At seven o'clock that same evening Allen and his American friend were walking to Mrs. Palmer's to dine. As yet, Allen knew nothing of what had transpired at Misery Castle, for Eva was keeping the story till they met. But as the two men passed the little inn they saw Giles Merry descend from a holiday-makingchar-à-banc.. Two or three men had just passed into the inn, no doubt to seek liquid refreshment. Allen knew Merry's face, as Mrs. Merry had shown him a photograph of Signor Antonio in stage dress, which she had obtained from Cain. The man was a handsome and noticeable blackguard, and moreover his good looks were reproduced in Cain. Therefore young Hill knew him at once, and stepped forward.
"Good evening, Mr. Merry," he said; "I have long wished to meet you."
Giles looked surly. "My name is Signor Antonio, monsieur," he said.
"Oh," mocked Allen, "and being Italian you speak English and French badly?"
"What do you want?" demanded Giles savagely, and becoming the English gipsy at once. "I've no time to waste?"
"Why did you send that cross to Mr. Hill?"
Giles grinned. "Just to give him a fright," he said. "I knew he was a milk-and-water fool, as I saw a lot of him in the old days, when I did Strode's dirty work."
"You dug up the wooden hand?"
"No, I didn't. Butsey, who was on the watch, saw Hill plant it, and dug it up. He brought it to me, and I gave it to Father Don. Then Butsey stole it back, and passed it along to that young woman you're going to marry."
"I guess," said Horace at this point, "you'd best speak civil of Miss Strode. I'm not taking any insolence this day."
Allen nodded approval, and Giles cast a look over the big limbs of the American. Apparently, strong man as he was, he thought it would be best not to try conclusions with such a giant. "I wish I'd met you in Father Don's den," he said. "I'd have smashed that handsome face of yours."
"Two can play at that game," said Allen quietly; "and now, Mr. Merry, or Signor Antonio, or whatever you choose to call yourself, why shouldn't I hand you over to Wasp?"
"You can't bring any charge against me."
"Oh, can't I? You know something about this murder----"
"I was playing my turn at the circus in Westhaven when the shot was fired," said Giles coolly.
"I didn't say you shot the man yourself; but you know who did."
"No, I don't," said Merry, his face growing dark; "if I did know the man, I'd make him a present. I'd like to have killed Strode myself. He played me many a dirty trick, and I said I'd be even with him. But some one else got in before me. As to arrest," he went on sneeringly, "don't you think I'd be such a fool as to come down here, unless I was sure of my ground. Arrest me indeed!"
"I can on suspicion. You're in with the Perry Street gang."
Giles cast a look towards the inn and laughed. "Well, you've got to prove that I and the rest have done wrong, before you can run us all in."
"The wooden hand----"
"Oh, we know all about that, and who stole it," said Giles meaningly.
Allen started. He saw well enough that he could not bring Giles to book without mentioning the name of his father. Therefore he changed his mind about calling on Wasp to interfere, and contented himself with a warning. "You'd best clear out of this by to-morrow," said he angrily. "I shan't have you, troubling your wife."
"My wife! Ha--ha!" Merry seemed to find much enjoyment in the remark.
"Or Miss Strode either."
"Oh," sneered the man insolently, "you'd best see Miss Strode. She may have something interesting to tell you. But I can't stay talking here for ever. I'm going back to Shanton to-night. Come round at eleven," he said to the driver of thechar-à-banc.. "We'll drive back in the moonlight."
"I think you'd better," said Allen grimly; "you stop here to-morrow, and whatever you may know about a person, whose name need not be mentioned, I'll have you run in."
"Oh, I'll be gone by to-morrow," sneered Merry again, and took his cap off with such insolence that Horace longed to kick him, "don't you fret yourself. I'm a gentleman of property now, and intend to cut the sawdust and go to South Africa--where the diamonds come from," he added with an insolent laugh, and then swung into the inn, leaving Allen fuming with anger. But there was no use in making a disturbance, as the man could make things unpleasant for Mr. Hill, so Allen walked away with Horace to Mrs. Palmer's.
It would have been wiser had he entered the inn, for in the coffee-room were three men, whom he might have liked to meet. These were Father Don smartly dressed as a clergyman, Red Jerry as a sailor, and Foxy in a neat suit of what are known as hand-me-downs. The trio looked most respectable, and if Jerry's face was somewhat villainous, and Foxy's somewhat sly, the benevolent looks of Father Don were above suspicion. Giles sat down beside these at a small table, and partook of the drinks which had been ordered. The landlord was under the impression that the three men were over on a jaunt from Shanton, and intended to return in the moonlight. Merry had met them at the door, and now came in to tell them his plans.
"I've arranged matters," he said in a low voice to Father Don, "the groom Jacobs is courting some young woman he's keeping company with, and the women servants have gone to a penny reading the vicar is giving."
"What of young Hill and his friend?"
"They are dining with Mrs. Palmer. The house is quite empty, and contains only Mr. and Mrs. Hill. I have been in the house before, and know every inch of it. I'll tell you how to get in."
"You'll come also?" said Foxy suspiciously.
"No," replied Giles. "I'll stop here. I've done enough for the money. If you're fools enough to be caught, I shan't be mixed up in the matter."
"We won't be caught," said Father Don with a low laugh; "Jerry will keep guard at the window, and Foxy and I will enter."
"How?" asked the sharp-faced man.
"By the window," said Giles. "I explained to Father Don here, in London. Hill has taken up his quarters in a Japanese room on the west side of the house, just over the wall. There are French windows opening on to the lawn. You can steal up and the grass will deaden the sound of footsteps. It goes right up to the window. That may be open. If not, Jerry can burst it, and then you and Don can enter."
"But if Hill isn't alone?"
"Well then, act as you think best. Mrs. Hill's twice the man her husband is. She might give the alarm. But there's no one in the house, and she'll have to sing out pretty loudly before the alarm can be given to the village."
"There won't be any alarm," said Father Don calmly. "I intend to make use of that paper I got from you. Where did you get it, Merry?"
"From Butsey. I found him with Strode's blue pocket-book, and made a grab at it. I saw notes. But Butsey caught those and bolted. I got the book and some papers. The one I gave you, Don, will make Hill give up the diamonds, if he has them."
"He must have them," said Don decidedly, "we know from the letter sent to Mask, and which was left at his office by Butsey, that the hand could be opened. I did open it and found nothing. I believe that Strode stored the diamonds therein. If Hill stole the hand, and took it home, he must have found the diamonds, and they are now in his possession. I expect he looked for them."
"No," said Merry grimly, "he was looking for that paper you intend to show him. He'll give up the diamonds smart enough, when he sees that. Then you can make for Westhaven----"
"What of the charry-bang?" asked Jerry in heavy tones.
"That's a blind. It will come round at eleven, but by that time we will all be on our way to Westhaven. If there is pursuit, Wasp and his friend will follow in the wrong direction. Then Father Don can make for Antwerp, and later we can sell the diamonds. But no larks," said Merry, showing his teeth, "or there will be trouble."
"Suppose young Hill and his friend tell the police?"
"Oh," said Giles, grinning, "they will do so at the risk of the contents of that paper being made public. Don't be a fool, Don, you've got the whole business in your own hands. I don't want a row, as I have to meet a lady in a few days," Giles grinned again, when he thought of Lady Ipsen, "and we have to do business."
So the plan was arranged, and after another drink Father Don and stroll in the village to "see the venerable church in the moonlight," as the pseudo clergyman told the landlord. But when out of sight, the trio changed the direction of their walk, and made for "The Arabian Nights" at the end of the village. Departing from the high-road they stole across a large meadow, and, in a dark corner, climbed the wall. Father Don was as active as any of them, in spite of his age. When the three rascals were over the wall and standing on a smoothly-shaven lawn, they saw the range of the Roman pillars, but no light in the windows. "It's on the west side," said Don in a whisper; "come along, pals."
The three crept round the black bulk of the house and across the drive. All was silent and peaceful within the boundary of the wall. The moonlight silvered the lawns and flower-beds and made beautiful the grotesque architecture of the house. A few steps taken in a cat-like fashion brought the thieves to the west side. They here saw a light glimmering through three French windows which opened on to a narrow stone terrace. From this, the lawn rolled smoothly to the flower-beds, under the encircling red brick wall. Father Don pointed to the three windows.
"The middle one," he said quietly; "see if it's open, Foxy. If not, we'll have to make a certain noise. And look inside if you can."
Foxy stole across the lawn and terrace and peered in. After a time, he delicately tried the window and shook his head. He then stole back to report, "Hill is lying on the sofa," he said, "and his wife is seated beside him. He's crying about something."
"We'll give him something to cry about soon," said Father Don, feeling for the paper which he had received from Giles. "Smash the middle window in, Jerry."
Without the least concealment the huge man rushed up the slope and hurled his bulk against the window. The frail glass gave way and he fairly fell into the centre of the room. With a shrill cry of terror, Hill sprang from the sofa, convulsively clutching the hand of his wife, while Mrs. Hill, after the first shock of alarm, faced the intruders boldly. By this time Father Don with Foxy behind him was bowing to the disturbed couple. Jerry took himself out of the room, and guarded the broken window.
"Who are you? what do you want?" demanded Mrs. Hill. "If you don't go I'll ring for the servants."
"I am afraid you will give yourself unnecessary trouble," said Don suavely. "We know the servants are out."
"What do you want?"
"We'll come to that presently. Our business has to do with your husband, Mr. Hill"--Father Don looked at the shivering wretch.
"I never harmed you--I don't know you," mumbled Hill. "Go away--leave me alone--what do you want?"
"We'll never get on in this way.--No, you don't," added Don, as Mrs. Hill tried to steal to the door, "Go and sit down by your good husband," and he enforced this request by pointing a revolver.
"I am not to be frightened by melodrama," said Mrs. Hill scornfully.
"Sit down, Sarah--sit down," said Hill, his teeth chattering.
The woman could not help casting a contemptuous look on the coward, even though she fancied, she owed so much to him. But, as she was a most sensible woman, she saw that it would be as well to obey. "I am ready to hear," she said, sitting by Hill, and putting her strong arm round the shivering, miserable creature.
"I'll come to the point at once," said Don, speaking to Hill, "as we have not much time to lose. Mr. Hill, you have forty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds here. Give them up!"
Hill turned even paler than he was. "How do you know that?" he asked.
"It can't be true," put in Mrs. Hill spiritedly. "If you are talking of Mr. Strode's diamonds, my husband hasn't got them."
"Your husband stole the wooden hand from the dead," said Foxy, with his usual snarl. "He took it home and opened it."
"I did not know it contained the diamonds," babbled Hill.
"No. You thought it contained a certain document," said Don, and produced a paper from his pocket, "a blue paper document, not very large--of such a size as might go into a wooden hand, provided the hand was hollow as it was. Is this it?"
Hill gave a scream and springing up bounded forward. "Give it to me--give it!' he cried.
"For the diamonds," said Father Don, putting the paper behind him.
"You shall have them. I hid them in this room--I don't want them, but that paper--it is mine."
"I know that--signed with your name, isn't it? Well, bring out the diamonds, and, when you hand them over----"
"You'll give me the paper?"
Foxy shook his head as Father Don looked inquiringly at him. "No, we must keep that paper, so as to get away--otherwise you'll be setting the police on our track."
"I swear I won't--I swear----" Hill dropped on his knees, "I swear----"
His wife pulled him to his feet. "Try and be a man, Lawrence," she said. "What is this document?"
"Nothing--nothing--but I must have it," cried Hill jerking himself away. He ran across the room, and fumbled at the lock of a cabinet. "See--see--I have the diamonds! I found them in the hand--I put them into a canvas bag--here--here--" his fingers shook so that he could hardly open the drawer. Foxy came forward and kindly helped him. Between the two, the drawer was opened. Hill flung out a mass of papers, which strewed the floor. Then from beneath these, he hauled a small canvas bag tied at the mouth and sealed. "All the diamonds are here," he said, bringing this to Don and trying to open it. "Forty thousand pounds--forty--for God's sake--" he broke off hysterically--"the paper, the paper I signed!"
Don took possession of the bag and was about to hand over the document, when Foxy snatched it. "We'll send this from the Continent," he said, "while we have this, you won't be able to set the peelers on us."
Hill began to cry and again fell on his knees, but Father Don took no notice of him. He emptied the contents of the bag on the table and there the jewels flashed in the lamp-light, a small pile of very fine stones. While he gloated over them, Mrs. Hill laid her hand on Foxy's arm: "What is in that paper?" she asked sternly.
"Don't tell her--don't tell her!" cried Hill.
"Lawrence!"
But he put his hands to his ears and still cried and grovelled. "I shall go mad if you tell her! I shall--ah--oh--ugh--!" he suddenly clutched at his throat and reeled to the sofa.
Mrs. Hill took little notice of him. "Read me the document," she said.
"I can almost repeat it from memory," said Foxy, putting the paper into his pocket; "it's simply a confession by your husband that he stole a certain necklace belonging to----"
"The Delham heirloom!" cried Mrs. Hill, turning grey, and recoiling.
"Yes, and also a promise to withdraw from seeking to marry Lady Jane Delham, and to marry you."
"Oh!" Mrs. Hill turned such a withering look on her miserable husband, that he shrank back and covered his eyes. "So this is the real reason of your chivalry?"
"Yes," said Father Don, who had placed the diamonds again in his bag, and stood up, "I heard some of the story from Giles Merry, and read the rest in the signed document. It was Hill who stole the necklace. He took the key from the schoolroom, where it had been left by Lady Ipsen. He opened the safe, and collared the necklace. Near the door, he left a handkerchief of yours, Mrs. Hill, so that, if there was danger, you might be accused. Strode found the handkerchief, and knowing Hill had possessed it, made him confess. Then he made Hill sign the confession that he had stolen the necklace, and also made him promise to marry you."
Mrs. Hill sank down with a stern, shamed look, "So this was your chivalry," she said, looking again at her husband, "you stole the necklace--you let me bear the shame--you tried to incriminate me--you pretended to wed me to save me from starvation, and--oh, you--you shameless-creature!" she leaped, and made as though she would have struck Hill; the man cowered with a cry of alarm like a trapped rabbit.
"What became of the necklace?" she asked Don sharply.
"Strode made Hill sell it, and they divided the profits."
"Eva's father also," moaned Mrs. Hill, covering her face, "oh, shame--shame--shall I ever be able to look on this man's face again!"
Hill attempted to excuse himself, "I didn't get much money," he wailed. "I let Strode take the lot. He carried the confession in his wooden hand--that's why I took it. I stole the hand and opened it--but the confession wasn't in it--I found the diamonds, and I have given them to you--let me have the paper!" he bounded to his feet, and snatching a dagger from a trophy of arms on the wall made for Foxy, "I'll kill you if you don't give it to me!"
Father Don dodged behind a chair, while Foxy, who was right in the centre of the room, ran for the window, and, bursting past Jerry, raced down the lawn with Hill after him, the dagger upraised. Round and round they went, while Mrs. Hill stood on the terrace, looking on with a deadly smile. Had Hill been struck down, she would have rejoiced. Don twitched the arm of Jerry.
"Let's cut," he said; "I've got the swag, Foxy can look after himself," and these two gentlemen left the house hurriedly.
Mrs. Hill saw them disappear without anxiety. The blow she had received seemed to have benumbed her faculties. To think that she had been so deceived and tricked. With a stony face she watched Foxy flying round the lawn, with the insane man--for Hill appeared to be mad--after him. Foxy, in deadly terror of his life, seeing his pals disappear, tore the document from his pocket, threw it down, and ran panting towards the wall. While he scaled it, Hill picked up the paper and tore it, with teeth and hands, into a thousand shreds. The three scoundrels had disappeared, and Mrs. Hill looked down coldly on her frantic husband. Hill danced up to the terrace, and held out his hands. "Happiness--happiness, I am safe."
"Coward," she said in a terrible voice. Her husband looked at her, and then began to laugh weirdly. Then with a cry, he dropped.
"I hope he is dead," said Mrs. Hill, looking down on him with scorn.
There was no excitement in Wargrove next day over the burglars who had entered "The Arabian Nights," for the simple reason that the village knew nothing about the matter. But a rumour was current, that Mr. Hill had gone out of his mind. No one was astonished, as he had always been regarded as queer. Now, it appeared, he was stark, staring mad, and no longer the harmless eccentric the village had known for so long. And the rumour was true.
"It is terrible to think of the punishment which has befallen him, Allen," said Mrs. Hill the next morning; "but can we call it undeserved?"
"I suppose not," answered her son gloomily. "I wish I had remained at home last night, mother."
"Things would have been worse, had you remained. There would have been a fight."
"I would have saved Eva's diamonds, at all events."
"Let the diamonds go, Hill," chimed in Parkins, who formed a third in the conversation, "they were come by dishonestly, and would have brought no luck. You come out to Bolivia, and fix up the mine. Then you can make your own coin, and marry Miss Strode."
"But you forget, Mr. Parkins," said Mrs. Hill, "I am now rich, and Allen need not go to America."
"No, mother," said Allen hastily, "I'll go. You will do much more good with my father's money than I can. Besides----" he hesitated, and looked at Horace. The American interpreted the look.
"Guess you want a little private conversation," he said; "well I'll light out and have a smoke. You can call me when you want me again," and Mr. Parkins, producing his pipe, left the room.
"My poor mother," said Allen, embracing her, "don't look so sad. It is very terrible and----
"You can't console me, Allen," said the poor woman bitterly, "so do not try to. To think that I should have believed in that man all these years. He was a thief--doubly a thief; he not only robbed the Delhams of the necklace, but robbed the dead, and me of my good name."
"I almost think the dead deserved to be robbed," said Allen; "I begin to believe, mother, that Strode was my father's evil genius as he said he was. Why should my father steal this necklace, when he had plenty of money?"
"He had not at the time. I think his father kept him short. He took the necklace, I expect, under the strong temptation of finding the key in the schoolroom."
"I believe Strode urged him to steal it," said Allen, "and at all events Strode was not above profiting by the theft. And it was Strode who brought about the marriage----"
"By threats," said Mrs. Hill grimly, "I expect, Strode swore he would reveal the truth, unless Lawrence married me. And I thought Lawrence acted so, out of chivalry."
"But if Strode had revealed the truth he would have incriminated himself."
"Ah, but, as I learn, he waited till after I was married before he disposed of the necklace. Then he sold it through Father Don, who was his associate in villainy. However, Strode is dead and your father is mad. I wonder what fate will befall Merry and those wretches he associates with?"
"Oh, their sins will come home to them, never fear," said Allen, in a prophetic vein. "I suppose it is best to let the matter rest."
"Certainly. Father Don and his two associates have got away. What about Merry?"
"He went almost at once to Shanton, and did not pay for thechar-à-banc.. The owner is in a fine rage and drove back to Shanton at midnight, vowing to summons Merry, who was responsible for its ordering."
"Well, they are out of our life at last," said his mother, "we now know the secret which caused your unhappy father to try and murder Strode, and did make him steal the hand. The confession has been destroyed, so no one can say anything. Merry will not speak----"
"No; that's all right. Merry is going to receive money from old Lady Ipsen, for stopping the marriage of Saltars with Miss Lorry. I expect he will go to Africa as he says. He'll hold his tongue and so will the others. But they have the diamonds, and poor Eva receives nothing."
"I agree with Mr. Parkins," said Mrs. Hill quickly, "the jewels were come by dishonestly, and would have brought no good fortune. Will you tell Eva anything, Allen?"
"No. I'll tell her as little as possible. No one, but you, I, and Parkins, know of the events of last night. My poor father has been reported ill for some time and has always been so eccentric, so it will surprise no one to hear he has gone mad. We will place him in some private asylum, and----"
"No, Allen," said Mrs. Hill firmly, "the poor soul is harmless. After all, wickedly as he has acted, he has been severely punished, and is my husband. I'll keep him here and look after him till the end comes--and that won't be long," sighed Mrs. Hill.
"Very good, mother, you shall act as you think fit. But we know the truth now."
"Yes, save who murdered Mr. Strode."
"I believe Jerry did, or Giles."
"They both deny doing so."
"Of course," said Allen contemptuously, "to save their own skins. I shall go up to London, mother, and tell Mr. Mask what has taken place."
But there was no need for Allen to go to town. That afternoon the lawyer arrived and with him a small boy with one eye. The lad was neatly dressed, he had his hair cut, and his face washed. In spite of his one eye and white cheeks he looked a very smart youngster, and grinned in a friendly manner at Allen and Horace.
"This," said Mr. Mask, leading the lad into the room, where the young men were smoking after luncheon, "is Master Train----"
"Butsey?" said Allen.
"Oh no," replied Mask gravely, "he is a gentleman of property now and is living on his money. You mustn't call him by so low a name as Butsey."
The boy grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "I saiy, how long's this a-goin' on?" he inquired; "you've been shying fun at me all day."
"We won't shy fun any more," said Mr. Mask in his melancholy voice. "I have brought you here to make a clean breast of it."
"About the diamonds?"
"We know about the diamonds," said Horace. "I guess Father Don's got them."
"Saikes! hes he?" said Butsey regretfully; "that comes of me tellin' about the letter I guv to you"--this was to Mask--"if he hadn't opened the hand, he wouldn't have got 'em."
"You are quite wrong, Butsey," said Allen, rising. "Horace, I'll leave the boy in your keeping. Mr. Mask, will you come with me into the next room?"
Rather surprised, Mask did so, and was speedily put in possession of the terrible story. He quite agreed that the matter should be kept quiet. "Though I hope it won't be necessary to rake it up when Butsey is tried for murder."
"What! did that boy shoot Mr. Strode?"
"I think so," said the lawyer, looking puzzled; "but to tell you the truth I'm not sure. I can't get the boy to speak freely. He said he would do so, only in the presence of you and Parkins. That is why I brought him down."
"How did you get hold of him?"
"Through one of the stolen notes. Butsey presented himself at the bank and cashed ten pounds. He was arrested and brought to me. I gave bail for him, and brought him to explain."
"Where did he get the notes?"
"Out of the blue pocket-book, he says--in which case he must have committed the murder. Not for his own sake," added Mask quickly. "I fear the poor little wretch has been made a cat's-paw by the others."
"Well," said Allen, drawing a long breath of astonishment, "wonders will never cease. I never thought Butsey was guilty."
"I can't be sure yet if he is. But, at all events, he certainly knows who is the culprit, and, to save his own neck, he will confess."
"But would the law hang a boy like that even if guilty?"
"I don't think Butsey will give the law the chance of trying the experiment. He's a clever little reptile. But we had better return and examine him. Your mother----?"
"She is with my poor father."
"Is that quite safe?" asked Mask anxiously. "Perfectly. He is harmless."
Mask looked sympathetic, although he privately thought that madness was the best thing which could have befallen Mr. Hill, seeing he had twice brought himself within the clutches of the law. At least there was now no danger of his being punished for theft or attempted murder, whatever might be said by those who had escaped with the diamonds; and certainly Mrs. Hill would be relieved of a very troublesome partner. Had Hill remained sane, she would not have lived with him after discovering how he had tricked her into marriage, and had traded on her deep gratitude all these years. Now, by tending him in his hopeless state, she was heaping coals of fire on his head, and proving herself to be, what Mask always knew she truly was, a good woman.
So, in Allen's company, he returned to the room where Parkins was keeping watch over Master Train, and found that brilliant young gentleman smoking a cigarette. "Produced it from a silver case too," said the amused American. "This is a mighty smart boy. I guess you got rid of a lot of that money, bub?"
"I cashed two notes," said Butsey coolly, "but the third trapped me. But I don't care. I've had a good time!"
"And I expect you'll pass the rest of your life in gaol."
"What's that?" said Butsey, not turning a hair; "in gaol?--not me. I've been in quod once and didn't like it. I ain't a-goin' again. No, sir, you give me some cash, Mr. Hill, and I'll go to the States."
"They'll lynch you there, as sure as a gun," said Horace, grinning.
Allen was quite taken aback by the coolness of the prisoner, for a prisoner Butsey virtually was. Mask leaned back nursing his foot, and did not take much part in the conversation. He listened to Allen examining the culprit, and only put a word in now and then.
"You don't seem to realise your position," said Hill sharply.
"Oh yuss, I does," said Butsey, calmly blowing a cloud of smoke, "you wants to get the truth out of me. Well, I'll tell it, if you'll let me go. I dessay our friend here"--he nodded to Mask--"can arrange with the peelers about that note."
"It's probable I can," said Mask, tickled at the impudence of the boy; "but wouldn't you rather suffer for stealing, than for murder?"
The boy jumped up and became earnest at once. "See here," he said, wetting his finger, "that's wet," and then he wiped it on his jacket, "that's dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie. I didn't shoot the old bloke. S'elp me, I didn't!"
"Who did, then? Do you know?"
"I might know; but you've got to make it worth my while to split."
Allen took the boy by the collar and shook him. "You young imp," he said, "you'll tell everything you know, or pass some time in gaol."
"Make me tell, then," said Butsey, and put out his tongue.
"Suppose I hand you over to Father Don and your own parent?"
"Can't, sir. Th' gang's broke up. They'll go abroad with them diamonds, and start in some other country. 'Sides, I ain't going in for that business again. I'm going to be respectable, I am. And I did git you out of the den, sir," said Butsey more earnestly.
Allen dropped his hand from the boy's collar. "You certainly did that--at the request of Miss Lorry. What of her?"
"Nothing but good," said Butsey, flushing; "she's the best and kindest laidy in the world. I ain't a-goin' to saiy anything of her."
"I don't want you to talk of people who have nothing to do with the matter in hand," said Hill; "but you must tell us about the murder. If you don't----"
"What am I a-goin' to get fur splitting?" asked Butsey in a businesslike way.
"I'll arrange that you won't go to gaol. You must remember, Master Train," said Mask with deliberation, "that you are in a dangerous position. The note you cashed was taken from a pocket-book which the murdered man had on his person, when he was shot. How did you get it, eh? The presumption is that you shot him."
Butsey whistled between his teeth. "You can't frighten me," said he, his one eye twinkling savagely; "but I'll tell you everything, 'cept who shot the bloke."
"Huh," said Horace. "I guess we can ravel out that, when we know what you have to say. But you speak straight, young man, or I'll hide you proper."
"Lor," said Butsey coolly, "I've bin hided by father and old Don much wuss than you can hammer. But I'll tell--jest you three keep your ears open. Where 'ull I begin?"
"From the beginning," said Allen; "how did the gang come to know that Strode had the diamonds?"
"It wos father told 'em," said Butsey candidly. "Father's Red Jerry, an' a onener at that--my eye! He got into trouble here, and cuts to furrein parts some years ago. In Africay he saw the dead bloke."
"Strode?"
"Well, ain't I a-saiyin' of him?" snapped Butsey; "yuss--Strode. Father comes 'ome in the saime ship es Strode and knows all about 'im having prigged diamonds in Africay."
"What do you mean by prigged?"
"Wot I saiy, in course. Strode got them diamonds wrong----"
"I. D. B.," said Parkins. "I told you so, Hill."
"Well then," went on Butsey, looking mystified at the mention of the letters, "father didn't see why he shouldn't git the diamonds, so he follered the dead bloke to this here country and come to tell old Father Don in the Perry Street ken. Father Don and Foxy both went in with father----"
"To murder Strode?" said Allen.
"Not much. They wanted to rob him, but didn't want to dance on nothink. Father Don's a fly one. I was told about the job, an' sent to watch the dead bloke. I watched him in London, and he wos never out of my sight. He wos coming down to this here plaice on Thursdaiy---"
"How do you know that?" asked Mask.
"Cause I knows the 'all porter at the Guelph Hotel, an' he tells me," said Butsey calmly. "I cuts an' tells Father Don, and him and father an' Foxy all come to Westhaven on Wednesday to see him as is called Merry."
"He's another of the gang?"
"Rather. He's bin in with us fur years, he hes. And he wos doin' the strong man at Stag's circus at Westhaven. Father Don, he come down, knowing Merry 'ated Strode, to try and get him to do the robbin'."
"Did Merry agree?"
"In course he did, only too glad to get a shot at Strode----"
"Do you mean to say Merry shot him?"
"Naow," said Butsey, making a gesture of irritation, "let a cove talk. I'll tell you if he shot him, if you'll let me. I saiy we wos all down to fix things on Wednesdaiy, and I come along with a blessed ragged kids' fresh air fund, so as to maike m'self saife, if the police took a hand. I didn't want to be mixed with no gang, having my good name to think of."
Horace grinned and rubbed his hands, but Allen frowned. "Go on," he said sharply, "and don't play the fool."
"Oh, I'm a-goin' on," was the unruffled reply, "and I don't plaiy th' fool without cause, d'ye see. Well, I wos at the station at Westhaven, an' I sees Strode come. I went off to tell Merry, and he comes to the station and talks to Strode."
"That was on Wednesday?"
"Yuss. Strode sold 'us and come down, though we didn't 'ope to 'ave the pleasure of his company till Thursday. Well, I tried to 'ear what Giles wos a-saiying, but he guves me a clip on the ear and sends me spinnin', so I couldn't 'ear. I goes to complain to Father Don, an' when I gits back, Strode's away and Merry too. He'd started walkin' to Wargrove, a porter tole me. I wos about to foller, when Merry, he comes up and tells me, he'll go himself."
"That's a lie," said Allen; "Merry was doing the strong man that night in the circus."
"No, he wasn't," grinned the boy. "I went to the circus, havin' nothin' to do, and I saw the strong man. It wos Cain Merry, his son, he's like his father, and could do the fakements. No one knew but the circus coves."
"Then Merry----?"
"He went after Strode. I told Father Don an' Foxy, an' they swore awful. They couldn't start after him, as they didn't know what 'ud happen, and Merry's an awful one when put out, so they waited along o' me, d'ye see? Next daiy Merry come back, but said he'd left Strode a-goin' to the Red Deeps."
"What did Father Don do?"
"He went to the Red Deeps an' found the dead bloke. Then he come back and saw Merry. What he said to 'im I don't know: but Father Don sent me with a telegram to send from the St. James's Street orfice, saiying that Strode wouldn't be down till Friday. I think Father Don did that, to give toime to Merry to get awaiy."
"That was the telegram received by Miss Strode after nine on Thursday, I think?" said Mask.
"Yuss," said Butsey. "I sent it early an' the kid es took it to Wargrove forgot it till laite. I comes down again from town, gits back with the fresh air kids, saime night, to sell the peelers, an' nex' mornin' I comes down agin to tell Mrs. Merry es Cain would be over th' nex' daiy."
"Why did you do that? Cain was in the house."
"I knowed he wos. But Merry sent me to see if Miss Eva hed heard o' the death. Then I cuts----"
"One moment," said Allen, "if Father Don saw the man dead, why didn't he take the wooden hand?"
"Cause he didn't know it wos worth anythin' till Mr. Masks here spoke at the inquest."
"About its being delivered to get the diamonds?" said Mask; "quite so. And you saw Mr. Hill bury it?"
"Yuss. I wos told to watch him, es Merry said he knew a lot about Strode, and if the wust come he might be accused----"
"A clever plot. Well?"
"I follered him and saw him bury something. I digs it up and takes the cross es he put over it to mark it. Then I gives the 'and to Father Don an' the cross to Merry. He sends it to Hill to frighten him, and sends it through Cain. Then Father Don sees Mr. Mask, and you knows the rest."
"Not all, I guess," said Horace, stretching a long arm and shaking the boy, "say straight, you--you imp. Did Merry shoot?"
"Of course he did," replied Butsey cheerfully, "he hated Strode, an' wanted to git them diamonds. Merry hed the blue pocket-book, fur when I come down to see Miss Lorry at Shanton, I took the book from Merry's box which wos in his room. He found me with it and took it back, hammerin' me fur stealin'. But I got the notes," added Butsey with satisfaction, "and I spent three."
"Merry seems to be guilty," said Mr. Mask; "he was absent from the circus on that night and let his son--who resembles, him closely--take his place. He had the pocket-book and----"
"Got the diamonds? No, he didn't," said Butsey briskly, "he didn't know es the hand would open. I found that out from a letter I guv you, Mr. Mask, and tole ole Father Don. He opened the hand--that wos arter he saw you, Mr. Mask--but he foun' nothin'. Then he guessed es Hill--your father, Mr. Allen--had got the diamonds, seein' he had the han', while looking fur some paiper. An' Merry got the paiper out of the pocket-book," said Butsey, "an' showed it to Don. Wot Don did with it I dunno."
"He got the diamonds with it," said Allen grimly, "and has escaped. But I don't think Merry will. He's at Shanton now, as the circus is again there by particular request of the townsfolk. We'll go over to-night, Parkins, and see him perform: then we'll catch him and make him confess."
"Will you have him arrested?" asked Horace coolly.
"We'll see when the time comes," said Allen shortly. "Mask----?"
"I'll remain here and look after this boy, Master Train."
Butsey made a grimace, but so the matter was arranged.
There was no doubt that Stag's Circus was a great success at Shanton. Within a comparatively short period it had played three engagements in the little town, two performances each time, and on every occasion the tent was full. Now it was the very last night, as Stag announced; the circus would next turn its attention towards amusing the North. Consequently the tent was crammed to its utmost capacity, and Stag, loafing about in a fur coat, with a gigantic cigar, was in a very good humour.
Not so Miss Lorry. That lady was already dressed in riding-habit and tall hat to show off the paces of her celebrated stallion White Robin, and she sat in her caravan dressing-room fuming with anger. Miss Lorry always insisted on having a dressing-room to herself, although the accommodation in that way was small. But she had such a temper and was such an attraction that the great Stag consented she should be humoured in this way. She had a bottle of champagne beside her and was taking more than was good for her, considering she was about to perform with a horse noted for its bad temper. In her hand Miss Lorry held an open letter which was the cause of her wrath. It was from Saltars, written in a schoolboy hand, and announced that he could never marry her, as he was now aware, through the dowager Lady Ipsen, that she, Miss Lorry, was a married woman. "I have been with the dowager to the church in London," said the letter, "so I know there's no mistake. I think you've treated me very badly. I loved you and would have made you my wife. Now everything is off, and I'll go back and marry my cousin Eva Strode."
There were a few more reproaches to the effect that the lady had broken the writer's heart, and although these were badly expressed and badly written, yet the accent of truth rang true. Miss Lorry knew well that Saltars had really loved her, and would not have given her up unless the result had been brought about by the machinations of the dowager. She ground her teeth and crushed up the letter in her hand.
"I'm done for," she said furiously. "I'd have given anything to have been Lady Saltars, and I could have turned that fool round my finger. I've risked a lot to get the position, and here I'm sold by that brute I married when I was a silly girl! I could kill him--kill him," she muttered; "and as it is, I've a good mind to thrash him," and so saying she grasped a riding-whip firmly. It was used to bring White Robin to subjection, but Miss Lorry was quite bold enough to try its effect on the human brute.
Shortly she sent a message for Signor Antonio, and in a few minutes Giles presented himself with a grin. He was ready to go on for his performance, and the fleshings showed off his magnificent figure to advantage. He looked remarkably handsome, as he faced the furious woman coolly, and remarkably happy when he thought of a certain parcel of notes he had that afternoon placed in the safe keeping of the Shanton Bank.
"Well, Bell," said he coolly, "so you know the worst, do you? You wouldn't look in such a rage if you didn't."
Miss Lorry raised her whip and brought it smartly across the eyes of Signor Antonio. "You hound!" she said, in a concentrated voice of hate, "I should like to kill you."
Merry snatched at the whip, and, twisting it from her grip, threw it on the floor of the caravan. "That's enough," he said in a quietly dangerous voice. "You've struck me once. Don't do it again or I twist your neck."
"Oh no, you won't," said Miss Lorry, showing her fine white teeth; "what do you mean by splitting?"
"I was paid to do so," said Merry coolly; "so, now you know the worst, don't keep me chattering here all night. I 'ave to go on soon."
"I have my turn first," said Miss Lorry, glancing at a printed bill pinned against the wall of the van. "I must speak out, or burst," she put her hand to her throat as though she were choking. "You beast," she cried furiously, "have I not suffered enough at your hands already?"
"You were always a tigress," growled Merry, shrinking back before her fury; "I married you when you was a slip of a girl----"
"And a fool--a fool!" cried the woman, beating her breast; "oh, what a fool I was! You know my father was a riding-master, and----"
"And how you rode to show off to the pupils?" said Merry with a coarse laugh. "I just do. It was the riding took me."
"You came as a groom," panted Miss Lorry, fixing him with a steelly glare, "and I was idiot enough to admire your good looks. I ran away with you, and we were married----"
"I did the straight thing," said Giles, "you can't deny that."
"I wish I had died, rather than marry you," she said savagely. "I found myself bound to a brute. You struck me--you ill-treated me within a year of our marriage."
Merry lifted a lock of his black hair and showed a scar. "You did that," he said; "you flew at me with a knife."
"I wish I'd killed you," muttered Miss Lorry. "And then you left me. I found out afterwards you had married that farmer's daughter in Wargrove because you got a little money with her. Then you left her also, you brute, and with a baby. Thank God, I never bore you any children! Ah, and you were in with that bad lot of Hill, and Strode, and Father Don, who was kicked out of the army for cheating at cards. You fell lower and lower, and when you found I was making money in the circus you would have forced me to live with you again, but that I learned of your Wargrove marriage. It was only my threat of bigamy that kept you away."
"You intended to commit bigamy too, with Lord Saltars," said Merry sullenly, "and I was willing enough to let you. But you wrote to Miss Strode saying you'd stop me going to Wargrove----"
"So I could by threatening to prosecute you for bigamy."
Merry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what good would that do?" he asked brutally. "I have confessed myself, and now you can do what you like. Old Lady Ipsen paid me fifteen hundred pounds for stopping your marriage with Saltars, and now it's off. I'm going to South Africa," finished the man.
"I'll prosecute you," panted his wife.
"No, you won't," he turned and looked at her sharply, "I know a little about you, my lady----"
Before he could finish his sentence, the name of Miss Lorry was called for her turn. She picked up the riding-whip and gave Giles another slash across the eyes, then with a taunting laugh she bounded out of the van. Giles, left alone, set his teeth and swore.
He was about to leave the caravan, intending to see Miss Lorry no more, and deciding to go away from Shanton next day with his money, for Londonen routeto South Africa, when up the steps came Allen. Behind him was a veiled lady.
"What are you doing here?" demanded Merry, starting back; "get away. This place is for the performers."
"And for murderers also," said Allen, blocking the way resolutely, in spite of the splendid specimen of physical strength he saw before him. "I know you, Mr. Giles Merry?"
"What do you know?" asked Merry, turning pale. "I know that you shot Strode----"
"It's a lie," said Merry fiercely. "I was at the circus----"
"Cain was at the circus. He performed in your stead on that night at Westhaven. You followed Strode to the Red Deeps where he met my unhappy father, and you shot him. The boy Butsey has confessed how he found the blue pocket-book, taken from Strode's body, in your box. You took it back: but the boy retained the notes and was traced thereby. Butsey is in custody, and you also will be arrested."
Merry gasped and sat down heavily. "It's a lie. I saw Butsey with the pocket-book, and took it from him. It was in the book I found the paper which Don showed to your father; I never knew there was any notes. I don't know where Butsey stole the book."
"He took it from you."
"It's a lie, I tell you," cried Merry frantically, and seeing his danger. "I was never near the Red Deeps. Ask Cain, and he'll tell you, I and not he performed. He perform my tricks!" said Merry with a sneer; "why he couldn't do them--he hasn't the strength. I swear, Mr. Hill, by all that's holy I was not at the Red Deeps."
"You were," said the woman behind Allen, and Eva Strode pushed past her lover. "Allen and I came to this circus to see Cain and get him to speak about his appearing for you at Westhaven. We came round to the back, by permission of Mr. Stag. When we were passing here, I heard you laugh. It was the laugh I heard in my dream--a low, taunting laugh----"
"The dream?" said Merry aghast; "I remember reading what you said at the inquest, Miss Strode, and then my silly wife--the first wife," said Merry, correcting himself, "talked of it. But dreams are all nonsense."
"My dream was not, Giles. The body was brought home, and the five knocks were given----"
"By Butsey?" said Merry contemptuously; "bless you, Miss Eva, the boy was hidden on the verge of the common when you and Mr. Allen were walking on the night your father's body was brought home. You told Mr. Allen your dream."
"Yes, Eva, so you did," said Allen.
"Well then, Butsey heard you, and being a little beast as he always is, when he met those three men with the body he came too, and knocked five times as you described to Mr. Allen. That for dreams," said Merry, snapping his fingers.
Eva was slightly disconcerted. "That is explained away," she said, "but the laugh I heard in my dream, and heard just now in this caravan, isn't. It was you who laughed, Giles, and you who shot my father."
Merry started, and a red spot appeared on his cheek. "I wonder if Bell did kill him after all?" he murmured to himself; "she's got a vile temper, and perhaps----"
Allen was about to interrupt him, when there came a cry of dismay from the circus tent, and then a shrill, terrible scream. "There's an accident!" cried Merry, bounding past Eva and Allen, "White Robin's done it at last," and he disappeared.
The screams continued, and the noise in the tent. Suddenly there was the sound of two shots, and then a roar from the audience. A crowd of frightened women and children came pouring out. From the back came Stag and Merry and Horace and others carrying the mangled body of Miss Lorry. She was insensible and her face was covered with blood.
The tears were streaming down Stag's face. "I knew that brute would kill her some day," he said. "I always warned her--oh, poor Bell! Take her into the van, gentlemen. She'll have the finest funeral;--send for a doctor, can't you!"
Eva shrank back in horror at the sight of that marred face. The woman opened her eyes, and they rested on the girl. A flash of interest came into them and then she fell back unconscious. Stag and Merry carried her into the van, but Horace, surrendering his place to another bearer, joined Allen and Miss Strode.
"It was terrible," he said, wiping his face, which was pale and grave, "after you left me to see Cain, Miss Lorry entered on her white stallion. She was not very steady in the saddle--drink, I fancy. Still she put the horse through some of his tricks all right. But he seemed to be out of temper, and reared. She began to strike him furiously with her whip, and quite lost her self-control. He grew more savage and dashed her against the pole of the tent. How it happened I can't say, but in a moment she was off and on the ground, with the horse savaging her. Oh, the screams," said Horace, biting his lips, "poor woman! I had my Derringer in my pocket and almost without thinking I leaped into the ring and ran up to put a couple of bullets through the brute's head. White Robin is dead, and poor Miss Lorry soon will be," and he wiped his face again.
Allen and Eva heard this recital horror-struck, and then a medical man pushed past them. He was followed by a handsome boy in a red jersey. "Cain--Cain," cried Eva, but he merely turned for a moment and then disappeared into the van. Merry came out almost immediately, still in his stage dress and looking ashy white.
"She's done for," he whispered to Allen, "she can't live another hour," the doctor says. "I'll change, and come back. Miss Eva," he added, turning to the horror-struck girl, "you want to know who laughed in the van? It was Miss Lorry."
"Your wife?" said Eva, with pale lips; "then she----"
"If you believe in that dream of yours, she did," said Merry, and moved away before Allen could stop him. Cain appeared at the top of the van steps.
"Miss Eva?" he said, "she saw you, and she wants you."
"No, no!" said Allen, holding the girl back.
"I must," said Eva, breaking away; "you come too, Allen. I must learn the truth. If Miss Lorry laughed"--she paused and looked round, "oh, my dream--my dream!" she said, and ran up the steps.
Miss Lorry was lying on the floor, with her head supported by a cushion. Her face was pale and streaked with blood, but her eyes were calm, and filled with recognition of Eva. The doctor, kneeling beside the dying woman, was giving her some brandy, and Cain, in his red jersey, with a small Bible in his hand, waited near the door. Allen and Horace, with their hats off, stood behind him.
"I'm--glad," said Miss Lorry, gasping; "I want to speak. Don't you let--Saltars--marry you," she brought out the words with great force, and her head fell back.
"You mustn't talk," said the doctor faintly.
"Am I dying?" she asked, opening her splendid eyes.
The doctor nodded, and Cain came forward with the tears streaming down his face, "Oh, let me speak, dear Miss Lorry," he said, "let me pray----"
"No," said the woman faintly, "I must talk to Miss Eva. I have much to say. Come and kneel down beside me, dear."
Eva did so, and took Miss Lorry's hand. The dying woman smiled. "I'm glad to have you by me, when I pass," she said; "Mr. Hill, White Robin--he didn't mean to. I was not well--I should not have struck him."
"He's dead," said the deep voice of the American; "I shot him."
"Shot him!" said Miss Lorry, suddenly raising herself; "shot who?--not Strode. It was I--it was I who----"
"Miss Lorry--let me pray," cried Cain vehemently; "make your peace with our dear, forgiving Master."
"You're a good boy, Cain. You should have been my son. But I must confess my sins before I ask forgiveness. Mr. Hill, have you paper and a pencil?--ah, give me some brandy----"
While the doctor did so, Horace produced a stylographic pen, and a sheet of paper torn from his pocket-book. He passed these to Allen, who also came and knelt by Miss Lorry. He quite understood that the miserable creature was about to confess her crime. Stag appeared at the door, but did not venture further. Cain saw him, and pushed him back, "Let her die in peace," he said, and took Stag away.
"Do you want us to remain?" said the doctor gently.
"Yes. I want to tell every one what I did. Mr. Hill, write it down. I hope to live to sign it."
"I am ready," said Allen, placing the paper, and poising the pen.
Miss Lorry had some more brandy. A light came into her eyes, and her voice also became stronger.
"Hold my hand," she said to Eva. "If you keep holding it, I'll know you forgive me. I--I shot your father."
"You--but why?" asked Eva, aghast.
"Don't take away your hand--don't. Forgive me. I was mad. I knew your father many years ago. He was cruel to me. Giles would have been a better husband but for your father. When Strode--I can call him Strode, can't I?--when he came back from South Africa, he came to the circus, when we were near London. He found out my address from Giles, with whom he had much to do, and not always doing the best things either. Strode said he wanted to marry you to Saltars, and he heard that Saltars wanted to marry me. He told me that he would stop the marriage, by revealing that I was Giles's wife--ah!----"
Another sup of brandy gave her strength to go on, and Allen set down all she said.--"I was furious. I wanted to be Lady Saltars: besides, I loved him. I always loved him. I had such a cruel life with Giles--I was so weary of riding--I thought I might die poor. I have saved money--but not so much as I said. I told Saltars I had five hundred a year: but I have only two hundred pounds altogether. When that was gone, I thought I might starve. If my beauty went--if I met with an accident--no, I could not face poverty. Besides, I loved Saltars, I really loved him. I implored your father to hold his tongue. Giles could say nothing, as I could stop him by threatening to prosecute him for bigamy. Only your father knew----"
Again she had to gasp for breath, and then went on rapidly as though she feared she would not last till she had told all. "Your father behaved like a brute. I hated him. When he came that night to Westhaven, I heard from Butsey of his arrival, and that he had gone to the Red Deeps. How Butsey knew, I can't say. But I was not on in the bills till very late--at the very end of the programme--I had a good, quick horse, and saddled it myself--I took a pistol--I intended to shoot your father, and close his mouth for ever. It was his own fault--how could I lose Saltars, and face poverty and--disgrace?"
There was another pause while Allen's pen set down what she said, and then with an effort she continued: "I went to the Red Deeps and waited behind some trees. It was close on nine. I saw your father waiting by the spring. It was a kind of twilight, and, hidden by the bushes, I was really quite near to him. He was waiting for some one. At first I thought I would speak to him again, and implore his pity; but I knew he would do nothing--I knew also he was going to Wargrove, and would tell Mrs. Merry that I was her husband's wife. I waited my chance to fire. I had tethered the horse some distance away. As I looked there came a shot which evidently hit Strode on the arm, for he put his hand up and wheeled round. I never stopped to think that some one was trying to kill him also, or I should have let the work be done by that person."
"Did you know who the person was?"
"No, I did not see," said Miss Lorry faintly; "I had no eyes save for Strode. Oh, how I hated him!" a gleam of anger passed over her white face. "When he wheeled to face the other person who shot, I saw that his breast was turned fairly towards me. I shot him through the heart. I was a good shot," added Miss Lorry proudly, "for I earned my living in the circus at one time by shooting as the female cowboy"--the incongruity of the phrase did not seem to strike her as grotesque. "I heard some one running away, but I did not mind. I sprang out of the bush and searched his pockets. I thought he might have set down something about my marriage in his papers. I took the blue pocket-book and then rode back quickly to Westhaven, where I arrived in time for my turn. That's all. Let me sign it."
She did so painfully, and then Allen and Horace appended their names as witnesses.
"How came the pocket-book into Merry's possession?" It was Allen who asked, and Miss Lorry replied drowsily--
"Butsey stole the pocket-book from my rooms. He saw the notes which I left in it, and when I was out he found where I kept it. I believe Merry took it from him, and then--oh, how weary I am!----"
The doctor made a sign, and Allen, putting the confession into his pocket, moved away with Horace. Eva bent down and kissed the dying woman. "I forgive you," she said, "indeed I forgive you. You acted under a sudden impulse and----"
"Thank God you forgive me," said Miss Lorry.
Eva would have spoken but that Cain drew her back. "Ask our Lord and Master to forgive you," he said in piercing tones. "Oh, pray, Miss Lorry--pray for forgiveness!"
"I have been too great a sinner."
"The greatest sinner may return; only ask Him to forgive!"
Eva could bear the sight no longer; she walked quickly out of the tent and almost fainted in Allen's arms as she came down the steps. And within they heard the dying woman falteringly repeating the Lord's prayer as Cain spoke it:
"For-give us our tres-passes as we forgive those who----"
Then the weaker voice died away, and only the clear tones of the lad could be heard finishing the sublime petition.