Table of Contents
THE NEW LIFE
For obvious reasons Beecot did not return to Gwynne Street. It was difficult to swallow this bitter pill which Providence had administered. In place of an assured future with Sylvia, he found himself confronted with his former poverty, with no chance of marrying the girl, and with the obligation of telling her that she had no right to any name. Paul was by no means a coward, and his first impulse was to go at once and inform Sylvia of her reverse of fortune. But it was already late, and he thought it would be only kind to withhold the bad news till the morrow, and thus avoid giving the disinherited girl a tearful and wakeful night. Therefore, after walking the Embankment till late, Paul went to his garret.
To the young man's credit it must be said that he cared very little for the loss of the money, although he grieved on Sylvia's account. Had he been able to earn a small income, he would have married the girl and given her the protection of his name without the smallest hesitation. But he was yet unknown to fame; he was at variance with his father, and he could scarcely bring Sylvia to share his bitter poverty—which might grow still more bitter in that cold and cheerless garret.
Then there was another thing to consider. Paul had written to his father explaining the circumstances of his engagement to Sylvia, and asking forthe paternal blessing. To gain this, he mentioned that his promised wife had five thousand a year. Bully and tyrant as Beecot senior was, he loved money, and although well off, was always on the alert to have more brought into the family. With the bribe of a wealthy wife, Paul had little doubt but what the breach would be healed, and Sylvia welcomed as the sweetest and most desirable daughter-in-law in the world. Then Paul fancied the girl would be able to subdue with her gentle ways the stubborn heart of his father, and would also be able to make Mrs. Beecot happy. Indeed, he had received a letter from his mother congratulating him on his wealthy match, for the good lady wished to see Paul independent of the domestic tyrant. Also Mrs. Beecot had made many inquiries about Sylvia's goodness and beauty, and hoped that he had chosen wisely, and hinted that no girl living was worthy of her son, after the fashion of mothers. Paul had replied to this letter setting forth his own unworthiness and Sylvia's perfections, and Mrs. Beecot had accepted the good news with joy. But the letter written to Beecot senior was yet unanswered, and Paul began to think that not even the chance of having a rich daughter-in-law would prevail against the obstinacy of the old gentleman.
But when he reached his garret, after that lonely and tormenting walk on the Embankment, he found a letter from his father, and opened it with some trepidation. It proved to contain joyful news. Mr. Beecot thanked Heaven that Paul was not such a fool as he had been of yore, and hinted that this sudden access of sense which had led him to engage himself to a wealthy girl had come from his father and not from his mother. He—Beecot senior—was aware that Paul had acted badly, and had not remembered what was due to the best of fathers; but since he was prepared to settle down with a rich wife,Beecot senior nobly forgave the past and Paul's many delinquences (mentioned in detail) and would be glad to welcome his daughter-in-law. Then Beecot, becoming the tyrant again, insisted that the marriage should take place in Wargrove, and that the fact of Sylvia's father being murdered should be suppressed. In fact, the old gentleman left nothing to the young couple, but arranged everything in his own selfish way, even to choosing, in Wargrove, the house they would inhabit. The house, he mentioned, was one of his own which could not be let on account of some trivial tale of a ghost, and Mr. Beecot would give this as a marriage gift to Paul, thus getting rid of an unprofitable property and playing the part of a generous father at one and the same time. In spite of his bucolic ways and pig-headed obstinacy and narrow views, Beecot senior possessed a certain amount of cunning which Paul read in every line of the selfish letter before him.
However, the main point was, that the old gentleman seemed ready to overlook the past and to receive Sylvia. Paul wanted to return to his home, not so much on account of his father, as because he wished to smooth the remaining years of his mother, and he knew well that Sylvia with her gentle ways and heart of gold would make Mrs. Beecot happy. So long as Paul loved the girl he wished to marry, the mother was happy; but Beecot senior had an eye to the money, and thus was ready to be bribed into forgiveness and decent behavior. Now all this was altered. From the tone of the letter, Paul knew his father would never consent to his marrying a girl not only without a name, but lacking the fortune which alone rendered her desirable in his eyes. Still, the truth would have to be told, and if Beecot senior refused to approve of the marriage, the young couple would have to do without his sanction. The position, thought Paul, would only make him work the harder,so that within a reasonable time he might be able to provide a home for Sylvia.
So, the young man facing the situation, bravely wrote to his father and explained how the fortune had passed from Sylvia, but declared, with all the romance of youth, that he intended to marry the girl all the same. If Beecot senior, said Paul, would permit the marriage, and allow the couple a small income until the husband could earn enough to keep the pot boiling, the writer would be grateful. If not, Paul declared firmly that he would work like a slave to make a home for his darling. But nothing in the world would make him give up Sylvia. This was the letter to his father, and then Paul wrote one to his mother, detailing the circumstances and imploring her to stand by him, although in his own sinking heart he felt that Mrs. Beecot was but a frail reed on which to lean. He finished these letters and posted them before midnight. Then he went to bed and dreamed that the bad news was all moonshine, and that Sylvia and he were a happy rich married pair.
But the cold grey searching light of dawn brought the actual state of things again to his mind and so worried him that he could hardly eat any breakfast. He spent the morning in writing a short tale, for which he had been promised a couple of sovereigns, and took it to the office of the weekly paper which had accepted it, on his way to Gwynne Street. Paul's heart was heavy, thinking of what he had to tell, but he did not intend to let Sylvia see that he was despondent. On turning down the street he raised his head, assumed a smile and walked with a confident step into the shop.
As he entered he heard a heavy woman plunge down the stairs, and found his arm grasped by Deborah, very red-faced and very furious, the moment he crossed the threshold. Bart could be heard knocking boxes together in the cellar, as he was getting Deborah'sbelongings ready for removal to Jubileetown, where the cottage, and the drying ground for the laundry, had already been secured through Pash. But Paul had no time to ask what was going on. A glance at the hand-maiden's tearful face revealed that she knew the worst, in which case Sylvia must also have heard the news.
"Yes," cried Deborah, seeing the sudden whiteness of Paul's cheeks, and shaking him so much as to hurt his injured arm, "she knows, she do—oh, lor', bless us that things should come to this—and there she's settin' a-crying out her beautiful eyes for you, Mr. Beecot. Thinking of your throwin' her over, and if you do," shouted Deborah, with another shake, "you'd better ha' bin smashed to a jelly than face me in my presingt state. Seein' you from the winder I made bold to come down and arsk your intentings; for if them do mean no marriage and the breaking of my pretty's 'eart, never shall she set eyes agin on a double-faced Jonah, and—and—" Here Deborah gasped for breath and again shook Paul.
"Deborah," he said, in a quiet voice, releasing himself, "I love Sylvia for herself and not for her money."
Deborah threw her brawny arms in the air and her apron over her red head. "I knowed it—oh, yuss, indeed," she sobbed in muffled tones. "Ses I, I ses, Mr. Paul's a gentleman whatever his frantic par may be and marry you, my own lovey, he will, though not able to afford the marriage fees, the same as will come out of Debby's pocket, though the laundry go by the board. 'Eaven knows what we'll live on all the same, pore wurkhus ijets as me an' Bart are, not bein' able to make you an' Miss Sylvia 'appy. Miss Sylvia Krill an' Norman both," ended Deborah with emphasis, "whatever that smooth cat with the grin and the clawses may say, drat her fur a slimy tabby—yah!"
"I see you know all," said Paul, as soon as he could slip in a word.
"Know all," almost yelled Deborah, dragging down the apron and revealing flashing eyes, "and it's a mussy I ain't in Old Bailey this very day for scratching that monkey of a Pash. Oh, if I'd known wot he wos never should he 'ave got me the laundry, though the same may have to go, worse luck. Ho, yuss! he come, and she come with her kitting, as is almost as big a cat as she is. Mrs. Krill, bless her, oh, yuss, Mrs. Krill, the sneakin', smiling Jezebel."
"Did she see Sylvia?" asked Beecot, sharply.
"Yuss, she did," admitted Deborah, "me lettin' her in not knowin' her scratchin's. An' the monkey an' the kitting come too—a-spyin' out the land as you may say. W'en I 'eard the noos I 'owled Mr. Paul, but my pretty she turned white like one of them plaster stateys as boys sell cheap in the streets, and ses she, she ses, 'Oh Paul'—if you'll forgive me mentioning your name, sir, without perliteness."
"Bless her, my darling. Did she think of me," said Beecot, tenderly.
"Ah, when do she not think of you, sir? 'Eart of gold, though none in her pocket by means of that Old Bailey woman as is a good match fur my Old Bailey master. Ho! he wos a bad 'un, and 'ow Miss Sylvia ever come to 'ave sich a par beats me. But I thank 'eaven the cat ain't my pretty's mar, though she do 'ave a daughter of her own, the painted, stuck-up parcel of bad bargains."
Paul nodded. "Calling names won't do any good, Deborah," he said sadly; "we must do the best we can."
"There ain't no chance of the lawr gettin' that woman to the gallers I 'spose, sir?"
"The woman is your late master's lawful wife. Pash seems to think so and has gone over to the enemy"—here Deborah clenched her mighty fists andgasped. "Sylvia's mother was married later, and as the former wife is alive Sylvia is—"
"No," shouted Deborah, flinging out her hand, "don't say it."
"Sylvia is poor," ended Paul, calmly. "What did you think I was about to say, Deborah?"
"What that cat said, insulting of my pretty. But I shoved her out of the door, tellin' her what she were. She guv me and Bart and my own sunbeam notice to quit," gasped Deborah, almost weeping, "an' quit we will this very day, Bart bein' a-packin' at this momingt. 'Ear 'im knocking, and I wish he wos a-knockin' at Mrs. Krill's 'ead, that I do, the flauntin' hussy as she is, drat her."
"I'll go up and see Sylvia. No, Deborah, don't you come for a few minutes. When you do come we'll arrange what is to be done."
Deborah nodded acquiescence. "Take my lovely flower in your arms, sir," she said, following him to the foot of the stairs, "and tell her as your 'eart is true, which true I knowed it would be."
Beecot was soon in the sitting-room and found Sylvia on the sofa, her face buried in her hands. She looked up when she recognized the beloved footsteps and sprang to her feet. The next moment she was sobbing her heart out on Paul's faithful breast, and he was comforting her with all the endearing names he could think of.
"My own, my sweet, my dearest darling," whispered Paul, smoothing the pretty brown hair, "don't weep. You have lost much, but you have me."
"Dear," she wept, "do you think it is true?"
"I am afraid it is, Sylvia. However, I know a young lawyer, who is a friend of mine, and I'll speak to him."
"But Paul, though my mother may not have been married to my father—"
"Shewas, Sylvia, but Mrs. Krill was marriedto him earlier. Your father committed bigamy, and you, poor child, have to pay the penalty."
"Well, even if the marriage is wrong, the money was left to us."
"To you, dear," said Beecot, leading her to the sofa, "that is, the money was left in that loosely-worded will to 'my daughter.' We all thought it was you, but now this legal wife has come on the scene, the money must go to her daughter. Oh, Sylvia," cried Paul, straining her to his breast, "how foolish your father was not to say the money was left to 'my daughter Sylvia.' Then everything would have been right. But the absence of the name is fatal. The law will assume that the testator meant his true daughter."
"And am I not his true daughter?" she asked, her lips quivering.
"You are my own darling, Sylvia," murmured Paul, kissing her hair; "don't let us talk of the matter. I'll speak to my lawyer friend, but I fear from the attitude of Pash that Mrs. Krill will make good her claim. Were there a chance of keeping you in possession of the money, Pash would never have left you so easily."
"I am so sorry about the money on your account, Paul."
"My own," he said cheerily, "money is a good thing, and I wish we could have kept the five thousand a year. But I have you, and you have me, and although we cannot marry for a long time yet—"
"Not marry, Paul! Oh, why not?"
"Dearest, I am poor, I cannot drag you down to poverty."
Sylvia looked at him wide-eyed. "I am poor already." She looked round the room. "Nothing here is mine. I have only a few clothes. Mr. Pash said that Mrs. Krill would take everything. Let memarry you, darling," she whispered coaxingly, "and we can live in your garret. I will cook and mend, and be your own little wife."
Beecot groaned. "Don't tempt me, Sylvia," he said, putting her away, "I dare not marry you. Why, I have hardly enough to pay the fees. No, dear, you must go with Debby to her laundry, and I'll work night and day to make enough for us to live on. Then we'll marry, and—"
"But your father, Paul?"
"He won't do anything. He consented to our engagement, but solely, I believe, because he thought you were rich. Now, when he knows you are poor—and I wrote to tell him last night—he will forbid the match."
"Paul!" She clung to him in sick terror.
"My sweetest"—he caught her in his arms—"do you think a dozen fathers would make me give you up? No, my love of loves—my soul, my heart of hearts—come good, come ill, we will be together. You can stay with Debby at Jubileetown until I make enough to welcome you to a home, however humble. Dear, be hopeful, and trust in the God who brought us together. He is watching over us, and, knowing that, why need we fear? Don't cry, darling heart."
"I'm not crying for crying," sobbed Sylvia, hiding her face on his breast and speaking incoherently; "but I'm so happy—"
"In spite of the bad news?" asked Paul, laughing gently.
"Yes—yes—to think that you should still wish to marry me. I am poor—I—I—have—no name, and—"
"Dearest, you will soon have my name."
"But Mrs. Krill said—"
"I don't want to hear what she said," cried Paul, impetuously; "she is a bad woman. I can see badnesswritten all over her smiling face. We won't think of her. When you leave here you won't see her again. My own dear little sweetheart," whispered Paul, tenderly, "when you leave this unhappy house, let the bad past go. You and I will begin a new life. Come, don't cry, my pet. Here's Debby."
Sylvia looked up, and threw herself into the faithful servant's arms. "Oh, Debby, he loves me still; he's going to marry me whenever he can."
Deborah laughed and wiped Sylvia's tears away with her coarse apron, tenderly. "You silly flower," she cried caressingly; "you foolish queen of 'oney bees, of course he have you in his 'eart. You'll be bride and I'll be bridesmaid, though not a pretty one, and all will be 'oney and sunshine and gates of pearl, my beauty."
"Debby—I'm—I'm—so happy!"
Deborah placed her young mistress in Paul's arms. "Then let 'im make you 'appier, pretty lily of the valley. Lor', as if anything bad 'ud ever come to you two while silly old Debby have a leg to stan' on an' arms to wash. Though the laundry—oh, lor'!" and she rubbed her nose till it grew scarlet, "what of it, Mr. Beecot, I do ask?"
"Have you enough money to pay a year's rent?"
"Yes, me and Bart have saved one 'undred between us. Rent and furniture and taxes can come out of it, sure. And my washin's what I call washin'," said Deborah, emphatically; "no lost buttings and tored sheets and ragged collars. I'd wash ag'in the queen 'erself, tho' I ses it as shouldn't. Give me a tub, and you'll see if the money don't come in."
"Well, then, Deborah, as I am too poor to marry Sylvia now, I want her to stop with you till I can make a home for her."
"An' where else should she stop but with her own silly, foolish Debby, I'd like to know? My flower, you come an' be queen of the laundry."
"I'll keep the accounts, Debby," said Sylvia, now all smiling.
"You'll keep nothin' but your color an' your dear 'eart up," retorted Debby, sniffing; "me an' Bart 'ull do all. An' this blessed day we'll go to Jubileetown with our belongings. And you, Mr. Beecot?"
"I'll come and see you settled, Deborah, and then I return to earn an income for Sylvia. I won't let you keep her long."
"She'll stop as long as she have the will," shouted Debby, hugging Sylvia; "as to that Krill cat—"
"She can take possession as soon as she likes. And, Deborah," added Paul, significantly, "for all that has happened, I don't intend to drop the search for your late master's murderer."
"It's the Krill cat as done it," said Debby, "though I ain't got no reason for a-sayin' of such a think."
Table of Contents
THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS
As Paul expected, the next letter from his father contained a revocation of all that had pleased him in the former one. Beecot senior wrote many pages of abuse—he always did babble like a complaining woman when angered. He declined to sanction the marriage and ordered his son at once—underlined—to give up all thought of making Sylvia Norman his wife. It would have been hard enough, wrote Beecot, to have received her as a daughter-in-law even with money, seeing that she had no position and was the daughter of a murdered tradesman, but seeing also that she was a pauper, and worse, a girl without a cognomen, he forbade Paul to bestow on her the worthy name of Beecot, so nobly worn by himself. There was much more to the same effect, which Paul did not read, and the letter ended grandiloquently in a command that Paul was to repair at once to the Manor and there grovel at the feet of his injured father.
To this despotic epistle the young man answered in a few lines. He said that he intended to marry Sylvia, and that nothing would make him give her up, and that he would not meet his father again until that father remembered that his son was an Englishman and not a slave. Paul signed his letter without the usual "your affectionate son," for he felt that he had small love for this imperious old man who declined to control his passions. So he now,knew the worst. The breach between himself and his father was wider than ever, and he had only his youth and his brains to depend upon, in making a living for himself and a home for Sylvia. Strange to say, Paul's spirits rose, and he braced himself bravely to do battle with fortune for his beloved.
Sylvia, under the charge of Deborah, and escorted by Bart Tawsey, had duly left Gwynne Street, bag and baggage, and she was now established in Rose Cottage, Jubileetown. The house was a small one, and there was not a single rose in the garden around it. Indeed, as the cottage had been newly erected, there was not even a garden, and it stood amidst a bare acre with a large drying-ground at the back. But the cottage, on the outskirts of the new suburb, was, to all intents and purposes, in the country, and Sylvia's weary eyes were so gladdened by green fields and glorious trees that she forgot the nakedness of her immediate surroundings. She was assigned the best room in the small abode, and one of the first things she did was to write a letter to Paul asking him to repair to Rose Cottage to witness the marriage of Deborah and Bart. The handmaiden thought this was necessary, so that she could make full use of her intended husband.
"If he wasn't here allays," said the bride-elect, "he'd be gadding about idling. I know him. An' me getting a business together won't be easy unless I've got him at 'and, as you may say, to take round the bills, let alone that he ought to sleep in the 'ouse in case burgulars gits in. And sleep in the 'ouse without the blessin' of matrimony he can't, my pretty, so that's all about it."
Deborah, as an American would say, was a "hustler," and having made up her mind, she did not let grass grow under her feet. She called on the vicar of the parish and explained herself at great length, but suppressed the fact that she hadformerly lived in Gwynne Street. She did not want the shadow of the murder to cast a gloom over her new home, and therefore said nothing about the matter. All the vicar, good, easy soul, knew, was that Deborah had been a servant in a respectable family (whereabouts not mentioned); that the father and mother had died, and that she had brought the only daughter of the house to live with her and be treated like a lady. Then Deborah demanded that the banns should be put up, and arranged that Bart should take up his abode in the parish for the necessary time. This was done, and for three Sundays Deborah had the pleasure of hearing the banns announced which foretold that Bart Tawsey and herself would soon be man and wife. Then the marriage took place.
The future Mrs. Tawsey had no relatives, but Bart produced a snuffy old grandmother from some London slum who drank gin during the wedding-feast, much to the scandal of the bride. Paul acted as best man to Bart, and Sylvia, in her plain black dress, was bridesmaid. Mrs. Purr, the grandmother, objected to the presence of black at a wedding, saying it was unlucky, and told of many fearful incidents which had afterwards occurred to those who had tolerated such a funeral garb. But Deborah swept away all opposition.
"What!" she shouted in her usual style, "not 'ave my own sweet pretty to arsk a blessing on my marriage, and she not able to git out of 'er blacks? I'm astonished at you, Mrs. Purr, and you an old woman as oughter know better. I doubt if you're Bart's granny. I've married into an ijit race. Don't talk to me, Mrs. Purr, if you please. Live clean an' work 'ard, and there's no trouble with them 'usbands. As 'as to love, honor and obey you."—And she sniffed.
"Them words you 'ave t' saiy," mumbled Mrs. Purr.
"Ho," said Deborah, scornfully, "I'd like to see me say 'em to sich a scrub as Bart."
But say them she did at the altar, being compelled to do so by the vicar. But when the ceremony was over, the newly-made Mrs. Tawsey took Bart by the arm and shook him. He was small and lean and of a nervous nature, so he quivered like a jelly in his wife's tremendous grip. Deborah was really ignorant of her own strength.
"You 'ark to me, Bart," said she, while the best man and bridesmaid walked on ahead talking lovingly. "I said them words, which you oughter 'ave said, 'cause you ain't got no memory t' speak of. But they ain't my beliefs, but yours, or I'll know the reason why. Jes' you say them now. Swear, without Billingsgate, as you'll allays love, honor an' obey your lovin' wife."
Bart, still being shaken, gasped out the words, and then gave his arm to the lady who was to rule his life. Deborah kissed him in a loud, hearty way, and led him in triumph to the cottage. Here Mrs. Purr had prepared a simple meal, and the health of the happy pair was proposed by Paul. Mrs. Purr toasted them in gin, and wept as she did so. A dismal, tearful old woman was Mrs. Purr, and she was about to open her mouth, in order to explain what she thought would come of the marriage, when Mrs. Tawsey stopped her.
"None of them groans," cried Deborah, with vigor. "I won't have my weddings made funerals. 'Old your tongue, Mrs. Purr, and you, Bart, jes' swear to love, honor an' obey my pretty as you would your own lawful wife, and the ceremonies is hoff."
Bart performed the request, and then Paul, laughing at the oddity of it all, took his leave. On walking to the gate, he was overtaken by Mrs. Purr, who winked mysteriously. "Whatever you do, sir," said the lean old creature, with many contortions of herwithered face, "don't have nothin' to do with Tray."
"Tray," echoed Paul in surprise. "Mr. Pash's office boy?"
"Him and none other. I knows his grandmother, as 'as bin up for drunk two hundred times, and is proud of it. Stretchers is as common to her, sir, as kissings is to a handsome young gent like you. An' the boy takes arter her. A deep young cuss," whispered Granny Purr, significantly.
"But why should I beware of him?" asked Beecot, puzzled.
"A nod's a wink to a blind 'un," croaked Mrs. Purr, condensing the proverb, and turning away. "Jus' leave that brat, Tray, to his own wickedness. They'll bring him to the gallers some day."
"But I want to know—"
"Ah, well, then, you won't, sir. I ses what I ses, and I ses no more nor I oughter say. So good-night, sir," and Mrs. Purr toddled up the newly-gravelled path, and entered the cottage, leaving an odor of gin behind her.
Beecot had half a mind to follow, so strange was the hint she had given him. Apparently, she knew something which connected him with Tray, and Paul wondered for the fiftieth time, if the boy had picked up the opal brooch. However, he decided to leave the matter alone for the present. Mrs. Purr, whom Deborah had engaged to iron, was always available, and Paul decided, that should anything point to Tray's being implicated in the finding of the opal serpent, that he would hand him over to Hurd, who would be better able to deal with such a keen young imp of the gutter. Thus making up his mind, Paul dismissed all thought of Mrs. Purr's mysterious utterance, and walked briskly to the nearest bus-stand, where he took a blue vehicle to the Bloomsbury district. All the way to his garret he dreamed of Sylvia, andpoor though was the home he had left her in, he was thankful that she was there in the safe shelter of Mrs. Deborah Tawsey's arms.
It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less a person than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brown individual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs. But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a different person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustache black and large, and brushed outà la Kaiser, and he affected an eye-glass as immovable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfully changed individual.
"Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise.
"It's my voice told you. But now—" he spoke a tone higher in a shrill sort of way and with a foreign accent—"vould you me discover, mon ami?" he inquired, with a genuine Parisian shrug.
"No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman, Hurd?"
"Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la Tour, à votre service," and he presented a thin glazed card with a coronet engraved on it.
"Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can I do for you?"
"Come up to your room," said the pseudo count, mounting the stairs; "there's something to be talked over between us."
"No bad news, I hope?"
"Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in hisusual genial voice, "you have had enough bad news, I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and a fine fortune at once. Eh, what a pity!"
"I have lost the money, certainly," said Beecot, lighting his lamp, "but the wife will be mine as soon as I can save sufficient to give her a better home than this."
Monsieur le Comte de la Tour sat down and gracefully flung open his overcoat, so as to expose a spotless shirt front. "What?" he asked, lifting his darkened eyebrows, "so you mean to marry that girl?"
"Of course," said Paul, angrily; "do you think I'm a brute?"
"But the money?"
"What does that matter. I love her, not the money."
"And the name. Her birth—"
"I'll give her my own name and then we'll see who will dare to say a word against my wife."
Hurd stretched out his hand, and, grasping that of Beecot's, shook it warmly. "Upon my word you are a man, and that's almost better than being a gentleman," he said heartily. "I've heard everything from Mr. Pash, and I honor you Mr. Beecot—I honor you."
Paul stared. "You must have been brought up in a queer way, Hurd," he said drily, "to express this surprise because a man acts as a man and not as a blackguard."
"Ah, but you see in my profession I have mixed with blackguards, and that has lowered my moral tone. It's refreshing to meet a straight, honorable man such as you are, Mr. Beecot. I liked you when first I set eyes on you, and determined to help you to discover the assassin of Aaron Norman—"
"Lemuel Krill you mean."
"I prefer to call him by the name we both knowbest," said Hurd, "but as I was saying, I promised to help you to find out who killed the man; now I'll help you to get back the money."
Paul sat down and stared. "What do you mean?" he asked. "The money can't be got back. I asked a legal friend of mine, and put the case to him, since that monkey of a Pash has thrown us over. My friend said that as no name was mentioned in the will, Maud Krill would undoubtedly inherit the money. Besides, I learn that the certificate of marriage is all right. Mrs. Krill undoubtedly married Aaron Norman under his rightful name thirty years ago."
"Oh, yes, that's all right," said Hurd, producing a dainty silver cigarette case, which was part of his "get-up." "Mrs. Krill is the widow of the murdered man, and the silly way in which the will has been made gives the five thousand a year to her daughter, whom Mrs. Krill has under her thumb. It's all right as I say. But I shouldn't be surprised to learn that there were circumstances in Aaron Norman's past life which led him to leave his wife, and which may lead Mrs. Krill into buying silence by giving Miss Norman half the income. You could live on two thousand odd a year, eh?"
"Not obtained in that way," said Beecot, filling his pipe and passing a match to Hurd. "If the money comes legally to Sylvia, well and good; otherwise she will have nothing to do with it."
Hurd looked round the bleak garret expressively and shrugged his shoulders again. "I think you are wrong, Mr. Beecot. You can't bring her here."
"No. But I may make enough money to give her a better home."
"Can I help you?"
"I don't see how you can. I want to be an author."
"Well," said Hurd, whose British speech was instrange contrast to his foreign appearance, "it's not a bad game to be an author if you get a good serial connection. Oh, don't look surprised. I know about newspapers and publishers as I know about most things. See here, Mr. Beecot, have you ever tried your hand at a detective story?"
"No. I write on a higher level."
"You won't write on a more paying level," replied Hurd, coolly. "I know a newspaper which will give you—if I recommend you, mind—one hundred pounds for a good detective yarn. You apply for it."
"But I couldn't make up one of those plots—so intricate."
"Pooh. It's a trick. You set your puppets in such and such a way and then mix them up. I'll give you the benefit of my experience as a 'tec, and with my plot and your own writing we'll be able to knock up a story for the paper I talk of. Then, with one hundred pounds you'll have a nest-egg to start with."
"I accept with gratitude," said Beecot, moved, "but I really don't know why you should trouble about me."
"Because you're a white man and an honorable gentleman," said the detective, emphatically. "I've got a dear little wife of my own, and she's something like this poor Miss Norman. Then again, though you mightn't think so, I'm something of a Christian, and believe we should help others. I had a hard life, Mr. Beecot, before I became a detective, and many a time have I learned that prayers can be answered. But this is all beside the question," went on Hurd quickly, and with that nervous shame with which an Englishman masks the better part of himself. "I'll see about the story for you. Meanwhile, I am going to a card-party to meet, incidentally, Mr. Grexon Hay."
"Ah! You still suspect him?"
"I do, and with good reason. He's got another mug in tow. Lord George Sandal, the son of Lord—well I needn't mention names, but Hay's trying to clear the young ass out, and I'm on the watch. Hay will never know me as the Count de la Tour. Not he, smart as he is. I'm fly!"
"Do you speak French well?"
"Moderately. But I play a silent part and say little. I shut my mouth and open my eyes. But what I came here to say is, that I intend to find out the assassin of Aaron Norman."
"I can't offer you a reward, Hurd," said Paul, with a sigh.
"Oh, that's all right. The widow, by the advice of Pash, has doubled the reward. One thousand pounds it is now—worth winning, eh?"
"Humph!" said Paul, moodily, "I shouldn't think she loved her husband so much as that."
Hurd's brown eyes shot a red flame which showed that he was excited, though he was cool enough externally. "Yes," he admitted in a careless manner, "she certainly does act the weeping widow in rather an exaggerated fashion. However, she's got the cash now—or at least her daughter has, which is the same thing. The two have taken up their quarters in a fashionable hotel in the West End, and are looking for a house. The old woman manages everything, and she will be one too many for Mr. Hay."
"What? Does he know Mrs. Krill? He said he didn't."
"Quite right. He didn't when the ladies went first to Pash's office. But Hay, on the look-out for a rich wife, got Pash to introduce him to the ladies, who were charmed with him. He's making up to the daughter, even in the few weeks that have elapsed, and now is assisting them to find a house. The daughter loves him I fancy, but whether themother will allow the marriage to take place I can't say."
"Surely not on such a short acquaintance."
Hurd bent forward as about to say something, then changed his mind. "Really, I don't know—Hay is fascinating and handsome. Have you been to see him yet?"
"No. He asked me, but all these troubles have put him out of my head. Why do you ask?"
"Because next time he invites you, go."
"You warned me against him."
"And I warn you again," said the detective, dryly. "Don't ask me to explain, for I can't. But you go to see Hay when he invites you, and make yourself agreeable, especially to Mrs. Krill."
"Am I likely to meet her?" asked Paul, with repugnance.
"Yes, I fancy so. After all, you are engaged to the daughter of the dead man, and Mrs. Krill—I don't count Maud, who is a tool—is a deucedly clever woman. She will keep her eye on you and Miss Norman."
"Why? She has the money and need take no further notice."
Hurd closed one eye in a suggestive manner. "Mrs. Krill may not be so sure of the money, even though possession is nine points of the law. You remember that scrap of paper found by the maid?"
"In which Norman warned Sylvia against allowing his real name to become known? Yes."
"Well, the letter wasn't finished. The old man was interrupted, I suppose. But in the few lines of writing Norman says," here Hurd took a scrap of paper—a copy—out of his book and read, "'If the name of Krill gets into the papers there will be great trouble. Keep it from the public, I can tell you where to find the reasons for this as I have written'—and then," said Hurd, refolding the paper,"the writing ends. But you can see that Aaron Norman wrote out an account of his reasons, which could not be pleasant for Mrs. Krill to hear."
"I still don't understand," said Paul, hopelessly puzzled.
"Well," said the detective, rising and putting on his smart hat, "it's rather a muddle, I confess. I have no reason to suspect Mrs. Krill—"
"Good heavens, Hurd, you don't think she killed her husband?"
"No. I said that I have no reason to suspect her. But I don't like the woman at all. Norman left his wife for some unpleasant reason, and that reason, as I verily believe, has something to do with his death. I don't say that Mrs. Krill killed him, but I do believe that she knows of circumstances which may lead to the detection of the criminal."
"In that case she would save her thousand pounds."
"That's just where it is. If she does know, why does she double the reward? A straightforward woman would speak out, but she's a crooked sort of creature; I shouldn't like to have her for my enemy."
"It seems to me that you do suspect her," said Paul dryly, but puzzled.
Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "No, but I'm in a fix, that's a truth," said he, and sauntered towards the door. "I can't see my way. There's the clue of Mrs. Krill's past to be followed up, and the hint contained in this scrap of paper. The old man may have left a document behind likely to solve the whole business. He hints as much here."
"True enough, but nothing was found."
"Then again," went on Hurd, "the request for the jewels to be delivered to that sailor chap was in Norman's handwriting and signed with his name."
"A forgery."
"No. Pash, who knows his writing better than any other man, says the document is genuine. Now then, Mr. Beecot, what made Aaron Norman write and sign those lines giving up his property—or a part of it—just before his death?"
"It may have been done in good faith."
"No. If so, the messenger would not have cleared out when Pash started for Gwynne Street. That nautical gent knew what the lawyer would find at the house, and so made himself scarce after trying to get the jewels. This scrap of paper," Hurd touched his breast, "and that request for the jewels in Pash's possession. Those are my clues."
"And the opal serpent?" asked Paul.
Hurd shook his head gloomily. "It's connection with the matter is beyond me," he confessed.
Table of Contents
MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER
The detective was as good as his word. In a few days Paul was introduced to the editor of a weekly publication and obtained a commission for a story to be written in collaboration with Mr. Hurd. It seemed that the editor was an old acquaintance of Hurd's and had been extricated by him from some trouble connected with cards. The editor, to show his gratitude, and because that Hurd's experiences, thrown into the form of a story, could not fail to interest the public, was only too willing to make a liberal arrangement. Also Paul was permanently engaged to supply short stories, to read those that were submitted to the editor, and, in fact, he permanently became that gentleman's right hand. He was a kind, beery Bohemian of an editor, Scott by name, and took quite a fancy to Paul.
"I'll give you three pounds a week," said Scott, beaming through his large spectacles and raking his long gray beard with tobacco-stained fingers, "you can live on that, and to earn it you can give me your opinion on the stories. Then between whiles you can talk to Hurd and write this yarn which I am sure will be interesting. Hurd has had some queer experiences."
This was quite true. Hurd had ventured on strange waters, but the strangest he ever sailed on were those connected with the Gwynne Street case. These latter experiences he did not tell to Scott,who was incapable of holding his tongue, and secrecy, as the detective impressed on Paul, was absolutely necessary to the conduct of the case. "If we keep matters quiet," argued Hurd, "and let those concerned in the matter fancy the case has been dropped, we'll be able to throw them off their guard, and then they may betray themselves."
"I wish you would say if you think there is one person or two," said Paul, irritably, for his nerves were wearing thin under the strain. "You first talk of the assassin and then of the assassins."
"Well," drawled Hurd, smiling, "I'm in the dark, you see, and being only a flesh and blood human being, instead of a creation of one of you authors, I can only grope in the dark and look in every direction for the light. One person, two persons, three, even four may be engaged in this affair for all I know. Don't you be in a hurry, Mr. Beecot. I believe in that foreign chap's saying, 'Without haste without rest.'"
"Goethe said that."
"Then Goethe is a sensible man, and must have read his Bible. 'Make no haste in time of trouble,' says the Scriptures."
"Very good," assented Beecot; "take your own time."
"I intend to," said Hurd, coolly. "Bless you, slow and sure is my motto. There's no hurry. You are fixed up with enough to live on, and a prospect of making more. Your young lady is happy enough with that grenadier of a woman in spite of the humbleness of the home. Mrs. Krill and her daughter are enjoying the five thousand a year, and Mr. Grexon Hay is fleecing that young ass, Lord George Sandal, as easily as possible. I stand by and watch everything. When the time comes I'll pounce down on—"
"Ah," said Paul, "that's the question. On whom?"