With this dreadful sound in his ears, Barnabas hurried away from that place of horror; but ever the sound pursued him, it echoed in his step, it panted in his quickened breathing, it throbbed in the pulsing of his heart. Wherever he looked, there always was Jasper Gaunt lolling in his chair with his head dangling at its horrible angle,—the very night was full of him.
Hot-foot went Barnabas, by dingy streets and silent houses, and with his chin now on one shoulder, now on the other; and thus, he presently found himself before a certain door and, remembering its faulty catch, tried it but found it fast. Therefore he knocked, softly at first, but louder and louder until at length the door was plucked suddenly open and a woman appeared, a slatternly creature who bore a candle none too steadily.
"Now then, owdacious," she began, somewhat slurring of speech. "What d'ye want—this time o' night—knocking at 'spectable door of a person?"
"Is Mr. Barrymaine in?"
"Mist' Barrymaine?" repeated the woman, scattering grease-spots as she raised the candle in her unsteady hand, "what d'ye wan' this time o'—"
Here, becoming aware of the magnificence of the visitor's attire, she dropped Barnabas a floundering curtsy and showered the step with grease-spots.
"Can I see Mr. Barrymaine?"
"Yes, sir—this way, sir, an' min' the step, sir. See Mist' Barrymaine, yes, sir, firs' floor—an' would you be so good as to ax 'im to keep 'is feet still, or, as you might say, 'is trotters, sir—"
"His feet?"
"Also 'is legs, sir, if you'd be so very obleeging, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"Come an' listen, sir!" So saying, the woman opened a door and stood with a finger pointing unsteadily upwards. "Been a-doing of it ever since 'e came in a hour ago. It ain't loud, p'r'aps, but it's worriting—very worriting. If 'e wants to dance 'e might move about a bit 'stead o' keeping in one place all the time—'ark!" And she pointed with her quavering finger to a certain part of the ceiling whence came the tramp! tramp! of restless feet; and yet the feet never moved away.
"I'll go up!" said Barnabas, and, nodding to the slatternly woman, he hurried along the passage and mounting the dark stair, paused before a dingy door. Now, setting his ear to the panel, he heard a sound—a muffled sound, hoarse but continuous, ever and anon rising to a wail only to sink again, yet never quite ceasing. Then, feeling the door yield to his hand, Barnabas opened it and, stepping softly into the room, closed it behind him.
The place was very dark, except where the moon sent a fugitive beam through the uncurtained window, and face downward across this pale light lay a huddled figure from whose unseen lips the sounds issued—long, awful, gasping sobs; a figure that stirred and writhed like one in torment, whose clenched hands beat themselves upon the frayed carpet, while, between the sobbing and the beat of those clenched hands, came broken prayers intermingled with oaths and moaning protestations.
Barnabas drew a step nearer, and, on the instant, the grovelling figure started up to an elbow; thus, stooping down, Barnabas looked into the haggard face of Ronald Barrymaine.
"Beverley!" he gasped, "w-what d'you want? Go away,—l-leave me!"
"No!" said Barnabas, "it is you who must go away—at once. You must leave London to-night!"
"W-what d' you mean?"
"You must be clear of England by to-morrow night at latest."
Barrymaine stared up at Barnabas wide-eyed and passed his tongue to and fro across his lips before he spoke again:
"Beverley, w-what d' you—mean?"
"I know why you keep your right hand hidden!" said Barnabas.
Barrymaine shivered suddenly, but his fixed stare never wavered, only, as he crouched there, striving to speak yet finding no voice, upon his furrowed brow and pallid cheek ran glittering lines of sweat. At last he contrived to speak again, but in a whisper now:
"W-what do you mean?"
"I mean that tonight I found this scrap of cloth, and I recognized it as part of the cuff of your sleeve, and I found it clenched in Jasper Gaunt's dead hand."
With a hoarse, gasping cry Barrymaine cast himself face down upon the floor again and writhed there like one in agony.
"I d-didn't mean to—oh, God! I never m-meant it!" he groaned and, starting to his knees, he caught at Barnabas with wild, imploring hands: "Oh, Beverley, I s-swear to you I n-never meant to do it. I went there tonight to l-learn the truth, and he th-threatened me—threatened me, I tell you, s-so we fought and he was s-strong and swung me against the w-wall. And then, Beverley—as we s-struggled—somehow I g-got hold of—of the dagger and struck at him—b-blindly. And—oh, my God, Beverley—I shall never forget how he—ch-choked! I can hear it now! But I didn't mean to—do it. Oh, I s-swear I never meant it, Beverley—s-so help me, God!"
"But he is dead," said Barnabas, "and now—"
"Y-you won't give me up, Beverley?" cried Barrymaine, clinging to his knees. "I wronged you, I know—n-now, but don't g-give me up. I'm not afraid to d-die like a g-gentleman should, but—the gallows—oh, my God!"
"No, you must be saved—from that!"
"Ah—w-will you help me?"
"That is why I came."
"W-what must I do?"
"Start for Dover—to-night."
"Yes—yes, Dover. B-but I have no money."
"Here are twenty guineas, they will help you well on your way. When they are gone you shall have more."
"Beverley, I—wronged you, but I know now who my c-creditor really is—I know who has been m-my enemy all along—oh, blind f-fool that I've been,—but I know—now. And I think it's t-turned my brain. Beverley,—my head's all confused—wish D-Dig were here. But I shall be better s-soon. It was D-Dover you said, I think?"
"Yes,—but now, take off that coat."
"B-but it's the only one I've got!"
"You shall have mine," said Barnabas and, throwing aside his cloak, he stripped off that marvellous garment (whose flattened revers were never to become the vogue, after all), and laid it upon the table beside Barrymaine who seemed as he leaned there to be shaken by strange twitchings and tremblings.
"Oh, Beverley," he muttered, "it would have been a good th-thing for me if somebody had s-strangled me at birth. No!—d-don't light the candle!" he cried suddenly, for Barnabas had sought and found the tinder-box, "don't! d-don't!"
But Barnabas struck and the tinder caught, then, as the light came, Barrymaine shrank away and away, and, crouching against the wall, stared down at himself, at his right sleeve ripped and torn, and at certain marks that spattered and stained him, here and there, awful marks much darker than the cloth. Now as he looked, a great horror seemed to come upon him, he trembled violently and, stumbling forward, sank upon his knees beside the table, hiding his sweating face between his arms. And, kneeling thus, he uttered soft, strange, unintelligible noises and the table shook and quivered under him.
"Come, you must take off that coat!"
Very slowly Barrymaine lifted his heavy head and looked at Barnabas with dilating eyes and with his mouth strangely drawn and twisted.
"Oh, Beverley!" he whispered, "I—I think I'm—"
"You must give me that coat!" persisted Barnabas.
Still upon his knees, Barrymaine began to fumble at the buttons of that stained, betraying garment but, all at once, his fingers seemed to grow uncertain, they groped aimlessly, fell away, and he spoke in a hoarse whisper, while upon his lip was something white, like foam.
"I—oh I—Beverley, I—c-can't!"
And now, all at once, as they stared into each other's eyes, Barnabas leaning forward, strong and compelling, Barrymaine upon his knees clinging weakly to the table, sudden and sharp upon the stillness broke a sound—an ominous sound, the stumble of a foot that mounted the stair.
Uttering a broken cry Barrymaine struggled up to his feet, strove desperately to speak, his distorted mouth flecked with foam, and beating the air with frantic hands pitched over and thudded to the floor.
Then the door opened and Mr. Smivvle appeared who, calling upon Barrymaine's name, ran forward and fell upon his knees beside that convulsed and twisted figure.
"My God, Beverley!" he cried, "how comes he like this—what has happened?"
"Are you his friend?"
"Yes, yes, his friend—certainly! Haven't I told you the hand of aSmivvle, sir—"
"Tonight he killed Jasper Gaunt."
"Eh? Killed? Killed him?"
"Murdered him—though I think more by accident than design."
"Killed him! Murdered him!"
"Yes. Pull yourself together and listen. Tomorrow the hue and cry will be all over London, we must get him away—out of the country if possible."
"Yes, yes—of course! But he's ill—a fit, I think."
"Have you ever seen him so before?"
"Never so bad as this. There, Barry, there, my poor fellow! Help me to get him on the couch, will you, Beverley?"
Between them they raised that twitching form; then, as Mr. Smivvle stooped to set a cushion beneath the restless head, he started suddenly back, staring wide-eyed and pointing with a shaking finger.
"My God!" he whispered, "what's that? Look—look at his coat."
"Yes," said Barnabas, "we must have it off."
"No, no—it's too awful!" whimpered Mr. Smivvle, shrinking away, "see—it's—it's all down the front!"
"If this coat is ever found, it will hang him!" said Barnabas."Come, help me to get it off."
So between them it was done; thereafter, while Mr. Smivvle crouched beside that restless, muttering form, Barnabas put on his cloak and, rolling up the torn coat, hid it beneath its ample folds.
"What, are you going, Beverley?"
"Yes—for one thing to get rid of this coat. On the table are twenty guineas, take them, and just so soon as Barrymaine is fit to travel, get him away, but above all, don't—"
"Who is it?" cried Barrymaine suddenly, starting up and peering wildly over his shoulder, "w-who is it? Oh, I t-tell you there's s-somebody behind me—who is it?"
"Nobody, Barry—not a soul, my poor boy, compose yourself!" But, even as Mr. Smivvle spoke, Barrymaine fell back and lay moaning fitfully and with half-closed eyes. "Indeed I fear he is very ill, Beverley!"
"If he isn't better by morning, get a doctor," said Barnabas, "but, whatever you do—keep Chichester away from him. As regards money I'll see you shan't want for it. And now, for the present, good-by!"
So saying, Barnabas caught up his hat and, with a last glance at the moaning figure on the couch, went from the room and down the stairs, and let himself out into the dingy street.
It was long past midnight when Barnabas reached his house in St. James's Square; and gazing up at its goodly exterior he sighed, and thereafter frowned, and so, frowning still, let himself in. Now, late though the hour, Peterby was up, and met him in the hall.
"Sir," said he, anxious of eye as he beheld his young master's disordered dress and the grim pallor of his face, "the Marquis of Jerningham and Viscount Devenham called. They waited for you,—they waited over an hour."
"But they are gone now, of course?" inquired Barnabas, pausing, with his foot on the stair.
"Yes, sir—"
"Good!" nodded Barnabas with a sigh of relief.
"But they left word they would call to-morrow morning, early; indeed they seemed most anxious to see you, sir."
"Ha!" said Barnabas, and, frowning still, went on up the stair.
"Sir," said Peterby, lighting the way into the dressing-room, "you received the—the letter safely?"
"Yes, I received it," said Barnabas, tossing aside his hat and cloak, "and that reminds me,—to-morrow morning you will discharge all the servants."
"Sir?"
"Pay them a month's wages. Also you will get rid of this house and furniture, and all the carriages and horses—except 'The Terror,' —sell them for what they will fetch—no matter how little, only—get rid of them."
"Yes, sir."
"As for yourself, Peterby, I shall require your services no longer. But you needn't lack for a position—every dandy of 'em all will be wild to get you. And, because you are the very best valet in the world, you can demand your own terms."
"Yes, sir."
"And now, I think that is all, I shan't want you again tonight—stay though, before I go to bed bring me the things I wore when I first met you, the garments which as clothes, you told me, didn't exist."
"Sir, may I ask you a question?"
"Oh, yes—if you wish," sighed Barnabas, wearily.
"Are you leaving London, sir?"
"I'm leaving the World of Fashion—yes."
"And you—don't wish me to accompany you, sir."
"No."
"Have I—displeased you in any way?"
"No, it is only that the 'best valet in the world' would be wasted on me any longer, and I shall not need you where I am going."
"Not as a—servant, sir?"
"No."
"Then, sir, may I remind you that I am also a—man? A man who owes all that he is to your generosity and noble trust and faith. And, sir, it seems to me that a man may sometimes venture where a servant may not—if you are indeed done with the Fashionable World, I have done with it also, for I shall never serve any other than you."
Then Barnabas turned away and coming to the mantel leaned there, staring blankly down at the empty hearth; and in a while he spoke, though without looking up:
"The Fashionable World has turned its polite back upon me, Peterby, because I am only the son of a village inn-keeper. But—much more than this—my lady has—has lost her faith in me, my fool's dream is over—nothing matters any more. And so I am going away to a place I have heard described by a pedler of books as 'the worst place in the world'—and indeed I think it is."
"Sir," said Peterby, "when do we start?"
Then, very slowly, Barnabas lifted his heavy head and looked at John Peterby; and, in that dark hour, smiled, and reaching out, caught and grasped his hand; also, when he spoke again, his voice was less hard and not so steady as before:
"Oh, John!" said he, "John Peterby—my faithful John! Come with me if you will, but you come as my—friend."
"And—where are we going, sir?" inquired John, as they stood thus, hand in hand, looking into each other's eyes.
"To Giles's Rents, John,—down by the River."
And thus did Barnabas, in getting rid of the "best valet in the world," find for himself a faithful friend instead.
Number Five St. James's Square was to let; its many windows were blank and shuttered, its portal, which scarcely a week ago had been besieged by Fashion, was barred and bolted, the Gentleman-in-Powder had vanished quite, and with him the glory of Number Five St. James's Square had departed utterly.
Barnabas paused to let his gaze wander over it, from roof to pavement, then, smiling a little bitterly, buried his chin in the folds of his belcher neckerchief and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, turned and went his way.
And as he went, smiling still, and still a little bitterly, he needs must remember and vaguely wonder what had become of all that Polite notepaper, and all those Fashionable cards, embossed, gilt-edged, and otherwise, that had been wont to pour upon him every morning, and which had so rejoiced the highly susceptible and eloquent legs of the Gentleman-in-Powder.
Evening was falling and the square seemed deserted save for a solitary man in a neckcloth of vivid hue, a dejected-looking man who lounged against the wall under the shade of the trees in the middle of the square, and seemed lost in contemplation of his boots. And yet when Barnabas, having traversed Charles Street and turned into the Haymarket, chanced to look back, he saw that the man was lounging dejectedly after him. Therefore Barnabas quickened his steps, and, reaching the crowded Strand, hurried on through the bustling throng; but just beyond Temple Bar, caught a glimpse of the vivid neckcloth on the opposite side of the road. Up Chancery Lane and across Holborn went Barnabas, yet, as he turned down Leather Lane, there, sure enough, was the man in the neckcloth as dejected as ever, but not twelve yards behind.
Half-way down crowded Leather Lane Barnabas turned off down a less frequented street and halting just beyond the corner, waited for his pursuer to come up. And presently round the corner he came and, in his hurry, very nearly stumbled over Barnabas, who promptly reached out a long arm and pinned him by the vivid neckcloth.
"Why do you follow me?" he demanded.
"Foller you?" repeated the man.
"You have been following me all the way."
"Have I?" said the man.
"You know you have. Come, what do you want?"
"Well, first," said the man, sighing dejectedly, "leggo my neck, will ye be so kind?"
"Not till you tell me why you follow me."
"Why, then," said the man, "listen and I'll tell ye."
"Well?" demanded Barnabas.
But, all at once, and quick as a flash, with a wrench and a cunning twist, the man had broken away and, taking to his heels, darted off down the street and was gone.
For a moment Barnabas stood hesitating, undecided whether to go on to Barrymaine's lodging or no, and finally struck off in the opposite direction, towards Gray's Inn Lane and so by devious ways eventually arrived at the back door of the "Gun," on which he forthwith knocked.
It was opened, almost immediately, by Corporal Richard Roe himself, who stared a moment, smiled, and thereupon extended a huge hand.
"What, is it you, sir?" he exclaimed, "for a moment I didn't know ye.Step in, sir, step in, we're proud to see ye."
So saying, he ushered Barnabas down two steps into the small but very snug chamber that he remembered, with its rows upon rows of shelves whereon a whole regiment of bottles and glasses were drawn up in neat array, "dressed" and marshalled as if on parade; it was indeed a place of superlative tidiness where everything seemed to be in a perpetual state of neatness and order.
In a great elbow chair beside the ingle, with a cushion at his back and another beneath one foot, sat Mr. Shrig puffing at a pipe and with his little reader open on the table at his elbow. He looked a little thinner and paler than usual, and Barnabas noticed that one leg was swathed in bandages, but his smile was as innocent and guileless and his clasp as warm as ever as they greeted each other.
"You must ax-cuse me rising, sir," said he, "the sperrit is villing but natur' forbids, it can't be done on account o' this here leg o' mine,—a slug through the stamper, d' ye see, vich is bad enough, though better than it might ha' been. But it vere a good night on the whole,—thanks to you and the Corp 'ere, I got the whole gang, —though, from conclusions as I'd drawed I'ad 'oped to get—vell, shall ve say Number Two? But Fate was ag'in me. Still, I don't complain, and the vay you fought 'em off till the Corp and my specials come up vas a vonder!"
"Ah! that it were!" nodded the Corporal.
"Though 'ow you wanished yourself avay, and v'ere you wanished to, is more vonderful still."
"Ah, that it is, sir!" nodded the Corporal again.
"Why," explained Barnabas, "I was stunned by a blow on the head, and when I came to, found myself lying out on the wharf behind a broken boat. I should have come round here days ago to inquire how you were, Mr. Shrig, only that my time has been—much occupied—of late."
"Veil, sir," said Mr. Shrig, puffing hard at his pipe, "from all accounts I should reckon as it 'ad. By Goles! but ve vas jest talking about you, sir, the werry i-dentical moment as you knocked at the door. I vas jest running over my little reader and telling the Corp the v'y and the v'erefore as you couldn't ha' done the deed."
"What deed?"
"V'y—thedeed. The deed as all London is a-talking of,—the murder o' Jasper Gaunt, the money-lender."
"Ah!" said Barnabas thoughtfully. "And so you are quite sure thatI—didn't murder Jasper Gaunt, are you. Mr. Shrig?"
"Quite—oh, Lord love you, yes!"
"And why?"
"Because," said Mr. Shrig with his guileless smile, and puffing out a cloud of smoke and watching it vanish ceilingwards, "because I 'appen to know 'oo did."
"Oh!" said Barnabas more thoughtfully than ever. "And who do you think it is?"
"Vell, sir," answered Mr. Shrig ponderously, "from conclusions as I've drawed I don't feel at liberty to name no names nor yet cast no insinivations, but—v'en the other traps (sich werry smart coves too!) 'ave been and gone an' arrested all the innercent parties in London, v'y then I shall put my castor on my napper, and take my tickler in my fib and go and lay my 'ooks on the guilty party."
"And when will that be?"
"Jest so soon as my leg sarves me, sir,—say a veek,—say, two."
"You're in no hurry then?"
"Lord, no, sir, I'm never in an 'urry."
"And you say you think you know who the murderer is?"
"V-y no, sir,—from conclusions as I've drawed I'm sure and sartin 'oo did the deed. But come, sir, vot do you say to a glass o' the Vun and Only, to drink a quick despatch to the guilty party?"
But the clock striking eight, Barnabas shook his head and rose.
"Thank you, but I must be going," said he.
"V'y if you must, you must," sighed Mr. Shrig as they shook hands; "good evening, sir, an' if anything unpleasant should 'appen to you in the next day or two—jest tip me the vord."
"What do you mean by unpleasant, Mr. Shrig?"
"Vell, took up p'r'aps, or shall ve say—arrested,—by some o' the other traps—sich werry smart coves, too!"
"Do you think it likely, Mr. Shrig?"
"Vell, sir," said Mr. Shrig, with his placid smile, "there's some traps as is so uncommon smart that they've got an 'abit of arresting innercent parties verever found, d'ye see. But if they should 'appen to lay their 'ooks on ye, jest tip me the office, sir."
"Thank you," said Barnabas, "I shan't forget," and, with a final nod to Mr. Shrig, turned and followed the Corporal into Gray's Inn Lane.
Now when Barnabas would have gone his way the Corporal stayed him with a very large but very gentle hand, and thereafter stood, rubbing his shaven chin with his shining hook and seeming very much abashed.
"What is it, Corporal?" Barnabas inquired.
"Well, sir," said the soldier diffidently, "it's like this, sir, my pal Jarsper and me, 'aving heard of—of your—altered circumstances, sir, wishes it to be understood as once your pals, ever your pals, come shine, come rain. We likewise wish it to be understood as if at any time a—a guinea would come in 'andy-like, sir—or say two or three, my pal Jarsper and me will be proud to oblige, proud, sir. And lastly, sir, my pal Jarsper and me would 'ave you to know as if at any time you want a friend to your back, there's me and there's 'im—or a roof to your 'ead, why there's ever and always the 'Gun' open to you, sir. We wishes you to understand this and—good evening, sir!"
But, or ever the blushing Corporal could escape, Barnabas caught and wrung his hand:
"And I, Corporal," said he, "I wish you both to know that I am proud to have won two such staunch friends, and that I shall always esteem it an honor to ask your aid or take your hands,—good night, Corporal!"
So saying, Barnabas turned upon his heel, and as he went his step was free and his eye brighter than it had been.
He took an intricate course by winding alleys and narrow side-streets, keeping his glance well about him until at length he came to a certain door in a certain dingy street,—and, finding the faulty latch yield to his hand, entered a narrow, dingy hall and groped his way up the dingiest stairs in the world.
Now all at once he fancied he heard a stealthy footstep that climbed on in the darkness before him, and he paused suddenly, but, hearing nothing, strode on, then stopped again for, plain enough this time, some one stumbled on the stair above him. So he stood there in the gloom, very still and very silent, and thus he presently heard another sound, very soft and faint like the breathing of a sigh. And all at once Barnabas clenched his teeth and spoke.
"Who is it?" he demanded fiercely, "now, by God—if it's you, Chichester—" and with the word, he reached out before him in the dark with merciless, griping hands.
The contact of something warm and soft; a broken, pitiful cry of fear, and he had a woman in his arms. And, even as he clasped that yielding form, Barnabas knew instinctively who it was, and straightway thrilled with a wild joy.
"Madam!" he said hoarsely. "Madam!"
But she never stirred, nay it almost seemed she sank yet closer into his embrace, if that could well be.
"Cleone!" he whispered.
"Barnabas," sighed a voice; and surely no other voice in all the world could have uttered the word so tenderly.
"I—I fear I frightened you?"
"Yes, a little—Barnabas."
"You are—trembling very much."
"Am I—Barnabas?"
"I am sorry that I—frightened you."
"I'm better now."
"Yet you—tremble!"
"But I—think I can walk if—"
"If—?"
"If you will help me, please—Barnabas."
Oh, surely never had those dark and dingy stairs, worn though they were by the tread of countless feet, heard till now a voice so soft, so low and sweet, so altogether irresistible! Such tender, thrilling tones might have tamed Hyrcanean tigers or charmed the ferocity of Cerberus himself. Then how might our Barnabas hope to resist, the more especially as one arm yet encircled the yielding softness of her slender waist and her fragrant breath was upon his cheek?
Help her? Of course he would.
"It's so very—dark," she sighed.
"Yes, it's very dark," said Barnabas, "but it isn't far to the landing—shall we go up?"
"Yes, but—" my lady hesitated a moment as one who takes breath for some great effort, and, in that moment, he felt her bosom heave beneath his hand. "Oh, Barnabas," she whispered, "won't you—kiss me—first?"
Then Barnabas trembled in his turn, the arm about her grew suddenly rigid and, when he spoke, his voice was harsh and strained.
"Madam," said he, "can the mere kiss of an—inn-keeper's son restore your dead faith?"
Now when he had said this, Cleone shrank in his embrace and uttered a loud cry as if he had offered her some great wrong, and, breaking from him, was gone before him up the stair, running in the dark.
Oh, Youth! Oh, Pride!
So Barnabas hurried after her and thus, as she threw open Barrymaine's door he entered with her and, in his sudden abasement, would have knelt to her, but Ronald Barrymaine had sprung up from the couch and now leaned there, staring with dazed eyes like one new wakened from sleep.
"Ronald," she cried, running to him, "I came as soon as I could, butI didn't understand your letter. You wrote of some great danger. Oh,Ronald dear, what is it—this time?"
"D-danger!" he repeated, and with the word, turned to stare over his shoulder into the dingiest corner: "d-danger, yes, so I am,—but t-tell me who it is—behind me, in the corner?"
"No one, Ronald."
"Yes—yes there is, I tell you," he whispered, "look again—now, d-don't you see him?"
"No, oh no!" answered Cleone, clasping her hands, and shrinking before Barrymaine's wild and haggard look. "Oh, Ronald, there's—no one there!"
"Yes there is, he's always there now—always just behind me. Last night he began to talk to me—ah, no, no—what am I saying? never heed me, Clo. I—I asked you to come because I'm g-going away, soon, very s-soon, Clo, and I know I shall n-never see you again. I suppose you thought it was m-money I wanted, but no—it's not that, I wanted to say good-by because you see I'm g-going away—to-night!"
"Going away, Ronald?" she repeated, sinking to her knees beside the rickety couch, for he had fallen back there as though overcome by sudden weakness. "Dear boy, where are you going—and why?"
"I'm g-going far away—because I must—the s-sooner the better!" he whispered, struggling to his elbow to peer into the corner again. "Yes, the s-sooner the better. But, before I go I want you to promise—to swear, Clo—to s-swear to me—" Barrymaine sat up suddenly and, laying his nervous hands upon her shoulders, leaned down to her in fierce eagerness, "You must s-swear to me n-never to see or have anything to do with that d-devil, Chichester, d' ye hear me, Clo, d' ye hear me?"
"But—oh, Ronald, I don't understand, you always told me he was your friend, I thought—"
"Friend!" cried Barrymaine passionately. "He's a devil, I tell you he's a d-devil, oh—" Barrymaine choked and fell back gasping; but, even as Cleone leaned above him all tender solicitude, he pushed her aside and, springing to his feet, reached out and caught Barnabas by the arm. "Beverley," he cried, "you'll shield her from him—w-when I'm gone, you'll l-look after her, won't you, Beverley? She's the only thing I ever loved—except my accursed self. You will shield her from—that d-devil!"
Then, still clutching Barnabas, he turned and seized Cleone's hands.
"Clo!" he cried, "dearest of sisters, if ever you need a f-friend when I'm gone, he's here. Turn to him, Clo—look up—give him your hand. Y-you loved him once, I think, and you were right—quite r-right. You can t-trust Beverley, Clo—g-give him your hand."
"No, no!" cried Cleone, and, snatching her fingers from Barrymaine's clasp, she turned away.
"What—you w-won't?"
"No—never, never!"
"Why not? Answer me! Speak, I tell you!"
But Cleone knelt there beside the couch, her head proudly averted, uttering no word.
"Why, you don't think, like so many of the fools, that he killed Jasper Gaunt, do you?" cried Barrymaine feverishly. "You don't think he d-did it, do you—do you? Ah, but he didn't—he didn't, I tell you, and I know—because—"
"Stop!" exclaimed Barnabas.
"Stop—no, why should I? She'll learn soon enough now and I'm m-man enough to tell her myself—I'm no c-coward, I tell you—"
Then Cleone raised her head and looked up at her half-brother, and in her eyes were a slow-dawning fear and horror.
"Oh, Ronald!" she whispered, "what do you mean?"
"Mean?" cried Barrymaine, "I mean that I did it—I did it. Yes, I k-killed Jasper Gaunt, but it was no m-murder, Clo—a—a fight, an accident—yes, I s-swear to God I never meant to do it."
"You!" she whispered, "you?"
"Yes, I—I did it, but I swear I never m-meant to—oh, Cleone—" and he reached down to her with hands outstretched appealingly. But Cleone shrank down and down—away from him, until she was crouching on the floor, yet staring up at him with wide and awful eyes.
"You!" she whispered.
"Don't!" he cried. "Ah, don't look at me like that and oh, my God!W-won't you l-let me t-touch you, Clo?"
"I—I'd rather you—wouldn't;" and Barnabas saw that she was shivering violently.
"But it was no m-murder," he pleaded, "and I'm g-going away, Clo—ah! won't you let me k-kiss you good-by—just once, Clo?"
"I'd rather—you wouldn't," she whispered.
"Y-your hand, then—only your hand, Clo."
"I'd rather—you didn't!"
Then Ronald Barrymaine groaned and fell on his knees beside her and sought to kiss her little foot, the hem of her dress, a strand of her long, yellow hair; but seeing how she shuddered away from him, a great sob broke from him and he rose to his feet.
"Beverley," he said, "oh, Beverley, s-she won't let me touch her." And so stood a while with his face hidden in his griping hands. After a moment he looked down at her again, but seeing how she yet gazed at him with that wide, awful, fixed stare, he strove as if to speak; then, finding no words, turned suddenly upon his heel and crossing the room, went into his bed-chamber and locked the door.
Then Barnabas knelt beside that shaken, desolate figure and fain would have comforted her, but now he could hear her speaking in a passionate whisper, and the words she uttered were these:
"Oh, God forgive him! Oh, God help him! Have mercy upon him, oh God of Pity!"
And these words she whispered over and over again until, at length,Barnabas reached out and touched her very gently.
"Cleone!" he said.
At the touch she rose and stood looking round the dingy room like one distraught, and, sighing, crossed unsteadily to the door.
And when they reached the stair, Barnabas would have taken her hand because of the dark, but she shrank away from him and shook her head.
"Sir," said she very softly, "a murderer's sister needs no help, I thank you."
And so they went down the dark stair with never a word between them and, reaching the door with the faulty latch, Barnabas held it open and they passed out into the dingy street, and as they walked side by side towards Hatton Garden, Barnabas saw that her eyes were still fixed and wide and that her lips still moved in silent prayer.
In a while, being come into Hatton Garden, Barnabas saw a hackney coach before them, and beside the coach a burly, blue-clad figure, a conspicuous figure by reason of his wooden leg and shiny, glazed hat.
"W'y, Lord, Mr. Beverley, sir!" exclaimed the Bo'sun, hurrying forward, with his hairy fist outstretched, "this is a surprise, sir, likewise a pleasure, and—" But here, observing my lady's face, he checked himself suddenly, and opening the carriage door aided her in very tenderly, beckoning Barnabas to follow. But Barnabas shook his head.
"Take care of her, Bo'sun," said he, clasping the sailor's hand, "take great care of her." So saying, he closed the door upon them, and stood to watch the rumbling coach down the bustling street until it had rumbled itself quite out of sight.
A bad place by day, an evil place by night, an unsavory place at all times is Giles's Rents, down by the River.
It is a place of noisome courts and alleys, of narrow, crooked streets, seething with a dense life from fetid cellar to crowded garret, amid whose grime and squalor the wail of the new-born infant is echoed by the groan of decrepit age and ravaging disease; where Vice is rampant and ghoulish Hunger stalks, pale and grim.
Truly an unholy place is Giles's Rents, down by the River.
Here, upon a certain evening, Barnabas, leaning out from his narrow casement, turned wistful-eyed, to stare away over broken roof and chimney, away beyond the maze of squalid courts and alleys that hemmed him in to where, across the River, the sun was setting in a blaze of glory, yet a glory that served only to make more apparent all the filth and decay, all the sordid ugliness of his surroundings.
Below him was a dirty court, where dirty children fought and played together, filling the reeking air with their shrill clamor, while slatternly women stood gossiping in ragged groups with grimy hands on hips, or with arms rolled up in dingy aprons. And Barnabas noticed that the dirty children and gossiping women turned very often to stare and point up at a certain window a little further along the court, and he idly wondered why.
It had been a day of stifling heat, and even now, though evening was at hand, he breathed an air close and heavy and foul with a thousand impurities.
Now as he leaned there, with his earnest gaze bent ever across the River, Barnabas sighed, bethinking him of clean, white, country roads, of murmuring brooks and rills, of the cool green shades of dewy woods full of the fragrance of hidden flower and herb and sweet, moist earth. But most of all he bethought him of a certain wayside inn, an ancient inn of many gables, above whose hospitable door swung a sign whereon a weather-beaten hound, dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that by common report was held to be hare; a comfortable, homely inn of no especial importance perhaps, yet the very best inn to be found in all broad England, none the less. And, as he thought, a sudden, great yearning came upon Barnabas and, leaning his face between his hands, he said within himself:
"'I will arise, and go to my father!'"
But little by little he became aware that the clamor below had ceased and, glancing down into the court, beheld two men in red waistcoats, large men, bewhiskered men and square of elbow. Important men were these, at sight of whom the ragged children stood awed and silent and round of eye, while the gossiping women drew back to give them way. Yes, men of consequence they were, beyond a doubt, and Barnabas noticed that they also stared very often at a certain window a little further up the court and from it to a third man who limped along close behind them by means of a very nobbly stick; a shortish, broadish, mild-looking man whose face was hidden beneath the shadow of the broad-brimmed hat. Nevertheless at sight of this man Barnabas uttered an exclamation, drew in his head very suddenly and thereafter stood, listening and expectant, his gaze on the door like one who waits to meet the inevitable.
And after a while, he saw the latch raised cautiously, and the door begin to open very slowly and noiselessly. It had opened thus perhaps some six inches when he spoke:
"Is that you, Mr. Shrig?"
Immediately the door became stationary and, after some brief pause a voice issued from behind it, a voice somewhat wheezing and hoarse.
"Which your parding I ax, sir," said the voice, "which your parding I 'umbly ax, but it ain't, me being a respectable female, sir, name o' Snummitt, sir—charing, sir, also washing and clear-starching, sir!"
Hereupon, the door having opened to its fullest, Barnabas saw a stout, middle-aged woman whose naturally unlovely look had been further marred by the loss of one eye, while the survivor, as though constantly striving to make amends, was continually rolling itself up and down and to and fro, in a manner quite astonishing to behold.
"Which my name is Snummitt," she repeated, bobbing a curtsy and momentarily eclipsing the rolling eye under the poke of a very large bonnet, "Mrs. Snummitt, sir, which though a widder I'm respectable and of 'igh character and connections. Which me 'aving only one heye ain't by no manner of means to be 'eld ag'in me, seeing as it were took away by a act o' Providence in the shape of another lady's boot-'eel sixteen summers ago come Michaelmas."
"Indeed," said Barnabas, seeing Mrs. Snummitt had paused for breath, "but what—"
"Which I were to give you Mr. Bimby's compliments, sir, and ax if you could oblige him with the loan of a wine-glass?"
"Mr. Bimby?"
"Over-'ead, sir—garret! You may 'ave 'eard 'im, now and then—flute, sir, 'armonious, though doleful."
"And he wants a wine-glass, does he?" said Barnabas, and forthwith produced that article from a rickety corner-cupboard and handed it to Mrs. Snummitt, who took it, glanced inside it, turned it upside-down, and rolled her eye at Barnabas eloquently.
"What more?" he inquired.
"Which I would mention, sir, or shall we say, 'int, as if you could put a little drop o' summat inside of it—brandy, say—'t would be doing a great favor."
"Ah, to be sure!" said Barnabas. And, having poured out a stiff quantum of the spirit, he gave it to Mrs. Snummit, who took it, curtsied, and rolling her solitary orb at the bottle on the table, smiled engagingly.
"Which I would thank you kindly on be'alf o' Mr. Bimby, sir, and, seeing it upon the tip o' your tongue to ax me to partake, I begs to say 'Amen,' with a slice o' lemming cut thin, and thank you from my 'eart."
"I fear I have no lemon," began Barnabas.
"Then we won't say no more about it, sir, not a word. 'Evings forbid as a lemming should come betwixt us seeing as I am that shook on account o' pore, little Miss Pell."
"Who is Miss Pell?"
"She's one as was, sir, but now—ain't," answered Mrs. Snummitt and, nodding gloomily, she took down the brandy in three separate and distinct gulps, closed her eyes, sighed, and nodded her poke bonnet more gloomily than before. "Little Miss Pell, sir, 'ad a attic three doors down, sir, and pore little Miss Pell 'as been and gone and—done it! Which do it I knowed she would."
"Done what?" inquired Barnabas.
"Five long year come shine, come rain, I've knowed pore Miss Pell, and though small, a real lady she were, but lonesome. Last night as ever was, she met me on the stairs, and by the same token I 'ad a scrubbing-brush in one 'and and a bucket in the other, me 'aving been charing for the first floor front, a 'andsome gent with whiskers like a lord, and 'oh, Mrs. Snummitt!' she sez and all of a twitter she was too, 'dear Mrs. Snummitt,' sez she, 'I'm a-going away on a journey,' she sez, 'but before I go,' she sez, 'I should like to kiss you good-by, me being so lonesome,' she sez. Which kiss me she did, sir, and likewise wep' a couple o' big tears over me, pore soul, and then, run away into 'er dark little attic and locked 'erself in, and—done it!"
"What—what did she do?"
"'Ung 'erself in the cupboard, sir. Kissed me only last night she did and wep' over me, and now—cold and stiff, pore soul?"
"But why did she do it?" cried Barnabas, aghast.
"Well, there was the lonesomeness and—well, she 'adn't eat anything for two days it seems, and—"
"You mean that she was hungry—starving?"
"Generally, sir. But things was worse lately on account of 'er heyes getting weak. 'Mrs. Snummitt,' she used to say, 'my heyes is getting worse and worse,' she'd say, 'but I shall work as long as I can see the stitches, and then, Mrs. Snummitt, I must try a change o' scene,' she used to say with a little shiver like. And I used to wonder where she'd go, but—I know now, and—well—the Bow Street Runners 'as just gone up to cut the pore soul down."
"And she killed herself—because she was hungry!" said Barnabas, staring wide-eyed.
"Oh, yes, lots on 'em do, I've knowed three or four as went and done it, and it's generally hunger as is to blame for it. There's Mr. Bimby, now, a nice little gent, but doleful like 'is flute, 'e's always 'ungry 'e is, I'll take my oath—shouldn't wonder if 'e don't come to it one o' these days. And talking of 'im I must be going, sir, and thank you kindly, I'm sure."
"Why, then," said Barnabas as she bobbed him another curtsy, "will you ask Mr. Bimby if he will do me the pleasure to step down and take supper with me?"
"Which, sir, I will, though Mr. Bimby I won't answer for, 'im being busy with the pore young man as 'e brought 'ome last night—it's 'im as the brandy's for. Ye see, sir, though doleful, Mr. Bimby's very kind 'earted, and 'e's always a-nussing somebody or something—last time it were a dog with a broke leg—ah, I've knowed 'im bring 'ome stray cats afore now, many's the time, and once a sparrer. But I'll tell 'im, sir, and thank you kindly."
And in a while, when Mrs. Snummitt had duly curtsied herself out of sight, Barnabas sighed, and turned once more to stare away, over broken roof and crumbling chimney, towards the glory of the sunset. But now, because he remembered poor little Miss Pell who had died because she was so friendless and hungry, and Mr. Bimby who was "always hungry" and played the flute, he stifled his fierce yearning for dewy wood and copse and the sweet, pure breath of the country, and thought no more of his father's inn that was so very far from the sordid grime and suffering of Giles's Rents, down by the River; and setting the kettle on the fire he sank into a chair and stretching out his long legs, fell into a profound meditation.
From this he was roused by the opening of the door, and, glancing up, beheld John Peterby. A very different person he looked from the neat, well-groomed Peterby of a week ago, what with the rough, ill-fitting clothes he wore and the fur cap pulled low over his brows; the gentleman's gentleman had vanished quite, and in his stead was a nondescript character such as might have been met with anywhere along the River, or lounging in shadowy corners. He carried a bundle beneath one arm, and cast a swift look round the room before turning to see the door behind him.
"Ah," said Barnabas nodding, "I'm glad you're back, John, and with plenty of provisions I hope, for I'm amazingly hungry, and besides, I've asked a gentleman to sup with us."
Peterby put down the bundle and, crossing to the hearth, took the kettle, which was boiling furiously, and set it upon the hob, then laying aside the fur cap spoke:
"A gentleman, sir?"
"A neighbor, John."
"Sir," said he, as he began to prepare the tea in that swift, silent manner peculiar to him in all things, "when do you propose we shall leave this place?"
"Why, to tell you the truth, John, I had almost determined to start for the country this very night, but, on second thoughts, I've decided to stay on a while. After all, we have only been here a week as yet."
"Yes, sir, it is just a week since—Jasper Gaunt was murdered," saidPeterby gently as he stooped to unpack his bundle. Now when he saidthis, Barnabas turned to look at him again, and thus he noticed thatPeterby's brow was anxious and careworn.
"I wish, John," said he, "that you would remember we are no longer master and man."
"Old habits stick, sir."
"And that I brought you to this dismal place as my friend."
"But surely, sir, a man's friend is worthy of his trust and confidence?"
"John Peterby, what do you mean?"
"Sir," said Peterby, setting down the teapot, "as I came along this evening, I met Mr. Shrig; he recognized me in spite of my disguise and he told me to—warn you—"
"Well, John?"
"That you may be arrested—"
"Yes, John?"
"For—the murder of Jasper Gaunt. Oh, sir, why have you aroused suspicion against yourself by disappearing at such a time?"
"Suspicion?" said Barnabas, and with the word he rose and laying his hands upon John Peterby's shoulders, looked into his eyes. Then, seeing the look they held, he smiled and shook his head.
"Oh, friend," said he, "what matters it so long as you know my hands are clean?"
"But, sir, if you are arrested—"
"They must next prove me guilty, John," said Barnabas, sitting down at the table.
"Or an accessory—after the fact!"
"Hum!" said Barnabas thoughtfully, "I never thought of that."
"And, sir," continued Peterby anxiously, "there are two Bow StreetRunners lounging outside in the court—"
"But they're not after me yet. So cheer up, John!" Yet in that moment, Peterby sprang to his feet with fists clenched, for some one was knocking softly at the door.
"Quick, sir—the other room—hide!" he whispered. But shaking his head, Barnabas rose and, putting him gently aside, opened the door and beheld a small gentleman who bowed.
A pale, fragile little gentleman this, with eyes and hair of an indeterminate color, while his clothes, scrupulously neat and brushed and precise to a button, showed pitifully shabby and threadbare in contrast with his elaborately frilled and starched cravat and gay, though faded, satin waistcoat; and, as he stood bowing nervously to them, there was an air about him that somehow gave the impression that he was smaller even than Nature had intended.
"Gentlemen," said he, coughing nervously behind his hand, "hem!—I trust I don't intrude. Feel it my obligation to pay my respects, to—hem! to welcome you as a neighbor—as a neighbor. Arthur Bimby, humbly at your service—Arthur Bimby, once a man of parts though now brought low by abstractions, gentlemen, forces not apparent to the human optic, sirs. Still, in my day, I have been known about town as a downy bird, a smooth file, and a knowing card—hem!"
Hereupon he bowed again, looking as unlike a "smooth file" or "knowing card" as any small, inoffensive gentleman possibly could.
"Happy to see you, sir," answered Barnabas, returning his bow with one as deep, "I am Barnabas Barty at your service, and this is my good friend John Peterby. We are about to have supper—nothing very much—tea, sir, eggs, and a cold fowl, but if you would honor us—"
"Sir," cried the little gentleman with a quaver of eagerness in his voice and a gleam in his eye, both quickly suppressed, "hem!—indeed I thank you, but—regret I have already supped—hem—duck and green peas, gentlemen, though I'll admit the duck was tough—deuced tough, hem! Still, if I might be permitted to toy with an egg and discuss a dish of tea, the honor would be mine, sirs—would be mine!"
Then, while Peterby hastened to set the edibles before him, Barnabas drew up a chair and, with many bows and flutterings of the thin, restless hands, the little gentleman sat down.
"Indeed, indeed," he stammered, blinking his pale eyes, "this is most kind, I protest, most kind and neighborly!" Which said, he stooped suddenly above his plate and began to eat, that is to say he swallowed one or two mouthfuls with a nervous haste that was very like voracity, checked himself, and glancing guiltily from unconscious Barnabas to equally unconscious Peterby, sighed and thereafter ate his food as deliberately as might be expected of one who had lately dined upon duck and green peas.
"Ah!" said he, when at length his hunger was somewhat assuaged, "you are noticing the patch in my left elbow, sir?"
"No indeed!" began Barnabas.
"I think you were, sir—every one does, every one—it can't be missed, sir, and I—hem! I'm extreme conscious of it myself, sirs. I really must discard this old coat, but—hem! I'm attached to it—foolish sentiment, sirs. I wear it for associations' sake, it awakens memory, and memory is a blessed thing, sirs, a very blessed thing!"
"Sometimes!" sighed Barnabas.
"In me, sirs, you behold a decayed gentleman, yet one who has lived in his time, but now, sirs, all that remains to me is—this coat. A prince once commended it, the Beau himself condescended to notice it! Yes, sirs, I was rich once and happily married, and my friends were many. But—my best friend deceived and ruined me, my wife fled away and left me, sirs, my friends all forsook me and, to-day, all that I have to remind me of what I was when I was young and lived, is this old coat. To-day I exist as a law-writer, to-day I am old, and with my vanished youth hope has vanished too. And I call myself a decayed gentleman because I'm—fading, sirs. But to fade is genteel; Brummell faded! Yes, one may fade and still be a gentleman, but who ever heard of a fading ploughman?"
"Who, indeed?" said Barnabas.
"But to fade, sir," continued the little gentleman, lifting a thin, bloodless hand, "though genteel, is a slow process and a very weary one. Without the companionship of Hope, life becomes a hard and extreme long road to the ultimate end, and therefore I am sometimes greatly tempted to take the—easier course, the—shorter way."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sir, there are other names for it, but—hem!—I prefer to call it 'the shorter way.'"
"Do you mean—suicide?"
"Sir," cried Mr. Bimby, shivering and raising protesting hands, "I said 'the shorter way.' Poor little Miss Pell—a lady born, sir—she used to curtsy to me on the stairs, she chose 'the shorter way.' She also was old, you see, and weary. And to-night I met another who sought to take this 'shorter way'—but he was young, and for the young there is always hope. So I brought him home with me and tried to comfort him, but I fear—"
Peterby sprang suddenly to his feet and Mr. Bimby started and turned to glance fearfully towards the door which was quivering beneath the blows of a ponderous fist. Therefore Barnabas rose and crossing the room, drew the latch. Upon the threshold stood Corporal Richard Roe, looming gigantic in the narrow doorway, who, having saluted Barnabas with his shining hook, spoke in his slow, diffident manner.
"Sir," said he, "might I speak a word wi' you?"
"Why, Corporal, I'm glad to see you—come in!"
"Sir," said the big soldier with another motion of his glittering hook, "might I ax you to step outside wi' me jest a moment?"
"Certainly, Corporal," and with a murmured apology to Mr. Bimby, Barnabas followed the Corporal out upon the gloomy landing and closed the door. Now at the further end of the landing was a window, open to admit the air, and, coming to this window, the Corporal glanced down stealthily into the court below, beckoning Barnabas to do the like:
"Sir," said he in a muffled tone, "d' ye see them two coves in the red weskits?" and he pointed to the two Bow Street Runners who lounged in the shadow of an adjacent wall, talking together in rumbling tones and puffing at their pipes.
"Well, Corporal, what of them?"
"Sir, they're a-waiting for you!"
"Are you sure, Corporal? A poor creature committed suicide to-day; I thought they were here on that account."
"No, sir, that was only a blind, they're a-watching and a-waiting to take you for the Gaunt murder. My pal Jarsper knows, and my pal Jarsper sent me here to give you the office to lay low and not to venture out to-night."
"Ah!" said Barnabas, beginning to frown.
"My pal Jarsper bid me say as you was to keep yourself scarce till 'e's got 'is 'ooks on the guilty party, sir."
"Ah!" said Barnabas, again, "and when does he intend to make the arrest?"
"This here very night, sir."
"Hum!" said Barnabas thoughtfully.
"And," continued the Corporal, "I were likewise to remind you, sir, as once your pals, ever and allus your pals. And, sir—good-night, and good-luck to you!" So saying, the Corporal shook hands, flourished his hook and strode away down the narrow stairs, smiling up at Barnabas like a beneficent giant.
And, when he was gone, Barnabas hurried back into the room and, taking pen and paper, wrote this:
You are to be arrested to-night, so I send you my friend, JohnPeterby. Trust yourself to his guidance.
And having folded and sealed this letter, he beckoned to Peterby.
"John," said he, speaking in his ear, "take this letter to Mr. Barrymaine, give it into his hand, see that he leaves at once. And, John, take a coach and bring him back with you."
So Peterby the silent thrust the note into his bosom, took his fur cap, and sighing, went from the room; and a moment later, glancing cautiously through the window, Barnabas saw him hurry through the court and vanish round the corner.
Then Barnabas turned back to the table, and seeing how wistfully Mr. Bimby eyed the teapot, poured him out another cup; and while they drank together, Mr. Bimby chatted, in his pleasant way, of bitter wrong, of shattered faith and ideals, of the hopeless struggle against circumstance, and of the oncoming terror of old age, bringing with it failing strength and all the horrors of a debtor's prison. And now, mingled with his pity, Barnabas was conscious of a growing respect for this pleasant, small gentleman, and began to understand why a man might seek the "shorter way," yet be no great coward after all.
So Mr. Bimby chattered on and Barnabas listened until the day declined to evening; until Barnabas began to hearken for Peterby's returning footstep on the uncarpeted stair outside. Even in the act of lighting the candles his ears were acutely on the stretch, and thus he gradually became aware of another sound, soft and dull, yet continuous, a sound difficult to locate. But as he stood staring into the flame of the candle he had just lighted, striving meanwhile to account for and place this noise, Mr. Bimby rose and lifted a thin, arresting hand.
"Sir," said he, "do you hear anything?"
"Yes. I was wondering what it could be."
"I think I can tell you, sir," said Mr. Bimby, pointing to a certain part of the cracked and blackened ceiling; "it is up there, in my room—listen!"
And now, all at once Barnabas started and caught his breath, for from the floor above came a soft trampling as of unshod feet, yet the feet never moved from the one spot.
"Indeed," sighed Mr. Bimby, "I greatly fear my poor young friend is ill again. I must go up to him, but first—may I beg—"
"Sir," said Barnabas, his gaze still fixed upon a certain corner of the ceiling, "I should like to go with you, if I may."
"You are very good, sir, very kind, I protest you are," quavered Mr. Bimby, "and hem! if I might suggest—a little brandy—?" But even as Barnabas reached for the bottle, there came a hurry of footsteps on the stair, a hand fumbled at the door and Mr. Smivvle entered with Peterby at his heels.
"Oh, Beverley!" he exclaimed, tugging nervously at his whiskers, "Barry's gone—most distressing—utterly vanished! I just happened to—ah—pop round the corner, my dear fellow, and when I came back he'd disappeared, been looking for him everywhere. Poor Barry—poor fellow, they've got him safe enough by now! Oh Gad, Beverley! what can I do?"
"Sit down," said Barnabas, "I think he's found." So saying he turned and followed Mr. Bimby out of the room.