Promising to communicate with Jim immediately he had anything of importance to impart, Robins took his departure, and Jim went in search of Alice to tell her the news. Next day word was brought to him to the effect that Murbridge had pawned several articles, but in no case were the proprietors able to furnish any information concerning his present whereabouts. Feeling that it was just possible, as in the case of the eating-house keeper near Paddington Station, that the detectives had not been able to acquire all the knowledge that was going, Jim, accompanied by the faithful Terence, set off in the afternoon for number eighteen, Great Medium Street. It proved to be a lodging-house of the common type.
In response to their ring the door was opened by the landlady, a voluble person of Irish descent. She looked her visitors up and down before admitting them, and having done so, enquired if they stood in need of apartments.
"I regret to say that we do not," said Jim blandly. "My friend and I have come to put a few questions to you concerning——"
"Not poor Mr. Melbrook, I hope," she answered. "Is all London gone mad? 'Twas but yesterday afternoon, just when I was settin' down to my bit o' tea that a gentleman comes to make enquiries about Mr. Melbrook. I told 'im he'd left the house, but that would not do. He wanted to know where he had gone, and when and why he had left, just for all the world as if he was his long-lost brother. Then this morning another comes. Wanted to know if I knew where Mr. Melbrook pawned his clothes? Did he appear to be in any trouble? Now here you are with your questions. D'ye think I've got nothing better to do than to be trapesing round talkin' about what don't concern me? What's the world coming to, I should like to know?"
"But, my good woman, I am most anxious to find Mr. Melbrook," said Jim, "and if you can put me into the possession of any information that will help me to do so, I shall be very pleased to reward you for your trouble."
"But I've got nothing to tell you," she replied, "more's the pity of it, since you speak so fair. From the time that Mr. Melbrook left my house until this very moment I've heard nothing of him. He may have gone back to America—if he was an American as they say—but there, he may be anywhere. He was one of them sort of men that says nothing about his business; he just kept himself to himself with his paper, and took his drop of gin and water at night the same as you and me might do. If I was to die next minute, that's all I can tell you about him."
Seeing that it was useless to question her further, Jim pressed some coins into the woman's willing hand, and bade her good-day. Then, more dispirited by his failure than he would admit, he drove back to his hotel. Alice met him in the hall with a telegram.
"This has just come for you," she said. "I was about to open it."
Taking it from her, he tore open the envelope, and withdrew the message. It was from Robins, and ran as follows:—
"Think am on right track—will report as soon as return."
It had been despatched from Waterloo Station.
"Why did he not say where he was going?" said Jim testily, "instead of keeping me in suspense."
"Because he does not like to commit himself before he has more to report, I suppose," said Alice. "Do not worry yourself about it, dear. You will hear everything in good time."
A long letter from Helen which arrived that evening helped to console Jim, while the writing of an answer to her enabled him to while away another half-hour. But it must be confessed that that evening Jim was far from being himself. He felt that he would have given anything to have accompanied the detective in his search. He went to bed at an early hour, to dream that he was chasing Murbridge round the world, and do what he would he could not come up with him. Next day there was no news, and it was not until the middle of the day following that he heard anything. Then another telegram arrived, stating that the detective would call at the hotel between eight and nine o'clock that evening. He did so, and the first glimpse of his face told Jim that his errand had as usual been fruitless.
"I can see," he said, "that you have not met with any success. Is that not so?"
"I'm sorry, sir," the man answered. "Information was brought me the day before yesterday that a man answering in every way the description of the person we wanted had pawned a small portmanteau at a shop in the Mile End Road, and on making enquiries there, I heard that he had come to lodge at a house in one of the streets in the vicinity. Accompanied by one of my mates, I went to the house in question, only to discover that we were too late again, and that the man had left for Southampton that morning, intending to catch the out-going boat for South Africa. Procuring a cab, I set off for Waterloo, and on my arrival there sent that telegram to you, sir, and then went down to Southampton by the next train. Unfortunately the two hours' delay had given him his chance, for when I reached Southampton it was only to find that the vessel had sailed half-an-hour before. I went at once to the Agent's office, where I discovered that a man whose appearance tallied exactly with the description given had booked a steerage passage at the last moment, and had sailed aboard her. But if he's got out of England safely, we'll catch him at Madeira. The police there will arrest him, and hold him for us until we can get him handed over. He does not know that I am upon his track, and for that reason he'll be sure to think he's got safely away."
"We must hope to catch him at Madeira then. The vessel does not touch at any port between, I suppose?"
Robins shook his head.
"No, Madeira is the first port of call. And now, sir, I'll bid you good-night, if you don't mind. I've had a long day of it, and I'm tired. To-morrow morning I've got to be abroad early on another little case which is causing me a considerable amount of anxiety."
Jim bade him good-night and then went in search of his sister, only to find that she had a bad headache, and had gone to bed. After the excitement of the day bed was out of the question, so donning a hat and coat he left the hotel for a stroll. He walked quietly along Piccadilly, smoking his cigar, and thinking of the girl who had promised to be his wife, and who, at the moment, was probably thinking of him in the quiet little Midlandshire village. How delightful life would be when she would be his wife. He tried to picture himself in the capacity of Helen's husband. From Helen his thoughts turned to Murbridge, and he tried to imagine the guilty wretch, flying across the seas, flattering himself continually that he had escaped the punishment he so richly deserved, finding more security in every mile of water the vessel left behind her, little dreaming that justice was aware of his flight, and that Nemesis was waiting for him so short a time ahead.
Reaching Piccadilly Circus, he walked on until he arrived at Leicester Square. As the sky had become overcast, and a thin drizzle was beginning to fall, he called a hansom, and bade the driver take him back to his hotel. The horse started off, and they were soon proceeding at a fast pace in the direction of Piccadilly. Just as they reached the Criterion Theatre, a man stepped from the pavement, and began to cross the road. Had not the cabman sharply pulled his horse to one side, nothing could have saved him from being knocked down. So near a thing was it that Jim sprang to his feet, and threw open the apron, feeling sure that the man was down. But near though it was, the pedestrian had escaped, and, turning round, was shaking his fist in a paroxysm of rage at the cabman. At that moment he saw Jim, and stood for a second or two as if turned to stone; then, gathering his faculties together, he ducked between two cabs and disappeared.
That man was Richard Murbridge!
Before Jim could recover from his astonishment at seeing the man whom he had been led to believe was upon the high seas, standing before him, the cabman had whipped up his horse once more, and was half across the Circus. Springing to his feet, he pushed up the shutter, and bade the driver pull up as quickly as possible. Then, jumping from the cab, he gave the man the first coin he took from his pocket.
"Did you see which way that fellow went we so nearly knocked down?" he cried.
"Went away towards Regent Street, I believe," answered the cabman. "He had a narrow shave and it isn't his fault he isn't in hospital now."
Jim waited to hear no more, but made his way back to the policeman he had noticed standing beside the fountain in the centre of the Circus.
"Did you see that man who was so nearly knocked down by a cab a few minutes ago?" he enquired, scarcely able to speak for excitement.
"I did," the officer answered laconically. "What about him?"
"Only that you must endeavour to find him, and arrest him at once," said Jim. "There is not a moment to be lost. He may have got away by this time."
"And he's precious lucky if he has," said the policeman. "Never saw a closer thing in my life."
"But don't you hear me? You must find him at once. Every second we waste is giving him the chance of getting away."
"Come, come, there's no such hurry: what's he done that you should be so anxious to get hold of him?"
By this time Jim was nearly beside himself with rage at the other's stupidity.
"That man was the Childerbridge murderer," he replied. "I am as certain of it as I am that I see you standing before me now."
"Come, come, Sir, that's all very well you know," said the policeman, with what was plainly a kindly intent, "but you go along home and get to bed quietly; you'll be better in the morning and will have forgotten all about this 'ere murderer."
After which, without another word, he walked away.
"Well, of all the insane idiots in the world," muttered Jim, "that fellow should come first. But I am not going to be baulked; I'll search for Murbridge myself."
He thereupon set off along Regent Street, but before he had gone half the length of the street the folly of such a proceeding became apparent to him. He knew that Murbridge had seen him, and, for this reason, would most likely betake himself to the quiet of the back streets. To attempt to find him, therefore, under cover of darkness, and at such an hour, would be well-nigh an impossibility. Then another idea occurred to him. Hailing a cab, he set off for Scotland Yard. On arrival there, he handed in his card, and in due course was received most courteously by the chief officer on duty. He explained his errand, and in doing so showed the mistake under which Detective-sergeant Robins had been and was still labouring.
"He shall be communicated with at once," said the official. "I suppose you are quite certain of the identity of the man you saw in Piccadilly Circus, Mr. Standerton?"
"As certain as I am of anything," Jim replied. "I should recognise him anywhere. I was permitted a full view of his face, and I am quite sure that I am not making a mistake. If only the cabman had pulled up a few moments earlier, I might have been able to have stopped him."
"In that case, you should be able to give us some details of his present personal appearance, which would afford us considerable assistance in our search for him."
"He was wearing a black felt hat, and a brown overcoat, the collar of which was turned up."
The officer made a note of these particulars, and promised that the information should be dispersed in all directions without loss of time. Then, feeling that nothing more could be done Jim bade him good-night, and drove back to his hotel. In spite of the work he had done that day he was not destined to obtain a wink of sleep all night, but tumbled and tossed in his bed, brooding continually over the chance he had missed of securing his father's murderer. If only he had alighted when the cabman first stopped, he might have been able to have secured Murbridge. Now his capture seemed as remote as ever; further, indeed, than if he had been, as Robins supposed, on board the vessel bound for South Africa.
Jim had just finished his breakfast next morning when Robins called to see him.
"This is a nice sort of surprise you have given us, sir," said the detective, when he had made a few commonplace remarks, "I mean your seeing Murbridge last night; I don't know what to think of it. It seems to me to be more of a mystery than ever now."
"The only thing you can think of it is that Murbridge is in London, and not on board the mail boat as you supposed," Jim replied. "You must have got upon a wrong track again. I suppose there is no further news of him this morning?"
"There was none when I left the Yard," the other replied. "At present we are over-hauling all the doss-houses and shelters, and it is possible we may make a discovery before long. When you think of the description we have of him—a man wearing a brown coat and a felt hat—it is not very much to go upon. There must be hundreds of men dressed like that in London. If only we had a photograph of him it would make the labour a good deal easier."
This set Jim thinking. In the lumber-room at Childerbridge there was, as he remembered, a number of cases containing books, photograph albums, etc., which his father had brought with him from Australia, but which had never been unpacked. He recalled the fact that his father had told him that he had been on intimate terms with Murbridge many years before. Was it not possible, therefore, that among his collections there might be some portrait of that individual. He felt inclined to run down and turn the boxes over. What was more, if he did so, he might chance to obtain an interview with Helen. He explained his hopes with regard to the photograph to the detective, who instantly agreed that it might be worth his while to make the search.
"In that case I will go down by the eleven o'clock train, and if I discover anything, I will wire you and post the photograph on to you by the evening mail."
"It is unnecessary for me to assure you it would be an inestimable help to us in our search," the other answered; "we should have something more definite to go upon then."
True to this arrangement, therefore Jim, Alice, and Terence returned to Childerbridge by the morning train. A carriage met them at the station, and in it they drove through the village. As they were drawing near the park gates, an exclamation from Alice roused Jim from the reverie into which he had fallen, and caused him to glance up the lane that led from the main road. To his unspeakable joy, he discovered that Helen was coming towards them. In a moment the carriage was stopped, and Jim alighted and hastened to meet her.
"My darling," he cried, "I never counted upon having the happiness of seeing you so soon. This is most fortunate."
"But what brings you back to-day, Jim?" Helen replied. "From your letter I gathered that I should not see you for at least a week. There is nothing wrong, I hope?"
She scanned his face with anxious eyes, and as she did so it occurred to Jim that she herself was looking far from well.
"Nothing is the matter," he answered. "We have merely come down to try and find some photographs that would help us in our search. But, Helen, you are not looking at all well. Your face frightens me."
"I am alright," was the reply. "I have been a little worried lately about my grandfather, and that probably accounts for my appearance, but we will not talk of that now. I must say 'How do you do' to Alice."
She accordingly approached the carriage, and held out her hand to her friend. They conversed together for a few moments, and then Alice proposed that Helen should return with them to the Hall, but this being, for more reasons than one, impossible, it was arranged that Jim should see her home across the park, a suggestion which, you may be sure, he was not slow to take advantage of. They accordingly watched the carriage pass through the lodge gates, and then themselves set out for the Dower House. As they walked Jim told his sweetheart of the ill success that had attended his mission to London.
"But, Helen," he said at last, as they approached the house, "you have not told me what it is that is worrying you about your grandfather. I hope he has not been making you unhappy?"
She hung her head but did not answer.
"Ah, I can see that he has," he exclaimed, "and I suppose it was something to do with me. I wonder whether I should be right if I hazarded a guess that Mr. Bursfield had been trying again to force you into giving me up? Is that the case, Helen?"
"I am afraid in a measure it is," she replied, but with some diffidence. "You may be quite sure, however, that whatever he may do it will not influence me. You know how truly I love you?"
"Yes, I know that," he answered, "and I am quite content to trust you. I know that nothing Mr. Bursfield can say will induce you to do as he proposes."
"Remember that always," she said. "But, oh, Jim, I wish he were not so determined in his opposition to our marriage. Sometimes I feel that I am acting not only like a traitor to him, but to you as well."
"That you could never be," Jim returned. "However, keep up a good heart, dear, and you may be sure all will come right in the end. In the future we shall look back upon these little troubles, and wonder why we so worried about them."
A few minutes later they reached the gates leading into the grounds of the Dower House. Here Jim bade his sweetheart good-bye, and, having arranged another meeting for the morrow, set off on his walk to his own home. Immediately upon his arrival there, he made his way, accompanied by Alice, to the lumber-room on the top story of the house, in which the boxes he had come down to over-haul had been placed. How well he could recall the day in Australia on which his father had packed them. Little had he imagined then that those boxes would next be opened in order to discover a portrait of the same kind father's murderer. When the first box had been overhauled it was found to contain unimportant papers connected with the dead man's various properties in Australia. In the second was a miscellaneous collection; which consisted of a variety of account books, with specimens of ore, wool, and other products of the Island Continent. It was not until they had opened the third box that they began to think they were on the right track. In this were a few engravings, perhaps half-a-dozen sketch books, filled with pen-and-ink drawings by Jim's mother, upwards of a hundred novels between thirty and forty years old, and at the bottom a large album filled with photographs, each of which looked out upon a forgetful world from a floral setting. Jim took it to a window, where he sat down on a box to examine it.
To my thinking there is nothing more pathetic than an old album. What memories it recalls of long-forgotten friends; as one looks upon the faded pictures, how clearly old scenes rise before one.
On the first page was a photograph of William Standerton himself, taken when he was a young man. His coat was of a strange cut, his trousers were of the peg-top description, while a magnificent pair of "Dundreary" whiskers decorated his manly face. With a sigh Jim turned the page, to discover a portrait of his mother, which had been taken on her wedding day. Then followed a long succession of relatives and personal friends, each clad in the same fashion, and nearly all taken in the same constrained attitude. But examine each picture as he would, no representation of the man he wanted could he discover.
"Well, I'm afraid that's all," said Jim to Alice, as he replaced the album in his box. "I am disappointed, though I cannot say that I hoped to be very successful. I shall have to write to Robins and tell him that I have found nothing."
Having relocked the boxes, they descended to the hall once more. It was growing dark, and the dressing bell for dinner had already sounded. They accordingly separated, and went to their respective rooms. If the truth must be confessed, Jim was more disappointed by the failure of his search than he cared to admit.
"It would have been of inestimable value," he said to himself, "to have a portrait of Murbridge just now."
He had tied one end of his tie and was in the act of performing the same operation with the other, when he stopped and stared at the wall before him with half-closed eyes.
"By Jove!" he said, "I believe I've hit it. I think I know where there is a portrait of him."
He recalled a scene that had taken place at Mudrapilla one winter's evening, many years before, when Alice and he were children. The lamp had been lighted, and to amuse them before they went to bed, their father had promised a prize to whichever one of the pair should recognise and describe by name the greater number of the portraits in the very album he had been looking through that afternoon. Jim remembered how on that occasion he had chanced upon a certaincarte de visite, showing a tall young man leaning, hat in hand, against a marble pillar.
"Who is this, father?" He had enquired for he was not able to recognise the individual portrayed in the picture.
"Do not ask me," returned his father in a tone that the children never forgot, so stern and harsh was it. Then, drawing the portrait from the page, he placed it in the pocket at the end of the book. After that the game had recommenced, but was played with less vigour than before.
"I wonder if it could have been the same man?" said Jim. "I cannot remember father ever having expressed such a dislike for any one else save Murbridge. After dinner I'll go up and endeavour to find it. It was there for many years, for I can recall how I used to creep into the drawing-room and peep at it on the sly, wondering what sort of villainy he had committed that was sufficient to prevent his name being mentioned to us. Poor father, it is certain that he was not deceived in him after all."
Throughout dinner that evening his mind dwelt on the remembrance of that scene at Mudrapilla, and as soon as they rose from the table he begged Alice to excuse him, and went upstairs candle in hand, to recommence his search. He left his sister in the drawing-room, and the household were at supper in the servants' hall, so that, so far as the disposition of the house went, he had all the upper floors to himself. Entering the lumber-room, he knelt down and unlocked the box which contained the album. To take the book from the box, and to turn to the pocket in question was the work of a moment. It had been placed there for the purpose of holding loose photographs, and it extended the whole width of the cover. With a half fear that it might not be contained therein, Jim thrust his hand into the receptacle. He was not to be disappointed this time, however, for a card was certainly there, and he withdrew it and held it up to the light with a feeling of triumph. Yes, it was the picture he remembered, and, better still,it was the portrait of Richard Murbridge. Though it had been taken when the latter was a young man, Jim recognised his enemy at once. There was the same crafty look in his eyes, the same carping expression about the mouth. The man who had been so nearly knocked down by the cab on the previous evening was the same person who, in the picture, posed himself so gracefully beside the marble pillar "This must go to Robins to-night," said Jim, to himself, "copies of it can then be distributed broadcast. It will be strange after that if we do not manage to lay hands upon him."
So saying, he replaced the album in the box, locked the latter, and then placed the photograph in his pocket, and prepared to return to Alice once more. As he descended the stairs, he extinguished the candle, for the hanging lamp in the hall below gave sufficient light for him to see his way. He was only a few steps from the bottom when a curious noise, which seemed to come from the gallery above, attracted his attention. It resembled the creaking of a rusty hinge, more than anything else. He had just time to wonder what had occasioned it, when, to his amazement, he became aware of a little black figure passing swiftly along the corridor in the direction of the further wing. A moment later it had vanished, and he was left to place such construction as he pleased upon what he had seen. For a space, during which a man might have counted twenty, he stood as if rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe the evidence of his senses.
"Good heavens! The Black Dwarf," he muttered to himself. "I must find out what it means."
Then he set off in pursuit.
Hastening round the gallery of the hall, Jim endeavoured to discover some traces of the mysterious visitor, spectre or human, whom he had seen. The corridor, however, leading to the oldest and western portion of the house, was quite empty. Like the remainder of the building, it was panelled with dark oak, some portion of it being curiously, though richly carved. He searched it up and down, stopping every now and then to listen, but save for the wind sighing round the house, and an occasional burst of laughter ascending from the servants' hall, he could hear nothing. At the end of the long corridor a flight of stone steps led to the domestic offices below. These he descended, and having reached the servants' hall, called Wilkins, the butler, to him. When the latter emerged, Jim led him a short distance down the passage before he spoke.
"Wilkins," he said, "do you remember the night when you thought you saw the Black Dwarf on the landing?"
"I shall never forget it, sir," the other replied. "I can never go along that corridor now without a shudder. What about it, sir?"
"Only that I have just seen the figure myself," James replied. "I had been up to the lumber-room, and was descending the stairs when it passed along the further side of the gallery, in the direction of the west corridor. Now, Wilkins, I have come down to find out whether you would be afraid to come upstairs with me in order that we may discover whether we can come to any understanding of the mystery?"
"Yes, sir, of course I will come with you," said Wilkins. "At the same time I am not going to say that I am not a bit frightened, for it would not be the truth. However, sir, I am not going to let you go alone."
"Come along then," said Jim, "and bring a light of some kind with you."
Wilkins procured a candle, and then they ascended to the floor above. As they reached the corridor Jim turned and caught a glimpse of his companion's face. It looked very white and frightened in the dim light.
"Cheer up, my man," said he; "if it's a ghost it won't hurt you, and if it's a human being you and I should be more than a match for him."
As he said this he opened the door of the first room on the corridor. It was empty, and quite devoid of either the natural or the supernatural.
"Nothing here," said Jim as they passed out into the passage, and into the next room. This was used as a sewing-room for the female servants, and was furnished with a long table and half-a-dozen chairs. They explored it thoroughly, and having done so, voted it above suspicion. The next room was a bedroom, and had only been once used since the Standertons had come into possession of the house. The walls were panelled, and there was a curious recess on the side opposite the door. Jim overhauled each panel, and carefully examined the recess, but without discovering anything suspicious. Thus they proceeded from room to room searching every nook and cranny, and endeavouring in every possible way to account for the creaking noise which had first attracted Jim's attention. The carving of the corridor itself was carefully examined, every panel of the wainscoting was tested, until at last, having reached the gallery of the hall, they were compelled to own themselves beaten. The fact that they had not been able to discover anything only added to Wilkins' belief in the supernatural agency of the Dwarf. Jim, however, had the recollection of that creaking hinge, before mentioned, continually before him. There might be ghostly bodies he argued, but he had never heard of ghostly hinges.
"Well, it doesn't appear as if we are destined to capture him to-night," said Jim, when they had finished their labours. "Now one word of advice; just keep the fact of his appearance to yourself, Wilkins. If the maid-servants come to hear of it we shall have no end of trouble."
Wilkins promised that he would say nothing about the occurrence, and then returned to the Servants' Hall, leaving Jim standing on the gallery ruminating on the behaviour of the figure he had seen.
"One thing is quite certain, and that is the fact that he disappeared in the corridor," he said to himself reflectingly. "Now I wonder where he came from?"
The only room on that side of the gallery then in use was Alice's bedroom, and to this Jim forthwith made his way. It was a strange scene that met his eyes when he opened the door. As he had good reason to know, Alice was always a most methodical and neat young lady; now everything was in confusion. The drawers of the dressing-table stood open and their contents were strewed upon the table and the floor. The writing-table in the further corner of the room was in much the same condition, while the wardrobe doors were open, and the dresses, which usually hung upon the pegs, were piled in a heap upon the floor.
"Good gracious! what on earth does this mean?" said Jim to himself as he gazed upon the scene of confusion. "Has Alice gone mad, or has the Black Dwarf been trying to see how untidy he can make the place? She must not see the room in this condition, or it may frighten her."
Thereupon he placed the candle upon the table and did his best to restore something like order. This task accomplished, he went downstairs to the drawing-room, where he found his sister seated beside the fire reading.
"You have been a long time upstairs," she remarked. "What have you been doing?"
For a moment Jim had forgotten the important discovery he had made. In reply he withdrew the photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it with what was almost a shudder. Somewhat to Jim's surprise, she returned it without commenting upon it. He replaced it in his pocket, also without a word, and then stood before the fire, wondering how he should tell her of what he had seen. He knew it would cause her some uneasiness, but at the same time he felt that he ought to place her upon her guard.
"Alice," he said at last, "do you make a point of locking your bedroom door at night?"
"Lock my bedroom door at night?" she repeated. "No! Why should I?"
"I can't exactly say why you should," he answered, "but I want you to do so for the future. This is a big, lonely house, and we have to remember that you and I are the only people on this side. I wish my room were nearer yours, but as it is not, I think it would be safer if you were to do as I suggest."
"But what makes you say this to-night?" she asked. "What is it, or who is it, you suspect?"
"I suspect nobody," he replied. "You must not think that. But there are such people as burglars, and it would only be an ordinary act of common sense to make yourself safe, while you are permitted the opportunity. Ever since that terrible night I have been nervous about you, and for that reason I have decided upon something, which at first you may think strange."
"What is it?" she enquired.
"For the future," he answered, "I intend that Terence shall sleep in the room next to yours. Then, if any one makes trouble, and help were needed, we should have a sure ally at our beck and call."
"But I hope no one will ever attempt to make trouble, as you describe it," she replied, looking at him with startled eyes as she spoke.
"I also sincerely hope not," he continued. "Now I am going to see Terence about the matter."
He thereupon left her, and went to his study and rang the bell. On the butler making his appearance he instructed him to bring O'Riley at once. A few minutes later Terence put in appearance.
"You had better remain also, Wilkins," said Jim. "Just close the door behind you, in case any one should chance to overhear us. Now, Terence, I have something to say to you. Doubtless, since you have been in the neighbourhood, you have heard certain stories connected with this house. I suppose you have been told that it has the reputation of being haunted."
"Lor' bless you, sir," Terence replied, "I've heard all sorts of yarns about it. There's folk down in the Township yonder, as would no more think of coming up here after dark than they would of lying down in front of the train and having their heads cut off."
"You're not a believer in ghosts, I suppose?"
"Not as I knows on," said Terence candidly. "Though I don't mind sayin' as how there are things as have never been explained to my satisfaction. 'Twas said, as you may remember, sir, as how there was a ghost of an old man to be seen, some nights in the year, waiting to get over at the Thirty-Mile Crossing up the river. Then there was the ghost outside Sydney, that used to get on the fence beside the road, and ask everybody who would listen to him to have him properly buried."
James knew that the man before him was as brave as a lion. He was the possessor of nerves of iron, and did not know the meaning of the word fear.
"Well," he went on after a moment's pause, "the long and the short of the matter is, Terence, some little time ago a maid-servant saw what she thought to be the ghost of the Little Black Dwarf up in the gallery outside. Wilkins here was the next to see it. I thought at the time he must have been mistaken, but this evening I know that he was not, for I have seen it myself."
"You don't mean that, sir?" said Terence, while Wilkins plainly showed the triumph he felt. "And what may he have been like, sir?"
"I had no time to see that," Jim answered. "He disappeared into the western corridor almost as soon as I caught sight of him. At the same time I heard the sound of a creaking hinge. What would you think of that?"
"I should say that it was no ghost, sir," said Terence. "I've been told that this old house is full of secret passages, and, if you ask me, I should say it was somebody playing a game with you."
Wilkins stared disdainfully at him. He was quite convinced in his own mind of the ghostly nature of the mysterious visitor.
"I am inclined to agree with you, Terence," Jim replied. "The more so as, since I parted with you, Wilkins, I have made a curious discovery. At what time was Miss Alice's room made tidy?"
"While you were at dinner, sir, according to custom," replied the butler. "I saw the maid coming out just as I left the dining-room, and she would not be likely to leave it——"
"To leave it in an untidy state?" Jim put in.
"Of course she would not, sir," the other replied. "She would hear of it from the housekeeper if she did. No, she's a nice, steady girl, sir, and I'm told she does her work to the best of her ability."
"Well, it seems curious that when I entered the room after you had left me, I found it in a state of the wildest confusion. The contents of the drawers of the dressing-table were lying scattered upon the floor, as were the dresses in the wardrobe. Now I feel quite certain in my own mind that it was from Miss Alice's bedroom that the figure I saw emerged. I am equally sure of one thing, and that is that it is no ghost—at least," and he added this with a smile, "no respectable ghost, of course, would dream of playing such tricks with a lady's wearing apparel."
"Then, sir, whom do you suspect?" Wilkins enquired. "I can assure you that none of the staff would dare to take such a liberty."
"I am quite sure of that," Jim replied. "Yet the fact remains that somebody must be, and is, responsible for it. Now what I intend to do is to lay myself out to capture that somebody, and to make an example of him when I have got him. For that reason, Terence, I am going to ask you to sleep in the house, in the room next to that occupied by Miss Alice. It will go hard, then, if between us we cannot lay our hands upon the gentleman, whoever he may be, who is playing these tricks upon us."
Terence willingly agreed to the proposal, and that night occupied the room in question. His watchfulness availed him nothing, however, for no further sign of the Black Dwarf.
Next morning Robins received the photograph of Murbridge, and from that moment Jim awaited tidings from him in a fever of expectation. Day after day, however, went by, and still no good news came to reward his patience. The only consolation he derived was from sundry mysterious interviews which he had with Helen in a wooded corner of the park. With the cunning of lovers they had arranged a plan of meeting, and those littletête-à-têteswere to Jim as the breath of life. No sooner was one at an end than he hungered for the next. But he was destined ere long to receive a fright, such as he had never received in his life before. Winter was fast approaching, and the afternoons drew in quickly. When he reached the rendezvous on this occasion it was nearly five o'clock, and almost dark. Helen had arrived there before him, and he discovered her pacing up and down the little glade, in what was plainly an agitated frame of mind.
"Oh, I am so thankful that you have come, Jim dear," she said, as she came forward to greet him. "I have been counting the minutes until I should see you."
"Why, what on earth is the matter?" he asked, placing his arm round her waist and drawing her to him. "You are excited about something. Tell me, dear, what it is."
"Something so dreadful that it has upset me terribly," she answered. "I scarcely know how to tell you."
He led her towards a fallen tree upon which they had often seated themselves on previous occasions.
"Now let me know everything," he said.
She looked about over her shoulder in a frightened way. Then she began almost in a whisper:
"Jim, what I have to say to you concerns my grandfather. I am very much alarmed about him."
"I hope he has not been making himself disagreeable to you again on my account," Jim replied. Then he continued angrily: "If so, I think I shall have to call upon him."
"Hush, hush," she said, "do not speak so loud, you do not know who may be listening."
"I will be all discretion, dear, now go on!"
"Well, this afternoon I was playing the piano in the drawing-room when a message was brought to me by Isaac to the effect that my grandfather desired to see me in his study at once. I went to him there, to find him seated at his desk as usual, at work upon his book, the 'History of the County,' you know. He signed to me to be seated by the fire, and when I had done so resumed his writing, not putting down his pen until I had been some minutes in the room. Then he looked at me with a very thoughtful face, in which I imagined I could detect an expression that I had never seen there before. Taken altogether, his manner frightened me. It was so strange, and so utterly unlike himself, that I did not know what to think. Then he took off his spectacles, and laid them on the desk before him, remarking as he did so, 'I am given to understand that you are still in correspondence with Mr. Standerton, Miss?' Then, before I could answer him, he continued—'and I hear that you have secret meetings with him in the park. Is this so?' I admitted that it was, and went on to say that as we were betrothed I could see no harm in it."
"And what did he say to that?"
"He rose from his chair and paced the room for a few minutes without speaking. Then he reseated himself. As he did so he said, 'You arenotengaged, and you know it as well as I do. Never let me hear you say such a thing again.' After that he began to pace the room once more, and finally hurled at me such a torrent of abuse that I was almost stupefied by it. He accused me of the most outrageous things, until I could bear it no longer, and rose to leave him. By this time, as you may suppose, I had come to the conclusion that the life of retirement he had lived for so long had turned his brain. No man could have said the things he did without his mind being a little affected."
"My darling, this is more serious than you suppose," said Jim anxiously.
"But you have not heard the worst yet. It appears that before I had entered the room he had drawn up a document which he now desired me to sign. It was to the effect that I would bind myself never to speak to you or see you again, and contained my promise that I would abandon all thought of ever becoming your wife. 'Sign that,' he said, 'or the consequences will be more terrible than you suppose. I am an old man, but remember even old men can be dangerous at times.' With that he handed me a pen, but I refused to take it."
"And then?"
"I cannot tell you how he looked at me as I said it. I could never have believed that his face could have undergone such a change. But I still refused to sign the document, and at last he discovered that it was impossible to force me to do so. 'Very well,' he said, 'since you refuse, the consequences of your action be upon your own head.' With that, opening the door, he bade me leave him. You can imagine for yourself how thankful I was to do so."
"And then you came on here," said Jim. "You were most imprudent, dear. He may try to revenge himself upon you when you return to the house."
"I don't think he will hurt me," she replied. "I am only afraid for you."
"There is no need for fear on my account," Jim answered, with a short laugh. "I do not think it is possible for the poor old gentleman to do me any harm. But the idea that you are shut up in the house with a madman, for a madman he must surely be, frightens me beyond all measure. You must see for yourself that you have no longer any reason to remain with him. He has threatened you, and that will be sufficient excuse for you to leave him."
"No, no," she answered, shaking her head. "If he is losing his reason, he should not be blamed, and it is all the more necessary for his comfort that I shall remain with him. I feel sure I shall be quite safe. He is angry with me at present, but he will calm down. It is above all necessary, however, that you should not come near him. It will only irritate him and make him more excited than before. Think how good he has been to me, dear, for the past eight years, and try not to be angry with him."
"But I am not angry with him," said Jim. "I am only trying to be just. One thing is quite certain, I shall know no peace as long as you are in that house with him."
"Will it satisfy you if I give you my promise that, should he become very bad, I will at once send for you?"
"If you persist on going back there, I suppose I must be content with that promise," Jim replied, but with no good grace. "And now you had better be running in. If he finds that you are out, he might suppose that you are with me, and have another paroxysm of rage. In that case there is no knowing what might happen."
Helen accordingly bade him good-bye and left him, returning by the path to the Dower House. Jim watched her until she had disappeared and then turned homeward with a heavy heart. He felt that he had already enough anxiety upon his shoulders without this additional burden. He had never trusted Mr. Bursfield, but he was at a loss to understand his present malignity, unless it were to be accounted for by the fact that his brain had given way.
When he reached his home he let himself in by a side door, and made his way to the drawing-room, where he found Alice.
"How late you are," she said. "The gong sounded some time ago. You will scarcely have time to dress."
"Then dinner must wait," replied Jim. "Alice, I have bad news for you."
"Why, what is the matter now?" she asked.
Jim thereupon proceeded to furnish her with an abstract of his interview with Helen. She heard him without a word, but it was to be easily seen how distressed she was for her friend.
"My dear Jim," she remarked when he had finished, "this is indeed serious. What do you propose doing?"
"I scarcely know," Jim answered. "The case is an extremely delicate one. The old man has taken a decided dislike to me, and if I interfere between Helen and himself it will have the effect of adding to his wrath and do more harm than good. And yet I cannot allow her to remain there, and perhaps run a daily risk of her life."
"What does she think about it herself?"
"She has an absurd notion that her duty lies in standing by Bursfield in his trouble. That, of course, is all very well in its way, but no one could possibly expect her to turn herself into a keeper for a madman."
Alice, seeing the tired look on his face, crossed the room and placed her arm round his neck.
"Dear old Jim," she said, "you must not worry yourself too much about it. All will come right in the end. Helen is a girl of very marked character, and it is quite probable that, under her influence, Mr. Bursfield's condition may improve. Were I in your place, I should trust matters to her for a little while. You know that she loves you, and you may be quite sure that she will keep her promise, and let you know directly anything is very wrong. But there! what am I thinking about? I should have told you when you first came in that there is a telegram waiting for you. Here it is."
As she spoke she took an envelope from the mantelpiece, and handed it to him.
"I wonder who it is from?" he remarked as he tore it open.
Having withdrawn the contents, he read as follows:—
"Standerton, Childerbridge."Murbridge found. Come at once."13, Upper Bellington Street.Robins."
"Standerton, Childerbridge.
"Murbridge found. Come at once.
"13, Upper Bellington Street.Robins."
"Murbridge found," said Jim to himself as he stood holding the telegram in his hand. "At last, thank goodness, at last!"
Alice, however, said nothing. She had more of her dead father's forgiving spirit in her, and she was aware that he would have been the last to have desired vengeance on his assailant.
"What do you mean to do?" she asked.
"Catch the 8.40 train up to Town," said Jim, "and see Murbridge as soon as possible. The telegram says 'Come at once.' That is sufficient evidence that there is no time to be lost. Perhaps he has been wounded in a desperate struggle with the police. In fact, there are a thousand possibilities."
He gave the necessary instructions for dinner to be hurried forward, his bag to be packed, and the carriage to be ready immediately afterwards to take him to the station.
"You will not mind being left alone for one evening, will you, Alice?" he said to his sister, half apologetically. "Terence will be in the house and will keep a careful eye upon you. If you think you will be lonely I will take you up to Town with me, drop you at the hotel, and then I will go on to Upper Bellington Street."
Alice, however, would not hear of this arrangement. She declared that she would be quite content to remain where she was.
"Besides," she said, "if any news were to come from Helen, I should be here to receive it. It would not be wise for both of us to be away at this juncture."
Jim thereupon went out and sent word to Terence to come to him in his study.
"I am called up to Town to-night, Terence," he said, "and I am going to leave Miss Alice in your charge. I know she could not be in a better."
"You may be very sure of that, sir," Terence replied; "I wouldn't stand by and see anything happen to Miss Alice, and I think she knows it."
"I am sure she does," Jim returned, and then went on to explain the reason for the journey he was about to undertake.
An hour and a-half later he was seated in a railway carriage and being whirled along towards London at something like fifty miles an hour. If ever a young man in this world was furnished with material for thought, James Standerton that evening was that one. There was his errand to London in the first place to be considered, the singular behaviour of the Black Dwarf a few nights before for another, and the declaration that Helen had made to him that afternoon for a third. In the light of this last catastrophe the finding of the man whom he felt sure was his father's murderer sank into comparative insignificance.
What if the madman should wreak his vengeance upon her? What if in a sudden fit of fury he should drive her from his house? If the latter were to come to pass, however, he felt certain that the place she would fly to would be the Manor House, and in that case Alice would take her in and Terence would see that she was safe from the old man's fury.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when he reached Paddington. Hailing a cab, he bade the man drive him first to his hotel, where he engaged his usual room. When he had consulted a directory, he made his way into the street again. His cabman, whom he had told to wait, professed to be familiar with Upper Bellington Street, but later confessed his entire ignorance of its locality. Jim set him right, and then, taking his place in the cab, bade him drive him thither with all speed. Once more they set off, down Piccadilly, through Leicester Square, and so by way of Long Acre into Holborn. Then the route became somewhat more complicated. Through street after street they passed until Jim lost all idea of the direction in which they were proceeding. Some of the streets were broad and stately, others squalid and dejected, some wood paved, others cobble-stones, in which the rain that had fallen an hour previous stood in filthy puddles.
How long they were driving, Jim had no sort of idea, nor could he have told you in what portion of the town he was then in. At last however they entered a street which appeared to have no ending. It was illumined by flaring lamps from coster barrows, drawn up beside the pavement, while the night was made hideous by the raucous cries of the vendors of winkles baked potatoes and roasted chestnuts.
"This is Upper Bellington Street, sir," said the cabman, through the shutter. "At what number shall I pull up?"
"Thirteen," Jim replied; "but you will never be able to find it in this crowd. Put me down anywhere here, and I'll look for it myself."
The cabman did as he was directed, and presently Jim found himself making his way along the greasy pavement—which even at that late hour was crowded with pedestrians—in search of the number in question. It was as miserable an evening as ever he could remember. A thin drizzle was falling; the sights and sounds around him were sordid and depressing in the extreme; while the very errand that had brought him to that neighbourhood was of a kind calculated to lower the spirits of the average man to below the mental zero.
After an examination of the numbers of the various houses and shops in the vicinity, he came to the conclusion that Thirteen must be situated at the further end of the street. This proved to be the case. When he reached it, he knocked upon the grimy door, which was immediately opened to him by a police officer.
"What is your name?" asked that official.
"James Standerton," Jim replied. "I received a telegram from Detective-sergeant Robins this evening asking me to come up."
"That's all right, sir," the man answered. "Come in; we have been expecting you this hour or more."
"But how is it your prisoner is here, and not at the police station?"
"I doubt if he'll ever trouble any police station again," returned the officer. "He's just about done for. In fact, I shouldn't be surprised if he wasn't dead by now."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Pneumonia, sir, the doctor says. He says he can't last out the night."
At that moment Robins himself appeared at the head of the dirty stairs that descended to the hall, and invited him to ascend. Jim accordingly did so.
"Good evening, Mr. Standerton," he said, "I regret having to inform you that we have caught our bird too late. We discovered him at midday, and he was then at the point of death. He was too ill to be moved, and as he had no one to look after him, we got a doctor and a nurse in at once. But I fear it is a hopeless case."
"Will it be possible for me to see him, do you think?"
"Oh yes, sir; he's been calling for you ever since we found him, so I took the liberty of telegraphing to you to come up."
"I am glad you did," said Jim. "There are some questions I must put to him."
"In that case, please step this way, sir, and I'll speak to the doctor. You shall not be kept waiting any longer than I can help."
He led Jim along the landing, then opened a door and disappeared into a room at the further end. While he was absent Jim looked about him and took stock of his position. The small gas-jet that lit up the well of the staircase, served to show the dirty walls in all their dreariness. The sound of voices reached him from above and below, while the cries of the hawkers in the street came faintly in and added to the general squalor. Then as he stood there he recalled that first meeting with Murbridge beside the Darling River. In his mind's eye he saw the evening sun illumining the gums on the opposite bank, the soft breeze ruffling the surface of the river, an old pelican fishing for his evening meal in the back-water, and lastly, Richard Murbridge stretched out beside his newly-lighted fire. This would be their third meeting; and in what a place, and under what terribly changed circumstances! He was indulging in this reverie when the door opened once more, and a small, grey-haired man emerged.
"Good evening, my dear sir," he said, "I understand that you're Mr. Standerton, the son of the man the poor wretch inside is suspected of having murdered. However, they have captured him too late."
"You mean, I suppose, that he will not live?" said Jim, interrogatively.
"If he sees the light of morning I shall be very much surprised," said the doctor; "in point of fact he is sinking fast. You wish to see him, do you not?"
"I do," said Jim. "There is some mystery connected with him that I am very desirous of clearing up."
"I see," said the medico, "and in that case I presume that you would wish to see him alone?"
"If you can permit it," Jim replied.
"I think it might be managed," answered the other. "But if you will stay here for a moment I will let you know."
He returned to the room, and when he stood before Jim once more, invited him to follow him. He did so, to find himself in a small apartment, some ten feet long by eight feet wide. It was uncarpeted, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, a box on which stood an enamelled basin, and a bed which was covered with frowsy blankets. On this bed lay a man whom, in spite the change that had come over him, Jim recognised at once as being Richard Murbridge. A nurse was standing beside him, and Robins was at the foot of the bed.
"Do not make the interview any longer than you can help," whispered the doctor, and then beckoned to the detective and the nurse to leave the room with him. They did so, and the door closed behind them. Then Jim went forward and seated himself upon the chair by the bedside of the dying man. The latter looked up at him with a scowl.
"So they sent for you after all?" he said in a voice that was little above a whisper. "They even took that trouble?"
"I received the message just before dinner, and came away immediately afterwards."
"Left your luxurious mansion to visit Upper Bellington Street? How self-denying of you! Good Lord, to think that it should be my luck to die in such a hole as this! I suppose you know that Iamdying?"
"I have been informed that your recovery is unlikely," Jim replied. "That fact made me doubly anxious to speak to you."
There was a little pause, during which Murbridge watched him intently.
"You mean about the murder, I suppose?" he whispered.
"Yes!" Jim answered. "God forgive me for feeling revengeful at such a moment, but you took from me and my sister the kindest and best father that man ever had."
"You still think that it was I who committed the murder, then?"
"I am certain of it," Jim answered. "You were at the house that night; you cherished a deadly hatred against my father; you vowed that you would be even with him, happen what might, and you ran away from Childerbridge immediately afterwards. Surely those facts are black enough to convict any man?"
"They would have gone some way with a Jury, I have no doubt," the other replied. "But, as a matter of fact, I didnotcommit the murder. Bitterly as I hated your father, I am not responsible for his death."
Jim looked at him incredulously.
"Ah, I can see you do not believe me. Now, listen, James Standerton, and pay attention to what I say, for I shan't be able to say it again. I've been a pretty tough sort of customer all my life. There have not been many villainies I haven't committed, and still fewer that I wouldn't have committed if they tended to my advantage. The record I shall carry aloft with me will not bear much looking into. But on the word of a dying man, may"—(here he swore an awful oath which I feel would be better not set down)—"if I am not absolutely guiltless of your father's death. Will you believe me now?"
But still Jim looked incredulous.
"Ah, I can see that you still doubt me. How can I convince you? Think for a moment, what have I to gain or lose by saying such a thing? I shall be gone hence in a few hours, perhaps minutes. Even if I were the murderer, the police could not take me now. With old Bony behind me I can laugh at them and at you."
"But why did you run away if you were innocent?"
"Because I saw what a hole I had got myself into. You remember that I went up to the house and had an interview with your father? He turned me out, and in the hearing of yourself and the servant I vowed to be even with him. That vow I certainly should have kept, had not somebody else that night stepped in and took the case out of my hands. When I left the house, I went for a long walk. I knew my own temper, and also that I dared not trust myself with human beings just then. Good heavens, man! You don't know how desperate I was. I had followed your father to England, and the voyage had taken nearly all my money. What little was left I spent in liquor, and then went down to Childerbridge to screw more from your father. He refused point blank to help me except on certain conditions, which I would not comply with. Knowing his stubbornness of old, I cleared out of Childerbridge by the first train, vowing that I would be even with him by some means. Then in an evening paper I saw that he had been murdered. In a flash I realised my position, and saw that if I was not very careful I should find myself in Queer Street. Then came your reward, and from that moment I hid myself like a 'possum in a gum log. I didn't care very much about my miserable neck, but—but—well, you see, strange though it may seem, I was a gentleman once."
Jim did not know what to say. If this man's tale were true, and it bore the impression of truth, then they had been on a false scent from the first.
"I wonder what your mother would have said had she been alive to see it all," said Murbridge, after a pause. "Good Lord, to think that Jane Standerton's brother should end his days in a hole like this."
"What?" cried Jim, scarcely believing that he had heard aright. "Whose brother did you say?"
"Why, your own mother's to be sure," returned Murbridge. "Do you mean to say that your father never told you after all?"
"Can such a thing be possible?" Jim continued, in an awed voice.
"Yes; I am Jane Standerton's brother sure enough. If you look in that old bag under the bed, you will find evidence enough to convince you of that fact. My real name is Richard McCalmont, though you wouldn't think it to look at me, would you? That was how I got my hold upon your father, don't you see? I was convicted of forgery at the age of twenty-one"—(the man spoke as if he were proud of it)—"and did my three years. For a while after that I went straight, but at twenty-six there was another little mistake, with the details of which I will not trouble you, but which was sufficient, nevertheless, to again cause me to spend some years in durance vile. At the age of thirty-two they tried to convict me of an Insurance Fraud, combined with a suspicion of murder. They would have done so but for certain technicalities that were brought forward by my Counsel, who, by the way, was employed by your father. You see I am perfectly candid with you."
"And you are my mother's brother?" said Jim slowly, as if he were still trying to believe it.
"And your father's brother-in-law, too. And your uncle. Don't forget that, James," said the other. "Lord! How your father hated me! On certain occasions I made it my custom to call upon him in a friendly way. At the end of my last term of exile, I found that my sister was dead, and that you and Alice were growing up. It was my desire to play the part of the kindly uncle. But your father made himself objectionable, and vowed that if ever I dared to betray my relationship to you he would cut off supplies. As there was never a time in my life in which I did not stand in need of money, I was perforce compelled to deprive you of a life's history that would certainly have proved interesting, if not instructive, to you. However, I now have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall not die without having accomplished that task."
Here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, which left him speechless for upwards of a minute. As for Jim, he was thinking of the mental agony his father must have suffered, year after year, with this despicable creature, the brother of the woman he loved so fondly, continually holding this threat over his children's heads.
"God help you for a miserable man," he muttered at last. "Why didn't my poor father tell me this before? He might have known that this would not have made the least difference."
"He was too proud," replied the other, when he recovered his speech. "Well, it doesn't matter much now, and in a little while it will matter still less. The police and I have been on the most friendly terms all our lives, and it gives one a homely sort of feeling to know that even my last moments will be watched over by their tender care."
He tried to laugh at his own hideous joke, but the attempt was a failure.
"For my mother's sake, is there anything I can do for you?" Jim enquired, drawing a little closer to the bed.
The other only shook his head. The effort he had made to talk had proved too much for him, and had materially hastened the end.
Seeing that his condition was growing desperate, Jim rose and went in search of the doctor. He found him in an apartment close at hand.
"I believe he is sinking fast," said Jim. "I think you had better go to him."
The doctor accordingly returned to the sick-room, leaving Jim alone with Robins.
"Well, sir," asked the latter, "did he confess?"
"We have been deceived," said Jim. "The man is as innocent of the crime as I am. I am convinced of that!"
"God bless my soul, you don't mean to say so," said the astonished detective, and asked the same questions Jim had put to the dying man. Jim answered them as the other had done.
"Well, this is the most extraordinary case I have ever had to do with," said Robins. "If Murbridge had wanted to place a halter round his neck he could not have gone to work in a better fashion. If he is not the man, then where are we to look for the real murderer?"
"Goodness only knows," replied Jim. "The case is now shrouded in even greater mystery than before."
Half an hour went by, then an hour, and still they waited. At two o'clock the doctor rejoined them.
"It is all over," he said solemnly. "He is dead."