"I am going west," said he; "I will be back before eight o'clock. You must come at eight exactly."
"Yes'r," said the boy.
"Very well. Now go."
And the boy, with a bob of his head, took his departure. The boy went off, and at length reached the place which Gualtier had indicated. He rang at the door.
A servant came.
"Is this Mr. Gillis's?"
"Yes."
"Is he in?"
"Do you want to see him?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Particular business."
"Come in," said the servant; and the boy entered the hall and waited. In a few moments Mr. Gillis made his appearance. He regarded the boy carefully from head to foot.
"Come into the parlor," said he, leading the way into a room on the right. The boy followed, and Mr. Gillis shut the door.
"Well," said he, seating himself, "what is it that you want of me?"
"My father," said the boy, "is a grocer in Blackwall. He got a letter this morning from a friend of his who stopped here some time back. He had to go to America of a sudden and left his things, and wants to get 'em."
"Ah!" said Mr. Gillis. "What is the name of the lodger?"
"Mr. Brown," said the boy.
"Brown?" said Mr. Gillis. "Yes, there was such a lodger, I think; but I don't know about his things. You wait here a moment till I go and ask Mrs. Gillis."
Saying this Mr. Gillis left the room. After about fifteen or twenty minutes he returned.
"Well, my boy," said he, "there are some things of Mr. Brown's here yet, I believe; and you have come for them? Have you a wagon?"
He Carefully Instructed Him In The Part He Was To Perform.
[Illustration: "He Carefully Instructed Him In The Part He Was To Perform."]
"No. I only come to see if they were here, and to get your bill."
"And your father is Mr. Brown's friend?"
"Yes'r."
"And Mr. Brown wrote to him?"
"Yes'r."
"Well, you know I wouldn't like to give up the things on an uncertainty. They are very valuable. I would require some order from your father."
"Yes'r."
Mr. Gillis asked a number of questions of the boy, to which he responded without hesitation, and then left the room again, saying that he would go and make out Mr. Brown's bill.
He was gone a long time. The boy amused himself by staring at the things in the room, at the ornaments, and pictures, and began to think that Mr. Gillis was never coming back, when at last footsteps were heard in the hall, the door opened, and Mr. Gillis entered, followed by two other men. One of these men had the face of a prizefighter, or a ticket-of-leave man, with abundance of black hair and beard; his eyes were black and piercing, and his face was the same which has already been described as the face of Black Bill. But he was respectably dressed in black, he wore a beaver hat, and had lost something of his desperate air. The fact is, the police had taken Black Bill into their employ, and he was doing very well in his new occupation. The other was a sharp, wiry man, with a cunning face and a restless, fidgety manner. Both he and Black Bill looked carefully at the boy, and at length the sharp man spoke:
"You young rascal, do you know who I am?"
The boy started and looked aghast, terrified by such an address.
"No, Sir," he whimpered.
"Well, I'm Thomas S. Davis, detective. Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes'r," said the boy, whose self-possession completely vanished at so formidable an announcement.
"Come now, young fellow," said Davis, "you've got to own up. Who are you?"
"I'm the son of Mr. B. F. Baker, grocer, Blackwall," said the boy, in a quick monotone.
"What street?"
"Queen Street, No. 17," said the boy.
"There ain't no such street."
"There is, 'cos he lives there."
"You young rascal, don't you suppose I know?"
"Well, I oughter know the place where I was bred and bornd," said the boy.
"You're a young scamp. You needn't try to come it over me, you know. Why, I know Blackwall by heart. There isn't such a street there. Who sent you here?"
"Father."
"What for?"
"He got a letter from a man as used to stop here, askin' of him to get his things away."
"What is the name of the man?"
"Mr. Brown."
"Brown?"
"Yes'r."
"Where is this Mr. Brown now?"
"In Liverpool."
"How did he get there?"
"He's just come back from America."
"See here, boy, you've got to own up," said Davis, suddenly. "I'm a detective. We belong to the police. So make a clean breast of it."
"Oh, Sir!" said the boy, in terror.
"Never mind 'Oh, Sir!' but own up," said Davis. "You've got to do it."
"I ain't got nothin' to own up. I'm sure I don't see why you're so hard on a poor cove as never did you no harm, nor nobody else."
And saying this the boy sniveled violently.
"I s'pose your dear mamma dressed you up in your Sunday clothes to come here?" said the detective, sneeringly.
"No, Sir," said the boy, "she didn't, 'cos she's dead, she is."
"Why didn't your father come himself?"
"'Cos he's too busy in his shop."
"Did you ever hear the name of this Brown before to-day?"
"No, Sir, never as I knows on."
"But you said he is a friend of your father's."
"So he is, Sir."
"And you never heard his name before?"
"Never, Sir, in my life, Sir--not this Brown."
"Is your father a religious man?"
"A what, Sir?"
"A religious man."
"I dunno, Sir."
"Does he go to church?"
"Oh, yes'r, to meetin' on Sundays."
"What meeting?"
"Methodist, Sir."
"Where?"
"At No. 13 King Street," said the boy, without a moment's hesitation.
"You young jackass," said Davis. "No. 13 King Street, and all the numbers near it in Blackwall, are warehouses--what's the use of trying to humbug me?"
"Who's a-tryin' to humbug you?" whimpered the boy. "I don't remember the numbers. It's somewhere in King Street. I never go myself."
"You don't, don't you?"
"No, Sir."
"Now, see here, my boy," said Davis, sternly, "I know you. You can't come it over me. You've got into a nice mess, you have. You've got mixed in with a conspiracy, and the law's goin' to take hold of you at once unless you make a clean breast of it."
"Oh Lord!" cried the boy. "Stop that. What am I a-doin' of?"
"Nonsense, you young rascal! Listen to me now, and answer me. Do you know any thing about this Brown?"
"No, Sir. Father sent me."
"Well, then, let me tell you the police are after him. He's afraid to come here, and sent you. Don't you go and get mixed up with him. If you do, it'll be worse for you. This Brown is the biggest villain in the kingdom, and any man that catches him'll make his blessed fortune. We're on his tracks, and we're bound to follow him up. So tell me the truth--where is he now?"
"In Liverpool, Sir."
"You lie, you young devil! But, if you don't own up, it'll be worse for you."
"How's a poor cove like me to know?" cried the boy. "I'm the son of a honest, man, and I don't know any thing about your police."
"You'll know a blessed sight more about it before you're two hours older, if you go on hum-buggin' us this fashion," said Davis, sternly.
"I ain't a-humbuggin'."
"You are--and I won't stand it. Come now. Brown is a _murderer_, do you hear? There's a reward offered for him. He's got to be caught. You've gone and mixed yourself up with this business, and you'll never get out of the scrape till you make a clean breast of it. That's all bosh about your father, you know."
"It ain't," said the boy, obstinately.
"Very well, then," said Davis, rising. "You've got to go with us. We'll go first to Blackwall, and, by the Lord, if we can't find your father, we'll take it out of you. You'll be put in the jug for ten years, and you'll have to tell after all. Come along now."
Davis grasped the boy's hand tightly and took him out of the room. A cab was at the door. Davis, Black Bill, and the boy got into it and drove along through the streets. The boy was silent and meditative. At last he spoke:
"It's no use goin' to Blackwall," said he, sulkily. "I ain't got no father."
"Didn't I know that?" said Davis. "You were lying, you know. Are you goin' to own up?"
"I s'pose I must."
"Of course you must."
"Well, will you let me go if I tell you all?"
"If you tell all we'll let you go sometime, but we will want you for a while yet."
"Well," said the boy, "I can't help it. I s'pose I've got to tell."
"Of course you have. And now, first, who sent you here?"
"Mr. Brown."
"Ah! Mr. Brown himself. Where did you see him?"
"In the Strand."
"Did you ever see him before?"
"No. He picked me up, and sent me here."
"Do you know where he is lodging?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"At the Strand Hotel. He took me into his room and told me what I was to do. I didn't know any thing about him or his business. I only went on an errand."
"Of course you did," said Davis, encouragingly. "And, if you tell the truth, you'll be all right; but if you try to humbug us," he added, sternly, "it'll be the worse for you. Don't you go and mix yourself up in a murder case. I don't want any thing more of you than for you to take us to this man's room. You were to see him again to-day--of course."
"Yes'r."
"At what time?"
"Eight o'clock."
"Well--it's now four. You take us to his room, and we'll wait there."
The boy assented, and the cab drove off for the Strand Hotel.
The crowd in front of the hotel was so dense that it was some time before the cab could approach the entrance. At last they reached it and got out, Black Bill first, and then Davis, who still held the hand of the boy in a tight grasp, for fear that he might try to escape. They then worked their way through the crowd and entered the hotel. Davis said something to the clerk, and then they went up stairs, guided by the boy to Gualtier's room.
On entering it no one was there. Davis went into the adjoining bedroom, but found it empty. A carpet-bag was lying on the floor open. On examining it Davis found only a shaving-case and some changes of linen.
"We'll wait here," said Davis to Black Bill, as he re-entered the sitting-room. "He's out now. He'll be back at eight to see the boy. We've got him at last."
And then Black Bill spoke for the first time since the boy had seen him. A grim smile spread over his hard features.
"Yes," said he, "_we've got him at last_!"
CHAPTER LVI.
AT HIS BEDSIDE.
Meanwhile Hilda's position was a hard one. Days passed on. The one who came to act as a nurse was herself stricken down, as she had already been twice before. They carried her away to another room, and Gretchen devoted herself to her care. Delirium came on, and all the past lived again in the fever-tossed mind of the sufferer. Unconscious of the real world in which she lay, she wandered in a world of phantoms, where the well-remembered forms of her past life surrounded her. Some deliriums are pleasant. All depend upon the ruling feelings of the one upon whom it is fixed. But here the ruling feeling of Hilda was not of that kind which could bring happiness. Her distracted mind wandered again through those scenes through which she had passed. Her life at Chetwynde, with all its later horrors and anxieties, came back before her. Again and again the vision of the dying Earl tormented her. What she said these foreign nurses heard, but understood not. They soothed her as best they might, and stood aghast at her sufferings, but were not able to do any thing to alleviate them. Most of all, however, her mind turned to the occurrences of the last few days and weeks. Again she was flying to the bedside of Lord Chetwynde; again the anguish of suspense devoured her, as she struggled against weakness to reach him; and again she felt overwhelmed by the shock of the first sight of the sick man, on whom she thought that she saw the stamp of death.
Meanwhile, as Hilda lay senseless, Lord Chetwynde hovered between life and death. The physician who had attended him came in on the morning after Hilda's arrival, and learned from the nurse that Lady Chetwynde had come suddenly, more dead than alive, and was herself struck down by fever. She had watched him all night from her own couch, until at last she had lost consciousness; but all her soul seemed bent on one thing, and that was that a certain medicine should be administered regularly to Lord Chetwynde. The doctor asked to see it. He smelled it and tasted it. An expression of horror passed over his face.
"My God!" he murmured. "I did not dare to suspect it! It must be so!"
"Where is Lord Chetwynde's valet?" he asked at length, after a thoughtful pause.
"I don't know, Sir," said the nurse.
"He always is here. I don't see him now."
"I haven't seen him since Lady Chetwynde's arrival."
"Did my lady see him?"
"I think she did, Sir."
"You don't know what passed?"
"No, Sir. Except this, that the valet hurried out, looking very pale, and has not been back since."
"Ah!" murmured the doctor to himself. "She has suspected something, and has come on. The valet has fled. Could this scoundrel have been the guilty one? Who else could it be? And he has fled. I never liked his looks. He had the face of a vampire."
The doctor took away some of the medicine with him, and at the same time he took with him one of the glasses which stood on a table near the bed. Some liquid remained in it. He took these away to subject them to chemical analysis. The result of that analysis served to confirm his suspicions. When he next came he directed the nurse to administer the antidote regularly, and left another mixture also.
Lord Chetwynde lay between life and death. At the last verge of mortal weakness, it would have needed but a slight thing to send him out of life forever. The only encouraging thing about him for many days was that he did not get worse. From this fact the doctor gained encouragement, though he still felt that the case was desperate. What suspicions he had formed he kept to himself.
Hilda, meanwhile, prostrated by this new attack, lay helpless, consumed by the fierce fever which rioted in all her veins. Fiercer and fiercer it grew, until she reached a critical point, where her condition was more perilous than that of Lord Chetwynde himself. But, in spite of all that she had suffered, her constitution was strong. Tender hands were at her service, kindly hearts sympathized with her, and the doctor, whose nature was stirred to its depths by pity and compassion for this beautiful stranger, who had thus fallen under the power of so mysterious a calamity, was unremitting in his attentions. The crisis of the fever came, and all that night, while it lasted, he staid with her, listening to her disconnected ravings, and understanding enough of them to perceive that her fancy was bringing back before her that journey from England to Lausanne, whose fatigues and anxieties had reduced her to this.
"My God!" cried the doctor, as some sharper lamentation burst from Hilda; "it would be better for Lord Chetwynde to die than to survive a wife like this!"
With the morning the crisis had passed, and, thanks to the doctor's care, the result was favorable. Hilda fell into a profound sleep, but the fever had left her, and the change was for the better.
When the doctor returned once more he found her awake, without fever, yet very feeble.
"My lady," said he, "you must be more careful of yourself for the sake of others. Lord Chetwynde is weak yet, and though his symptoms are favorable, yet he requires the greatest care."
"And do you have hope of him?" asked Hilda, eagerly. This was the one thought of her mind.
"I do have hope," said the doctor.
Hilda looked at him gratefully.
"At present," said the doctor, "you must not think or talk about any thing. Above all, you must restrain your feelings. It is your anxiety about Lord Chetwynde that is killing you. Save yourself for his sake."
"But may I not be carried into his room?" pleaded Hilda, in imploring tones.