"He swears that he will kill you, and he means to do it," I said.
Something of my own excitement seemed to communicate itself to Olivant; he became suddenly serious. Thrusting open the doors of the cab, he caught up the bag that was beside him on the seat, and got out. He paid the cabman, and then handed me the bag. "Come along," he said quickly; "there's another way into the place down this side street. We can't stand talking here."
So we gained his rooms in that secret fashion; and the moment we entered the manservant began to explain to him that Mr. Arnold Millard had called,and would call again. Olivant cut him short quickly. "There—that'll do; I know all about it," he said. "Understand that no one is to be admitted; I have not yet returned from the country. Any one who comes can leave a message."
He seemed curiously perturbed, I thought; he did not even refer at first to my own escape, or to the fact of my being in London so strangely. He went to a window, and pulled aside a curtain, and looked out; turned away with an exclamation, and looked at me. "How long has he been there?" he demanded.
"As I have told you—some hours," I said.
He went to the sideboard, and poured some neat spirits into a glass, and drained it. Then he came back to me, and, after a moment's hesitation, began to question me.
"Now, in the first place, how did he connect me with the business?"
"I told him," I replied simply. "I had to tell him—I meant to tell him, for the sake of the girl."
"Well, Mr. Facing-Both-Ways, then what brings you here? You tell the boy where to find me, and then come skulking with your tail between your legs to warn me. I don't understand it."
"I wanted to save the girl," I answered fearlessly. "Don't you understand that he was to wait in a certain place, until I came to him, bringing the girl; he would have waited there for a time, and then have come to the house to find me? And don't you understand," I cried passionately, "that I'm not fighting for you now, but for him?"
He turned to me quickly; looked at me curiously. "Fighting for him?"
In the tense stillness of the room, as we looked into each other's eyes, it almost seemed to me thatI could hear the echoing footsteps of the boy pacing up and down outside—waiting, with murder in his heart. My own heart was beating madly; I could scarcely get out the words I uttered.
"Yes—fighting for him," I whispered—"won't you understand that? Twenty years ago a man like you wronged a woman with his tongue, and died because of that wrong. A boy—just such another as the boy who walks up and down outside there now—struck him dead, and stood under the gallows for his crime. I was that boy; and he who waits below is but myself, come back to life to do what I did. I am not fighting for you—you are nothing; I am here to-night to save the boy from my fate. For as there is a God above us, he is here to kill you!"
He looked at me steadily for a moment or two, and then turned away. I saw him pull his handkerchief from the sleeve of his coat, and pass it once across his forehead, and then rub his hands with it hard, as though they were wet. Then, in the most matter-of-fact way, he came back to me, and looked at me steadily. His eyes were very bright—brighter and darker in contrast with the pallor of his face.
"You're not lying to me?" he demanded, in a whisper.
"I am not lying."
"And I suppose it doesn't happen by chance that you and this brother of mine are in league—and that you are to terrorize me, and find out about the girl—eh?"
"Don't you think in that case he would have come to you and made his threat in person?" I asked quickly.
"Yes, I suppose he would," he admitted. "In any case, I have to thank you for this; if you'dhave held your tongue, he might have thought that the girl had run away, or that she wanted nothing more to do with him; he might never have connected me with the matter at all. And now, having caught me here like a rat in a trap, I suppose you think you can force me to do something, out of fear? Well, you won't do that; because in this unequal world it's the rich man that always scores in the long run. That poor beggar cooling his heels on the pavement outside may threaten as he likes; I am safe enough. But I wish I'd tied you up a little more securely, my friend," he added viciously.
"You can get out of this difficulty in a moment," I reminded him. "Say where the girl is, and produce her to this boy unharmed, and you are safe."
"No!" he exclaimed violently. "I'll not be threatened by him—I'll not be forced to do anything against my will. I can snap my fingers at him. Besides," he added with a grin, "there's another reason. I don't myself know where the girl is."
"But you sent her away with the man Dawkins," I exclaimed quickly.
"Who was to bring her to London, and to let me know where she was. And I haven't heard yet."
Even as he spoke I heard a sharp double knock at the outer door. I think for a moment Olivant imagined that this was but a ruse on the part of the boy to get in; I saw him move quickly to the further end of the room. But a moment later the manservant came in with a small salver on which lay a letter. Olivant, with almost a sigh of relief, picked it up and turned it over.
"Talk of the devil," he muttered with a laugh, and tore it open.
He seemed to read the thing through twice; and as he read his face grew harder and harder. Finallyhe turned to me, and spoke quietly, with something of the air of a man who is driven into a corner, but has set his back against the wall, and means to fight.
"This is from friend Dawkins," he said. "He tells me that he has brought the girl to London, and has put her in safe hands; he thinks, however, that he should have something for his trouble." He broke off, and turned to the letter. "'I am not a rich man,'" he read, "'and a small matter of five hundred pounds would be extremely useful to me just now. Didn't I mention this last night? Under the circumstances, and for the sake of the young lady, I think it better that you should know that I want this sum in exchange for her address. She's a dear girl, and quite worth it.'" He banged the letter savagely with his fist, and began to pace about the room, muttering to himself. "First one and then another—this threat and that; what do you all think I'm made of? So this dog thinks he'll hold the girl to ransom, does he? Sends me an address to which letters are to be forwarded." He suddenly strode to the door, and opened it.
"What are you going to do?" I asked quickly.
"I'm going out to face them—this fellow who threatens my life, and this other who threatens my pocket. I won't skulk like a dog here, and let them think I'm afraid of them."
I caught his arm, and strove to draw him back into the room. "Don't do that!" I pleaded—"don't do that!"
He came back into the room, and closed the door; suddenly he began to laugh in a grim fashion, as though he rather enjoyed the situation. "If I had anybody in whom I could put any confidence," he said, "I'd cheat them both yet. But you're notfighting for me—and you may be against me. If Fanshawe were here, I might be able to do something; Fanshawe's got a sort of deadly hatred of this girl that would carry him to any lengths. I wonder what is best to be done?"
Whatever he decided to do then he kept to himself; after pacing about the room for a time he told me I could go, and that if I came back to him on the following day he might have news for me. His last words to me as I left him were characteristic of the man.
"I'll beat you all yet—and I'll win my game!" he said.
In the grey of a winter twilight I found Barbara Savell—that older Barbara who had belonged to my life—pacing about at the north side of Trafalgar Square. We met—she full of eagerness and anxiety, I dejectedly enough. I told her that I had failed, but that I had hopes that I might yet find that other Barbara. She told me that she had secured a little lodging in a humble quarter, and told me where it was; I walked with her to it, and left her there for the night. Then, because I did not know what else to do, I went off to that place in which I had stayed before with Jervis Fanshawe—that shabby room in a shabby house near the river. I was worn out and miserable when I knocked at the door, and was admitted by the girl Moggs.
"'Ullo!" she exclaimed, her face expanding in a grin—"so you've come back, 'ave yer? The other party 'asn't bin 'ere fer days an' days; but I fink 'e's expected."
"Why do you think that?" I asked carelessly.
"'Cos there's some one waitin' for 'im—pleasant sort o' gent, wiv a smile that does yer 'eart good to see. Real genel'man, mind you," she added, with a confident nod.
"Has he told you his name?" I asked, in a whisper.
"Yus. Name o' Dawkins," she replied.
I went scrambling and stumbling up the stairs; behind me as I ran I heard the girl Moggs calling to me, but I paid no heed.
As I came to the door of that shabby room in which I knew the man Dawkins was, a great trembling fell upon me, so that I hesitated, and was afraid to go in. It was not fear for myself: I think at that time I had no fear of anything; it was only that I knew that I should not be able to control myself, if I stood face to face with this creature who had assisted Murray Olivant to secure the girl, and now held her to be sold for a price. I stopped outside the door, with my hands clenched, and with my heart beating wildly.
The tumult of passion in me was stilled by the girl, who had run hard after me up the stairs. I felt her coarsened grubby little hand gripping mine; slowly she drew me back away from the door.
"'Ere—pull yerself togevver," she whispered. "Wot's wrong wiv yer?"
"If I go into that room I am afraid of what I may do," I said, clutching at the girl, and staring at the closed door. "I'm afraid of myself."
"Wot's 'e done?" she whispered excitedly.
"Nothing you'd understand," I said. "But oh, Moggs—have you ever read or heard anywhere any fairy tale, concerning some wonderful princess, shut away in prison and left to pine, while her lover waited in vain for her. Have you, Moggs?"
She nodded quickly, and her face expanded into a grin. "Yus—I did once," she whispered. "It came 'ere with summink wrapped in it—bit of a Christmas story, it was."
"There's a wonderful princess held prisoner by that man," I whispered eagerly. "And he'll smile—and smile—and I am powerless to do anything to help. You wise little person—tell me what to do?"
She plunged her grubby hands into her hair, and wrinkled up her face in thought; then she caught at my hand again, and whispered a startling suggestion. "Go in an' talk to 'im," she said, "an' keep yer dander down. W'en 'e goes out presently, I'll foller 'im—an' if I don't come back knowin' w'ere she is, my name ain't Moggs. Is she a real tiptopper?"
"Beautiful, and gentle, and good," I assured her, as she listened unctuously.
"An' 'im wot's sweet on 'er—is 'e all right?"
"The best fellow in the world," I replied.
"Then this is just w'ere I come in!" exclaimed the strange little creature. "I was born for this 'ere!"
I shook hands with her solemnly on the dark and grimy staircase; and I blessed and thanked her. Then I opened the door, and went into the room, praying hard for strength to control myself. Dawkins was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging one leg, and smoking a cigar; he did not trouble to look round as I entered, probably from the fact that he felt that only one person could come into that room with any assurance.
"Well, Fanshawe, it's taken you long enough to get to London," he said, flicking the ash from his cigar.
"I beg your pardon," I said, "but it's not Mr. Fanshawe."
He jumped off the table, and leant against it, staring at me; I think it was the first time I had seen his face without a smile upon it. "By George!" he exclaimed, in a low voice—"I thought I'd tied you up better than that!"
"I was so fortunate as to get away," I replied. "I have seen my—my master, Mr. Olivant; he knows all about my escape. I have just left him."
"Then perhaps you've brought something for me from him?" he exclaimed eagerly, with his habitual smile breaking over his face.
I shook my head. "Nothing," I said. "I did not expect even to find you here."
"True; I'd forgotten that," he said, in a tone of disappointment. "I suppose you came looking for Fanshawe—eh? As a matter of fact, I want to see Fanshawe myself."
I suddenly made up my mind that I would make the attempt on my own part to find out something about the girl; I might even be able to persuade this man that he would get nothing from Murray Olivant, and so induce him, out of revenge, to let me know where Barbara was. After a moment's hesitation I plunged into the business.
"When you left me tied up and gagged at the house at Hammerstone Market," I began, "you took away with you a young lady—Miss Barbara Savell."
"And a deuced nice girl, too," exclaimed the man, nodding his head and smiling. "You were nicely diddled over that business, Tinman; and in turn I diddled our friend Olivant. It's a pity that so charming a young lady should be played catch-ball with in this fashion; but that's her fault, because she is so charming. Now, I suppose you've really been sent by Olivant to spy out the land—eh? You mayas well let me know the truth, because I shall discover it in any case. I'm much too wily for you people."
"I tell you again that I did not imagine for a moment you would be here," I reminded him. "Mr. Olivant knows nothing of your whereabouts; he has simply had your letter, giving an address to which letters may be sent. But I assure you that you will get nothing out of him."
"Oh, so you knowthat, do you?" he said with a sneer. "Very well, I can afford to wait. The young lady, though inclined to be troublesome and fretful, is really very charming company."
"I want to believe, sir, that you're a gentleman," I went on again patiently.
"Thank you," he responded, smiling.
"And I want to appeal to your better nature. This girl is friendless in the world, save for me and for the boy who loves her; you have been fortunate enough and wise enough to get her out of the hands of Murray Olivant; give her into mine, and let me send her back to her lover—or to her father."
Even as I made the appeal I realized the futility of it. But I saw here that violence would not do, and that he would scoff at any threatening; I had felt at first, when I began to speak, that there was a faint chance that I might move the man. As he laughed and shook his head, I saw that I must, after all, trust to that frail support—Moggs.
"My good man, it is quite refreshing to hear any one talk as you do," he said. "You really appear to be in earnest, and under other circumstances I might almost be prepared to listen to you. But the prize is too good to be lost, whether I get the money or stick to the lady. Personally, I believe that Olivant may be squeezed, and may decide that it is best forhim to pay; but in any case I score. No, friend Tinman, this is not a game with which you are concerned. Mind your own business, and leave these things to your betters. And as it seems that Fanshawe is not coming, I think I'll return to the lady."
"And if I follow you?" I exclaimed, maddened at the thought that he set me aside so lightly. "What then?"
He struck a match, and relit his cigar; looking at me over the smoke of it, he laughed, and shook his head. "You're really very simple, Tinman," he said. "I don't believe for a moment that you really take so deep an interest in the lady and her lover; I am inclined to believe that you are a spy from the camp of Mr. Murray Olivant. If you have the audacity to follow me, I shall do one of two things: I shall either go in a wrong direction, at some inconvenience to myself; or I shall call the attention of the first constable I meet to you, and inform him that you have been begging from me, and threatening me. You look shabby, Tinman, and you have a bad record behind you, I understand. For your own sake you'd better stay here."
At that time I had no very great faith in the powers of Moggs; however eager she might be to throw herself into the business, I felt that in all probability this astute man of the world would prove more than a match for her. It was with something very like despair in my heart that I saw him saunter out of the room. I ventured to the door the moment after he had left the room, and opened it cautiously; he was going down the stairs, and he stopped for a moment to look back at me.
"You can tell Fanshawe that it doesn't matter, after all; I'm not particularly anxious to see him. And if you want the lady, Tinman—well—your masterMurray Olivant knows how to get her. Good-night to you!"
I saw nothing of Moggs; I went back into the room, and shut the door. It seemed at that time as though all I had striven to do and all I had hoped for had been brought to naught; I stood helpless in this poor shabby room, staring about me, and wondering what I should do. What power did I possess—poor broken outcast, without even a name, and assisted only by a little drab of the streets; what could we do against such men as Olivant? I recognized, now that it was too late, that I ought to have played a different game; that I should have matched cunning with cunning, and devilry with devilry; I had been too blunt and outspoken. And then my thoughts flew back to the boy, waiting doggedly outside the rooms of the man who had set out to ruin him and the girl he loved; and I saw the Fate that had dogged and destroyed me marching grimly on over me, and striking down young Arnold Millard. I had no power to stay his hand; nor was there any power behind such threats as I might use to Olivant and the others.
I was like a man who stands in the dark, with three or four roads stretching out from the point at which he is, and uncertain in his own mind which to take. I had thoughts of going to my Barbara, and making her understand more completely even than she understood yet the peril in which her child stood; but, on the other hand, I knew that to do that would be useless while the girl was still lost to us. Then I thought of sending to Lucas Savell; but remembered what manner of man he was, and how utterly useless he would be in a crisis. It seemed monstrous that I should stand here, helpless, in the midst of a great city—unable to do anything; but I had to remember,bitterly enough, that I was a man with the brand of Cain upon me, and a long prison record behind me; more than that, I was known in London and elsewhere as living under another name. It was all a horrible tangle, from which it seemed impossible that we should ever escape.
I heard a step upon the stairs—too heavy to be that of Moggs; it was a jaded weary step, and it stopped outside the door. I went to the door, and opened it; outside a man stood, and as he thrust me aside and came in I saw that it was Jervis Fanshawe. He threw down a small untidy bundle on to the bed, and tossed his hat after it, and sank into a chair.
"Give me something to drink," he said hoarsely.
I found something, and gave it to him; he drank it greedily, looking at me as he did so with a curious expression in his eyes. Once he made up his mind to speak; but he stopped, even as he opened his lips, and half rose in his chair, staring hard at the door. He did not look at me; his voice was a mere shaking whisper.
"There's some one on the stairs!" Then, as I moved quickly to the door, he sprang up and confronted me, and pressed me back; and his face was like death itself. "No—no—don't open the door. I know what it is, and I couldn't bear to see it again."
"Why, what do you mean?" I faltered, "what have you seen; what's happened to you?"
He did not reply; with a trembling hand he poured out some more of the liquor, and drank it; and even then, as he did so, he paused to listen again with that curious intentness. Finally he got over to the further end of the room, and then pointed to the door, and whispered—
"Open it now, Charlie—quick!"
I confess I was as much shaken as he seemed tobe; I pulled open the door, however, and looked out. There was no one there, and I told him so as I closed it again.
"Last night in the garden—while you ran and called to something or some one—I saw her," he said in a whisper. "I told you then it was the dead come alive; I tell you so again now, Charlie. To-night in London, as I tramped through the streets (and I swear I was not thinking of her in any way), I saw her face pass me again—it was as though there was some strange light upon it, that never was on this earth. Before God, Charlie, she's come back; as I live, she means to haunt me and to follow me!"
I saw in a moment what had happened. The face of that elder Barbara, as he had seen it for a moment, had been to him the face of the woman he believed to be dead; his further meeting her in London had been a mere accident. I hesitated to tell him the truth: that this woman was alive. I did not know how much further I might be complicating matters, or what greater difficulties I might be creating. For the present, at least, I determined to hold my tongue, and to let him think what he would. He went on with his rambling talk.
"I've heard of men being driven mad like that," he said; "I've heard that some one, deeply wronged, may come back from the grave, to work a more bitter vengeance than they could have done in life. Is there any truth in that, Charlie?"
I began to see that this better mood might be useful; that this implacable creature, who had pursued his vengeance so relentlessly and so long, might perhaps be turned a little from his purpose if he supposed that the spirit of the dead woman was following him, to take account of what he was doing. His next words confirmed that impression in my mind.
"I helped Olivant and Dawkins last night and yesterday over that matter of the girl; spied out the land for them, and told them where you were, and what you were doing. I meant all along to drag the girl down, as I meant years ago to drag down the mother: she had her mother's look, and her mother's voice, and I hated her for them. But I'm afraid, Charlie; I find myself starting at shadows. You saw her last night in the garden; I heard you call to her."
"Yes, I saw her," I replied steadily.
He drew a long breath, and looked again at the door with that hunted look his face had worn before. "I knew it; that proves it," he said. "I'm getting an old man, Charlie, and still my vengeance has brought me nothing but this: that I sit in this place, with no soul on God's earth to speak a good word for me, and with the knowledge that I may have wrecked the lives of two women. There's hell for me, Charlie, and that dead woman will fling me down to it!"
It was in my mind then, in sheer pity for the hunted wretch, to tell him the truth. But I saw in a moment that if I did that he would understand that he had been robbed of his vengeance from the very start, and had brought himself to his present pass for nothing; for the woman he had pursued was living still. I understood that in that case I should make him a more bitter enemy to the mother and the girl than ever, out of sheer rage at having been duped so long. And in any case I had seen enough of him to know that I could not trust him. And out of his fright some good might come.
That fright was indeed so great that when, a moment later, a hand was laid upon the door, and it opened cautiously, the man started up, with something very like a shriek. But it was nothing more than Moggs,untidy and slipshod as ever; she gave me a quick glance as she came in, and my heart gave a leap, for I seemed to read in it that she had succeeded. However, she merely muttered something about the fire, and went across the room to attend to it. Kneeling there, she began to croon to herself that strange weird song that had no tune nor time to it, and which I had heard her sing before.
I was casting about in my mind for some means of speaking to her alone, without arousing Fanshawe's suspicions, or at least of getting rid of Fanshawe for a few moments, when the girl solved the difficulty for herself, and that too in the quaintest fashion. She suddenly looked up at me, with a queer smile on her face, and spoke.
"You know about that there princess you was talkin' of, guv'nor, don't yer?" she asked; then, without waiting for a reply, went on demurely enough: "I dunno' but wot I 'aven't worked out that story in me own way, after all."
"How's that, Moggs?"
"Can't that girl cease her chatter, and go?" demanded Fanshawe angrily, as he cast himself down on his bed, and lay there with his hands clasped under his head.
"'Alf a tick, guv'nor, 'alf a tick," remonstrated Moggs, turning to him; then she looked back at me. "Wot if you was to 'ear that the princess was fetched away by a ugly sort o' fairy—smuggled out, in a manner o' speakin'—an' brought to that ugly fairy's place," the thin cracked voice was growing excited—"an' 'id away by 'er—eh? Wot then? Serpose the princess crep' up the stairs without nobody seein' 'er——"
In my excitement I forgot everything; I suddenly seized the girl by the shoulder, and shook her, and cried out in my great relief: "Here, Moggs?—herein this house? How did you manage it? Where is she?"
Too late I saw that Fanshawe had raised himself on one elbow on the bed, and was staring at me and at the girl. I checked myself at once, and began haltingly to change the talk, so that it might seem I was speaking of something with which he was not concerned; but he brushed such pretence aside impatiently, and demanded to know what was happening.
"You've heard something—discovered something?" he said suddenly, sitting upright, and turning his haggard face towards me. "Oh!—don't shrink away; from to-night I tell you I am your friend, hand and glove with you in this business. I tell you I'm afraid; I dare not go on. Give me a chance," he pleaded, "and I'll undo all that I have done. You can't stand alone in this, Charlie; give me the chance to help you."
"You can't; you are ranged on the other side," I said sternly.
"I am not—I am not!" he exclaimed. "Don't I tell you that I'm afraid—that I dare not go on any further? Moggs"—he turned quickly to the girl, and spoke appealingly—"tell me where she is; you may trust me."
"I ain't so sure abaht that," said Moggs, looking from him to me, and back again. "More'n that," she added with cunning, "I ain't quite sure that I know what you're talkin' about." She walked to the door, giving me a sharp glance as she went, as though to bespeak my attention. With what carelessness I could muster I went after her; as I glanced back into the room I saw that Fanshawe, still raised on his elbow, was looking after me hungrily.
Outside on the dark landing it was a mere matter of excited whispers. "You've got her here—safe?" I asked.
"Safe as twenty 'ouses!" she replied. "I waited abaht in the street until I sees me gentleman come out; arter that I never lost sight of 'im. The place wasn't so far from 'ere, arter all, an' it wasn't likely 'e was goin' to take no notice of anybody like me. I watched him go in, I seed 'im come out again. A minute later I was ringin' the bell, as innercent as yer please; an' there was a young person employed same as me in the 'ouse; I could talk to 'er in wot you might call me own language—found she was actually at the same Board School as wot I was. In less'n a minute we was talkin' friendly; five minutes arterwards I was upstairs, wiv the key turned in the lock, an' the young lady listenin' to wot I'd got to say."
"Dear, sweet Moggs!" I exclaimed in a whisper. "And she came with you at once?"
"That instant minute," said Moggs. "I mentioned who you was, an' that you was waitin' for 'er; it seemed that she'd on'y bin persuaded to stop there, believin' that the young gent was comin' any minute. Now she's in my room—right at the top, under the tiles—as safe as safe. Oh, I tell yer, it wants a woman for this work!"
I shook the diminutive creature's hand; I was just about to break out into some further expressions of gratitude, when her eyes warned me that we had a listener. I turned swiftly, in time to see a line of light down the edge of the door of the room—a line that was gradually narrowing, until it disappeared altogether as the door was closed. I understood at once that Jervis Fanshawe had been listening to all that had been said.
"It's all right," I assured her quickly. "I think he's our friend; in any case I can keep him silent. Go up and see Miss Savell; tell her that I'm near athand, and that I will come up to her the moment I can slip away."
Moggs disappeared instantly, and I opened the door and went into the room. Fanshawe was seated on the side of the bed, with his hands pressed together between his knees, rocking himself slowly backwards and forwards. He seemed strangely excited, but I hardly noticed that at the time, in my indignation that he should have played the spy upon me.
"Why did you listen?" I asked.
"Why won't you trust me, Charlie?" He looked up at me, and there was again in his eyes that fear I had seen before. "I know that all I have done gives the lie to what I want to do; but I am sincere now, because I'm afraid. Won't you trust me?"
"There is no necessity for me to trust any one," I replied. "I don't know how much you know, or how much you don't; but I want to tell you this: it'll go hard with any one who tries again to defeat what I am trying to do. I've got my chance now to upset all the plans that you and those connected with you have made; for your own sake you'd better keep out of it."
"What are you going to do with her? What do you think you can do—you who are poor and weak and alone; what hope have you of fighting against richer men? I tell you you'll come to grief, and I shall walk for ever with the shadow of the dead Barbara by my side. I know it—I know it!"
"I tell you it is a matter that does not concern you," I said again. "Why should you expect me to trust to you—you whose long life has been a lie from beginning to end? Keep out of it, I tell you; it will go hard with you if you play me any tricks again."
I left him sitting in that dejected attitude; I heard him muttering again and again that I did notand I would not understand! I opened the door, and went out on to the staircase, meaning to see the girl Barbara, and to reassure her as to her safety. But while I stood there for a moment I heard voices down below, voices that I knew.
"I tell you you can't deceive me—an' you won't deceive me." It was the voice of Murray Olivant, loud and aggressive. And the voice of Dawkins replied to him.
"I tell you the girl has been spirited away. I've come here now in the hope of hearing something about her; perhaps that rascally servant of yours knows something—the fellow Tinman. On my solemn word, Olivant—"
"Oh, be quiet!"
I slipped back into the room to wait for them. Murray Olivant strode in first, and looked at me with a scowl; looked past me at Jervis Fanshawe, who had risen from the bed. "Well—plotters and schemers—what's the move now?" he demanded. "Is there any one here at all I can believe or trust?" He looked round on the three of us fiercely enough. "Dawkins here has her, and then he has not; you, Fanshawe, can do great things, but you don't do them; Tinman threatens and boasts, and does nothing. I suppose you think you can play with me just as you please, eh? Will no one speak?"
"I tell you again, Olivant, that I have not got the girl," said Dawkins. "I only came here in the hope to find her; I've been tricked, just as I tried to trick you. If I knew where she was, shouldn't I try to bluff the thing a bit, and get some money out of you?"
"I believe you would," retorted Olivant slowly. Then he swung round to me. "Well, Tinman, and what do you know?"
"Nothing," I replied. "I have not seen the lady at all."
"Why should she come here?" asked Fanshawe, in a quiet voice. I confess I had been expecting a totally different answer from him, and I began to wonder if, after all, I had misjudged the man. His face was a mask, behind which even the deadly fear that he had shown was hidden.
"Well, I trustyou, at any rate, Fanshawe," said Olivant, "because I believe you know who's your friend, and who's likely to help you most in this world. This seems to rest with you, Dawkins," he went on, turning to his friend, "and I shan't forget to pay you for it, though not quite in the coin you expected. I'm going home; God help any one of you that plots against me again. You, Tinman, can walk with me; I believe you have some fears as to my safety," he added, with a grin.
The man Dawkins came down the stairs and into the street with us, still protesting his innocence in the matter; Murray Olivant waved him aside impatiently enough, and set off in the direction of his lodging. I think he had meant to take me with him; but within a hundred yards of the house he hailed a passing cab, and turned to dismiss me.
"You can go back," he said. "I shan't want you. You needn't be afraid; I shall go in the back way." He climbed into the cab, and was rapidly driven away.
I walked slowly back to the house, and rang the bell again. After I had climbed the stairs to Fanshawe's room I suddenly made up my mind that I would go on further, and see Barbara; altered my mind again, and determined to see Fanshawe, and at least to thank him for the attitude he had adopted to Murray Olivant. I opened the door and went in, but the man was not there.
Inwardly perturbed, I came out on to the landingagain, and began slowly to climb the stairs; I did not like this sudden absence of Fanshawe in the least. On the landing above I came face to face with Moggs, standing outside a door, and looking at me with a scared white face.
"She's gorn!" she whispered.
"You must be mistaken," I exclaimed roughly, with all my old suspicions sweeping in upon me like a flood. "Where can she have gone to?"
"I dunno," whimpered the girl. "But I tell you she's gorn."
I ran out of the house, scarcely knowing what I meant to do. My thoughts turned naturally to the man who had made up his mind to get hold of Barbara; I determined to go to Murray Olivant at once. With difficulty, for it was now very late, I got to the place; and even then hesitated whether to go in or not. For in the first place, if I came face to face with him I must confess that I had lied, and that the girl had been in that other house even while he visited it.
The matter was determined for me, after all. I had got outside the rooms, and was standing there, hesitating what to do, when a man stopped before me, and spoke my name in a surprised voice. It was young Arnold Millard.
"Tinman!" Then suddenly and eagerly—"Where's your master?"
"Not there, sir," I replied quickly. "I—I don't know where he is."
We were standing on the opposite side of the street; he suddenly grasped my arm, and pointed. A window had been opened up above, and leaning out from a lighted room I saw for a moment the head and shoulders of Murray Olivant. The head was withdrawn in a moment, and the window closed and darkened, but we had both seen it distinctly.
"Not there?" exclaimed the boy derisively. "So they've told me every time I've inquired. Hiding from me, is he?"
He ran across the street, and I ran after him, calling to him to stop. We both reached the stairs together, and together rushed up them; and by that time I had him by the arms, and was clinging to him, imploring him to calm himself. The noise we made when we got to the door of the flat alarmed that respectable manservant inside; he opened the door a little way, and we stumbled in together, brushed him aside, and rushed pell-mell into the room where Murray Olivant stood. And there was not only Olivant there, but the man Dawkins and Jervis Fanshawe.
"I've found you at last," cried the boy excitedly. "I want to know where Miss Barbara Savell is?"
Murray Olivant looked quickly round from one to the other of us; saw me clinging to the boy, and whispering to him—saw Dawkins and Fanshawe and the manservant. Perhaps he felt that there was safety in numbers; at all events, he retreated to the door of an inner room, and spread his arms across it, as though to guard it.
"You fool!" he cried roughly—"she's here!"
For a moment, after that astounding statement by Murray Olivant, we stood transfixed, staring at him as he spread his arms across the door and faced us defiantly. I do not think that he had imagined his words would have such an effect; our amazed silence showed him in a moment that the game was with him. In a limp fashion I was clinging to young Millard, whose fury, as it seemed, had suddenly relaxed, leaving him helpless.
"Here?" gasped the boy, in a sort of horrified whisper.
"Yes!" cried Olivant loudly. "Here—by her own choice, and of her own free will. I suppose the girl can choose for herself—and in this case, she has chosen wisely. Like every one else in this world, she knows on which side her bread is buttered. Now, get out of my place," he added, advancing towards us: "open the door there, you; show these people out."
Young Arnold Millard seemed suddenly to recover himself and his strength at the same time; I felt his muscles hardening under my grip. Then, with an inarticulate shout, he hurled himself straight at Olivant; and in a moment was fighting madly with Dawkins and myself to get at him. I remember noticing even then that Fanshawe stood aside, wringinghis hands helplessly, and moistening his dry lips with his tongue.
"Let me go! It's a lie—I know it's a lie! Let me go!" shouted the boy, battling like a madman with us.
The frightened manservant had run out of the room, crying something as he went; it seemed an incredibly short space of time before he came hurrying in again, followed by a policeman. In a dexterous fashion this latter contrived to get between the boy and his enemy; interposed his solid official bulk between them.
"Now then—now then, gentlemen!" he said quietly. "What's the trouble here?"
Murray Olivant was the first to speak. "This man has forced his way into my rooms, and has threatened me," he said quickly. "I want him removed."
The constable glanced from one to the other; his face was impassive. "Do you know the man, sir?"
"He is a relative of mine—a ne'er-do-well, who has given considerable trouble to his friends," said Olivant. "He has been waiting outside in the street for some hours, on the chance of getting hold of me. The present dispute is about a lady."
"Constable, I demand to have these rooms searched; I mean to prove that this man is lying!" cried the boy excitedly. "He says—says the lady's here—and it is a lie!"
"You'll understand, sir, that I've no power to search this gentleman's rooms," said the constable; "and I've no right to inquire into any dispute about a lady or anything else. For your own sake, sir"—he was talking in an easy argumentative fashion to young Millard—"for your own sake, you'll go away. If you stop here there'll only be a breach ofthe peace committed, and you'll get yourself into my hands. If this don't blow over by the morning, I'm much mistaken; in any case, you can't create a disturbance here. Much better go away."
"I tell you I——" He made a sudden leap to pass the constable, and to reach the door of that inner room; but the man was too quick for him: he caught him by the arm, and deftly turned him towards the door; hustled him out of the room into the little hall. I was close at hand, and I heard what the man said.
"Now, sir, you're behaving very foolish. Go away, and go home and think about it; then see if you don't thank me in the morning. Come on now."
I put in my plea also, and presently the boy went away in a moody silence. The constable walked quietly after him, and as I ran down too I saw the man standing at the outer door leading into the street, looking after the boy as he strode away.
"A bit hot-headed, your friend," he said. "Lor' bless you, I've seen 'em like that a few times, and then ready to laugh about it next morning."
I went back to the rooms; there I found the startled manservant peering out at the door of the flat. He drew me inside, and carefully closed the door: seemed disposed, indeed, to question me.
"I give you my word I don't understand it," said the man. "Because, you see, there's never been any lady 'ere at all; an' nobody couldn't have got in without passing me. Now, what I argue is——"
I thrust him aside, and walked into the room. There I found Murray Olivant lying back in a chair, shaking with laughter, while Dawkins and Jervis Fanshawe stared at him wonderingly. Seeing me, he sat up, and shook his head at me whimsically, and went off into another shout of laughter.
"It's beautiful!" he cried—"it's wonderful! It only came to me on the spur of the moment to say that she was here; I wanted to see if that young fool would rise to the bait. And now he's gone off—and he's a marked man; that constable's not likely to let him come near me again in a hurry. Gone out like a whipped cur, with his tail between his legs. It was beautiful!"
"And he's left you with the girl," said Dawkins, with his smile.
Murray Olivant sat up, and stared at him. "What—haven't you tumbled to it yet?" he demanded. "There's no girl here—and there never has been. She'll come here sooner or later, no doubt; but she's not here now."
"Oh, come, my dear Olivant, you can't bluff me, you know," exclaimed Dawkins, beginning to show a little temper over the business. "The girl's here right enough."
"Open the door and look for yourself," said Olivant composedly. "Personally, I wish I could say that she had been here; but she hasn't."
Dawkins, after a glance at him, strode across the room, and flung open the door; turned up the light, and went poking and prying about. Fanshawe stood at the door of that inner room, and peered in also. Dawkins came out, and closed the door again.
"There are no other rooms," said Olivant, still laughing—"except my servant's room across the hall. You can go and look in there, if you like."
"No, thank you," replied Dawkins. "But hang me if I thought it was a bluff to begin with—and neither did the boy. More than that, I don't quite see the object of it."
"Then I'll tell you," said Olivant, with a note of bitterness in his voice. "He's gone away now, eatinghis heart out—mad with jealousy. If he meets her to-morrow, and she holds out her arms to him, he'll most likely turn away, and refuse to speak to her. Love's a frail thing, and wants carefully nourishing. Now get out, and leave me in peace," he added—"I'm tired."
Dawkins went at once; I think he saw the futility of attempting to speak to his patron about the matter further at that time. Fanshawe and I were just going also, when Murray Olivant, on a sudden impulse, as it seemed, called us back.
"Just one moment; I want to speak to you," he said. I noticed that a sudden seriousness had come over him; even the cigar he had picked up, and from which he had savagely wrenched the end with his teeth, remained unlighted. "Which of you knows anything about this young lady?"
"I don't," I replied at once, and looked at Fanshawe. For in my mind I was certain then that Fanshawe had in some way or other, after overhearing the conversation between Moggs and myself, contrived to get Barbara away. Nothing would persuade me to trust the man.
"And you, Fanshawe?"
"What should I know about her?" was the nervous reply. "What is she to do with me? You've got to manage this business for yourself, Mr. Olivant; it seems to me that your policy is to make other people work for you, and give them nothing but kicks in return. For my part, I wash my hands of it."
I felt sure that he was lying; I was certain in my own mind that he knew more than he would say. But, of course, I could say nothing then.
"You're very silent, Tinman," said Murray Olivant after a pause, during which we had stood helplesslywatching him. "What's your opinion of this night's work?"
"My opinion is that Mr. Millard means to carry out his first threat," I replied slowly. I saw him look up at me, and the match he had lighted burned down to his fingers, so that he dropped it hurriedly. He made no attempt to light another.
"To kill me?"
I nodded. "I've seen him, as you haven't seen him; and I know that his life is wrapped up in this girl," I said earnestly. "He fears neither God nor man in such a business as this—and he's gone away to-night, believing that you have harmed her as you threatened—believing that she is lost to him. He's gone out to-night with murder in his heart. Don't I know that look—haven't I seen it?"
He threw away that second match, and laid down the cigar. After an uneasy pause he said slowly: "Well—I know that—and I know you're right. He's desperate, and perhaps with him I've gone a bit too far."
"Ah!" My relief at hearing him say that must have sounded in my voice, for he turned upon me quickly, with a sudden new fierceness.
"Don't misunderstand me. I've taken a wrong move to-night, but I mean to take another and a safer one. I'll not go back on what I mean to do; I'll not knuckle under to a young cub like that. It shall be as if the girl had really been here—only I'll work in a more secret fashion. I have a love for plotting and mystery; I'll leave that young fool staring up at these windows for a few days, and eating his heart out, and thirsting for my blood; and I'll be comfortably slipping away elsewhere. You shall help me, Tinman—and you too, Fanshawe—and I'll promise you some sport."
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"In the first place, I don't quite like the idea of being kept prisoner here, under the fear of what may happen if I venture outside. The boy's mad—but it's a sort of madness from which he may only wake when he has stuck a knife into me, or has done something else that may bring him to the gallows. That's too much of a risk for me; at the same time, I mean to get the whip hand of him. You and Fanshawe shall help me."
"Willingly—very willingly," said Fanshawe, speaking mechanically, and not raising his eyes. "You may trust us, Mr. Olivant; Tinman and I have no life that is not concerned with you and your affairs. But for you we must starve."
I looked at the despicable creature; I remembered what he had said to me, and what he had promised that very night; I was glad to think that I had not trusted him. I thought he looked at me strangely, when for a moment he raised his eyes to me; there was a look in them I did not understand.
"Well, I'm glad you recognize that fact," said Murray Olivant, with a laugh. "That's been my way always: to pay people to do things for me I don't care to do myself. You can listen, then, to my plans."
He was so exuberant about it, and chuckled so much to himself at the thought of it, that it was some time before he began to set it forth; and even then he prefaced the business with a sudden generous bringing out of bottles and glasses for our entertainment. Fanshawe drank greedily, with many slavish expressions of gratitude; I refused to take anything. At last Murray Olivant, standing with his back to the fire, and with a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, began to say what was in his mind.
"Suppose that a certain man is threatened by another—goes, in fact, in fear of his life from a madman; and suppose that it is not convenient for him to have that other arrested, or cautioned, or withheld from what he means to do by the law. In other words, he does not wish a certain fair lady's name to be dragged into the light of day, and things said about her. I have always been mighty sensitive on such matters," he added complacently.
"You have indeed!" broke in Fanshawe, with a grin.
"Suppose I suddenly say that I am tired of the whole business, and that I have made up my mind to go abroad, and to leave these people in peace and security," went on Olivant. "Suppose I decide to take the faithful Tinman with me; suppose I even go so far as to take tickets on a certain steamer for the faithful Tinman and myself, and to publish the fact abroad that I'm going. And then suppose, after that, that I never go at all."
"But why not?" I asked helplessly; for I did not see his drift.
"Dolt! Everybody is expecting that I have gone; everybody knows that I have gone; and our young friend Millard, who hasn't money enough to follow me, and who has no reason for following me as I've left the coast clear, is thrown off the scent. I slip away quietly from this place, after sending a mountain of luggage—or no luggage at all, if it pleases me; and I go to an obscure lodging where no one thinks of looking for me. And in due course, after the vessel has sailed on which I am supposed to be, our dear Fanshawe here—or our faithful Tinman—making careful inquiries, discovers the lady, and brings her to me. I'm abroad, and all suspicions are lulled; I am at home, and am playing out to a finish the game I started upon."
I saw the fiendish ingenuity of the thing at once. This man would publicly start off upon a voyage; his name would be entered upon the list of passengers; and he would quietly lie in hiding in London. The boy would feel that his vengeance had been snatched away from him; he would give up the battle in despair—only to learn too late the trick that had been played upon him. For my own part, I could do nothing; because to warn Arnold Millard of that trick would be but to put him more strongly and eagerly on the track of his enemy. I was powerless; Olivant and Fanshawe would play the game out to the end, and I should have to look on, a helpless spectator. There might be a faint chance that the girl would not be found by either of them; on the other hand, I had a shrewd suspicion that Fanshawe already knew where she was. I was certain in my own mind that he had smuggled her away from the house in which he lodged that very night; that explained his presence in Murray Olivant's rooms at the time I reached them with the boy.
"You'll come here to-morrow, Tinman," said Olivant, with a yawn, "and I'll give you money to get the tickets, and full instructions. Then I'll tell you where to engage a lodging for me, and under what name. I mean to play the game thoroughly, I assure you; not a living soul shall suspect who I am; no one shall know till long afterwards that I have not sailed for another country. It's a beautiful scheme; we'll work it out to-morrow."
It was getting well into the small hours when I came down the stairs at last, with Jervis Fanshawe at my heels. I could not trust myself then to speak to him; I held him in such loathing that I was afraid of what I might do. He spoke to me once as I walked away, but I paid no attention to him. I walkedon and on doggedly, wondering bitterly what I should do, and realizing more every moment how helpless I was; seeing only that I was beating feeble hands against a wall that I could not break down.
Suddenly he plucked me by the sleeve in a quiet street through which we were passing; I turned suddenly, and faced him. As he shrank away from me, my rage overmastered me, and I caught him by the throat and forced him to his knees.
"Where are you driving me?" I demanded hoarsely. "Is not once enough, in a lifetime such as yours, to strive to ruin a woman; is there no mercy in your black heart at all?"
"You don't understand," he faltered.
"I understand only too well," I retorted savagely. "Was it for this you met me when I came from prison; was it for this that you have drawn me on and on, until I am as desperately involved in this business as yourself? What of your lying promises—your pleadings that I would trust you?"
"Indeed—indeed I only mean well—indeed I want to help her!" he exclaimed, staggering to his feet, and trying to pull my hands away from his collar. "I can't tell you; I can't explain."
"The dead woman you have seen—whose eyes have looked into yours—did she teach you nothing?" I demanded.
He suddenly covered his face with his hands, and shuddered. "She taught me something I shall not forget," he whispered. "Only I must go on and on; I dare not look back. I have set my hand to something, and I will not stop now!" He raised his haggard face to the sky, and if I had not had that desperate hatred of him in my heart, I must have been moved by the strange look upon it.
"No, you will not turn back, until you have broughtthis child to ruin and disgrace," I said. "But it may be given to me to spoil your game yet; this new move on the part of Olivant may lead to something he has not reckoned upon—or you either."
"Yes, it may," he said; and he seemed to shudder again.
A clock near at hand in a church tower struck three over the sleeping city. I told Fanshawe I would not go back with him then; I would walk the streets until daylight. He tried to dissuade me from that, but seeing that I had made up my mind he presently turned away, and set off towards his lodging. I tramped the streets until dawn—staring now and then into the faces of poor wanderers that flitted past me, in the vain hope of seeing the girl; but there was no face like hers.
I got some breakfast at a coffee stall, and felt refreshed and less hopeless. As I turned to go away, I heard a voice beside me giving an order for some coffee; I turned quickly, and saw that it was young Arnold Millard. He looked forlorn and tired and haggard; I was doubtful at first whether to speak to him. I decided, however, that I might do some good, if I persuaded him that Murray Olivant was about to leave the country; it might at least drive out of his mind the murderous thought that obsessed it then. I ventured to touch his sleeve; he looked round quickly, and recognized me.
"Well, what do you want?" he asked.
"I wanted to say something about last night, sir," I replied in a whisper. "Surely it was better I should prevent you from doing what was in your mind."
He took the cup of coffee from the man, and began to drink it, without replying to me. I went on speaking after a moment or two in an eager whisper.
"He lied to you, the young lady was not there atall," I said. "More than that, he's failed to get hold of her, and he's giving up the game. He goes abroad to-morrow. And I don't know where the young lady is."
He looked at me over the cup he held, and spoke sternly. "It's a lie—and you know it," he said slowly. "Look me in my eyes now—fair and square—and tell me that he's going away."
I suppose I was never a good hand at that business of deceit; I tried now to raise my eyes to his; tried to get some words out that should bravely defend the statement I had made. But the words would not come, and my eyes fell. I turned away hurriedly, and I heard his derisive laughter echoing after me as I went. I knew that I had only made matters worse.
I had gone but a few yards when he overtook me; seized me roughly by the shoulder, and swung me round, so that I faced him. "You are his servant and his slave," he said contemptuously, "and so I suppose you must lie for the sake of your bread and butter. But tell him that his lies won't serve him; tell him that my mind is as firmly made up about him as it ever will be about anything. I know he's hiding from me—but that shan't serve him. Tell him from me that I mean to kill him, just as I said I would. It's his body for her soul: a fair exchange!"
I would have protested further, but he waved me aside impatiently, and strode off into the darkness. I wondered then if there was any man in London that morning quite so miserable as I was: any man who had failed in everything he had undertaken as I had failed. I had started out so well, with such high hopes and such high ideals—and, lo! they had all come to nothing, and it was written that I was to fail again.
I carried that thought with me through all thelong day. It was with me when presently I went to Murray Olivant's flat, and stood with apparent humility before him, while he looked through his letters and toyed with his breakfast; it was with me when he put the money into my hands that was to pay, in part, for his trick—that money with which I was to purchase the steamer tickets. He had decided to go by a comparatively small vessel to the Mediterranean; or, at all events, to let it be thought that he was going by that vessel. I remember that it was called theEaglet; and he kept up that mad trick so that he was even careful as to the choosing of his cabin. I was supposed to accompany him, and a berth was engaged for me.
I went back to him later in the day, carrying the tickets with me. I found the place in disorder, and the manservant covering everything up, and locking drawers and cupboards; Olivant himself was destroying a great mass of letters. So thorough was the business that I observed with some surprise some new clothing, of a cheaper and commoner pattern than that usually worn by him; it was only after the manservant had left the room that he told me what this clothing was intended for.
"I do everything thoroughly, Tinman," he said, with a chuckle. "Everything here is packed up and left; Murray Olivant walks out of the place, and disappears from that moment. The world believes he goes on board theEaglet, to start for a pleasure cruise. As a matter of fact he goes in those clothes"—he pointed to the new garments I had before noticed—"and he turns up in another place, and under another name. You will know that other place, because you will be there with me; and Jervis Fanshawe will know it also; but that's all. I shall not have a scrap of paper about me, nor a mark on my clothes by whichany one can point to me and say, 'That's Murray Olivant!' I'm going to begin a new life with that sweet child Barbara (she's bound to be found; she'll be glad enough to come back to me)—and I shall keep that life up for just as long as I wish. I'm taking money enough to last me, in a modest way, until I resurrect Murray Olivant, and bring him back again."
I was busied all that day on various errands for him; it was late in the evening when he suddenly put a newspaper before me, and pointed to an advertisement. "That's the place for me," he said; "top rooms, and quiet and secluded. Do you know Lincoln's Inn Fields?"
I stared at the paper; it shook and rustled in my fingers. "I wouldn't go there," I said, while a great trembling seized upon me. "I wouldn't go there if I were you."
"Why, what's the matter with the man?" He snatched the paper from me, and laughed. "Do you think the place will be too dreary, or too quiet? Or do you think I might see ghosts there?"
"I think you might see ghosts there," I replied.
"Well, I'm not afraid of that," he retorted. "Go at once and see the people; if the rooms are all right, take them. Here's money; pay a quarter in advance. You need not give any names, or anything of that sort; it's a small place, and the money ought to be sufficient."
It was at that moment that there came a knock at the outer door; immediately afterwards Jervis Fanshawe was announced. Murray Olivant, who seemed elated at the prospect of his new adventure, pointed to the advertisement, and showed it to Fanshawe.
"Tinman here doesn't seem to like the idea of Lincoln's Inn Fields," said Olivant with a laugh. "What's your opinion, Fanshawe?"
Jervis Fanshawe stared at the newspaper for a momentor two; then he raised his eyes to mine. It seemed in that moment, as he looked at me, that there was a frightened look in his face; I wondered if he read my own thoughts. "Yes," he said, turning to Olivant, and handing back the newspaper, "I should think Lincoln's Inn Fields is the very spot."
I secured the rooms within an hour. It was strange to me to walk again in that place, over whose pavements my uneasy feet had trod twenty years before, that time I waited for Gavin Hockley. I was glad to find that the rooms were not in that building; but they were too close at hand to be pleasant. I walked away, with the old thoughts beginning to surge up again in my brain; and once again I was desperately afraid. I knew that some grim Fate was driving me on; I could only set my weak shoulders against the storm that pressed me forward; but I was powerless to stay the force of it.
I came away from the flat, leaving Jervis Fanshawe and the manservant still there. I understood that the manservant was to be sent away that night, and the flat locked up. I walked to the lodging that the elder Barbara had taken; I felt that I owed it to her to tell her at least that her child was gone, but was safe from Murray Olivant. The decent woman who opened the door to me told me that "Mrs. Avaline" was at home; it had only occurred to me at the last moment to ask for her in that name she had given herself.
Barbara met me at the door of the room; she held out her hands to me, and seemed, I thought, strangely excited. Nor would she for a moment let me into the room; she stood there looking at me, and I felt her hands tremble in mine.
"Guess—guess what has happened!" she whispered; and at the look in her eyes I suddenly felt myself trembling too. I thrust her aside, and went quicklyinto the little shabby room. A lamp was burning on the table, and some needlework lay beside it. And on a couch under the window lay that younger Barbara—peacefully sleeping.
I stood there, looking down at her like a man in a dream; I could not understand what had happened. It was only when the mother began to speak to me in her quiet voice that I understood how she had found the child.
"I wanted to see you—to be near you; I went to that address you had told me, where you were living with Fanshawe," she said softly. "I waited about, afraid to go in; and while I waited there I saw you come out with the man I suppose must have been Murray Olivant—the man I had seen down at Hammerstone Market. I could not speak to you then; I waited in the hope that you would return. And while I waited I saw this dear girl come stealing out of the place like a frightened ghost; I knew, of course, who she was, because I had seen her down at the old house, and because she is so like what I was so long ago. She did not know me, of course; she never will know me; but when I spoke to her she seemed to turn in her distress and fear to me instinctively. She came here with me willingly; she will be safe here for the present."
"Thank God!" I whispered, as I looked down at the sleeping girl. "This is all as it should be; now we can decide what is best to be done."
"I mean to take her back to her father," she said quietly. Then, as I started and looked at her, she shook her head quietly, and smiled. "Don't be afraid, Charlie; I'm not going back to him myself. I could not do that now. But the girl is different; the girl must go back to the home that is hers—and to her father."
"There to be found by Murray Olivant wheneverhe likes," I reminded her. "You have forgotten that. You—an unknown woman; I—a felon and an outcast; what can we do to protect her against him?" I stood there looking down at the sleeping girl; my heart was beating fast. "But I think I know the way," I said slowly.
"You know the way?" She was looking at me keenly.
"Yes, the way I took before," I whispered, without looking at her. "God is good; he has given my enemy into my hands at last!"