It did not take Allen long to learn something about Butsey. An inquiry at the offices of the philanthropic people, who dealt with the transfer of ragged boys to the country for fresh air, brought out the fact that Butsey was a thief, and a sparrow of the gutter, who lived in a certain Whitechapel den--address given--with a set of the greatest ruffians in London.
"It was a mere accident the boy came here," said the spectacled gentleman who supplied the information; "we were sending out a number of ragged children to Westhaven for a couple of days, and this boy came and asked if he could go too. At first, we were not inclined to accept him, as we knew nothing about him. But the boy is so clever and amusing, that we consented he should go. He went with the rest to Westhaven, but did not keep with those who looked after the poor creatures. In fact, Mr. Hill," said the gentleman frankly, "Butsey took French leave."
"Where did he go?"
"I can't tell you. But one of our men caught sight of Father Don, and Red Jerry, at Westhaven--those are the ruffians Butsey lives with. He might have gone with them."
"Did you take the children down on a Wednesday?"
"Yes. And then they came back, late the next day."
Allen reflected that if Butsey sent the wire before four o'clock, he must have gone back to London, and wondered where he got the money for the fare. Then he must have come down again, in order to give the lying message to Mrs. Merry. However, he told the philanthropist nothing of this, but thanked him for his information. "I intend to look this boy up," he said, when taking his leave.
"Has he got into trouble?" asked the gentleman anxiously.
"Well, not exactly. But I want to learn something from him relative to a matter about which it is not necessary to be too precise. I assure you, sir, Butsey will not come to harm."
"He has come to harm enough already, poor lad." I tell you, Mr. Hill, "that I should like to drag that boy out of the gutter, and make him a decent member of society. He is sharp beyond his years, but his talents are utilised in the wrong way----"
"By Father Don, Red Jerry, and Co.," said Allen drily; "so I think."
"One moment, Mr. Hill; if you go to the Perry Street den, take a plain clothes policeman with you. Father Don is dangerous."
"Oh, I'll see to that," said Allen, confident in his own muscles and in those of Parkins. "You couldn't get Butsey to come here?"
"I fear not--I sadly fear not, Mr. Hill. The boy has never been near us since he came back with the children from Westhaven."
"He did come back with them, then?"
"Oh yes," said the philanthropist frankly, by the late train; "but what he did in the meantime, and where he went, I can't say. He refused to give an account of himself."
"Shrewd little devil," said Allen; "but I think I know."
"I trust it has nothing to do with the police," said the gentleman anxiously; "a detective asked after Butsey. I gave him the address of Father Don in Perry Street, but the lad could not be found. The detective refused to say why the lad was wanted, and I hope he'll not come to harm. If you find him, bring him to me, and I'll see what I can do to save him. It's a terrible thing to think that an immortal soul and a clever lad should remain in the depths."
Allen assented politely, promised to do what he could towards bringing about the reformation of Butsey, and went his way. He privately thought that to make Butsey a decent member of society would be next door to impossible, for the lad seemed to be quite a criminal, and education might only make him the more dangerous to the well-being of the community. However he reserved his opinion on this point, and got back to his Woburn rooms to explain to Horace. The big American--for he virtually was a Yankee--nodded gravely.
"We'll go down this very night," he said. "I guess we'd best put on old togs, leave our valuables at home, and carry six-shooters."
"Do you think that last is necessary?" asked Allen anxiously.
"It's just as well to be on the safe side, Hill. If this boy is employed by Father Don and his gang, he won't be let go without a fight. Maybe he knows too much for the safety of the gang."
"That's very probable," assented Hill drily; "however, we'll take all precautions, and go to Perry Street."
"This is what I call enjoyment," said Horace, stretching his long limbs. "I'm not a quarrelsome man, but, by Gosh, I'm just spoiling for a fight."
"I think there's every chance we'll get what you want, Parkins."
So the matter was arranged, and after dinner the two men changed into shabby clothes. It was raining heavily, and they put on overcoats, scarves, and wore slouch hats. Both carried revolvers, and thus they felt ready for any emergency. As Allen knew London comparatively well, he took the lead, and conducted Horace to Aldgate Station by the underground railway. Here they picked up a cab and went to Whitechapel. The driver knew Perry Street but refused to go near it, on the plea that it was a dangerous locality. However, he deposited the two near the place, and drove away in the rain, leaving Allen and Horace in a somewhat dark street. A search for a guide produced a ragged boy of the Butsey type, who volunteered to show the way to Father Don's den. "You've got some swag to send up the spout, gents both?" leered the brat, looking up to the big men as they stood under a lamp-post.
"Just so," said Horace quickly, thinking this a good excuse; "you engineer us along, sonny, and we'll give you a shilling."
"A bob?--that's good enough," said the urchin, and scampered down a back street so quickly that they had some difficulty in keeping up with him. Later on, when they caught him at the end of acul-de-sac., Allen gripped the guide by his wet shoulder. "Do you know a boy called Butsey?"
"Oh my eyes and ears, don't I just? Why, he's Father Don's pet. But he's in disgrace now."
"Why?" asked Horace coolly.
"Father Don sent him down the country, and he didn't turn up at the hour he was told to. He's been whacked and put on bread and water," said the brat, grinning, "worse luck for Father Don. Butsey'll put a knife into him for that."
"Good," whispered Allen to the American as they went on in the darkness. "Butsey will have a grudge against Father Don, and will be all the more ready to tell."
"Humph! I'm not so sure. There's honour amongst thieves."
They had no further time for conversation, for the guide turned down a narrow lane leading off thecul-de-sac., and knocked at the door of a ruined house with broken windows. A shrill voice inside asked who was there.
"Swell mobsmen with swag for the patrico," said the guide, whistling shrilly. "Show us a light."
The door opened, and a small pinched-looking girl appeared with a candle. She examined the two men and then admitted them. When they ventured within, she shut the door, which seemed to be very strong. But Horace noticed a door on the left of the passage leading into an empty room. He knew that one of the broken windows set in the street wall gave light to this room, and resolved to make it a line of retreat should they be too hardly pressed. Meantime the boy and girl led the way along the passage and towards a trap-door. Here, steps leading downward brought them to a large cellar filled with ragged people of both sexes. There was a fire in a large chimney, which seemed to have been constructed to roast an ox, and round this they sat, their damp garments steaming in the heat. A curtain portioned off a corner of the cellar, and when the strangers entered two shrill voices were heard talking together angrily. But the thieves around paid no attention.
"Red Jerry," said Horace, touching Allen's arm, and he pointed to a truculent-looking ruffian, almost as big as himself, who was lying on a bed composed of old newspapers and day-bills. He seemed to be drunk, for he breathed heavily and his pipe had fallen from his fevered lips. "Nice man to tackle," muttered Horace.
"Come along," said the guide, tugging at Allen's hand. "Father Don's got some one in there, but he'll see you. What's the swag--silver?"
"Never you mind," said Horace; "you find Butsey and I'll make it worth your while."
"Give us a sov. and I'll do it," said the brat. "I'm Billy, and fly at that."
"Good. A sov. you shall have."
The boy whistled again and some of the thieves cursed him. He then pushed Horace towards the ragged curtain behind which the shrill voices sounded, and vanished. The two were now fully committed to the adventure.
Curiously enough, the ruffians in the cellar did not take much notice of the strangers. Perhaps they were afraid of Father Don, seeing that the two came to dispose of swag, and at all events they apparently thought that Father Don could protect himself. Meanwhile the keen ears of Horace heard a deeper voice, something like a man's, mingling with the shrill ones of the other speakers. Without a moment's hesitation, and anxious to get the business over, the big American dragged aside the curtain and entered.
Allen and he found themselves before a narrow door. On entering this, for it was open, they saw an old man with a white beard sitting at a small table with papers before him. Near, was a small sharp-faced man, and at the end of the table sat a woman dressed in black.
"It won't do, Father Don," the woman was saying in deep tones; "you told that brat to rob me. Give it up, I tell you."
"Give up what?" asked Father Don sharply. "How can I give up anything, when I don't know what it is?"
"Butsey knows," said the woman. "Where is he?"
"On bread and water in the attic," said the small man with a shrill laugh; "he's having his pride brought down."
"You'd better take care of Butsey," said the woman drily, "or he'll sell you."
"Let him try," snarled the benevolent-looking old gentleman. "Red Jerry's his father and will break his back."
This much the two gentlemen heard, and it was then that the American appeared in the narrow doorway. The woman started and looked at him. He eyed her in turn and saw a fine-looking creature with dark eyes, and of a full voluptuous beauty hardly concealed by the plain dark robes she wore. Allen glanced over Parkins's shoulder and uttered an ejaculation. "Why, Miss Lorry," he said.
The woman started and rose quickly, overturning the table. The small lamp on it, fell and went out. There were a few curses from Father Don and a shrill expostulation from the small man. In the hot darkness a dress brushed past the two men who were now in the room, and a strong perfume saluted their nostrils. Horace could have stopped Miss Lorry from going, but he had no reason to do so, and she slipped out while Father Don was groping for the lamp, and the other man struck a match. As the blue flare spurted up, the man saw the two who had entered. "What's this?" he cried with an oath, which it is not necessary to set down; "who are you?"
"We've come about business," said Horace; "don't you move till the old man's got the lamp alight, or you'll get hurt."
"It's the 'tecs," said Father Don savagely.
"I guess not. We've come to do business."
This remark seemed to stimulate the curiosity of the two men, and they refrained from a shout which would have brought in all the riff-raff without. Allen congratulated himself, that Parkins had roused this curiosity. He had no desire to fight in a dark cellar with his back to the wall against a score of ruffians. In a few minutes the lamp was lighted. "Turn it up, Foxy," said Father Don; "and now, gentlemen," he added politely, "how did you get here?"
"A boy called Billy brought us," said Allen stepping forward. "I fear we've frightened the lady away."
"Let her go, the jade," said Foxy shrilly; "there would have been a heap of trouble if she'd remained," and he confirmed this speech with several oaths.
Father Don did not swear. He spoke in a clear, refined, and educated voice, and apparently was a well-educated man who had fallen into the depths through some rascality. But his face looked most benevolent, and no one would have suspected him of being a ruffian of the worst. He eyed Allen piercingly, and also his companion. "Well, gentlemen," he asked quietly, "and what can I do for you?" Horace sat down heavily and pulled out his pipe. "We may as well talk comfortably," he said. "Sit down, Hill."
"Hill?" said Father Don with a start, while Foxy opened his small eyes--"not of Wargrove?"
"The same," said Allen quietly. "How do you know me?"
"I know a good many things," said Father Don calmly.
"Do you know who shot Strode?"
Foxy rose as though moved by a spring. "You're on that lay, are you?" said he shrilly; "then you've come to the wrong shop."
"Oh, I guess not, said Horace lazily--to the right shop. You see, Mister," he went on to the elder ruffian, "we want that wooden hand."
"What wooden hand?" asked Father Don. "If you mean----"
"Yes, I do mean that," said Allen quickly; "you brought it to Mr. Mask to get the money."
"Did I?" said Father Don coolly and eyeing the young man; "well, maybe I did. But I didn't take it from the dead?"
Allen coloured. "Merry took it," he said.
"Oh no, he didn't," sneered Foxy. "Merry got it from Butsey, who dug it up after it had been planted by----"
"Stop," said Allen, rising. "Father Don," he added, turning to the old man, "you seem to be a gentleman----"
"I was once. But what's that got to do with this?"
"Stop this man," he pointed to Foxy, "from mentioning names."
"I'll stop everything, if you'll tell us where the diamonds are to be found," said Father Don.
"I don't know what you mean," said Allen.
"Oh yes, you do. You know everything about this case, and you've come here to get the hand. Well then, you won't. Only while I hold that hand can I get the diamonds."
"Where will you get them?"
"That's what I want you to tell me."
"I guess Red Jerry knows," said Horace sharply; "he took the diamonds from the dead body of the man he shot."
"Meaning Strode," said Foxy, with a glance at Father Don.
"Jerry didn't shoot him," said that venerable fraud.
"I surmise he did," said Parkins. "Ask him in."
"How do you know about Jerry?" asked Father Don uneasily.
"I sailed along o' him, and saved him from being lynched as a horse-thief. If you won't call him in, I'll do so myself."
"Hold your tongue," said Father Don, rising and looking very benevolent, "you take too much upon yourself. I'm king here, and if I say the word neither of you will go out alive."
"Oh, I guess so," said Horace coolly, "we don't come unprepared," and in a moment he swung out his Derringer. "Sit still, Father Christmas," said Parkins, levelling this, "or you'll get hurt."
Seeing Parkins's action, Allen produced his weapon and covered Foxy, so there sat the kings of the castle, within hail of their ruffianly crew, unable to call for assistance.
"And now we'll call in Jerry," said Allen coolly. "Sing out, Parkins."
But before the big American could raise a shout there was a sudden noise outside. A shrill voice was heard crying that the police were coming, and then ensued a babel. Father Don seized the opportunity when Parkins's eye was wavering to knock the revolver out of his hand. The American thereupon made a clutch at his throat, while Allen tripped Foxy up. A small boy dashed into the room. He was white-faced, stunted, red-haired, and had but one eye. At once he made for Parkins, squealing for the police. When he got a grip of Horace's hand he dropped his voice:
"Ketch t'other cove's hand, and mine," said the boy, and then with a dexterous movement overturned the table, whereby the lamp went out again for the second time. Parkins seized the situation at once, and while Father Don, suddenly released, scrambled on the floor, and made use for the first time of bad language, he grabbed Allen's hand and dragged him toward the door. Horace in his turn was being drawn swiftly along by the small boy. The outer cellar was filled with a mass of screaming, squalling, swearing humanity, all on the alert for the advent of the police. The boy drew the two men through the crowd, which did not know whence to expect the danger. Horace hurled his way through the mob by main strength, and Allen followed in his devastating wake. Shortly, they reached the trap-door, and ran along the passage. The boy pulled them into the side-room Horace had noted when he came to the den.
"Break the winder," said the boy to Parkins.
The American did not need further instructions, and wrapping his coat round his arm he smashed the frail glass. From below came confusedly the noise of the startled thieves. But Horace first, Allen next, and the boy last, dropped on to the pavement. Then another lad appeared, and all four darted up the street. In ten minutes they found themselves blown but safe, in the chief thoroughfare and not far from a policeman, who looked suspiciously at them.
"There," said the last-joined boy, "you're saif. Butsey saived y'."
"Butsey?" said Allen, looking at the stunted, one-eyed lad.
"That's me," said Butsey with a grin; "y'were near being scragged by th' ole man. If y'd called Red Jerry, he'd ha' done fur y'. Miss Lorry told me t'get you out, and I've done it."
"But I reckon the old Father Christmas told us you were locked up."
"Was," said Butsey laconically; "in th' attic--bread an' water. I ain't goin' to work fur sich a lot any more, so I dropped out of th' winder, and climbed the roof--down the spout. In the street I met Miss Lorry--she told me there was fightin' below, so'--he winked.
"Then there was no police?" said Allen, admiring the boy's cleverness.
"Not much. But they're allays expecting of th' peelers," said Butsey coolly; "'twasn't difficult to get 'em rizzed with fright. But you look here, Misters, you clear out now, or they'll be after you."
"You come also, Butsey."
"Not me. I'm agoin' to doss along o' Billy here. I'll come an' see you at Wargrove and bring the wooden hand with me."
"What," said Allen, "do you know----?"
"I knows a lot, an' I'm going to split," said Butsey. "Give us a bob"; and when Allen tossed him one, he spat on it for luck. "See y' m' own time," said Butsey. "I'm goin' to turn respectable an' split. Th' ole man ain't goin' to shut me up for nix. 'Night," and catching his companion's arm, both boys ran off into the darkness.
The visit to the den was certainly a fiasco. Those who had ventured into those depths, had, on the face of it, gained nothing. What would have happened had not Butsey raised the false alarm it is impossible to say. According to the boy, Jerry would have turned disagreeable, and probably there would have been a free fight. As it was, Allen and Horace came back without having achieved their object. They were as far as ever from the discovery of the truth.
"And yet, I don't know," said Allen hopefully, "somehow I feel inclined to trust Butsey. He's got some scheme in his head."
"Huh," said Horace heavily, "y' can't trust a boy like that. He's got his monkey up because the old man dropped on him, but like as not, he'll change his tune and go back. Father Don 'ull make things square. He can't afford to lose a promising young prig like Butsey."
"I believe the boy will come to Wargrove as he said," insisted Allen.
"In that case I guess we'd better go down too. Would you mind putting me up for a few days?"
"I'll be glad, and I don't think my father will object. It is just as well you should see him."
"That's why I want to come down," said Parkins cheerfully; "y'see, Hill, the business has to be worked out somehow. I think your father's got a crazy fit, and there isn't anything he's got to be afraid of. But he's shivering about some one, and who that some one is, we must learn. Better we should sift the matter ourselves than let the police handle it."
Allen turned pale. "God forbid," said he; "I want the authorities kept away."
So Allen wrote a letter to his father, asking if he could bring down Parkins for a few days. The reply, strange to say, came from Mrs. Hill, and the reading of it afforded Allen some thought.
"There is no need to ask your father anything," she wrote, "he has given everything into my hands, even to the money. What the reason is I can't say, as he refuses to speak. He seems very much afraid, and remains in his own rooms--the Japanese apartments. Mr. Mask also refused to speak, saying my husband would tell me himself if he felt inclined, but I can learn nothing. I am glad you are coming back, Allen, as I am seriously anxious. Of course you can bring Mr. Parkins. The house is large and he will not need to go near your father, though, it may be, the sight of a new face would do your father good. At all events come down and let us talk over things."
So Allen and Horace went to Westhaven and drove over to Wargrove. On the way Allen stopped the brougham, which was driven by Harry Jacobs, and took Horace to the Red Deeps to see the spot where the murder had been committed. When they got back--as the day was wet--their boots were covered with the red mud of the place. Jacobs saw this, and begged to speak to Allen before he got in.
"I say, Mr. Allen," he whispered, so that Parkins, now in the brougham, should not hear, "do you remember when I drove you to Misery Castle I said I'd tell you something?"
"Yes. What is it?"
"Well, you know I clean the boots, sir? Well, master's boots were covered with that red mud, on the day after----"
"I know all about that," interrupted Allen, feeling his blood run cold as he thought what trouble might come through the boy's chatter; "my father explained. You need not mention it."
"No, sir," said Jacobs obediently enough. He was devoted to Allen, for a queer reason that Allen had once thrashed him for being impertinent. There was no danger that he would say anything, but on the way to Wargrove the groom wondered if his master had anything to do with the commission of the crime. Only in the direction of the Red Deeps could such mud be found, and Jacobs had no doubt but that Mr. Hill senior had been to the place.
When they arrived at "The Arabian Nights" Mr. Hill at first refused to see Allen, but consented to do so later. When the young man entered the Japanese rooms, he was alarmed to see how ill his father looked. The man was wasting to skin and bone, his face was as white as death, and he started nervously at every noise.
"You must see Dr. Grace," said Allen.
"No," said Hill, "I won't--I shan't--I can't. How can you ask me to see any one when I'm in such danger?"
"You're in no danger here," said his son soothingly.
"So your mother says, and I can trust her. Let me keep to my own rooms, Allen, and leave me alone."
"You don't mind Parkins being in the house?"
"Why should I?--the house has nothing to do with me. I have given everything over to your mother's care. Mask has drawn up my will--it is signed and sealed, and he has it. Everything has been left to your mother. I left nothing to you," he added maliciously.
"I don't want anything, so long as my mother is safe."
"She is safe," said his father gloomily, "but am I? They'll find me out and kill me----"
"Who will?" asked Allen sharply.
"Don't speak like that--your voice goes through my head. Go away and amuse your friend. Your mother is mistress here--I am nothing, I only want my bite and sup--leave me alone--oh, how weary I am!"
So the miserable man maundered on. He had quite lost his affectations and looked worn out. He mostly lay on the sofa all day, and for the rest of the time he paced the room ceaselessly. Seeing him in this state Allen sought his mother.
"Something must be done," he said.
"What can be done?" said Mrs. Hill, who looked firmer than ever. "He seems to be afraid of something. What it is I don't know--the illness is mental, and you can't minister to a mind diseased. Perhaps you can tell me what this all means, Allen."
"I'll tell you what I know," said Allen wearily, for the anxiety was wearing out his nerves, and he thereupon related all that had taken place since he left Wargrove. Mrs. Hill listened in silence.
"Of course, unless your father speaks we can do nothing," she said at last; "do you think he is in his right mind, Allen?"
"No. He has always been eccentric," said the son, "and now, as he is growing old he is becoming irresponsible. I am glad he has given everything over to you, mother, and has made his will."
"Mr. Mask induced him to do that," said Mrs. Hill thankfully; "if he had remained obstinately fixed about the money I don't know what I should have done. But now that everything is in my hands I can manage him better. Let him stay in his rooms and amuse himself, Allen. If it is necessary that he should see the doctor I shall insist on his doing so. But at present I think it is best to leave him alone."
"Well, mother, perhaps you are right. And in any case Parkins and I will not trouble him or you much. I'll introduce him to Mrs. Palmer, and she'll take him off our hands."
"Of course she will," said Mrs. Hill rather scornfully; "the woman's a born flirt. So you don't know yet who killed Eva's father, Allen?"
"No," said he, shaking his head. "I must see Eva and tell her of my bad fortune."
No more was said at the time, and life went on fairly well in the house. Under Mrs. Hill's firm sway the management of domestic affairs was much improved, and the servants were satisfied, which they had never been, when Lawrence Hill was sole master. Parkins was much liked by Mrs. Hill, and easily understood that Mr. Hill, being an invalid, could not see him. She put it this way to save her husband's credit. She was always attending to him, and he clung to her like a frightened child to its mother. There was no doubt that the fright over the parcel had weakened a mind never very strong.
Allen and Parkins walked, rode, golfed on the Shanton Links, and paid frequent visits to Mrs. Palmer's place. Allen took the American there within a couple of days of his return, and the widow forthwith admired Parkins. "A charming giant," she described him, and Horace reciprocated. "I like her no end," he confided to Allen; "she's a clipper. Just the wife for me."
Eva laughed when Allen told her this, and remarked that if things went on as they were doing there was every chance that Mrs. Palmer would lose her heart.
"But that's ridiculous, Eva," said Allen, "they have known each other only five days."
"Well, we fell in love in five minutes," said Eva, smiling, which provocative remark led to an exchange of kisses.
The two were seated in the drawing-room of the villa. They had enjoyed a very good dinner, and had now split into couples. Allen and Eva remained in the drawing-room near the fire, while Parkins and Mrs. Palmer played billiards. It was a chill, raw evening, but the room looked bright and cheerful. The lovers were very happy being together again, and especially at having an hour to themselves. Mrs. Palmer was rather exacting, and rarely let Eva out of her sight.
"But she is really kind," said Eva, turning her calm face to Allen; "no one could be kinder."
"Except me, I hope," said Allen, crossing the hearth-rug and seating himself by her side. "I want to speak seriously, Eva."
"Oh dear," she said in dismay; "is it about our marriage?"
"Yes. I have arranged the money business with Horace Parkins, and it is necessary I should go to South America as soon as possible. If I don't, the mine may be sold to some one else."
"But can't Mr. Mark Parkins buy it?"
"Well, he could, but Horace wants to go out, so as to be on the spot, and I must go with him. It's my one chance of making a fortune, for the mine is sure to turn out a great success. As I want to marry you, Eva, I must make money. There's no chance, so far as I can see, of your getting that forty thousand pounds Lord Saltars spoke of."
"Then you really think, Allen, that there is money?"
"I am certain of it--in the form of diamonds. But we'll talk of that later. Meantime I want to say that, as you wish it, we'll put off our marriage for a year. You can stay here with Mrs. Palmer, and I'll go next month to South America with Horace Parkins."
"But what about my father's death?"
"I hope that we'll learn the truth within the next three weeks," said Allen. "Everything turns on this boy Butsey. He knows the truth."
"But will he tell it?"
"I think he will. The lad is clever but venomous. The way in which he has been treated by his father and Don has made him bitter against them. Also, after the false alarm he gave the other night to get Parkins and me out of the mess, he can't very well go back to that place. The old man would murder him; and I don't fancy the poor little wretch would receive much sympathy from his father."
"What do you think of him, Allen?"
"My dear, I don't know enough about him to speak freely. From what the philanthropist in Whitechapel says, I think the boy is very clever, and that his talents might be made use of. He is abominably treated by the brutes he lives with--why, his eye was put out by his father. But the boy has turned on the gang. He burnt his boats when he raised that alarm, and I am quite sure in his own time, he will come down here and turn King's evidence."
"About what?"
"About the murder. The boy knows the truth. It's my opinion that Red Jerry killed your father, Eva."
"How do you make that out?" she asked anxiously.
"Well, Red Jerry knew of your father in Africa and knew that he was buying diamonds." Allen suppressed the fact of Strode's being an I. D. B. "He followed him home in theDunoon Castle., and then went to tell Foxy and Father Don at Whitechapel. They came down to Westhaven and tracked your father to the Red Deeps, and there shot him. I can't understand why they did not take the wooden hand then, though."
"Who did take the hand?" asked Eva.
"My father. Yes," said Allen sadly, "you may look astonished and horrified, Eva, but it was my unhappy father. He is not in his right mind, Eva, for that is the only way to account for his strange behaviour;" and then Allen rapidly told Eva details.
"Oh," said the girl when he finished, "he must be mad, Allen. I don't see why he should act in that way if he was not. Your father has always been an excitable, eccentric man, and this trouble of my father's death has been too much for him. I quite believe he intended to kill my father, and thank God he did not--that would have parted us for ever. But the excitement has driven your father mad, so he is not so much to blame as you think."
"I am glad to hear you say so, darling," said the poor young fellow, "for it's been like a nightmare, to think that my father should behave in such a manner. I dreaded telling you, but I thought it was best to do so."
"I am very glad you did," she replied, putting her arms round him; "oh, don't worry, Allen. Leave my father's murder alone. Go out to Bolivia, buy this mine, and when you have made your fortune come back for me. I'll be waiting for you here, faithful and true."
"But you want to know who killed Mr. Strode?"
"I've changed my mind," she answered quickly, "the affair seems to be so mysterious that I think it will never be solved. Still I fancy you are right: Red Jerry killed my father for the sake of the diamonds."
"He did not get them if he did," said Allen, "else he and Father Don would not have gone to see Mask and thus have risked arrest. No, my dear Eva, the whole secret is known to Butsey. He can tell the truth. If he keeps his promise, and comes here we shall know all: if he does not, we'll let the matter alone. I'll go to Bolivia about this business, and return to marry you."
"And then we'll bury the bad old past," said Eva, "and begin a new life, darling. But, Allen, do you think Miss Lorry knows anything?"
"What, that circus woman? I can't say. It was certainly queer she should have been in that den. What a woman for your cousin to marry."
"I don't know if he will marry after all," said Eva.
"I believe old Lady Ipsen will stop the marriage."
"How do you know?"
"Because she wrote to say she was coming to see me. She says she will come unexpectedly, as she has something to tell me."
Allen coloured. He hoped to avoid old Lady Ipsen as he did not forget that she had accused his mother of stealing the Delham heirloom. However, he merely nodded and Eva went on: "Of course I am willing to be civil to her and shall see her. But she's a horrid old woman, Allen, and has behaved very badly to me. I am her granddaughter, and she should have looked after me. I won't let her do so now. Well, Allen, that's one piece of news I had to tell you. The next is about Giles Merry."
"What about him?"
"I received a letter from Shanton written by Miss Lorry. That was when you were away. She sent it over by Butsey."
"What! Was that boy here?"
"Yes. When you were away. He delivered it at the door and went. I only knew it was Butsey from the description, and by that time the boy was gone. Had I seen him I should have asked Wasp to keep him here, till you came back."
"I understand," said Allen thoughtfully. "Miss Lorry sent for Butsey. He was told to return to Perry Street, Whitechapel, within a certain time and did not. For that, Father Don shut him up in the attic and fed him on bread and water. The treatment made Butsey rebellious. But what had Miss Lorry to say?"
"She wrote that if Giles Merry worried me I was to let her know and she'd stop him doing so."
Allen looked astonished. "Why should Giles worry you?" he asked indignantly.
"I can't say. He hasn't come to see me yet, and if he does, of course I would rather you dealt with him than Miss Lorry. I want to have nothing to do with her."
"Still, she's not a bad sort," said Allen after a pause, "she saved our lives on that night by sending Butsey to get us out of the den. Humph! If she met Butsey on that night I wonder if she asked him to return what he'd stolen?"
"What was that?" asked Eva.
"I don't know. Horace Parkins and I overheard her complaining, that Butsey, when down seeing her, had stolen something. She refused to say what it was and then bolted when she saw me. But what has Giles Merry to do with her?"
"Cain told me that Giles was the 'strong man' of Stag's Circus."
"Oh, and Miss Lorry knows him as a fellow artiste. Humph! I daresay she is aware of something queer about him. From the sending of that parcel, I believe Giles is mixed up with Father Don's lot, and by Jove, Eva, I think Miss Lorry must have something to do with them also! We've got to do with a nice lot, I must say. And they're all after the diamonds. I shouldn't wonder if Butsey had them, after all. He's just the kind of young scamp who would get the better of the elder ruffians. Perhaps he has the diamonds safely hidden, and is leaving the gang, so as to turn respectable. He said he wanted to cut his old life. Yes"--Allen slapped his knee--"Eva, I believe Butsey has the diamonds. For all I know he may have shot your father."
"Oh, Allen," said Eva, turning pale, "that lad."
"A boy can kill with a pistol as surely as if he were a man, and Butsey has no moral scruples. However, we'll wait till he comes and then learn what we can. Once I get hold of him he shan't get away until I know everything. As to Merry, if he comes, you let me know and I'll break his confounded neck."
"I believe Nanny would thank you if you did," said Eva; the poor woman is in a terrible fright. "He wrote saying he was coming to see her."
"She needn't have anything to do with him."
"I told her so. But she looks on the man as her husband, bad as he is, and has old-fashioned notions about obeying him. If he wasn't her husband she wouldn't mind, but as it is----" Eva shrugged her shoulders.
They heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Shortly the footman entered. "There's a woman to see you, miss," he said to Eva, holding the door open. "Mrs. Merry, miss."
"What!" cried Eva; "show her in."
"She won't come, miss. She's in the hall."
"Come, Allen," said the girl, and they went out into the hall, where Mrs. Merry with a scared face was sitting. She rose and came forward in tears, and with sopping clothes, owing to her walk through the heavy rain.
"I ran all the way", Miss Eva. "I'm in such sorrow. Giles has come."
"What, your husband?" said Allen.
"Yes, and worse. I found this on the doorstep." She drew from under her shawl the wooden hand!
Mr. and Mrs. Merry were seated the next day in the kitchen having a long chat. It was not a pleasant one, for Mrs. Merry was weeping as usual, and reproaching her husband. Giles had been out to see his old cronies in the village, and consequently had imbibed sufficient liquor to make him quarrelsome. The first thing he did, when he flung himself into a chair, was to grumble at the kitchen.
"Why should we sit here, Selina?" he asked; "it's a blamed dull hole, and I'm accustomed to drawing-rooms."
"You can't go into the drawing-room," said Mrs. Merry, rocking and dabbing her red eyes with the corner of her apron. "Miss Eva is in there with a lady. They don't want to be disturbed."
"Who is the lady?" demanded Signor Antonio, alias Mr. Merry.
"Lady Ipsen. She's Miss Eva's grandmother and have called to see her. What about, I'm sure I don't know, unless it's to marry her to Lord Saltars, not that I think much of him."
"Lady Ipsen--old Lady Ipsen?" said Giles slowly, and his eyes brightened; "she's an old devil. I knew her in the days when I and Hill and Strode enjoyed ourselves."
"And bad old days they were," moaned Mrs. Merry; "you'd have been a better man, Giles, if it hadn't been for that Strode. As for the jelly-fish, he was just a shade weaker than you. Both of you were under the thumb of Strode, wicked man that he was, and so cruel to his wife, just as you are, Giles, though you mayn't think so. But if I die----"
"You will, if you go on like this," said Merry, producing his pipe; "this is a nice welcome. Old Lady Ipsen," he went on, and laughed in so unpleasant a manner, that his wife looked up apprehensively.
"What wickedness are you plotting now?" she asked timidly.
"Never you mind. The marriage of Lord Saltars," he went on with a chuckle. "Ho! he's going to marry Miss Lorry."
"So they say. But I believe Lady Ipsen wants to stop that marriage, and small blame to her, seeing what a man he----"
"Hold your jaw, Selina. I can't hear you talking all day. You get me riz and you'll have bad time, old girl. So go on rocking and crying and hold that red rag of yours. D'ye hear?"
"Yes, Giles--but Lord Saltars----"
"He's going to marry Miss Lorry, if I let him."
Mrs. Merry allowed the apron to fall from her eyes in sheer amazement. "If you let him?" she repeated; "lor', Giles, you can't stop his lordship from----"
"I can stopher.," said Merry, who seemed determined never to let his wife finish a sentence; "and I've a mind to, seeing how nasty she's trying to make herself." He rose. "I'll see Miss Eva and make trouble."
"If you do, Mr. Allen will interfere," said Mrs. Merry vigorously. "I knew you'd make trouble. It's in your nature. But Miss Lorry wrote to Miss Eva and said she'd interfere if you meddled with what ain't your business."
Giles shook off the hand his wife had laid on his arm, and dropped into a chair. He seemed dumfoundered by the information. "She'll interfere, will she?" said he, snarling, and with glittering eyes. "Like her impudence. She can't hurt me in any way----"
"She may say you killed Strode," said Mrs. Merry.
Giles raised a mighty fist with so evil a face, that the woman cowered in her chair. Giles smiled grimly and dropped his arm.
"You said before, as I'd killed Strode. Well then, I didn't."
"How do I know that?" cried his wife spiritedly; "you can strike me, but speak the truth I will. Bad as you are, I don't want to see you hanged, and hanged you will be, whatever you may say. I heard from Cain that you talked to Strode on the Wednesday night he was killed. You met him at the station, when he arrived by the six-thirty, and----"
"What's that got to do with the murder?" snapped Giles savagely. "I talked to him only as a pal."
"Your wicked London friends were there too," said Mrs. Merry; "oh, Cain told me of the lot you're in with; Father Don, Foxy, and Red Jerry--they were all down at Westhaven, and that boy Butsey too, as lied to me. You sent him here to lie. Cain said so."
"I'll break Cain's head if he chatters. What if my pals were at Westhaven? what if I did speak to Strode----?"
"You was arranging to have him shot," said Mrs. Merry, "and shot him yourself for all I know."
Signor Antonio leaped, and taking his wife by the shoulders, shook her till her head waggled. "There," he said, while she gasped, "you say much more and I'll knock you on the head with a poker, you poll-parrot. I was doing my turn at the circus at the time Strode was shot, if he was shot at nine on Wednesday as the doctor said. I saw the evidence in the paper. You can't put the crime on me."
"Then your pals did it."
"No, they didn't. They wanted the diamonds, it's true----"
"They struck him down and robbed him."
"You said they shot him just now," sneered Giles with an evil face, "don't know your own silly mind, it seems. Gar'n, you fool, there was nothing on him to rob. If my pals had shot him, they'd have collared the wooden hand. That was the token to get the diamonds, as Red Jerry said. But Mask hasn't got them, and though Father Don did open the hand he found nothing."
"Open the hand?" questioned Mrs. Merry curiously.
"Yes. We found out--I found out, and in a way which ain't got nothing to do with you, that the hand could be opened. It was quite empty. Then Father Don put it aside, and that brat Butsey prigged it. Much good may it do him."
"The wooden hand was put on the doorstep last night," said Mrs. Merry, "and I gave it to Miss Eva."
The man's face grew black. "Oh, you did, did you," he said, "instead of giving it to your own lawful husband? I've a mind to smash you," he raised his fist again, and his poor wife winced; then he changed his mind and dropped it. "But you ain't worth a blow, you white-faced screeching cat. I'll see Miss Eva and make her give up the hand myself. See if I don't."
"Mr. Allen will interfere."
"Let him," snarled Merry; "I know something as will settle him. I want that hand, and I'm going to have it. Get those diamonds I will, wherever they are. I believe Butsey's got 'em. He's just the sort of little devil as would have opened that hand, and found the paper inside, telling where the diamonds were."
"But did he have the hand?"
"Yes, he did. He dug up the hand--never mind where--and brought it to me. It was empty then. Yes, I believe Butsey has the diamonds, so the hand will be no go. Miss Eva can keep it if she likes, or bury it along with that infernal Strode, who was a mean cuss to round on his pals the way he did."
"Ah! he was a bad man," sighed Mrs. Merry; "and did he----?"
"Shut up and mind your own business," said Giles in surly tones. He thought he had said too much. "It's that Butsey I must look for. He stole the hand from Father Don and left it on your doorstep, for Miss Eva, I suppose. He must be in the place, so I'll look for him. I know the brat's playing us false, but his father's got a rod in pickle for him, and----"
"Oh, Giles, Giles, you'll get into trouble again. That Wasp----"
"I'll screw his neck if he meddles with me," said the strong man savagely; "see here, Selina, I'm not going to miss a chance of making a fortune. Those diamonds are worth forty thousand pounds, and Butsey's got them. I want money to hunt him down and to do--other things," said Giles, hesitating, "have you got five hundred?"
"No," said Mrs. Merry with spirit, "and you shouldn't have it if I had. You're my husband, Giles, worse luck, and so long as you behave yourself, I'll give you roof and board, though you are not a nice man to have about the house, but money you shan't have. I'll see Mr. Mask first. He's looking after my property, and if you----"
"I'll do what I like," said Giles, wincing at the name of Mask; "if I wasn't your husband, you'd chuck me, I 'spose."
"I would," said Mrs. Merry, setting her mouth, "but you're married to me, worse luck. I can't get rid of you. See here, Giles, you go away and leave me and Cain alone, and I'll give you five pounds."
"I want five hundred," said Giles, "I'll stop here as long as I like. I'm quite able to save myself from being accused of Strode's murder. As to Cain," Giles chuckled, "he's taken up with a business you won't like, Selina?"
"What is it?--oh, what is it?" gasped Mrs. Merry, clasping her hands.
"The Salvation Army."
"What! Has he joined the Salvation Army?"
"Yes," sneered the father; "he chucked the circus at Chelmsford, and said it was a booth of Satan. Now he's howling about the street in a red jersey, and talking pious."
Mrs. Merry raised her thin hands to heaven. "I thank God he has found the light," she said solemnly, "I'm Methodist myself, but I hear the Army does much good. If the Army saves Cain's immortal soul," said the woman, weeping fast, "I'll bless its work on my bended knees. I believe Cain will be a comfort to me after all. Where are you going, Giles--not to the drawing-room?"
"As far as the door to listen," growled Merry. "I'm sick of hearing you talk pious. I'll come and stop here, and twist Cain's neck if he prays at me."
"Trouble--trouble," wailed Mrs. Merry, wringing her hands, "I wish you'd go. Cain and me would be happier without you, whatever you may say, Giles, or Signor Antonio, or whatever wickedness you call yourself. Oh, I was a fool to marry you!"
Giles looked at her queerly. "Give me five hundred pounds, and I won't trouble you again," he said, "meanwhile"--he moved towards the door. Mrs. Merry made a bound like a panther and caught him.
"No," she said, "you shan't listen."
Giles swept her aside like a fly, and she fell on the floor. Then with a contemptuous snort he left the kitchen and went into the passage which led to the front. On the right of this was the door of the drawing-room, and as both walls and door were thin, Mr. Merry had no difficulty in overhearing what was going on within. Could his eyes have seen through a deal board, he would have beheld an old lady seated in the best arm-chair, supporting herself on an ebony crutch. She wore a rich black silk, and had white hair, a fresh complexion, a nose like the beak of a parrot, and a firm mouth. The expression of the face was querulous and ill-tempered, and she was trying to bring Eva round to her views on the subject of Saltars' marriage. The girl sat opposite her, very pale, but with quite as determined an expression as her visitor.
"You're a fool," said Lady Ipsen, striking her crutch angrily on the ground. "I am your grandmother, and speak for your good."
"It is rather late to come and speak for my good, now," said Eva with great spirit; "you have neglected me for a long time."
"I had my reasons," said the other sharply. "Jane, your mother, married Strode against my will. He was of good birth, certainly, but he had no money, and besides was a bad man."
"There is no need to speak evil of the dead."
"The man's being dead doesn't make him a saint, Eva. But I'll say no more about him, if you'll only listen to reason."
"I have listened, and you have my answer," said Eva quietly; "I am engaged to Allen Hill, and Allen Hill I intend to marry."
"Never, while I have a breath of life," said the old woman angrily. "Do you think I am going to let Saltars marry this circus woman? No! I'll have him put in gaol first. He shall not disgrace the family in this way. Our sons take wives from theatres and music-halls," said Lady Ipsen grimly, "but the sawdust is lower than either. I shan't allow the future head of the house to disgrace himself."
"All this has nothing to do with me," said Eva.
"It has everything to do with you," said Lady Ipsen quickly; "don't I tell you that Saltars, since he saw you at that Mrs. Palmer's, has taken a fancy to you? It would take very little for you to detach him from this wretched Miss Lorry."
"I don't want to, Lady Ipsen!"
"Call me grandmother."
"No. You have never been a grandmother to me. I will be now," Lady Ipsen tried to soften her grim face; "I wish I'd seen you before," she added, "you're a true Delham, with very little of that bad Strode blood in you, unless in the obstinacy you display. I'll take you away from this Mrs. Palmer, Eva----"
"I have no wish to leave Mrs. Palmer."
"You must. I won't have a granddaughter of mine remain in a situation with a common woman."
"Leave Mrs. Palmer alone, Lady Ipsen. She is a good woman, and when my relatives forsook me she took me up. If you had ever loved me, or desired to behave as you should have done, you would have come to help me when my father was murdered. And now," cried Eva, rising with flashing eyes, "you come when I am settled, to get me to help you with your schemes. I decline."
The old woman, very white and with glittering eyes, rose. "You intend then to marry Allen Hill?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well then, you can't," snapped the old woman; "his mother isn't respectable."
"How dare you say that?" demanded Eva angrily.
"Because I'm accustomed to speak my mind," snapped Lady Ipsen, glaring; "it is not a chit like you will make me hold my peace. Mrs. Hill was in our family as a governess before your father married my daughter Jane."
"What of that?"
"Simply this: a valuable diamond necklace was lost--an heirloom. I believe Mrs. Hill stole it."
Eva laughed. "I don't believe that for one moment," she said scornfully. "Mrs. Hill is a good, kind, sweet lady."
"Lady she is, as she comes of good stock. Sweet I never thought her, and kind she may be to you, seeing she is trying to trap you into marrying her miserable son----"
"Don't you call Allen miserable," said Eva, annoyed; "he is the best man in the world, and worth a dozen of Lord Saltars."
"That would not be difficult," said Lady Ipsen, sneering; "Saltars is a fool and a profligate."
"And you expect me to marry him?"
"To save him from disgracing the family."
"The Delham family is nothing to me," said Eva proudly; "look after the honour of the family yourself, Lady Ipsen. As to this talk about Mrs. Hill, I don't believe it."
"Ask her yourself, then."
"I shall do so, and even, if what you say is true, which I don't believe, I shall still marry Allen."
"Eva," the old lady dropped into her seat, "don't be hard on me. I am old. I wish you well. It is true what I say about Mrs. Hill. You can't marry her son."
"But I can, and I intend to."
"Oh, this marriage--this disgraceful marriage!" cried the old woman in despair, "how can I manage to stop it. This Miss Lorry will be married to Saltars soon, if I can't put an end to his infatuation."
Eva shrugged her shoulders. "I can give you no help."
"You might plead with Saltars."
"No. I can't do that. It is his business, not mine. Why don't you offer Miss Lorry a sum of money to decline the match?"
"Because she's bent upon being Lady Saltars, and will stop at nothing to achieve her end. I would give five hundred--a thousand pounds to stop the marriage. But Miss Lorry can't be bribed."
It was at this point that Giles opened the door softly and looked in. "Make it fifteen hundred, your ladyship, and I'll stop the marriage," he said impudently.
"Giles," cried Eva, rising indignantly, "how dare you----?"
"Because I've been listening, and heard a chance of making money."
Mrs. Merry burst in at her husband's heels. "And I couldn't stop him from listening, Miss Eva," she said, weeping; "he's a brute. Don't give him the money, your ladyship; he's a liar."
"I'm not," said Giles coolly, "for fifteen hundred pounds I can stop this marriage. I have every reason to hate Miss Lorry. She's been playing low down on me, in writing to you, Miss Strode, and it's time she learned I won't be put on. Well, your ladyship?"
The old woman, who had kept her imperious black eyes fixed on Giles, nodded. "Can you really stop the marriage?"
"Yes I can, and pretty sharp too."
"Then do so and you'll have the fifteen hundred pounds."
"Will you give me some writing to that effect?"
"Yes," said Lady Ipsen, becoming at once a business woman; "get me some ink and paper, Eva."
"Stop," said Giles politely--so very politely that his poor wife stared. "I don't doubt your ladyship's word. Promise me to send to this address," he handed a bill containing the next place where Stag's Circus would perform, "one thousand five hundred in notes, and I'll settle the matter."
"I'll bring the money myself," said Lady Ipsen, putting away the bill; "you don't get the money till I know the truth. How can you stop the marriage? Tell me now."
"Oh, I don't mind that," said Giles, shrugging. "I'm sure you won't break your word, and even if you were inclined to you can't, if you want to stop the marriage. You can't do without me."
"Speak out, man," said Lady Ipsen sharply.
"Well then----" began Giles and then hesitated, as he looked at poor faded Mrs. Merry in her black stuff dress. "Selina, you give me fifteen hundred pounds and I'll not speak."
"What have I got to do with it?" asked his wife, staring.
"It will be worth your while to pay me," said Merry threateningly.
"I can't and I won't, whatever you may say. Tell Lady Ipsen what you like. Your wickedness hasn't anything to do with me."
"You'll see," he retorted, turning to the old lady. "I've given you the chance. Lady Ipsen, I accept your offer. Lord Saltars can't marry Miss Lorry, because that lady----"
"Well, man--well."
"That lady," said Giles, "is married already."
"Who to?" asked Eva, while Lady Ipsen's eyes flashed.
"To me," said Merry; "I married her years ago, before I met Selina."
"Then I am free--free," cried Eva's nurse; "oh, thank heaven!" and she fell down on the floor in a faint, for the first and last time in her life.