CHAPTER XIVREQUIRES EXPLANATION
Thepretty Miss Bristowe was certainly an enigma.
In that dingy consulting-room in the Walworth Road I often sat during the days that followed, musing over that curious and fruitless journey. I felt rather piqued than disappointed, for to put it bluntly I had been fooled, and left to pay nearly a sovereign to a cabman.
Her parting words to me: “Perhaps one day you will learn the real reason of this decision,” seemed ominous ones, while her agitation was strange in such circumstances. She parted from me so hastily that it seemed almost as though she held me in fear. But why? I am sure I acted towards her with all the gallantry in my rather rough nature. No; the more I thought over it the more remarkable seemed the incident.
But a few days later I discovered yet a stranger circumstance. In order to find out something regarding my pretty companion on that long cab drive, I wrote to Dr. Whitworth at Bude, telling him that she had called, and inquiring the nature of her brother’s complaint. To this I received a brief note saying that he had never heard of “Miss Bristowe” in his life.
Then the truth was rudely forced upon me that the woman who had held me fascinated by her beauty was actually an impostor.
What, however, could have been her object in inducing me to accompany her upon such a vain errand? Doctors see some queer things and meet with strange adventures in the course of their practice, but surely her motive in fooling me was utterly unintelligible.
Through the remaining fortnight I continued to treat the crowd of poor suffering humanity that seemed to greet me ever in the waiting-room; for Whitworth was a kindly man, hence all the poor came to him. Night after night I sat listening to the ills of costermongers and their wives, labourers, factory hands, cabmen, tram-men, and all that hard-working class that makes up lower London “over the water.” Sometimes they told me their symptoms with quaint directness, using scientific terms wrongly or atrociously pronounced—the result of School Board education in elementary physiology, I suppose. But, as in every neighbourhood of that class, drink was accountable for, or aggravated, at least two-thirds of the cases that I saw. Surely it would open the eyes of the social reformer or the temperance advocate if he spent one evening in the consulting-room of a dispensary in lower London.
At last Whitworth returned, fresh and bronzed, from the Cornish coast, and as I sat handing back to him the keys of the place and receiving a cheque for my services, I mentioned the subject of Miss Bristowe.
“Ah!” he laughed, “what did you mean by that letter? I don’t know any such person, nor even anyone who lives at Blackheath.”
“And she said that you had attended her brother for nearly two years for some internal ailment. She came here one night to fetch you. I told her you were away, and after some persuasion she allowed me to accompany her. Then, when we got to Blackheath, she suddenly changed her mind and sent me back.”
“You never saw the brother?”
“Never went to the house. She wouldn’t let me.”
“But you yourself suggested going with her, you say?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I did.”
“Pretty?”
“Very much so.”
“And you were struck with her, eh?” he laughed, for he was a prosaic married man with a couple of children.
“Just a trifle,” I admitted.
“Well,” he said, “the girl possibly saw that you were gone on her, so she had a lark with you. You paid her cab home, and she had no objection.”
“But her story was so plausible.”
“Every woman can be plausible when she pleases,” he said. “But are you sure she asked for me?”
“Quite certain. She first inquired for you, telling me that you were an old friend.”
He laughed heartily at what he termed the woman’s audacity; then, after some further discussion of the subject, we dropped it as one of those little mysteries of life that are beyond solution.
On relinquishing my position at the dispensary I wandered heedlessly hither and thither in London. The weather was still hot, more oppressive even than I had felt it at Naples or at Leghorn, and all seemed dull because my friends were away in the country or at the seaside. Through theLancetI was offered a three months’ engagement as assistant to a doctor in Northumberland, but I declined it, as it was too far from London. Somehow I felt it necessary, for the elucidation of the mystery of theSeahorse, to remain in town—why I cannot tell.
One day in response to a note, I called upon Macfarlane, the specialist in lunacy, and found him seated in his consulting-room, a fine apartment furnished in old oak, of which he was an ardent collector, and surrounded by a number of fine old clocks of various periods.
“Well, Pickering,” he exclaimed cheerily, rising to greet me, “I’ve got some news for you about your—what shall we call him—foundling, eh?”
“That’s a good description,” I laughed. “Captain Seal used to call him ‘Old Mister Mystery.’ But what is the news?”
“Well, he’s taken a decided turn for the better. I see him every day, and although at first he was bitterly hostile towards me because I wouldn’t allow him to wear his sword, he has now become quite mild and tractable. And what’s more, he’s taken to writing, which is one of the best signs of impending recovery that we could have. Here are some of his efforts,” he added, taking from a drawer a quantity of scraps of paper, from half-sheets of foolscap to bits torn from newspapers, and placing them before me. “I don’t suppose you can make anything more out of them than I can. His brain is clearing, but is not yet rightly balanced. Now and then his ideas run in the direction of a design made up of creepy-looking demons and imps. There’s no doubt about it, that whoever he is, he’s a man of some talent. Did you see what was in theTelegraphthe other day?”
“I saw a distorted story about theSeahorse,” I answered.
“But on the following day there was a short statement regarding this nameless patient of ours. They sent a reporter to me to obtain further details, but I did not consider myself justified in giving them. The less the public knows about the affair the better—that’s my opinion.”
“Certainly,” I said. “I’m very glad you did not allow yourself to be interviewed.”
Then I turned myself to the uneven scribble, mostly in pencil, which had been executed by the lunatic. My hopes were quickly dashed, for I found it poor stuff. Sometimes it appeared as though he wished to write a letter, for there were the preliminary words, “Dear sister,” “Dear Harry,” and “My dear sir.” Once he started to write a nautical song, whether of his own composition or not I am unaware. The lines, written quite distinctly, although in a shaky old-fashioned hand, were: —
There’s nothing like rum on a windy night,Sing hey, my lads, sing hey!When the rigging howls and you’re battened tight,Yo ho! my lads, Yo ho!
There’s nothing like rum on a windy night,Sing hey, my lads, sing hey!When the rigging howls and you’re battened tight,Yo ho! my lads, Yo ho!
There’s nothing like rum on a windy night,Sing hey, my lads, sing hey!When the rigging howls and you’re battened tight,Yo ho! my lads, Yo ho!
There’s nothing like rum on a windy night,
Sing hey, my lads, sing hey!
When the rigging howls and you’re battened tight,
Yo ho! my lads, Yo ho!
On a dirty piece of newspaper was written: “Jimmy Jobson, 1st mate, went to Davy Jones’s locker May 16.” Another bore the statement: “Pugfaced Willie ought to have been a tub-thumper instead of sailing under the black flag. That is Andy Anderson’s opinion.”
The last piece I examined was half a sheet of note-paper bearing the heading, “High Elms,” the paper given to patients for their correspondence. It was covered with scribble, just as a child scribbles before it can write, but in a small blank space near the bottom were the strange words: “Beware of Black Bennett! He means mischief!”
The latter had been written as a warning, but to whom addressed it was impossible to tell.
“All are, of course, the wanderings of the patient’s mind,” remarked Macfarlane. “Those names may possibly help us to establish his identity.”
“Have you determined his age?”
“Not more than seventy, if as much,” was the reply. “But I feel certain that he’ll recover, if not at once, within, say, a year. This writing is a very hopeful sign. Of course, I can’t say that he’ll recover his speech too—probably he won’t. But he can write, and by that means tell us something of how he came on board the ancient ship.”
I remained with the great specialist for half an hour longer, then taking possession of the curious evidence of the old fellow’s returning sanity I went back to Chelsea.
Time after time I examined that strange warning regarding “Black Bennett.” Who could he be?
There was one remark about the black flag, which meant piracy. Possibly, then, this man Bennett had been a pirate at some time or other.
Anyhow, I was greatly gratified to think that ere long the Mysterious Man might be able to give us an intelligible account of himself, and although the meaning of the warning regarding “Black Bennett” was an enigma, I quickly forgot all about it.
The one point upon which all my energies were concentrated was the recovery of that cryptic document which the drunken old labourer at Rockingham had disposed of. I called at all the chief dealers in manuscripts in London and made inquiry if anything like the parchment I described had been offered for sale, but was informed that sixteenth-century parchments of that character were too common to be of sufficient value for them to consider. Codexes or charters of any century down to the fifteenth would always be looked at, but a notarial deed of so late a date as the end of the sixteenth century was beneath the notice of any of the dealers.
Early one morning I received a telegram from Mr. Staffurth, and, in response, went to Clapham Park Road in hot haste.
I found, to my surprise, a strange, black-bearded man in his study, and the old gentleman was greatly excited and alarmed. A pane of glass in the window was, I noticed, missing, and it was accounted for by his breathless statement that during the night his house had been broken into by burglars.
The black-bearded man, who was a detective, chimed in, saying: —
“It seems, sir, as though they were after some of the valuable books the gentleman has. They didn’t go further into the house than this room, although the door was unlocked.”
“You see what they’ve done, doctor—cut out a pane of glass, opened the window, forced the shutters, and got in. Look at the place! They’ve turned everything topsy-turvy!”
They certainly had, for papers and books were strewn all over the floor.
“Have you missed anything?” I asked quickly.
“One thing only. It is, I regret to say, that parchment deed of yours with the seven signatures. They’ve taken nothing else but that, although here, as you see, is an illuminatedHoræworth at least £300, and the twelfth-century St. Bernardus that Quaritch bid £200 for at Sotheby’s last week.”
“They were expert thieves,” the detective remarked, “and were evidently in search of something which they knew the gentleman had in his possession.”
“But the book—the book containing the cipher!” I cried, dismayed, the truth dawning upon me that the burglars had been in search of those documents of mine.
“Fortunately, they were unable to secure it,” was old Mr. Staffurth’s reply. “I had locked it in the safe here as a precaution against its destruction by fire.” And he indicated the good-sized safe that stood in the opposite corner of the room. “You see upon it marks of their desperate efforts to open it, but with all their drills, chisels, wedges, and such-like things they were not successful. The secret of the cipher is still ours.”
“Then they were hired burglars?” I said.
“That seems most probable, sir,” replied the detective. “Such a thing is not by any means unusual. They were professionals at the game, whoever they were.”
CHAPTER XVREVEALS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE
Thethieves had made a thorough search of old Mr. Staffurth’s study. Every hole and corner had been methodically examined, an operation which must have occupied considerable time.
Neither Mr. Staffurth, his housekeeper, nor the servant girl had heard a sound. It seemed that only after searching the study thoroughly had the burglars turned their attention to the safe. There were three of them, the detective asserted, for there had been a shower in the night, and he found on the carpet distinct marks of muddy shoes. The instruments they had used on the safe were of the newest kind, and it seemed a mystery why they had not succeeded in opening it.
Having discovered the parchment with the seven signatures, they most naturally searched for the other documents found on board the derelict. Fortunately, however, the book penned by the noble Bartholomew remained in its place of security.
Of course this desperate attempt to gain possession of it removed all doubt that there was some one else besides myself endeavouring to solve the secret. But who could it be? Who could possibly know what was written upon those dry old parchments save Job Seal, Mr. Staffurth and myself? Seal was an honest man, quite content with the share of the spoil already in his hands, while it was to the interest of the old palæographist to solve the mystery in conjunction with myself.
Did the hoard of the sea-rover still exist?
Hundreds of times I put to myself that question. For answer I could only reflect that there was some one else, an unknown rival, who believed that it did, and who was sparing no effort to obtain the secret of its hiding-place.
Of course, it was quite possible that when the place of concealment was discovered it might be empty. Over three hundred years had passed, and in that time accident might have led to its discovery. There had certainly not been any betrayal of the secret, for while one cryptic document had been in the hands of the Knuttons, the key to it had been afloat, or submerged beneath the sea.
I took Mr. Staffurth aside, and we agreed to tell the police as little as possible, lest the facts should leak out to the newspapers. Therefore the old expert explained that the parchment books in his possession were precious ones, and most probably the thieves desired to obtain possession of them on behalf of some other person. So the detective, with an assistant, made copious notes, examined the marks of chisels and jemmies, and after a great show of investigation left the house.
“Ah, doctor,” exclaimed the old man with a sigh of relief, after they had gone; “I had no idea that our rivals were so close upon us. I think you had better deposit that book in your bank for greater security. The scoundrels, whoever they were, may pay me another visit.”
I expressed regret that he should thus have suffered on my account, but the poor old gentleman only laughed, saying, “My dear doctor, how could you help it? They want to get hold of the key to their cipher. Possibly, in their document, it is stated that there is a key to it in existence.”
“But how could they be aware that it is in your possession?”
“Because you are undoubtedly watched,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder but what every movement of yours is known to your rivals.”
“Well,” I laughed, “fortune-hunting seems an exciting game.”
“Mind that it doesn’t grow dangerous,” was the old man’s ominous warning.
“But you don’t anticipate any personal violence, do you?”
“I think it is wise to be very careful,” he said. “You have a secret rival in these investigations of yours, and where a fortune is concerned some people are not over-scrupulous. We have here an illustration of their desperate efforts—the employment of professional burglars.”
“But if even we found the Italian’s hoard, would it not belong to the Wollertons?”
“I suppose it would. But,” smiled the man, “if we could not discover any Wollerton, and held the property for ourselves, I think our position would practically be impregnable.”
“The Government might claim it.”
“No. It would not be treasure-trove. We have all the facts concerning it in our possession. It would not be a hoard accidentally discovered and without owner. One-third of it, remember, has to go to a Knutton.”
“Yes, to that drunken fool down at Rockingham. He deserves, at any rate, to lose his portion,” I said.
Mr. Staffurth brought forth the old parchment-book from the safe, and opening it at a place marked with a slip of paper, re-examined the straight row of cipher letters with their equivalents, while I rose and looked over his shoulder.
“The writer was a careful and methodical man, even though he might have been a fierce and blood-thirsty sea-rover, and a terror to the slave-raiders. He certainly took the very best precaution possible so that the secret of the whereabouts of his hoard should not be discovered, for, as you see, the document left in the hands of the Knuttons was useless without this book, and the book useless without the document. It was evidently his intention to return to England and deposit the book in some place of safety, but before he did so disaster befell theSeahorse, and she went down.”
Together we packed the book in brown paper, tied it with string, and securely sealed it, using the seal upon my watch guard, and that same afternoon I deposited it with the bank manager, receiving a receipt for it.
But before leaving old Mr. Staffurth I assisted him to put his books in order, and we chatted together the while.
It was his opinion that if I went to Rockingham again I might obtain some news of the movements of the man Purvis. Indeed, he was in favour of my making a short visit there in order, if possible, to ascertain the identity of any person making inquiries.
“You see,” he said, “we are working quite in the dark. Our rivals know us, but we do not know them. That places us at a distinct disadvantage. If we knew them we might outwit them.”
I saw the force of his argument. He was a man of sound common sense, and never gave an opinion without careful consideration. It certainly seemed quite feasible that our rivals might be down at Rockingham or Caldecott.
“Do you think it worth while to rent the Manor House from the Kenways?” I suggested. “They are only too anxious to get out.”
“Is the rent high?”
“About fifty pounds a year.”
“Well, doctor,” responded the old gentleman, “I certainly think that the affair is worth spending fifty pounds upon. You see, you’ve bought Captain Seal out of it, and the matter is now practically your own affair. Besides, if you rented the Manor you would keep out your rivals. Yes. Most decidedly; go down and take the place for a year.”
“Not a very desirable place of residence,” I laughed.
“I know. But be careful these other people don’t again forestall you. Go down there to-morrow and make the bargain at once. The old place may contain the treasure, or it may not. In any case, no harm will be done by your being the tenant for a year.”
Thus it was that in the blaze of the noontide sun I next day passed up the little main street of Caldecott, traversed the somewhat odorous farm-yard, and entered the silent, moss-grown court of the Manor House.
A fair-haired slip of a girl came to the door in response to my ring, and after a little while Mrs. Kenway, who had gone to put herself tidy to receive visitors, entered the dining-room—that room which contained my pet abomination, furniture covered with brown American cloth.
The good woman seemed quite pleased to see me again. Her husband was out on his round, she said, but nevertheless she offered me the simple hospitality of a glass of milk.
“Well, Mrs. Kenway,” I commenced, after I had grown a little cool, “I’ve come on an errand which I dare say will give you some gratification. When I was here some time ago you told me you wished to sub-let your house. I have spoken to my friend about it, and he has sent me to take it on his behalf. I forget exactly the rent you named.”
“Well, sir,” responded the woman, “funnily enough I’m in treaty with a gentleman who wants to take the place. I promised to make no arrangement until I heard from him.”
“Who is he?” I asked, quickly. “What is his name?”
“I forget, sir, but I have it written on an envelope upstairs. I’ll go and get it.” And she left the room.
I determined to take the place at all hazards. I was by no means a rich man, but even if I had to pay a hundred pounds to secure the ramshackle old house it must be done.
She returned with a crumpled envelope in her hand, upon which was scribbled in pencil: “George Purvis, 7, Calthorpe Street, Gray’s Inn Road, London.”
My heart gave a bound. Here was the actual address of the man of whom I had been for weeks in search, the purchaser of the key to the hidden wealth! I endeavoured to betray no surprise, but to conceal my jubilant feeling was certainly difficult. If I had a clue to my rivals, I had also a clue to the employers of those burglars who had so terribly upset poor old Mr. Staffurth’s study.
“How long ago is it since this gentleman came to see you?” I inquired, scribbling the address on my shirt-cuff and handing back the envelope.
“His first visit was two or three days after you came,” the woman said. “He seemed very much taken with that coat o’ arms on the wall outside, and asked me if I knew anything of the history of the place. Of course I don’t. I only know that somebody named Walshe lived here about a hundred years ago, for their graves are in the churchyard. The gentleman stayed at the Sonde Arms at Rockingham for a day or two, but before he went back to London he told me that he might possibly take the house off my hands. He came again, about a week ago, had another look round, and then made me promise not to let it until I heard from him.”
“What rent did you ask?”
“Fifty pounds a year.”
“And he thought it too much?”
“Well, he seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he thinks he can get it cheaper, but he won’t.”
I wondered whether this hesitation was due to want of funds. More probably, however, it was because of the uncertainty of the whereabouts of the hidden loot.
“The house would just suit my friend, who wants quiet for his studies,” I said, “and if you will let it, I’m prepared to pay you a year’s rent down, at this minute.”
She shook her head.
I had misjudged her, believing that ready money would tempt her to a bargain. But she was a woman of her word, it seemed, for her answer was: —
“No, sir. I’m very sorry, but you see I gave a promise to the gentleman, and I can’t break it.”
“But you didn’t give your promise in writing, did you? You did not give him an option of the property?”
“I wrote nothing. I merely told him that I wouldn’t let it before he had given me a decided answer.”
“He may be a year deciding, or even more!” I pointed out. “Are you prepared to wait all that time?”
“No. I can write to him.”
Such a course would not suit me. If she wrote saying that she had another prospective tenant, then he would clinch his bargain at once. No; my object was to oust him in this. He had outwitted me once, but I was determined he should not get the better of me on a second occasion.
My next thought was to offer a higher rent than that asked, so as to give her a margin of profit on the transaction, but suddenly a thought occurred to me that it was her husband, not herself, who held the lease, and perhaps I might not find him so scrupulous about keeping promises if there was a ten-pound note to be got out of the bargain.
So I expressed regret and all that sort of thing, and said that I would like to see Mr. Kenway on his return.
“He went to Stamford by train this morning,” she replied. “I’m expecting him every minute.”
So I went out and wandered through the neglected wilderness that had once been a garden. Everywhere were signs of a long departed glory, broken statuary, ivy-grown balustrades, and a fine old sculptured sundial, now, alas, entirely hidden by creepers and ivy.
Mrs. Kenway’s husband returned in about half an hour—a thin-faced, dark-bearded, thick-set little man with a pair of sharp black eyes, which told me the instant I was introduced to him that he was a good business man and ready for a bargain.
Seated with him on an American cloth-covered chair in that inartistic dining-room, I commenced to chat about insurance matters, and learnt that business was not very good about those parts. Then, in his wife’s presence, I approached the proposal for taking the house off his hands, explaining what Mrs. Kenway had told me on a previous visit regarding its unsuitability for the reception of paying guests.
“Well,” he said, in a gruff voice, “things do happen strangely. You’re the second gentleman we’ve had after the house within a week or two. We’d be pleased enough to let it, only my wife has promised somebody else in London.”
“She has told me that,” I said. “Of course, if you refuse to let the place, well and good. But not only am I ready to sign an agreement with you this afternoon and pay you the whole year’s rent in advance to-day, but in order to secure the place for my friend I’m ready to make a bargain with you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll give an extra ten-pound note over and above what you’ve asked this other gentleman.”
Husband and wife exchanged glances. I saw, as I had expected, that ten pounds and release from the burden of the house, which was far too large for people in their circumstances, was a temptation.
“Well, my dear?” he asked. “What do you say? Shall we let the place and clear out?”
“I’ve given you my offer,” I interposed, with a careless air. “My friend commissioned me to find him a quiet place at once, and I am prepared to pay more than its worth because of my own family associations with the place.”
“Well, we have the other gentleman, you know,” insisted the woman.
“It’s not at all certain if he’ll take it,” I said. “And if he does, he won’t pay so much as I offer.”
The man was ready to clinch the bargain, but the woman was one of those scrupulously honest bodies who hesitated to break her word.
They talked together for a few moments out in the hall, while I awaited their decision.
It was in my favour, and within half an hour the necessary preliminaries were executed, agreements were written out and signed, and Mr. Kenway had in his pocket my cheque for sixty pounds, in exchange for which I held his lease and his agreement handing the place over to my care, subject, of course, to the landlord’s approval.
In one instance, at least, I had got the better of Mr. Purvis, and, what was more to the point, I had obtained his address.
CHAPTER XVIMRS. GRAHAM’S VISITOR
WhenI returned to town that same evening and told Staffurth he became wildly excited.
“Really, doctor,” he said, “the matter increases in interest daily.”
“When I take possession of the Manor, I think we ought to make a search,” I replied. “We must not allow burglars to enter there, or they may forestall us after all.”
“Of course, of course. The treasure may be hidden in the house for aught we know. It is important that we should be the first to make a thorough examination of the place.”
“But what is most important of all is that we’ve gained the address of this man Purvis.”
“Calthorpe Street is not the most respectable neighbourhood in London,” he observed. “Do you know it?”
I confessed to ignorance, but next morning went to Gray’s Inn Road and found the dingy street running off to the right, opposite the end of Guilford Street. No. 7 was, I discovered, a grimy, smoke-blackened private house, like most of the others, set back behind iron railings, with a deep basement. The windows sadly required cleaning, and at them hung limp and sooty lace curtains which had once been white.
Walking on the opposite side of the pavement I passed and repassed it several times, noting its exterior well. The windows of the first floor were better kept than those of the dining-room, and on a small round table I noticed a doll. From those facts I gathered that the place was let out in apartments, and that the occupants of the first floor were a man with his wife and little daughter. It was not yet eight o’clock, and the newspaper man passing left a paper beneath the knocker—aSporting Life, which further showed the racing proclivities of at least one of the inmates. Presently, as I watched, the postman came along, and, slipping several letters into the slit in the front door, passed on without knocking.
I hurried along the street into the King’s Cross Road, and, when he turned the corner, accosted him.
At first he was inclined to be uncommunicative, as a good servant of the Post Office should be, but by the application of a small refresher his tongue was unloosened, and he told me that the occupants of No. 7 were racing people.
“They’re bookmakers, I fancy,” he added. “They have lots of letters by every post, and post-cards about tips and things.”
“Do you know the name of George Purvis?”
“Yes. It’s some one who has, I think, come to live there lately.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not at all. Never seen him.”
“How long ago did you deliver the first letter addressed to Purvis?”
“About three weeks, I think. But if you want to know more, why don’t you ask the servant? She’s doing the steps now. I daresay she’d tell you all about him.”
I took the man’s advice, and returning to the house found a dirty, ill-dressed girl in canvas apron slopping water over the front steps and rubbing hearthstone upon them.
With some caution I addressed her, and, having slipped half a crown into her hand, told her to say nothing of my inquiries, but to respond to my questions.
“Do you know a gentleman named Mr. George Purvis who lives here?” I asked.
“I know Mr. Purvis, sir, but ’e don’t live ’ere. ’E only calls for his letters sometimes, and missus gives them to him.”
“What’s your mistress’s name?”
“Mrs. Graham.”
“And who are the people who live upstairs?”
“They’re the Johnsons. Mr. Johnson is on the turf, they say. ’E goes to race-meetin’s in a white hat and a bag slung over his shoulder.”
“But where does Mr. Purvis live?”
“I don’t know, sir. He comes sometimes to see Mrs. Graham.”
“Does he receive many letters?”
“Oh, two or three a week, perhaps.”
“Well,” I said, “if you want to earn a sovereign you can do so very easily. Find out for me where Mr. Purvis lives, and I’ll give you a sovereign.”
The girl, although of true Cockney type, dirty and slatternly, was nevertheless intelligent.
She seemed somewhat dubious, replying: —
“I’m very much afraid, sir, that I won’t be able to do it. But I’ll try, if you like.”
“Yes, try,” I said eagerly. “I shall pass by now and again about this same hour in the morning, and when you’ve been successful, tell me. By the way, what kind of man is Mr. Purvis?”
“Well, sir, ’e’s very thin, rather tall, with a pale face and sandy hair. But I must get on; Mrs. Graham’s coming down.”
“Recollect what I’ve told you, and if you say nothing to anybody I’ll make it thirty shillings. You understand?”
“All right, sir,” answered the girl, bending again to her work, and I passed along the street and out again to the Gray’s Inn Road.
I was once more disappointed, for I believed that I had tracked my rival to his home. But it seemed that the fellow was far too wary. He received his correspondence through the hands of this woman, Mrs. Graham, thus showing that he wished to conceal his place of abode. When a woman is the receiver of a man’s letters, it is always looked upon by the police as a bad sign.
Having a description of this man Purvis, I resolved to lay in wait for him to visit Mrs. Graham, and then to follow him home. Therefore, through that day and several days following I kept such a watchful eye upon all that went on in Calthorpe Street that I saw the policeman on the beat suspected me of loitering for the purpose of committing a felony. I therefore called him aside, gave him a card, and told him that I was keeping observation for the arrival of a tall, fair, thin gentleman, who would call at No. 7, and that if he assisted me I would make it worth his while.
We were not long in making the compact, and the fact that he could watch while I went into a saloon bar in the Gray’s Inn Road to snatch my hasty meals made the observation much more certain and easy.
A whole week I spent in those squalid, smoky streets, sometimes lounging at one end of Calthorpe Street and sometimes at the other, relieved now and then by the constable, who came and stood at the opposite corner as signal that I was allowed half an hour’s repose.
Try yourself a day at the corner of a London street awaiting the arrival of a person you have never seen, but whose description has been given to you, and you will at once discover how wearisome a task it is. Hundreds of men nearly answering the description will pass you, and your hopes are raised as every one approaches.
Still, I intended to outwit this clever adventurer, whoever he was. He, or his accomplices, had obtained possession of at least one object that was my property, the document with the seven signatures, and I intended that he should be hoist by his own petard even though I had to wait for him a year.
The servant girl was entirely in my confidence. Each morning as she “did” the steps I passed the time of day with her, and she informed me that Mr. Purvis had not called, although her mistress was expecting him, as letters were awaiting him.
Now, it seemed to me probable that if Mrs. Graham knew the man’s address, and he did not fetch his letters, she would either send him a line or re-address the correspondence. Therefore, I gave instructions to the girl to be on the lookout for the address on any letter she might be sent to post, and make a note of it for me.
One afternoon about five o’clock, while I was hastily taking a cup of tea in a shop in King’s Cross Road, my friend the constable put his head inside and beckoned me out.
“The cove you’re waiting for has just gone into No. 7, sir,” he said; “tall, fair moustache, freckled face, and wearin’ a straw hat.”
In an instant I was on the alert and, full of excitement, walked back with him to the corner of Calthorpe Street.
“You’re going to follow him, I suppose?”
“Certainly. I want to discover where he lives.”
“Does he know you?”
“Probably he does.”
“Then you’ll have to be wary if you’re going to follow him.”
“Trust me,” I replied confidently. “I shall take every precaution.”
We separated, and impatiently I awaited the appearance of the man who was my rival.
Already Mr. Kenway had written to the landlord of the Manor House, and only that morning I had received his consent. Therefore, the matter was concluded, and I held the tenancy of a lonely, weather-worn old place, without possessing a stick of furniture to make it habitable.
But I was anxious to see what manner of man was this Purvis, the smart investigator who had paid half a sovereign for that most precious of all documents. How was it possible that he could have knowledge of the affair, save, perhaps, from the local legend that the Knutton family were entitled to a fortune? The gossip in Rockingham and elsewhere might possibly have aroused his curiosity, but if so he must also have been aware that I held the key to the cipher. Thereby hung a mystery.
Once it occurred to me that Job Seal might be working against me, but on full reflection I saw that such suspicion was unfounded. Seal had foregone his claim in return for half of the gold, and had sailed for the Mediterranean perfectly satisfied.
No. The affair had, I saw, grown into a desperate one; a fortune was awaiting one or other of us—the man who was clever enough to outwit the other.
For an hour I waited at the street corner, my eyes ever upon that flight of steps which led to the dark green sun-blistered door, until I was weary and exhausted. Purvis was undoubtedly having tea and gossiping with the widow.
I saw my friend the servant girl come to the dining-room window, pull the yellow lace curtains aside, and, putting her head out, look up and down the street. She caught sight of me, and with the knowledge that I was on guard, quickly withdrew.
Was it a signal that he was about to come forth?
I waited. Seven o’clock struck, then eight, but still no sign of him. He was surely making a long visit. As darkness closed in I moved nearer the house, in order that he might not be able to slip away unobserved.
Suddenly, a little after nine, the girl opened the door and a visitor emerged. But I was disappointed. A woman in deep black descended the steps and turned to walk in my direction. The instant I saw this I hurried on, crossed the road, and then slackened pace in order that she should overtake me.
She was not long in doing so, and as she passed I turned and looked her full in the face.
Judge my surprise when I recognized her to be none other than the girl who had taken me on that mysterious journey to Blackheath!
CHAPTER XVIITHE SELLER OF THE SECRET
“Why, Miss Bristowe!” I cried. “Perhaps you don’t recollect me?”
She started quickly, and drew back for a moment, her countenance blanching; then looking into my face, she said, with a timid laugh: “Why, of course, doctor! But have you forgiven me for taking you on that fool’s errand?”
“Yes, long ago,” I laughed. “But our meeting this evening is certainly unexpected. Have you friends in this neighbourhood?”
She replied in the affirmative, but without giving me any explanation.
“And your brother?” I asked, recollecting Whitworth’s declaration that he had never heard of her. “Is he any better?”
“Oh, a great deal, thanks,” was her reply. “He took a turn for the better that night I came to you, and has improved ever since.”
She looked, I think, prettier than on that night when we had driven together to Blackheath. But she had deceived me in regard to her statement concerning Dr. Whitworth, so I supposed she was deceiving me now.
She was in a hurry to get home, she told me, and my first impulse was to follow her secretly, but when I recollected that the man for whom I had been so long in wait was actually inside No. 7, I decided to keep watch upon him rather than upon her.
The fact that she had come from that house was in itself curious, and made me suspect that her visit to me on that night in Walworth had some secret connection with the scheme of this man Purvis.
The manner in which she was hurrying when I stopped her made it plain that she was late for some appointment.
There were two courses open to me, namely: to follow her, or else to remain and await Purvis. The discovery that she was friendly with some person at No. 7 had suddenly aroused within me a desire to know her place of abode in order to make secret inquiries concerning her. Yet, after all, my chief business was with Purvis, so I decided to remain on watch for him.
With her consent, therefore, I saw her into an omnibus for Ludgate Hill, whence she told me she would take train home, and when I parted from her I expressed a fervent hope that we might meet again before very long.
“Good-night,” she said, as we shook hands. “Yes, I hope we shall meet again—in more fortunate circumstances than to-night.” And she mounted into the omnibus and left me.
What could she mean by more fortunate circumstances? I was puzzled at her words, but at last their truth became apparent.
Through many hours, till far into the night, I waited in that vicinity for the man who was my rival. But he never came out, neither that day nor the next.
The reason, I afterwards found, was simple enough. The servant had played me false and told him everything; therefore he had waited until darkness set in, and then climbed over several garden walls into Wells Street, a short thoroughfare running parallel at the back, and quietly emerged into Gray’s Inn Road.
So while I had waited patiently in front he had ingeniously escaped at the back, aided most probably by the mysterious Miss Bristowe and Mrs. Graham, whose character, of course, I had no means of ascertaining. According, however, to my friend the constable, some shifty individuals lived in that neighbourhood.
In any case I had the dissatisfaction of knowing that all my vigilance had been naught, and that the man Purvis would never again run the gauntlet of Calthorpe Street. He would no doubt arrange for another address, and if so I might obtain it by means of the Kenways, providing, of course, that they had not yet told him the house was let.
I took counsel with Mr. Staffurth, as I did very frequently nowadays.
I blamed myself that on that night I was alone. Had I an assistant with me he might have followed the young lady home. Staffurth being of the same opinion, suggested that I should accept the services of his nephew, a young bank clerk who had been compelled to leave his occupation in the City temporarily on account of ill-health. This young fellow, whom I had met once or twice at Clapham, was named Philip Reilly. Smart, well dressed, and well educated, he had been an athlete before his illness, and had carried off many prizes at Lillie Bridge and other places.
He was just the sort of young man to be useful, and when that evening he sat in his uncle’s study and the full facts of the case were related to him in confidence, he became highly excited over it, and announced his eagerness to act under my directions.
“We have a formidable enemy to contend with, Philip,” the old gentleman pointed out. “And recollect that whatever may happen you must act with due caution so as not to play into the hands of our rivals.”
“Trust me for that,” he said. “The affair sounds exciting, at all events.”
“Yes,” I remarked, “and matters will grow more exciting before long, I anticipate.”
“But this Miss Bristowe,” he exclaimed. “Have we no means of rediscovering her?”
“At present, I am sorry to say, we haven’t,” I responded. “We may possibly get hold of Purvis’s new postal address, and if we do so it may lead us back to Miss Bristowe, who seems to me somehow associated with him. How, of course, I can’t tell.”
Reilly sat with folded arms, his clean-shaven face bearing a deep, thoughtful look as he puffed his pipe. It is not given to every one to be engaged on a treasure hunt, and from the first moment when he was told about it its interest overwhelmed him and he was eager to make a commencement.
After a long consultation it was arranged that we should both go down to Caldecott and endeavour to find out Purvis’s new address. It was also agreed that before we took another step we ought to be acquainted with the personal appearance of our rival.
To work in the dark any longer might, we foresaw, prove fatal to our object; therefore, on the following day, I introduced Reilly to the Kenways as the new tenant of the Manor House.
Fortunately they had not communicated with Purvis. Hence I took them somewhat into my confidence, and induced Mr. Kenway to write a letter to Calthorpe Street, asking whether he intended to take the house, and requesting the favour of a reply.
This he did at my dictation, and I had the satisfaction of putting the letter in the post-box at Rockingham. By that ruse I hoped to gain knowledge of Purvis’s new address. As had already been proved, he was what is vulgarly known as “a slippery customer,” but both Reilly and myself determined that if we once knew his postal address we would very quickly come up with him.
We had taken up our quarters at the Sonde Arms, at Rockingham, and very comfortable and rustic they were after the dust and heat of London. My long and unavailing vigil in that stifling side street had rather pulled me down. Day after day I had waited there, often hungry and thirsty, and at all times dusty and uncomfortable, compelled to eat as I could, and to hobnob with all and sundry, until my very heart seemed stifled by the dust of the throbbing city.
But in old-world Rockingham, even on the most sultry day, were soft zephyrs that fanned our cheeks. We ate in a room at the back, and to us, through the open window, came the sweet scent of the climbing roses and honeysuckle, and the mingled perfume of the old-fashioned cottage garden behind. The fare was plain and wholesome, the ale home-brewed and of the best, and we also had an opportunity to gossip with the drink-sodden old simpleton Ben Knutton.
The Kenways were looking for other quarters, therefore we could not yet take possession of the Manor House. Reilly had given forth that he was a student, a man of means, and something of an invalid, therefore he had hired the house for the purposes of being quiet and able to study without such distractions as there were in London.
He was full of ingenuity, which I quickly recognized after he had associated himself with me. He made a minute inspection of the house I had taken for him, and afterwards became possessed of the fixed idea that the treasure was secreted behind the panelling of the centre upstairs room. Why, I know not. But no argument of mine would remove the idea, and he was frantically anxious to obtain possession of the premises in order to secure the old Italian’s hoard.
We were, however, compelled to exercise considerable patience. We could not hurry the outgoing tenants, neither dare we betray any undue anxiety regarding the place. We could only await a response from Purvis.
It came at last after nearly a week of idle waiting. Mr. Kenway handed it to me, saying: —
“It seems as though he wants to take the place after all.”
“He’s too late,” I laughed, and eagerly read the letter, which was to the effect that he had not yet decided, but would write giving a definite answer in a couple of days. The letter was headed, “14, Sterndale Road, Hammersmith, London,” and to that address Mr. Kenway was asked to write.
Our ruse had worked satisfactorily. We were again cognizant of the address—the postal address—of our mysterious rival.
Reilly was eager to return to London in search of him, but we remained at Rockingham yet another day, making inquiries and getting on good terms with most of the people with whom we came into contact.
Ben Knutton was, of course, closely questioned, and in reply to my inquiry whether he had since met the gentleman who purchased the bit of parchment from him, he said: —
“Yes. ’E came about a fortni’t ago and asked me if I had anything else to sell, and I told him that I hadn’t.”
“He called on you at your cottage?”
“Yes. One night after I came ’ome from work. He made me let him look through all the things I had. I told him that I’d heard that the parchment I sold him was worth a lot o’ money, and he asked who told me. I explained that a gentleman from London had been asking about it after he had bought it, and he laughed, saying: ‘I know the man; ’e’s a fool, ’e is.’ ”
“Meaning me, eh?”
“I suppose so, sir, of course, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Well, Mr. Knutton, I don’t think I’m much of a fool,” I laughed. “That man swindled you, that’s all.”
“Then do you really think, sir, that the parchment had something to do with our property?” he asked in surprise.
“Possibly it may have,” was my response. “Of course I’ve never seen it, so can’t say.”
“Well, sir,” the old labourer burst forth, “I don’t like that man at all. ’E ain’t no gentleman, that I’m sure.”
He had, I supposed, failed to “stand” the necessary quantity of beer which, in Knutton’s eyes, stamped the gentleman.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Because he made a lot of unkind remarks about you, sir,” was his answer. “He told me that you were trying to swindle me out of the money we ought to have, and a long yarn showing you up to be one of the worst o’ blackguards.”
“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” I laughed. “One day, however, we shall see who’s the scoundrel and adventurer. In the meantime, Knutton, just beware of any future dealings with him.”
“I will, sir,” was the man’s reply. “I’m very sorry I ever sold that parchment. I only wish I’d showed it to you. You’re a gentleman as would perhaps have been able to read it.”
“Ah, Knutton, I only wish you had kept it for me,” I responded, with a heartfelt sigh. “But it’s useless to cry over spilt milk, you know. We must make the best of it. All you have to do, however, is to keep a still tongue in your head and beware of any other gentleman from London.”
“Oh, I will, sir, now. You can rely on me—that you can.” And the old fellow raised his great mug of beer and emptied it at a single gulp.
His capacity for ale, like that of many farm labourers, was simply astounding.