One of those sudden changes had taken place in the weather to which we in England are so accustomed. With the day the glory had departed. Evening was ushered in by leaden skies. Dorothy became conscious how, all at once, shadows seemed to have gathered. She had no means of telling what the time was; she had never possessed a watch, and in the pink room there was no clock. The regatta seemed over; the garden had emptied; the hum of people's voices, of laughter, which had floated in to her through the open window, had ceased; silence reigned. To her excited fancy there was something ominous in the sudden stillness, the growing darkness. What was going on downstairs? It was odd that they should have left her so long alone--with the ghosts which would press on her even in the sunshine, but which pressed still closer with the advent of the night. Why had she seen nothing, heard nothing, of Frances? The people had gone. Was she forgotten?--or what? It was very hard to sit there waiting, watching, listening. Why did not something happen? She was so unnerved that, of her own volition, she seemed incapable of doing anything. When she was a very small child, whenever there was trouble in the air, if opportunity offered, she would undress herself and get into bed, as if bed were sanctuary. She would have liked to insinuate herself between the sheets then, though it was scarcely night, but she was afraid; and she had a feeling that, for her, the days when bed was sanctuary had gone. Why did not someone come, if it was only to tap at the door and ask how she was?
Someone did tap. The sound was so unexpected that it started her trembling. It was such a curious tap; not at all the firm, pronounced tap Frances might have given, but faint, furtive; almost as if the tapper were anxious not to be heard. Indeed, in the silence which followed, Dorothy was not sure that it was a tap--until it came again, no louder, as if someone touched the panel of the door lightly, with the tip of a single finger. Dorothy vouchsafed no invitation to enter. She did not ask who was there. She felt sure it was not Frances, nor a message from her; it was not the sort of tap which would be given by a bearer of good tidings.
The tap was not repeated. Instead, after an interval, the door was opened, softly, slowly, with about its movement the same furtive something which had characterised the tapping; a few inches, then a pause; a few more inches, another pause; there was an appreciable space of time before it was opened wide enough to permit of a person entering. Then there slipped, rather than came, into the room, a young woman, a servant, of about Dorothy's own age; in appearance her antipodes--short, squat, with a square head and face, high cheek-bones, skin the colour of old port when held up to a strong light. Closing the door as stealthily as she had opened it she tiptoed towards the centre of the room. Twisted half round on her seat, Dorothy had sat and watched her in silence; now, as she approached, she rose from her chair.
"What do you want? Who are you?"
The girl answered, speaking in a husky whisper, as if she feared that the walls had ears:
"Never mind who I am; don't ask me to tell you my name; then, if anyone asks you, you can't tell them--see? You don't want to get me into trouble, do you? Of course you don't." She put a stubby red finger, in which the dirt was engrained, to her lips, with an air of the utmost mystery. "I am a friend, that's who I am; and, placed as you are, that's all you want to know about me, and as a friend I've come to give you a word of advice, which is--bolt!"
"I don't know what you mean! Why--why have you come to me like this? Who has sent you?"
"No one hasn't sent me--not much! Only they've found out all about you in the kitchen; and West, she's the parlourmaid, she's after that hundred pounds."
"Which hundred pounds? What--what do you mean?"
"Mean to say you don't know they've offered a hundred pounds for you?"
"Who--has offered a hundred pounds?"
"Why, over at Newcaster--I suppose it's them police--it generally is the police what offers rewards, isn't it? Mean to say you didn't know there was a reward out for you?"
Dorothy shrank back. A sound came from her lips which might have been "No."
"Why, it's in all the papers; I expect there's thousands looking out for it by now. That's what West says: someone's sure to get it, so it might as well be her. So she went to put her hat on; meaning to start off to them police; and if she didn't leave the key outside her room--so I gave it a turn, and here it is." She produced a door-key from a pocket in her skirt. "And there she is, locked in. Won't she be in a tear when she finds out!" The girl grinned, as if enjoying the mental picture she called up of the parlourmaid's rage when she discovered she was prisoned. "They won't be so eager to let her out, neither; there's none of them loves her. So if you're sharp you ought to get clear off before she's even started after that reward."
Dorothy made no attempt to deny the terrible imputation which the speaker's words conveyed. The thing was so continually present to her own mind that the idea did not occur to her of even pretending not to understand. The question she put tacitly admitted the truth of the whole tale of horror at which the other only remotely hinted.
"Do--do the others know?"
"You mean--the family? I should think by now they do; I know Mr Parkes started off to tell 'em."
"Perhaps--perhaps that's--why no one's been near me.
"I daresay. I shouldn't be surprised if I was the only friend you'd got in the house, truly! The truth is--though, mind you, there's no one in the place so much as guesses at it--the truth is, I have had trouble in my own family, so that gives me a sort of fellow-feeling--I know from bitter experience what them police are; no one sha'n't get into trouble if I can help it, I don't care who it is; so, if you take my advice, off you go as far as ever you can; because it's no use waiting till them police come before you start--not much it's not!"
"Why--why should I go?"
"Why? Well, if you don't know, I don't!--why!"
"Mrs Vernon herself may have sent for the police."
"Of course she may; I expect a hundred pounds is a hundred pounds to her as well as to anybody else."
"Then, if you think so, why shouldn't I let them come and find me here? I'm tired of--of running away--of hiding!"
"Don't be so silly. It makes me feel as if I'd got the rope round my own neck to hear you talk. You don't know what hanging is--I do! My--a relative of mine was hanged, he was; and my mother, she's told me, often and often, that the last three months she was carrying me she used to wake every night feeling that the rope was round her neck, and she used to have to get it off quick for fear it choked her. It happened just before I came--see? And before I was born she used to wonder if I should feel it because she did--and I have; ever since I was a small kid I have; and I shall again to-night. I lay I shall; I shall be as nearly hanged to-night as I can be without being quite. And that's why I say to you, don't be silly--you don't know what it feels like to be hanged." The speaker paused; she would have laid her hand on the other's arm, only Dorothy shrank back, shivering. She noted the action, commenting on it in a fashion of her own. "You needn't be afraid of me, miss; you needn't really. There's no harm about me; not a morsel. I couldn't help what happened, it was before my time; and I can't help feeling like that--can I?" She waited, as if for an answer; when none came she went on: "What I was going to say is--I'm told that Miss Frances is a friend of yours!"
"We--we were at school together."
"Were you now? Well, don't you think that by waiting for the police to take you here you'll be doing her a good turn, or her mother, or her father, nor yet none of them. You did 'em a bad enough turn by coming here at all; you don't want to make it worse, as you would do if the police was to take you in this house. It'll be all about it in the papers--how you was staying here, and how they was friends of yours, and no end; and gentlefolks don't like to have it known that they're friends of such as you; it gives the place a bad name; I shouldn't be surprised if nobody never came near it again--see?"
Dorothy did see. The idea had been in her head from the first; the speaker expressed it in a form which added to its force.
"You're quite right; that's what I've felt all along; I'll go at once."
She moved towards the door, as if with the intention of putting her words into instant execution. The girl caught her by the arm, this time before Dorothy had a chance to prevent her.
"Where are you going? What do you think you're doing?"
"I am going to leave the house. Please--please let go of my arm."
The girl only tightened her grip, until the pressure hurt.
"What, down the stairs and through the front door--is that the way you're going? Why, you might as well stay where you are as do that."
"Which other way can I go? Please--please release my arm; you're hurting me."
The girl paid no heed to her request.
"Why, if you was to go down the stairs someone would be sure to see you, and as likely as not they'd stop you; it isn't many as would throw away a hundred pounds like I'm a-doing. And if they was to let you go out of the house it would be almost the same; if them police was to ask them if they'd seen you they'd be bound to say they had. Cause why? They might get into trouble themselves if they was to say they hadn't; it's not easy to deal with them police in a job like this; you don't know the risk I'm running in acting as your friend. What you want is not to do the family a worse turn than you've done 'em already; so what you've got to do is to get off the place without their knowing anything about it, nor anyone else neither; because, of course, I don't count. Very well, then; the stairs is no good for that, nor yet the front door; the only way's the window." Dorothy thought of the window in that private sitting-room in "The Bolton Arms." She shut her eyes, and shivered. The girl mistook the cause of the other's evident disturbance. "Don't you be afraid, there's no call for you to go shivering; why, I felt you right up my arm. It's no distance from this window to the ground; why, it's nothing of a drop, to say nothing of there being a flower bed, what's pretty nearly as soft as a feather bed, for you to drop upon. If you haven't noticed come here and I'll show you."
She made as if she proposed to drag Dorothy to the window,nolens volens, for she still retained her grasp on her arm. But Dorothy stood fast.
"Will you please to take your hand away? I don't like you to hold me. I've already told you that you hurt." The girl looked at her a moment, then withdrew her hand. Dorothy held out her arm. "Look at the marks you have made."
Although in the room it was nearly dark there was light enough to enable them to see the imprints of the other's fingers on Dorothy's white arm.
"Sorry, miss, I'm sure. You must mark easy."
"You are stronger than you think."
"I am strong; I know I am stronger than some; still, I never should have thought that I was hurting you. I was only going to show you that the window's no distance from the ground."
"I'm not afraid of dropping from the window; I am not such a coward as that. Only what am I to do, and where am I to go, when I am down?"
"That's what I'm a-going to tell you. You see if you was to bend down, and keep as close to the hedge as you can, as likely as not you'll get to the water without anyone seeing you; though, of course, that frock you've got on does show up----"
"I can change it; I'd rather."
"No, there ain't no time for you to do that--you've wasted too much time already. You do as I tell you and you won't be seen, not in this light, especially as I expect they're all on the lookout for the police on the other side of the house. When you come to the river bend down again, and go along the bank till you come to where the boat's tied up to the steps. You get into the boat and row yourself across to the other side. The other side of the river's in another county. The police what belongs to this county they can't touch you in another county; so if you can get there you're safe as far as they're concerned; and the family here--Miss Frances and that, you know--they can't be made out to have anything to do with you if you are took in another county--see?"
Dorothy did see; or she thought she did--possibly her grasp of the situation was as clear as the other's exposition. Rejecting the other's offer of assistance she climbed, unaided, on to the sill; and, without the slightest hesitation, dropped on to the bed of flowers which was immediately below. The girl above, as if to assure herself that no harm was done, waited for her to stand up straight; then, as, in accordance with her directions, Dorothy, bent nearly double, began to move quickly along in the shadow of the hedge, towards the river, she withdrew her head; and, as stealthily as she had entered, she passed from the room.
It was darker than it was wont to be at that season of the year. Black, heavy clouds hung low in the heavens. The air was motionless, hot, oppressive. One needed no keen perception to tell that a storm was brewing. As Dorothy gained the river bank, in the distance was the loud muttering of thunder. She stopped to look about her, still keeping well in the shadow of the hedge. Apparently her flight had been unnoticed. It struck her that, if she had liked, she might have gone long ago, and been far away, ere this, without anyone being one penny the wiser; and so have lessened the chance of "the family" being associated with her ill-fame. As she looked back it seemed to her that the house was badly lighted. There was light in one room on the ground floor; with that exception the whole house was in darkness. Surely it was not the Vernon custom to keep the whole house unlighted when the night came on. There were lights in the windows of houses on the other side of the stream, and there were lights on the river. Tinted lights picked out the outlines of houseboats, making them orgies of colour. Dorothy, who had never seen anything of the sort before, stared at them in amaze, wondering what they were. Small craft, moving here and there, carried Chinese lanterns, slung on cords, which swayed mysteriously in the silent air. In the distance were many lights. The regatta was to be followed by what dwellers by the river call a Venetian Fête: there was to be a procession of illuminated boats, which already was forming afar off. If they wished to keep their procession dry they would be wise to start it soon.
By degrees, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Dorothy became aware that the river seemed to be alive with boats of all sorts and kinds. She had expected to find it deserted; she was surprised to find that it seemed to be more crowded even than it had been in the daytime. Remembering the servant's recommendation to stoop, so that her figure might not be too clearly visible against the skyline, she made the best of her way to the steps, up which Frances had hurried, out of the boat, when she first saw her on the lawn. For one to whom the place was not familiar, in that light they were not easy to find. She stumbled on them more by chance than anything else. She began, cautiously, to descend them. She could not make out how many there were; and had gone down six when, feeling for the seventh, she touched the surface of the water with the sole of her shoe. Starting back just in time to save herself from stepping into the stream, she sat down, unintentionally, and with more force than was quite pleasant, on one of the steps at her back. The unexpected nearness of the water startled her; she did not know what she had escaped. Had she completed that step she might have gone head foremost into the river. She tried to make out where the boat was of which the servant girl had spoken, and presently could see it dimly. It seemed to be a long way off, how was she to get at it? Wholly unacquainted with riverine methods it did not occur to her to look for the cord by which it was tied, and so draw it towards her. Which was perhaps well; for, though she had never been in a small boat in her life, how she was going to navigate one in the darkness, all alone, was a problem she did not stay to contemplate.
As she still sat on the step of which she had so unwillingly made a seat, dubious, fearful, the whole dark world was lit up by a vivid flash of lightning; and in what seemed to her to be its sudden, unearthly glow she saw, right in front of her, the face of the man who had killed George Emmett; saw it for one astounding moment, with more than normal plainness. Then, as suddenly as it came, it went, blotted out by the returning darkness. Whether she had seen a vision, or been the victim of an optical delusion, she had not a notion. For a moment or two all was still. Then a voice came to her through the blackness.
"Can you tell me whereabouts I shall find Mr Vernon's house?"
It was the voice of the man. As she heard it every muscle in Dorothy's body seemed to be attacked by a sort of tetanus. Whatever doubt she might have had about the face, as to whether or not it was an optical delusion, she had none whatever about the voice. She had heard it too recently--under circumstances of too much import--not to be sure of its identity when she heard it again. In it was a tone which had not been in it when she heard it in that sitting-room in "The Bolton Arms"; none the less was she sure that it was the same voice.
She could not have answered the question if she had tried; she did not try. She sat silent, rigid, waiting for the voice to come again. Presently it came.
"You must forgive me if I startled you, but that flash of lightning revealed you so clearly that I was asking myself if you could have been sent by Providence to help me in a difficulty I am in. I am trying to make out which is the garden of Mr Vernon's house. The directions I received were most explicit; but, in this light, for a stranger, even the most explicit directions are hard to follow. Can you tell me if I have nearly hit it?"
As she listened, Dorothy began to realise that the speaker was in a boat which was within a foot or two of where she was sitting. The boat showed an inclination to move with the stream; he backed it with a gentle movement of his scull. His face was turned towards her; but she only saw it very vaguely. He seemed to be waiting for her to reply; when she continued silent he spoke again.
"Do I make myself clear? It is Mr Vernon's house I am looking for--the Weir House, I believe it is called."
With an effort she managed to speak, her voice sounding strange even to herself.
"Why--why do you want Mr Vernon's house?"
There was a sound which might have been a chuckle; as if the man was tickled, either by the girl's caution or by her curiosity.
"Well, if you must know, I want to pay a call."
"You!"
"Yes, me; why not? Why do you say 'You' with such an accent?"
Although she knew what this man had done she was not afraid of him at all; even alone with him here in the darkness she was never for an instant conscious of the least alarm. That sensation which had held her rigid had had nothing in common with fear. And, although she could hardly help being surprised at his unexpected sudden neighbourhood, surprise soon passed; her dominant feeling was one of wonder as to what he could want at Mr Vernon's house. Regardless of the hint conveyed by his rejoinder she questioned him again.
"Are--are you a friend of Mr Vernon's?"
"May I ask why you inquire? Unless, indeed, this is the garden of Mr Vernon's house, and you are a friend of his." A thought seemed to strike him. "What an ass I am! Perhaps you're Miss Vernon. In which case, Miss Vernon, pray pardon my stupidity, and let me assure you that, though I am not a friend of Mr Vernon's, nor even an acquaintance, I am given to understand that there is someone in his house whom I am rather anxious to see; and, perhaps, if you are Miss Vernon, you could help me."
"Who is it you wish to see?"
She had neither admitted nor denied that she was the person he had suggested; but he seemed to have taken it for granted that her avoidance of the point was tantamount to an admission.
"The person I wish to see is a lady, a young one, Miss Gilbert--Miss Dorothy Gilbert." The listener's heart stood still; she was overwhelmed by that curious feeling of vertigo to which she seemed to have grown subject of late. Probably the man in the boat misinterpreted her silence; he went on to explain himself further. "I have just been informed, Miss Vernon, that Miss Dorothy Gilbert is a friend of yours, and that, at present, she is a guest of yours; I hope my information is correct."
The girl on the steps found her voice again; at anyrate, in part.
"Do--do you know Miss Gilbert?"
"It may sound odd, considering, but I don't; any more than I know Miss Vernon. But I hope to find an open sesame to her acquaintance in the fact that I did know her father intimately; to all intents and purposes he and I were lifelong friends."
"My father!--you knew my father!"
The girl on the steps stood up. The full strength of her voice had all at once come back. She spoke in tones which might have been audible on the other side of the river. The man in the boat seemed to be as startled by her words, and by her instant change of manner, as she had been by the discovery of his identity. There was a sudden splashing, as if, in his surprise, he had let the blades of his oars drop into the water; then an exclamation, as he woke to the fact that the boat had drifted from its original place. Presently he brought it back.
"Your father?--did you say your father? Then, in that case, I suppose you are Dorothy Gilbert--Harry Gilbert's daughter."
"I am."
"Are you sure. Why did you give me to understand that you were Miss Vernon?"
"I wanted to find out who it was you wanted to see; it was you who said I was Miss Vernon; I didn't. Did you say you knew my father?"
"Rather; no man knew him better. Then if you are Dorothy Gilbert, perhaps it's just as well that I've come upon you in this queer fashion; if you don't mind, I'll step ashore. I suppose this is Mr Vernon's garden?" She told him that it was. "I can't quite make out what kind of landing this is, but if you'll catch hold of the painter, so as to make sure of the boat, I'll do the rest." She did not know what the painter was, but she took the cord which he held out, and kept it till she was able to transfer it to him when he also was standing on the steps by her side.
"The accommodation seems limited down here; suppose we get up higher."
She ascended the steps; he followed; the cord was long enough to permit of his retaining it in his grasp even when he stood on the lawn. The moment they had reached the lawn she fired at him a question.
"What is your name?"'
"Arnecliffe--Leonard Arnecliffe."
"Then why did you say it was Gilbert?"
"Gilbert?--I said my name was Gilbert?--What on earth do you mean?"
"To the waiter at 'The Bolton Arms.'"
"To the waiter--what the devil do you know about what I said to the waiter at 'The Bolton Arms'?" She was still; not this time because she could not have spoken, but because words surged up to her lips which she had the greatest difficulty in keeping back. Whether he misconstrued her silence as egregiously this time was not clear. His words, when he spoke again, were odd ones. "I've been looking for you all over Europe, and now that I've found you I'm hanged if I know how to begin what I've got to say." She looked up at him, as he towered above her in the gloom; she not only knew what she wished to say, but how she wished to say it, only she was afraid. "Miss Gilbert, your father and I were friends in quite an exceptional sense."
"Wasn't he like you?"
"In appearance? No; except that we both of us were tallish, and that once he was dark, like me; but when he died his hair was as white as snow. His was a strange story--did you know it?"
"How could I? I scarcely remember having seen him; he never wrote me a letter in his life; I don't think I ever saw my mother; I know nothing about either my father or my mother."
"So I gathered. I've been looking for you in order to tell you all about both; only--luck, and a certain gentleman, has been against me."
"How did you know that I was here?"
"By one of those greatest flukes in the world, which are the commonplaces of existence. I was at a friend's house on the other side of the river when two youngsters came in who said that they had seen a Dorothy Gilbert this afternoon at Mrs Vernon's garden-party; so, on the off-chance of your being my Dorothy Gilbert, I came. I take it that there is no doubt that you are my Dorothy Gilbert."
"I am Dorothy Gilbert of Newcaster."
She uttered the words in a tone of defiance which seemed to startle him. For a moment he was still. When he spoke again his voice was lower.
"That's what I don't understand."
"What don't you understand?"
"The stories which the papers tell about you."
"I don't know what they may be, but I think it's very possible that I should understand them if you were to tell me what they are."
"But you had no hand in--in what took place at Newcaster."
"Oh yes, I had."
"Miss Gilbert! It's impossible!"
"I saw you do it."
"You saw me----" The man stopped; as if unwilling to complete the sentence; then asked: "What do you mean--by you saw me?"
"I saw--what you did to him."
"Miss Gilbert!"
"It was because--I saw you do it that I ran away; I didn't want them to make me tell them what I'd seen."
"Good God! what--what an extraordinary thing!"
"Yes, you may well call it an extraordinary thing. Dorothy Gilbert, you're my prisoner; I arrest you for murdering George Emmett. And you, my lad, I don't know what your name is, but I arrest you too. You're both of you my prisoners; and, if you take my advice, you won't make any fuss, but you'll just come quietly; and to make sure you'll put these on--there's a bracelet for each of you."
The speaker was a policeman, in unmistakable policeman's clothes. So engrossed had they been in their own affairs that to them it was as if he had sprung out of the ground; but the explanation of his appearance on the scene was sufficiently simple. West, the parlourmaid, having succeeded in releasing herself from the trap in which Dorothy's quick-witted sympathiser had temporarily secured her, had rushed off to the police station the moment she was free; more set than ever on effecting her purpose because of the trick of which she had been made the victim. Not only had she given information at the station-house itself; but on her homeward way she had encountered the individual to whom she was engaged to be married, and who was himself a constable. The hope of hastening her wedding-day by earning the hundred pounds which was offered as a reward was the motive which had caused her to act as informant; but in what seemed to her to be the fortunate meeting with the object of her affections, she saw an opportunity of enabling him to bring about his own advancement by managing so that he should effect the arrest in person. Explaining her purpose, she induced him to accompany her. As she was leading him to the servants' entrance she saw what she jumped to the conclusion was the dim outline of Dorothy's figure at the end of the lawn. On the instant she started him on the chase. Doing as Dorothy had done, keeping under the shadow of the hedge, taking advantage of their preoccupation, he was on them before either of the pair had suspected his propinquity; and, with a grin, was holding out a pair of handcuffs.
"Now, my lad, your right hand, and, Miss Dorothy Gilbert, your left--sorry to inconvenience you, but business is business."
The speaker, however, was taking too much for granted in supposing that, having surprised his prey, the rest would be perfectly easy; and the way in which he learnt his error probably took him at least as much by surprise as he had taken them. It took but an instant for Dorothy's companion to grasp the situation; and even less for him to decide upon a course of action. As the unsuspecting constable was suggesting, with a grin, that they should hold out their hands to permit of his handcuffing them together, the man took him by the shoulder, whirled him round, and sent him spinning down the steep bank, on the verge of which he had been standing, into the river. Ere the noise of the splash which he had made as he entered the water had died away someone came running towards them across the lawn. It was Frances Vernon. She called out as she came:
"Dorothy! Dorothy! some policemen are at the front door! Oh, Dorothy!"
Nor was Miss Vernon alone. Behind her came another figure, also feminine. It was the indignant and law-respecting West; who, as was immediately made evident, had seen the treatment which had been accorded her lover with feelings which were not too deep for words.
"And there's been a policeman here!--and he's took her prisoner!--and he was the first to do it!--she's his prisoner, that's what she is!--only that great brute shoved him into the river. I saw him do it!--and there he's drowning now for all he cares!--'Gustus! 'Gustus! You great coward, why don't you jump in and pull him out!--he was only doing his duty!--do you want to have him drowned before your eyes? 'Gustus! Is that you, 'Gustus?"
Descending the bank with all possible care, the agitated West got as near to the water's edge as she dared, peering into the murky stream for some signs of the being she loved. There were sounds on the lawn behind them. The man laid his hand on Dorothy's shoulder.
"Down the steps!--into the boat! I don't mean to let them take us like this; there's something which I must say to you first--quick!" How she had got there she scarcely knew; but all at once the girl found herself seated in a small boat, which wobbled portentously as the man followed her into it. "Steady!" she heard him say. Whether he was speaking to himself, to her, or to the boat, she was not sure. "Don't move; keep perfectly still; we shall be all right. Damn the sculls! Where the devil is that rowlock? I've got it!" The boat moved forward; then stopped, with a jar. It seemed they had run into another boat--the presence of which moved her companion to wrath. "Hollo!--who are you?--what the deuce are you doing there? Get out of the way, if you don't want me to run you down!"
A voice replied--a voice which Dorothy knew well:
"Gently! gently! Listen to me! Hug the shore for about two hundred yards and you'll find a cut; go down it and, made fast to the opposite bank, under the trees, you'll find a houseboat. It belongs to old Vernon; it's empty now; go aboard; for the present you'll be safer there than anywhere, I'll see to that; I'll put them off the scent. I'll come as soon as ever I can; wait for me there till I come. Off you go!"
And off they went, just as burly figures began to appear on the edge of the lawn. As they moved, almost noiselessly, through the water, the man asked Dorothy:
"Who was that spoke to us, and talked about a cut, and a houseboat? I couldn't get a proper sight of him. Did you know him?"
"I think," said Dorothy--as if she were not sure--"that it was Mr Frazer."
As if she had not recognised his voice with just as much certainty as she had done her companion's!
With sensations which she would not have found it easy to describe, Miss Frances Vernon felt a great hand grip her by the shoulder with a degree of roughness to which she was unaccustomed, and heard a coarse voice exclaim:
"I arrest you! You're my prisoner?" The speaker seemed to be a little short of breath; she realised that he had been running towards her across the lawn; but shortness of breath did not prevent his tightening his grip upon her shoulder until it was all she could do to keep herself from crying out with pain. But she managed to keep still. It dawned on her that she had been mistaken for Dorothy; and that the longer the mistake continued the better start the girl would have. Her captor was joined by someone else--evidently his superior officer. "I've got her, sir--here she is."
The new-comer seemed also to be having some trouble with his breathing apparatus; words came from him in gasps.
"What's--your name--young woman?"
Frances hesitated; then, turning, as far as her captor would permit her to do, she looked at as much of her questioner's face as she could see in the darkness.
"What business is it of yours what my name is? How dare you ask me such a question?"
But the officer was not to be put off like that.
"It's no use your trying that tone with me. I've a right to ask you that question, and I do ask it. Are you Dorothy Gilbert? If you decline to answer I shall conclude that you are, and you're a prisoner."
"You may conclude what you like. While this coward keeps on hurting me, as he is doing now, I'll answer no questions; if he removes his hand from my shoulder I may, but while he continues torturing me I certainly won't."
"Are you hurting her, Jenkins?"
"No, sir; I've just got hold of her tight enough to keep her from getting away."
"Let go of her shoulder! Take her by the arm. Now, young woman, no nonsense. Are you Dorothy Gilbert?"
A voice came from the bank below them; the agitated West had suddenly woke to some consciousness of what was going on behind her.
"Dorothy Gilbert! Who's Dorothy Gilbert? That's not her!' You great stupids, that's not her! That's not her!"
West appeared at the top of the steps--if anything, more agitated than ever.
"Who are you?" asked the officer.
"Is that you, Sergeant Batters? Mr Batters, you know very well who I am--I'm Eliza West, that's who I am. It was me who came to the station and told you where Dorothy Gilbert was, and that hundred pounds reward is mine. I've fairly earned it, I have; I call everyone to witness! If you chaps hadn't been such slowcoaches you'd have her safe enough: it's hardly a minute since she went off with another chap. My 'Gustus--his name's Carter, and his number 294--he took her prisoner, she's his lawful prisoner, that's what she is; only the chap she's gone off with he chucked my 'Gustus into the river, and there he is at this moment, drowned for all I know."
West's strident voice rose almost to a wail; but no sooner had she ceased than another voice was heard, coming again from the bank below them.
"Easy, Eliza, easy!--it's not so bad as that! I've got as much water inside me as I care to swallow, and my uniform's about done for; but that's about the worst. Let alone that I can swim, he didn't throw me in so deep; if it hadn't been for the weeds I'd have been ashore before this, only I couldn't speak a word because of the water that had got in my throat." A hatless figure came up the bank, whose owner seemed conscious that, in his then condition, in that light, he might be unrecognisable. "It's me, sergeant--Carter, two, nine, four. I have to report that I arrested the girl, Dorothy Gilbert----"
"That you did, 'Gustus, I saw you do it; and that hundred pounds is mine--fairly earned!"
"Now, Eliza, I'm talking; you mind your own business, and leave that hundred pounds alone. I also arrested the chap who was with her; only, just as I was going to put the handcuffs on the pair of them, he chucked me into the river and that's how it is, sergeant."
Still a third voice joined in the conference; in spite of its easy suavity it was obviously one which was used to command.
"Policemen here? What is the meaning of this?"
The speaker came up the steps, on to the lawn.
"Is this the man," inquired Mr Batters of Mr Carter, "whom you arrested and who assaulted you?"
Mr Carter shook his head.
"No, sergeant, that's not the man; nothing like him."
The new-comer approached.
"Are you a sergeant of police? As Mr Vernon is a relative of mine, I should like to know what you, and your men, are doing on his grounds. I am the Earl of Strathmoira."
"Beg pardon, my lord, but I've come here to arrest the young woman who's wanted for the Newcaster murder, of which perhaps your lordship may have heard."
"Gracious! Are you looking for a person of that description on Mr Vernon's premises?"
"Fact is, my lord, I'm given to understand that she's a friend of the people here, and that she was here hardly two minutes ago. This man says he arrested her, together with a person who appears to have been in collusion with her; whereupon her accomplice threw this man into the river, and got off with her in a boat. If your lordship came by the river they may have passed you; you may have noticed them."
"My good sir, do you suppose that, on a night like this, when a big storm is evidently very close at hand, and one's sole aim is to reach shelter before it comes, that one has nothing better to do than notice strangers who may happen to pass you on the river? There's a flash for you! Why, if it's not my cousin, Miss Vernon. My dear Frances, I was wondering who you were when that flash of lightning kindly showed me; it has grown so dark that I doubt if I ever should have known you without its aid. Pray tell me what these persons are doing here."
Advancing to Frances, he took her hand in his, with a warmth of greeting which she seemed scarcely inclined to reciprocate. She seemed to find his presence not only unexpected, but something else as well; as if in his calm, easy bearing, and soft, plausible speech, she saw something which half-puzzled, half-frightened her. As, as if tongue-tied, she stood before him as he continued to hold her hand, the woman West said, speaking in tones which suggested that she was possessed by an inward excitement which rendered her almost inarticulate:
"'Gustus--sergeant--he's diddling you--sure as you're standing there, he's diddling you! Pretending that he don't know anything about Dorothy Gilbert, or what you're here for! Why, he's her special friend!--it was he who brought her here last night. I saw him with her--with my own eyes I saw him! And I tell you something else about him, sergeant: although it's true enough that he's the Earl of Strathmoira, all the same for that his private name is Eric Frazer, and he's wanted as well as her. There's a warrant out against him--I see it in the paper--for half killing that young gipsy on Newcaster Heath, who wanted to give her away to you chaps; and it's through him that she got clean off, and it was he who brought her straight from Newcaster here. So you take him prisoner, sergeant, before he does a bolt like she's done; but, whether you do or whether you don't, I call everyone to witness that I've given you the information, and that hundred pounds is fairly mine--yes, and it's fairly mine twice over!--twice over it's mine!"
By the time she had finished, the woman had raised her voice to a hysteric screech. Plainly the sergeant did not know what to make of her.
"What is the woman talking about? Carter, you seem to understand her better than I do; what's she mean?"
Mr Carter addressed the lady who loved him.
"If you take my tip, Eliza, you won't let us hear so much about the hundred pounds; it's all you can talk about."
"Well!--what else have I got to talk about? If it hadn't been for the hundred pounds, do you think I'd have said a word?--not me! And now, because you policemen are such blockheads, it looks as likely as not that I'm going to be done out of it after all; first you let the girl go, and now you won't take the man who's hand and glove with her; all the lot of you will let him fool you if he likes!--a pack of idiots you policemen are!--you're all the same!"
There was a diversion from the constable who had put his hand on Frances Vernon's shoulder.
"Excuse me, sergeant, but I think I know what she means; I saw about it in the paper, what she says; it's right enough that there is a warrant out for Eric Frazer, according to the paper."
"But I can't act on a mere statement which you say you saw in a paper, which may or may not be true. In the absence of official instructions I can't accept responsibility for what a newspaper says."
The Earl of Strathmoira applauded this explanation of the speaker's point of view.
"Precisely, sergeant; I am glad to find that there is one sensible person present. This woman, who, I fancy, is one of Mr Vernon's servants, is probably not quite right in her head; she is certainly not worthy either of your attention or mine. Come, Frances, this unpleasant scene has upset you; never mind! Let's go up to the house; possibly they'll be able to tell us there what all this pother is about."
West laid her hand on Mr Carter's arm.
"'Gustus, don't you let him fool you; don't you let him go--don't you let him! If Mr Batters won't arrest him, you arrest him on your own; you'll be blamed if you don't! You know I'm no fool--what I tell you's gospel truth; he's wanted as much as she is--take him on your own."
The faithful Carter hesitated. Drawing the woman close to him, he looked her steadily in the face; apparently on the strength of what he saw there he made the plunge, moving towards the object of the discussion with the simple statement:
"You're my prisoner, my lord."
The earl eyed him; then laughed.
"Your prisoner, my good man--are you joking?"
"No, my lord, I am not joking, I must ask you to consider yourself under arrest."
"On what charge?"
The woman cried out:
"I charge him, if it comes to that! I charge him with aiding and abetting Dorothy Gilbert to escape, and also with being her accomplice--if you take him to the station, 'Gustus, you'll find that you've done right."
The earl turned to Mr Batters.
"Sergeant, will you be so good as to recommend this man to be careful what he say and does, before he has cause for serious regret."
Instead, however, of doing as he was requested, the sergeant threw in his lot with his subordinate.
"I am sorry, my lord, to subject you to any inconvenience; but I am afraid I must ask you to accompany us to the station till this matter has been cleared up."
"Accompany you to the station! But suppose I decline?"
"I regret, my lord, that I cannot allow you to decline. This matter is more serious than you appear to think. I myself say nothing either one way or the other; but I notice that you have not attempted to deny the statements which have been made against you; and I have no option but to request you to come with me to the station to permit of their being properly gone into."
The earl addressed Mr Carter.
"My man! take care! Let me strongly advise you not to presume to touch me!"
The sergeant interposed.
"If your lordship will give me your word that you will accompany us quietly to the station I, on my side, will undertake that you shall be subjected to no personal indignity; only in so grave a matter we can't take any risks; you must give me your word, my lord. Do you do so?"
"Does he! No, he doesn't. Look out, 'Gustus--he's going to give you the slip."
This was West, in whom the instinct of the huntress seemed to be preternaturally keen. The sergeant exclaimed:
"None of that, my lord! Hold him, Carter!" But the sergeant's warning came too late--to hold his prisoner was more that Carter could do, since, before the warning came, he was already out of his sight. A second time that evening he was to be disappointed of his prey. West was right; his lordship gave him the slip. Running down the bank, he had leapt into the water before they could stop him--indeed, so far were they from stopping him it was all the sergeant and Mr Carter could do to keep themselves from--quite unintentionally--going after him.