Simon had been that day all alone to see Mrs. Fisher-Fisher's roses; he said so at dinner that night. He had remembered the general invitation and had taken it, evidently, as a personal one. Bobby did not enquire details; besides, his mind was occupied at that dinner-table, where Cerise was constantly seeking his glance and where Julia sat watching. Brooding and watching and talking chiefly to Simon.
She and Simon seemed to get on well together, and a close observer might have fancied that Simon was attracted, perhaps less by her charms than by the fact that he considered her Bobby's girl and was making to cut Bobby out, in a mild way, by his own superior attractions.
After dinner Simon forgot her. He had other business on hand. He had not dressed for dinner, he was simply and elegantly attired in the blue serge suit he had worn in London. Taking his straw hat and lighting a cigar, he leftthe others and, having strolled round the garden for a few minutes, left the hotel premises and strolled down the street.
The street was deserted. He reached the Bricklayer's Arms, and, having admired the view for a while from the porch of that hostelry, strolled into the bar.
The love of low company, which is sometimes a distinguishing feature of the youthful, comes from several causes: a taste for dubious sport, a kicking against restraint, simply the love of low company, or a kind of megalomania—a wish to be first person in the company present, a wish easily satisfied at the cost of a few pounds.
In Simon's case it was probably a compound of the lot.
In the bar of the Bricklayer's Arms he was first person by a mile; and this evening, owing to hay-harvest work, he was first by twenty miles, for the only occupant of the bar was Dick Horn.
Horn, as before hinted by Mudd, was a very dubious character. In old days he would have been a poacher pure and simple, to-day he was that and other things as well. Socialism had touched him. He desired, not only other men's game and fish, but their houses and furniture.
He was six feet two, very thin, with lanternjaws, and a dark look suggestive of Romany antecedents—a most fascinating individual to the philosopher, the police, and those members of the public of artistic leanings. He was seated smoking and in company of a brown mug of beer when Simon came in.
They gave each other good evening, Simon rapped with a half-crown on the counter, ordered some beer for himself, had Horn's mug replenished, and then sat down. The landlord, having served them, left them together, and they fell into talk on the weather.
"Yes," said Horn, "it's fine enough for them that like it, weather's no account to me. I'm used to weather."
"So am I," said Simon.
"Gentlefolk don't know what weather is," said Horn; "they can take it or leave it. It's the pore that knows what weather is."
They agreed on this point.
After a while Horn got up, craned his head round the bar partition to see that no one was listening, and sat down again.
"You remember what I said to you about them night lines?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to set some to-night down in the river below."
"By Jove!" said Simon, vastly interested.
"If you're wanting to see a bit of sport maybe you'd like to jine me?" said Horn.
For a moment Simon held back, playing with this idea, then he succumbed.
"I'm with you," said he.
"The keeper's away at Ditchin'ham that minds this bit of the stream," said Horn. "Not that it matters, for he ain't no good, and the constable's no more than a blind horse. He's away, so we'll have the place proper to ourselves, and you said you was anxious to see how night linin' was done. Well, you'll see it, if you come along with me. Mind you, it's not every gentleman I'd take on a job like this, but you're different. Mind you, they'd call this poachin', some of them blistered magistrits, and I'm takin' a risk lettin' you into it."
"I'll say nothing," said Simon.
"It's a risk all the same," said Horn.
"I'll pay you," said Simon.
"'Aff a quid?"
"Yes, here it is. What time do you start?"
"Not for two hours," said Horn. "My bit of a place is below hill there. Y'know the Ditchin'ham road?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's that shack down there on the rightof the road before it jines the village. I've got the lines there and all. You walk down there in two hours' time and you'll find me at the gate."
"I'll come," said Simon.
Then these two worthies parted; Horn wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, saying he had to see a man about some ferrets, Simon walking back to the hotel.
The head of a big office or business house cannot move out of his orbit without creating perturbations. Brownlow, the head clerk and second in command of the Pettigrew business, was to learn this fact to his cost.
Brownlow was a man of forty-five, whose habits and ideas seemed regulated by clockwork. He lived at Hampstead with his wife and three children, and went each day to the office. That was the summary of his life as read by an outsider. Often the bald statement covers everything. It almost did in the case of Brownlow. He had no initiative. He kept things together, he was absolutely perfect in routine, he had a profound knowledge of the law, he was correct, a good husband and a good father, but he had no initiative, and, outside of the law, very little knowledge of the world.
Imagine this correct gentleman, then, seated at his desk on the morning of the day after that on which Simon made his poachingarrangements with Horn. He was turning over some papers when Balls, the second in command, came in. Balls was young and wore eyeglasses and had ambitions. He and Brownlow were old friends, and when together talked as equals.
"I've had that James man just in to see me," said Balls. "Same old game; wanted to see Pettigrew. He knows I have the whole thread of the case in my hands, but that's nothing to him, he wants to see Pettigrew."
"I know," said Brownlow. "I've had the same bother. Theywillsee the head."
"When's he back?" asked Balls.
"I don't know," said Brownlow.
"Where's he gone?"
"I don't know," said Brownlow. "I only know he's gone, same as this time last year. He was a month away then."
"Oh, Lord!" said Balls, who had only joined the office nine months before and who knew nothing of last year's escapade. "A month more of this sort of bother—a month!"
"Yes," said Brownlow. "I had it to do last year, and he left no address, same as now." Then, after a moment's pause, "I'm worried about him. I can't help it, there was a strange thing happened last year. I've never told it to a soul before. He called me in one day to hisroom and he showed me a bundle of bank-notes. 'See here, Brownlow,' said he, 'did you put these in my safe?' I'd never seen the things before and I have no key to his private safe. I told him I hadn't. He showed me the notes, ten thousand pounds' worth. Ten thousand pounds' worth, he couldn't account for—askedmeif I'd put them in his safe. I said 'No,' as I told you. 'Well, it's very strange,' said he. Then he stood looking at the floor. Then he said all of a sudden, 'It doesn't matter.' Next day he went off on a month's holiday, sending word for me to carry on."
"Queer," said Balls.
"More than queer," replied Brownlow. "I've put it down to mental strain; he's a hard worker."
"It's not mental strain," said Balls. "He's as alive as you or me and as keen, and he doesn't overwork; it's something else."
"Well, I wish it would stop," said Brownlow, "for I'm nearly worried to death with clients writing to see him and trying to invent excuses, and my work is doubled."
"So's mine," said Balls. He went out and Brownlow continued his business. He had not been engaged on it for long when Morgan, the office-boy, appeared.
"Mr. Tidd, sir, to see Mr. Pettigrew."
"Show him in," said Brownlow.
A moment later Mr. Tidd appeared.
Mr. Tidd was a small, slight, old-maidish man; he walked lightly, like a bird, and carried a tall hat with a black band in one hand and a tightly-folded umbrella in the other. Incidentally he was one of Pettigrew's best clients.
"Good morning," said Mr. Tidd. "I've called to see Mr. Pettigrew with regard to those papers."
"Oh yes," said Brownlow. "Sit down, Mr. Tidd. Those papers—Mr. Pettigrew has been considering them."
"Is not Mr. Pettigrew in?"
"No, Mr. Tidd, he's not in just at present."
"When is he likely to return?"
"Well, that's doubtful; he has left me in charge."
The end of Mr. Tidd's nose moved uneasily.
"You are in charge of my case?"
"Yes, of the whole business."
"I can speak confidentially?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, I have decided to stop proceedings—in fact, I am caught in a hole."
"Oh!"
"Yes. Mrs. Renshaw has, in some illicitmanner, got a document with my signature attached—a very grave document. This is strictly between ourselves."
"Strictly."
"And she threatens to use it against me."
"Yes."
"To use it against me, unless I return to her at once the letter of hers which I put in Mr. Pettigrew's keeping."
"Oh!"
"Yes. She is a violent and very vicious woman. I have not slept all night. I live, as you perhaps know, at Hitchin. I took the first train I could conveniently catch to town this morning."
The horrible fact was beginning to dawn on Brownlow that Simon had not brought those papers back to the office. He said nothing; his lips, for a moment, had gone dry.
"How she got hold of that document with my name to it I cannot tell," said Mr. Tidd, "but she will use it against me most certainly unless I return that letter."
"Perhaps," said Brownlow, recovering himself, "perhaps she is only threatening—bluffing, as they call it."
"Oh no, she's not," said the other. "If you knew her you would not say that; no, indeed,you would not say that. She is the last woman to threaten what she will not perform. Till that document is in her hands I will not feel safe."
"You must be careful," said Brownlow, fighting for time. "How would it be if I were to see her?"
"Useless," said Mr. Tidd.
"May I ask——"
"Yes?"
"Is the document to which your name is attached, and which is in her possession, is it—er—detrimental—I mean, plainly, is it likely to do you a grave injury?"
"The document," said Mr. Tidd, "was written by me in a moment of impulse to a lady who is—another gentleman's wife."
"It is a letter?"
"Yes, it is a letter."
"I see. Well, Mr. Tidd,yourdocument, the one you are anxious to return in exchange for this document, is in the possession of Mr. Pettigrew; it is quite safe."
"Doubtless," said Mr. Tidd, "but I want it in my hands to return it myself to-day."
"I sent it with the other papers to Mr. Pettigrew's private house," said Brownlow, "and he has not yet returned it."
"Oh! But I want it to-day."
"It's very unfortunate," said Brownlow, "but he's away—and I'm afraid he must have taken the papers with him for consideration."
"Good heavens!" said Tidd. "But if that is so what am I to do?"
"You can't wait?"
"How can I wait?"
"Dear me, dear me," said Brownlow, almost driven to distraction, "this is very unfortunate."
Tidd seemed to concur.
His lips had become pale. Then he broke out: "I placed my vital interests in the hands of Mr. Pettigrew, and now at the critical moment I find this!" said he. "Away! But you must find him—you must find him, and find him at once."
If he had only known what he would find he might have been less eager perhaps.
"I'll find him if I can," said Brownlow. He rang a bell, and when Morgan appeared he sent for Balls.
"Mr. Balls," said Brownlow with a spasmodic attempt at a wink, "can you not get Mr. Pettigrew's present address?"
Balls understood.
"I'll see," said he. Out he went, returning in a minute.
"I'm sorry I can't," said Balls. "Mr.Pettigrew did not leave his address when he went away."
"Thank you, Mr. Balls," said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, when they were alone: "This is as hard for me as for you, Mr. Tidd; I can't think what to do."
"We've got to find him," said Tidd.
"Certainly."
"Will he by any chance have left his address at his private house?"
"We can see," said Brownlow. "He has no telephone, but I'll go myself."
"I will go with you," said Tidd. "You understand me, this is a matter of life and death—ruin—my wife—that woman, and the other one."
"I see, I see, I see," said Brownlow, taking his hat from its peg on the wall. "Come with me; we will find him if he is to be found."
He hurried out, followed by Mr. Tidd, and in Fleet Street he managed to get a taxi. They got into it and drove to King Charles Street.
There was a long pause after the knock, and then the door opened, disclosing Mrs. Jukes. Brownlow was known to her.
"Mrs. Jukes," said Brownlow, "can you give me Mr. Pettigrew's present address?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"He was called away, was he not?"
"I don't think so, sir; he went off on some business or other. Mudd has gone with him."
"Oh, dear!" said Tidd.
"They stopped at the Charing Cross Hotel," said Mrs. Jukes, "and then I had a message they were going into the country. It was from Mr. Mudd, and he said they might be a month away."
"A month away!" said Tidd, his voice strangely calm.
"Yes, sir."
"Good gracious!" said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, "You see how I am placed?"
"A month away," said Tidd; he seemed unable to get over that obstacle of thought.
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Jukes.
They got into the taxi and went to the Charing Cross Hotel, where they were informed that Mr. Pettigrew was gone and had left no address.
Then suddenly an idea came to Brownlow—Oppenshaw. The doctor might know; failing the doctor, they were done.
"Come with me," said he; "I think I know a person who may have the address." He got into the taxi again with the other, gave the Harley Street address, and they drove off. Thehorrible irregularity of the whole of this business was poisoning Brownlow's mind—hunting for the head of a firm who ought to be at his office and who held possession of a client's vitally important document.
He said nothing, neither did Mr. Tidd, who was probably engaged in reviewing the facts of his case and the position his wife would take up when that letter was put into her hands by Mrs. Renshaw.
They stopped at110A, Harley Street.
"Why, it's a doctor's house," said Tidd.
"Yes," said Brownlow.
They knocked at the door and were let in.
The servant, in the absence of an appointment, said he would see what he could do, and showed them into the waiting-room.
"Tell Dr. Oppenshaw it is Mr. Brownlow from Mr. Pettigrew's office," said Brownlow, "on very urgent business."
They took their seats, and while Mr. Tidd tried to read a volume ofPunchupside down, Brownlow bit his nails.
In a marvellously short time the servant returned and asked Mr. Brownlow to step in.
Oppenshaw did not beat about the bush. When he heard what Brownlow wanted he said frankly he did not know where Mr. Pettigrewwas; he only knew that he had been staying at the Charing Cross Hotel. Mudd, the manservant, was with him.
"It's only right that you should know the position," said Oppenshaw, "as you say you are the chief clerk and all responsibility rests on you in Mr. Pettigrew's absence." Then he explained.
"But if he's like that, where's the use of finding him?" said the horrified Brownlow. "A man with mind disease!"
"More a malady than a disease," put in Oppenshaw.
"Yes, but—like that."
"Of course," said Oppenshaw, "he may at any moment turn back into himself again, like the finger of a glove turning inside out."
"Perhaps," said the other hopelessly, "but till he does turn——"
At that moment the sound of a telephone-bell came from outside.
"Till he does turn, of course, he's useless for business purposes," said Oppenshaw; "he would have no memory, for one thing—at least, no memory of business."
The servant entered.
"Please, sir, an urgent call for you."
"One moment," said Oppenshaw. Out he went.
He was back in less than two minutes.
"I have his address," said he.
"Thank goodness!" said Brownlow.
"H'm," said Oppenshaw; "but there's not good news with it. He's staying at the Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill, and he's been getting into trouble of some sort. It was Mudd who 'phoned, and he seemed half off his head; said he didn't like to go into details over the telephone, but wanted me to come down to arrange matters. I told him it was quite impossible to-day; then he seemed to collapse and cut me off."
"What am I to do?"
"Well, there's only two things to be done: tell this gentleman that Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected, or take him down there on the chance that this shock may have restored Mr. Pettigrew."
"I can't tell him Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected," said Brownlow. "I'd sooner do anything than that. I'd sooner take him down there on the chance of his being better—perhaps even if he's not, the sight of me and Mr. Tidd might recall him to himself."
"Possibly," said Oppenshaw, who was in a hurry and only too glad of any chance of cutting the business short. "Possibly. Anyhow, thereis some use in trying, and tell Mudd it's absolutely useless my going. I shall be glad to do anything I can by letter or telephone."
Brownlow took up his hat, then he recaptured Tidd and gave him the cheering news that he had Simon's address. "I'll go with you myself," said Brownlow. "Of course, the expense will fall on the office. I must send a telegram to the office and my wife to say I won't be back to-night. We can't get to Upton till this evening. We'll have to go as we are, without even waiting to pack a bag."
"That doesn't matter; that doesn't matter," said Tidd.
They were in the street now and bundling into the waiting taxi.
"Victoria Station," said Brownlow to the driver. Then to Tidd, "I can telegraph from the station."
They drove off.
"He came back two hours ago, sir, and he was in his room ten minutes ago—but he's gone."
"Well," said Bobby, who was just off to bed, "he'll be back again soon; can't come to much harm here. You'd better sit up for him, Mudd."
Off he went to bed. He lay reading for awhile and thinking of Cerise; then he put out the light and dropped off to sleep.
He was awakened by Mudd. Mudd with a candle in his hand.
"He's not back yet, Mr. Robert."
Bobby sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Not back? Oh, Uncle Simon! What's the time?"
"Gone one, sir."
"Bother! What can have happened to him, Mudd?"
"That's what I'm asking myself," said Mudd.
A heavy step sounded on the gravel drive in front of the hotel, then came a ring at thebell. Mudd, candle in hand, darted off.
Bobby heard voices down below. Five minutes passed and then reappeared Mudd—ghastly to look at.
"They've took him," said Mudd.
"What?"
"He's been took poachin'."
"Poaching!"
"Colonel Salmon's river, he and a man, and the man's got off. He's at the policeman's house, and he says he'll let us have him if we'll go bail for him, seeing he's an old gentleman and only did it for the lark of the thing."
"Thank God!"
"But he'll have to go before the magistrates on We'n'sday, whether or no—before the magistrates—him!"
"The devil!" said Bobby. He got up and hurried on some clothes.
"Him before the magistrates—in his present state!Oh, Lord!"
"Shut up!" said Bobby. His hands were shaking as he put on his things. Pictures of Simon before the magistrates were fleeting before him. Money was the only chance. Could the policeman be bribed?
Hurrying downstairs and outside into the moonlit night, he found the officer. None ofthe hotel folk had turned out at the ring of the bell. Bobby, in a muted voice and beneath the stars, listened to the tale of the Law, then he tried corruption.
Useless. Constable Copper, though he might be no more good than a blind horse, according to Horn, was incorruptible yet consolatory.
"It'll only be a couple of quid fine," said he. "Maybe not that, seeing what he is and it was done for a lark. Horn will get it in the neck, but not him. He's at my house now, and you can have him back if you'll go bail he won't get loose again. He's a nice old gentleman, but a bit peculiar, I think."
Constable Copper seemed quite light-hearted over the matter, and to think little of it as an offence. A couple of quid would cover it! He did not, perhaps, appreciate fully the light and shade of the situation—a J.P. and member of the Athenæum and of the Society of Antiquaries brought up for poaching in company with an evil character named Horn!
Neither did Simon, whom they found seated on the side of the table in the Coppers' sitting-room talking to Mrs. Copper, who was wrapped in a shawl.
He went back to the hotel with them rather silent but not depressed; he tried, indeed, totalk and laugh over the affair. This was the last straw, and Bobby burst out, giving him a "jawing" complete and of the first pattern. Then they saw him to bed and put out the light.
At breakfast he was quite himself again, and the summons which arrived at eleven o'clock was not shown to him. No one knew of the affair with the exception of the whole village, all the hotel servants, Bobby and Mudd.
The distracted Mudd spent the morning walking about, hither and thither, trying to collect his wits and make a plan. Simon had given his name, of course, though indeed it did not matter much as he was a resident at the hotel. It was impossible to deport him or move him or pretend he was ill; nothing was possible but the bench of magistrates—Colonel Salmon presiding—and Publicity.
At half-past eleven or quarter to twelve he sent the despairing message to Oppenshaw; then he collapsed into a cold sort of resignation with hot fits at times.
At four o'clock that day a carriage drove up to the hotel and two gentlemen alighted. They were shown into the coffee-room and Mudd was sent for. He came, expecting to find police officers, and found Brownlow and Mr. Tidd.
"One moment, Mr. Tidd," said Brownlow, then he took Mudd outside into the hall.
"He's not fit to be seen," said Mudd, when the other had explained. "No client must see him. He's right enough to look at and speak to, but he's not himself. What made you bring him here, Mr. Brownlow—now, of all times?"
Brownlow started and turned. Mr. Tidd had opened the coffee-room door, and how much of their conversation he had heard Heaven knows.
"One moment," said Brownlow.
"I will wait no longer," said Mr. Tidd. "This must be explained. Is Mr. Pettigrew here or is he not? No, I will not wait."
A waiter passed at that moment with an afternoon-tea-tray.
"Is Mr. Pettigrew in this hotel?" asked Tidd.
"He's in the garden, I believe, sir."
Brownlow tried to get in front of Tidd to round him off from the garden; Mudd tried to take his arm. He pushed them aside.
We must go back to three o'clock. At three o'clock Bobby, walking in the garden smoking a cigarette, had crossed the front of the arbour—Arbour No. 1. The grass path, soundless as a Turkey carpet, did not betray his footsteps.
There were two people in the arbour and they were "canoodling"—Simon and Julia Delyse. She was keeping her hand in, perhaps, or the attraction Simon had always had for her had betrayed her into allowing him to hold her hand. Anyhow, he was holding it. Bobby looked at her, and Julia snatched her hand away. Simon laughed; he seemed to think it a good joke, and his vain soul was doubtless pleased with having got the better of Bobby with Bobby's girl.
Bobby passed on, saying, "I beg your pardon." It was the only thing he could think of to say. Then, when out of hearing, he too laughed. He had got the better of Julia. That brooding presence would brood no more.
An hour later Simon, walking in the garden alone and in meditation, reached the bowling-green. He drew close to Arbour No. 2. The grass silencing his footsteps, he passed the arbour opening and looked in. The two people there did not see him for a moment, then they unlocked.
It was Cerise and Bobby.
Simon stood, mouth open, stock still, cigar dropped on grass.
He had laughed when Bobby had caught him with Julia. He did not laugh now.
The shock of the poaching business had left him untouched, unshaken, but Cerise, in some strange way, was his centre of gravity, his compass, and sometimes his rudder. He loved Cerise; the other girls were phantoms. Perhaps Cerise was the only real thing in his mental state.
For a moment he stood, his hand to his head like a man stunned.
Bobby ran to him and caught him.
"Where am I?" said Uncle Simon. "Oh—oh—I see." He leaned heavily on Bobby, looking about him in a dazed way like a man half awakened. Madame Rossignol, who had just come out of the hotel, seeing his condition, ran towards him, and Simon, as though recognising a guardian angel, held out his hand.
Then Bobby and the old lady gently, very gently, began to lead him back to the house.
As they drew near the back entrance three men, one following the other, came out.
Simon stopped.
He had recognised Tidd; he seemed also to recognise more fully his own position and to remember. Bobby felt his hand tightly clasping his own.
"Why, this is Mr. Tidd," said Simon.
"Mr. Pettigrew," said Tidd, "where are my papers—the papers in the case of Renshaw?"
"Tiddv.Renshaw," said Simon's accurate mind. "They are in the top left-hand drawer of my bureau in Charles Street, Westminster."
"You are all absolutely wrong." Julia Delyse was speaking. She had been sitting mumchance at a general meeting of the Pettigrew confraternity held half an hour before Bench in a sitting-room of the Rose Hotel.
Simon had vetoed the idea of a solicitor to defend him—it would only create more talk, and from what he could make out his case was defenceless. He would throw himself on the mercy of the court. The rest had concurred.
"Throw yourself on the mercy of the court! Have you ever lived in the country? Do you know what these old magistrates are like? Don't you know that theWessex Chroniclewill publish yards about it, to say nothing of the local rag? I've thought out the whole thing. I've wired for Dick Pugeot."
"You wired?" said Bobby.
"Last night. You remember I asked you for his address—and there he is."
The toot of a motor-horn came from outside.
Julia rose and left the room.
Bobby followed and stopped her in the passage.
"Julia," said he, "if you can get him out of this and save his name being in the papers, you'll be a brick. You are a brick, and I've been a—a——"
"I know," said Julia, "but you could not help yourself—nor can I. I'm not Cerise. Love is lunacy and the world's all wrong. Now go back and tell your uncle to say nothing in court and to pretend he's a fool. If Pugeot is the man you say he is, he'll save his name. Old Mr. Pettigrew has got to be camouflaged."
"Good heavens, Julia," cried Bobby, the vision of gnus emulating zebras rising before him, "you can't mean to paint him?"
"Never mind what I mean," said Julia.
The Upton Bench was an old Bench. It had been in existence since the time of Mr. Justice Shallow. It held its sittings in the court-room of the Upton Police Court, and there it dispensed justice, of a sort, of a Wednesday morning upon "drunks," petty pilferers, poachers, tramps, and any other unfortunates appearing before it.
Colonel Grouse was the chairman. With him this morning sat Major Partridge-Cooper, Colonel Salmon, Mr. Teal, and General Grampound. The reporters of the local rag and theWessex Chroniclewere in their places. The Clerk of the Court, old Mr. Quail, half-blind and fumbling with his papers, was at his table; a few village constables, including Constable Copper, were by the door, and there was no general public.
The general public was free to enter, but none of the villagers ever came. It was an understood thing that the Bench discouraged idlers and inquisitive people.
The inalienable right of the public to enter a Court of Justice and see Themis at work had never been pushed. The Bench was much more than the Bench—it was the Gentry and the Power of Upton,[1]against which no man could run counter. Horn alone, in pot-houses and public places, had fought against this shibboleth; he had found a few agreers, but no backers.
At eleven to the moment the Pettigrew contingent filed in and took their places, and after them a big yellow man, the Hon. Dick Pugeot. He was known to the magistrates, but Justice isblind and no mark of recognition was shown, whilst a constable, detaching himself from the others, went to the door and shouted:
"Richard Horn."
Horn, who had been caught and bailed, and who had evidently washed himself and put on his best clothes, entered, made for the dock, as a matter of long practice, and got into it.
"Simon Pettigrew," called the Clerk.
Simon rose and followed Horn. Instructed by Julia to say nothing, he said nothing.
Then Pugeot rose.
"I beg your pardon," said Pugeot; "you have got my friend's name wrong. Pattigraw, please; he's a Frenchman, though long resident in England; and it's not Simon—but Sigismond."
"Rectify the charge-sheet," said Colonel Grouse. "First witness."
Simon, dazed, and horrified as a solicitor by this line of action, tried to speak, but failed. The brilliant idea of Julia's, taken up with enthusiasm by Pugeot, was evidently designed to fool the newspaper men and save the name of Simon the Solicitor. Still, it was horrible, and he felt as though Pugeot were trying to carry him pick-a-back across an utterly impossible bridge.
He guessed now why this had been sprung on him. They knew that as a lawyer he would never have agreed to such a statement.
Then Copper, hoisting himself into the witness-stand, hitching his belt and kissing the Testament, began:
"I swear before A'mighty Gawd that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Gawd, Amen on the evening of the 16th pursuin' my beat by Porter's Meadows I see defendant in the company of Horn——"
"What were they doing?" asked old Mr. Teal, who was busily taking notes just like any real judge.
"Walkin' towards the river, sir."
"In which direction?"
"Up stream, sir."
"Go on."
Copper went on.
"Crossin' the meadows, they kept to the river, me after them——"
"How far behind?" asked Major Partridge-Cooper.
"Half a field's length, sir, till they reached the bend of the stream beyond which the prisoner Horn began to set his night lines, assisted by the prisoner Puttigraw. 'Hullo,' says I, andHorn bolted, and I closed with the other one."
"Did he make resistance?"
"No, sir. I walked him up to my house quite quiet."
"That all?"
"Yes, sir."
"You can stand down."
The prisoners had pleaded guilty and there was no other evidence. Simon began to see light. He could perceive at once that it would be a question of a fine, that the magistrates and Press had swallowed him as specified by Pugeot, that his name was saved. But he reckoned without Pugeot.
Pugeot had done everything in life except act as an advocate, and he was determined not to let the chance escape. Several brandies-and-sodas at the hotel had not lessened his enthusiasm for Publicity, and he rose.
"Mr. Chairman and Justices," said Pugeot. "I would like to say a few words on behalf of my friend, the prisoner, whom I have known for many years and who now finds himself in this unfortunate position through no fault of his own."
"How do you make that out?" asked Colonel Grouse.
"I beg your pardon?" said Pugeot, checked in his eloquence. "Oh yes, I see what you mean. Well, as a matter of fact, as a matter of fact—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, leaving aside the fact that he is the last man to do a thing of this sort, he has had money troubles in France."
"Do you wish to make out a case ofnon compos mentis?" asked old Mr. Teal. "There is no medical evidence adduced."
"Not in the least," said Pugeot; "he's as right as I am, only he has had worries." Then, confidentially, and speaking to the Bench as fellow-men: "If you will make it a question of a fine, I will guarantee everything will be all right—and besides"—a brilliant thought—"his wife will look after him."
"Is his wife present?" asked Colonel Grouse.
"That is the lady, I believe," said Colonel Salmon, looking in the direction of the Rossignols, whom he dimly remembered having seen at the Squire Simpson's with Simon.
Pugeot, cornered, turned round and looked at the blushing Madame Rossignol.
"Yes," said he, without turning a hair, "that is the lady."
Then the recollection struck him with a thudthat he had introduced the Rossignols as Rossignols to the Squire Simpson's and that they were registered at the hotel as Rossignols. He felt as though he were in a skidding car, but nothing happened, no accusing voice rose to give him the lie, and the Bench retired to consider its sentence, which was one guinea fine for Sigismond and a month for Horn.
"You've married them," said Julia, as they walked back to the hotel, leaving the others to follow. "Inevermeant you to say that. But perhaps it's for the best; she's a good woman and will look after him, and he'llhaveto finish the business, won't he?"
"Rather, and a jolly good job!" said Pugeot. "Now I've got to bribe the hotel man and stuff old Simpson with the hard facts. Never had such fun in my life. I say, old thing, where do you hang out in London?"
Julia gave him her address.
That was the beginning of the end of Pugeot as a bachelor—also of Simon, who never would have been brought up to the scratch but for Pugeot's speech—also of Mr. Ravenshaw, who never in his wildest dreams could have foreseen his marriage to Simon's step-daughter a week after Simon's marriage to her mother.
Mudd alone remains unmarried out of all these people, for the simple and efficient reason that there is no one to marry him to. He lives with the Pettigrews in Charles Street, and his only trouble in life is dread of another outbreak on the part of Simon. This has not occurred yet—will never occur, if there is any truth in the dictum of Oppenshaw that marriage is the only cure for the delusions of youth.
THE END