtfully; "I have made a will within the last few months, and Jarvis, my old servant knows that he is provided for, in the event of surviving me—not a very likely event, according to the ordinary hazards; but a man is bound to prepare for every contingency."
"You told your servant that you had provided for him?"
"I did. He has been such an excellent creature, that it was only natural I should leave him comfortably situated in the event of my death."
"No; to be sure," answered the physician, with rather an absent manner."And now I need trouble you with no further questions this morning.Come to me in a few days, and in the meantime take the medicine Iprescribe for you."
Dr. Westbrook wrote a prescription, and Mr. Dale departed, very much perplexed by his interview with the celebrated physician.
Douglas went to Fulham that evening as usual, and the first questionPaulina asked related to his interview with the doctor.
"You have seen a medical man?" she asked.
"I have; and you may set your mind at rest, dearest. He assures me that there is nothing serious the matter."
Paulina was entirely reassured, and throughout that evening she was brighter and happier than usual in the society of her lover—more lovely, more bewitching than ever, as it seemed to Douglas.
He waited a week before calling again on the physician; and he might, perhaps, have delayed his visit even longer, had he not felt that the fever and languor from which he suffered increased rather than abated.
This time Dr. Westbrook's manner seemed graver and more perplexed than on the former visit. He asked even more questions, and at last, after a thoughtful examination of the patient, he said, very seriously—
"Mr. Dale, I must tell you frankly that I do not like your symptoms."
"You consider them alarming?"
"I consider them perplexing, rather than alarming. And as you are not a nervous subject I think I may venture to trust you fully."
"You may trust in the strength of my nerve, if that is what you mean."
"I believe I may, and I shall have to test your moral courage and general force of character."
"Pray be brief, then," said Douglas with a faint smile. "I can almost guess what you have to say. You are going to tell me that I carry the seeds of a mortal disease; that the shadowy hand of death already holds me in its fatal grip."
"I am going to tell you nothing of the kind," answered Dr. Westbrook."I can find no symptoms of disease. You have a very fair lease of life,Mr. Dale, and may enjoy a green old age, if other people would allowyou to enjoy it."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean that if I can trust my own judgment in a matter which is sometimes almost beyond the reach of science, the symptoms from which you suffer are those of slow poisoning."
"Slow poisoning!" replied Douglas, in almost inaudible accents. "It is impossible!" he exclaimed, after a pause, during which the physician waited quietly until his patient should have in some manner recovered his calmness of mind. "It is quite impossible. I have every confidence in your skill, your science; but in this instance, Dr. Westbrook, I feel assured that you are mistaken."
"I would gladly think so, Mr. Dale," replied the doctor, gravely; "but I cannot. I have given my best thought to your case. I can only form one conclusion—namely, that you are labouring under the effects of poison."
"Do you know what the poison is?"
"I do not; but I do know that it must have been administered with a caution that is almost diabolical in its ingenuity—so slowly, by such imperceptible degrees, that you have scarcely been aware of the change which it has worked in your system. It was a most providential circumstance that you came to me when you did, as I have been able to discover the treachery to which you are subject while there is yet ample time for you to act against it. Forewarned is forearmed, you know, Mr. Dale. The hidden hand of the secret poisoner is about its fatal work; it is for you and me to discover to whom the hand belongs. Is there any one about you whom you can suspect of such hideous guilt?"
"No one—no one. I repeat that such a thing is impossible."
"Who is the person most interested in your death?" asked Dr. Westbrook, calmly.
"My first cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, who would succeed to a very handsome income in that event. But I have not met him, or, at any rate, broke bread with him, for the last two months. Nor can I for a moment believe him capable of such infamy."
"If you have not been in intimate association with him for the last two months, you may absolve him from all suspicion," answered Dr. Westbrook. "You spoke to me the other day of dining very frequently with one particular friend; forgive me if I ask an unpleasant question. Is that friend a person whom you can trust?"
"That friend I could trust with a hundred lives, if I had them to lose," Douglas replied, warmly.
The doctor looked at his patient thoughtfully. He was a man of the world, and the warmth of Mr. Dale's manner told him that the friend in question was a woman.
"Has the person whom you trust so implicitly any beneficial interest in your death?" he asked.
"To some amount; but that person would gain much more by my continuing to live."
"Indeed; then we must needs fall back upon my original idea and painful as it may be to you, the old servant must become the object of your suspicion."
"I cannot believe him capable—"
"Come, come, Mr. Dale," interrupted the physician. "We must look at things as men of the world. It is your duty to ascertain by whom this poison has been administered, in order to protect yourself from the attacks of your insidious destroyer. If you will follow my advice, you will do this; if, on the other hand, you elect to shut your eyes to the danger that assails you, I can only tell you that you will most assuredly pay for your folly by the forfeit of your life."
"What am I to do?" asked Douglas.
"You say that your habits of life are almost rigid in their regularity. You always breakfast in your own chambers; you always dine and take your after-dinner coffee in the house of one particular friend. With the exception of a biscuit and a glass of sherry taken sometimes at your club, these two meals are all you take during the day. It is, therefore, an indisputable fact, that poison has bee a administered at one or other of these two meals. Your old butler serves one—the servants of your friend prepare the other. Either in your own chambers, or in your friend's house, you have a hidden foe. It is for you to find out where that foe lurks."
"Not in her house," gasped Douglas, unconsciously betraying the depth of his feeling and the sex of his friend; "not in hers. It must be Jarvis whom I have to fear—and yet, no, I cannot believe it. My father's old servant—a man who used to carry me in his arms when I was a boy!"
"You may easily set the question of his guilt or innocence at rest, Mr. Dale," answered Dr. Westbrook. "Contrive to separate yourself from him for a time. If during that time you find your symptoms cease, you will have the strongest evidence of his guilt; if they still continue, you must look elsewhere."
"I will take your advice," replied Douglas, with a weary sigh; "anything is better than suspense."
Little more was said.
As Douglas walked slowly from the physician's house to the PhoenixClub, he meditated profoundly on the subject of his interview with Dr.Westbrook.
"Who is the traitor?" he asked himself. "Who? Unhappily there can be no doubt about it. Jarvis is the guilty wretch."
It was with unspeakable pain that Douglas Dale contemplated the idea of his old servant's guilt: his old servant, who had seemed a model of fidelity and devotion!
This very man had attended the deathbed of the rector—Douglas Dale's father—had been recommended by that father to the care of his two sons, had exhibited every appearance of intense grief at the loss of his master.
What could he think, except that Jarvis was guilty? There was but one other direction in which he could look for guilt, and there surely it could not be found.
Who in Hilton House had any interest in his death, except that one person who was above the possibility of suspicion?
He sat by his solitary breakfast-table on the morning after his interview with the physician, and watched Jarvis as he moved to and fro, waiting on his master with what seemed affectionate attention.
Douglas ate little. A failing appetite had been one of the symptoms that accompanied the low fever from which he had lately suffered.
This morning, depression of spirits rendered him still less inclined to eat.
He was thinking of Jarvis and of the past—those careless, happy, childish days, in which this man had been second only to his own kindred in his boyish affection.
While he meditated gravely upon this most painful subject, deliberating as to the manner in which he should commence a conversation that was likely to be a very serious one, he happened to look up, and perceived that he was watched by the man he had been lately watching. His eyes met the gaze of his old servant, and he beheld a strange earnestness in that gaze.
The old man did not flinch on meeting his master's glance.