"Where is she now?—what became of her?" she whispered gently.
"She's dead."
She took my rough hand, and gave it a little squeeze. I opened the door to go out, and she whispered that I had comforted her, and that now she could sleep. For a little time after that I sat outside the door, with my arms round my knees, staring into the darkness, and thinking that, after all, God had blessed me rather more than I deserved. In the grey dawn I stole up to my room at the top of the house, and lay down, dressed as I was, on the bed to snatch some further sleep.
It was late next morning when I heard Murray Olivant bawling my name, and demanding with oaths to know where I was. Somehow or other some of my dread of the man had left me; I had a power I had not before guessed at. I went to find him, and stood before him—a stronger man than he, in the sense that I was calm and silent, while he raved at me, and cursed me, and showed himself a meaner, smaller thing with every word he spluttered out. And I think he knew it, and chafed at that violence he could not repress.
"There's something I want to say to you," he said at last when he had exhausted himself a little. "You threatened me last night—actually had the audacity to threaten me, and to boast about what you had done, and what you might do again."
"I did not threaten you—and I did not boast," I said slowly. "And I only told you that I was afraid—afraid of what I might do."
"Well, that was a threat. You talked of killing a man—hinted that you might do it again. You know what I told you would happen if you gave me anytrouble. I said I'd kick you into the gutter—and I'll do it. You can go to-day; get back to London, and shiver in its streets—sell matches or beg. I've done with you."
"Not yet," I replied, shaking my head. "You will not get rid of me so easily as that, Mr. Olivant."
He stared at me with a dropping jaw. "Why, what the devil do you mean?"
"I mean that you will find it better to have me with you than against you," I said. "If you wanted an ordinary servant, you should have taken an ordinary man; you have taken me, who have nothing to lose, and who troubles nothing about what he may gain. Don't you understand," I asked impatiently, "that I have stood under the shadow of the gallows, with Death beckoning; what more have I to be afraid of? If you kick me into the gutter, as you term it, I shall only rise up again, and fight against you. More than that, I might do worse; I might kill you if you gave me too much trouble."
I must say one thing for Murray Olivant; he had a sense of humour. He stared at me for a moment or two after I had finished speaking, and then sat down, and began to laugh. He laughed more and more as he let my words sink into his mind; and finally sat up and looked at me, shaking his head whimsically as he did so.
"My word!—but you're a cool one!" he exclaimed. "So you think I'm not to shake you off—eh? I'm not to have a word to say about the matter; you're to play a sort of old-man-of-the-sea to my Sindbad, are you? Well, I think I like you for it—and I think you may be more useful because you have so little to lose. Only you mustn't threaten, and you mustn't get in my way again when I've a joke afoot. We'll say no more about it; we'll forget it." Hegot to his feet, and went striding about the room, laughing to himself as at some excellent jest. "You might even kill me! Oh, Lord—what a man I've saddled myself with, to be sure!"
I stood still, waiting until he should have got over the fit of laughter that was upon him; I waited grimly for whatever other move might come. Presently he sidled up to me, and with his arms akimbo dug at me sideways with one elbow, and grinned into my face.
"Protector of the poor, and the weak, and the helpless—eh?" he taunted. "A sort of elderly Cupid, setting out in the world fully equipped save for the wings. Tell me, Cupid—what plot is hatching? What are they going to do—these lovers?"
"I didn't know they were lovers," I replied. "I thoughtyou'dseen to that."
"And I have," he exclaimed, with sudden heat. "You may be sure of that. The boy may fly into tantrums, and the girl may sulk and cry—but the poor folks can't do anything. I hold the moneybags, and I can afford to let these people weep, and gnash their teeth, and cry out against me; I shall have my own way in the long run."
"You always do, you know," I reminded him slyly.
"Of course I do, Tinman," he assented. "But won't you tell me what plot's afoot, or what the simpletons think of doing? What's the game: do they kill me first, and run away together afterwards—or is old Savell to be brought to his knees—or what's the game?"
"I don't know of any game," I said. "As you have already said, the game's in your hands, and I expect you'll win it in the long run."
"Of course I shall," he cried quickly. "Only you'rea devilish sly fox, and I'm rather suspicious that you may be thinking of playing tricks. For your own sake, Tinman, you'd better not."
So soon as he had dismissed me I went off to try and find Barbara. My position in the house did not make that an easy task; for she was with her father, and I had no excuse for breaking in upon them. I went into the grounds at last, in the hope that she might come out there, and that I might have a chance to speak to her. But I had to wait for a long time before she came towards me, trailing through the dead leaves dejectedly enough. I watched her out of sight of the house, and then went towards her.
She seemed glad to see me—grateful for what I had done, and eager to thank me again. I urged upon her the necessity for seeing young Millard at the earliest possible moment, and making some arrangement with him.
"I dare not go away from the house," she said, glancing at its windows through the trees. "I am watched everywhere, and I might bring fresh trouble upon you. After last night, Tinman, I am afraid to see those two men together."
I thought for a moment or two, and then turned quickly to her. "I can see him," I said, "and arrange with him what is best to be done. I'll slip down into the town and try to find him. You must get away, both of you; there is nothing else to be done." I was as eager as a boy about it; I wanted to see them running off into the world, hand in hand, to face it together.
"Go to him then," she said, "and tell him that I will do anything and everything he suggests. Only pray him, for the love of God, to let it be soon. I cannot stay much longer in this house."
I had just begun to assure her that I would slipaway at the earliest opportunity when a change in her face warned me that some one was approaching us; I turned guiltily, and saw, not a dozen yards away, the man Dawkins, as smiling as ever, lighting a cigarette. I did not know where he had sprung from, nor how long he had seen us talking together; from his appearance he might have been taking an aimless stroll through the grounds, and so have lighted upon us suddenly.
"Good morning, Miss Savell," he said, ignoring me, and waving a hand to the girl. "We've been disconsolate without you—wondering what had happened to you, and all that sort of thing."
"I have been with my father," she replied hastily, making a movement towards the house. "You will not forget, Tinman," she called back to me, as though reminding me of some order she had given me.
"No, miss; I will not forget," I said. I watched her as she walked back to the house, with Dawkins strolling beside her, evidently talking airily as he waved his cigarette.
It must have been an hour after that, and I had not yet found an opportunity to get away, when Murray Olivant summoned me, and told me he was starting at once for London. I found him in a room with Dawkins—the latter was seated in an armchair, reading a newspaper and smoking; he took no notice of Olivant or of myself. Olivant, for his part, seemed worried about something; mentioned to me quite confidentially that he had decided to go to London that day, on account of some sudden business he had forgotten. He was quite cordial with me; told me to put a few things together in a bag, as he did not expect to be back that night.
I saw in a moment in this the golden opportunity forwhich we were all waiting. With Olivant out of the way we might do anything; for I did not reckon Dawkins in the matter at all. If I thought about him in any way, it was as an amiable fool, who had nothing to do with the matter.
I packed the bag, and then quite naturally suggested that I should carry it to the station in the town. Olivant thanked me quite cordially, and said he should be glad; and I laughed to think how easily and naturally I was going to get down into the town of Hammerstone Market, to find young Arnold Millard. I think I rather despised Murray Olivant for being so simple over the matter.
"Why don't you come with me, Dawkins?" asked Olivant at the last moment as we were starting. "There's nothing for you to do here, you know."
"No, thanks," growled the other from behind his paper. "I'm jolly comfortable."
"Oh, all right," retorted his friend. "Ring the bell if you want anything; Tinman will look after you."
We set off to walk to the station; I understood from Olivant that there was a train he would quite easily catch. I wondered what he would say when he returned from London on the following day, and discovered, as in all probability he would, that the two poor birds he was trying to crush had flown. I was quite exultant over the way things were playing into my hand; I found myself mapping out in my mind exactly what I should say to him, when on his return he should demand an explanation.
He had some ten minutes to wait when we reached the station; he lit a cigar, and began to pace up and down the platform, with his mind evidently bent on the expedition before him. I stood obediently near his bag, waiting to hand it to him when thetrain should arrive, and going over in my own mind how I should set about the task before me. Suddenly Olivant strolled towards me, watch in hand.
"You'd better not wait, Tinman," he said, more kindly than he had spoken yet. "It's a cold morning, and there's no necessity for you to stand about here. Thanks for carrying the bag; I can manage with it now."
"I don't mind waiting in the least," I began; but he pushed me away good-naturedly.
"Nonsense; get off with you!" he cried. "And don't forget what I told you about being watchful," he added in a lower tone, and with his hand on my shoulder. "Not one alone, mind—but everybody."
I went out of the station, and took my way down into the town. I had scarcely gone a hundred yards when I heard the whistle of the train in the distance; I stood still in the little High Street, pleasing myself with the thought of how at this moment Olivant was opening a carriage door, and now was in the carriage ready for his journey. I heard the whistle of the train again, and knew that he had started on that long journey to London, and that I was free. I laughed to myself, and turned round, and went on my way in search of Arnold Millard.
I failed to find him at the little hotel in the town; they told me there that he had gone out, and would probably not be back until much later in the day. I chafed at the delay, because I knew that time was of value, and whatever had to be done must be done before Olivant returned. While I was standing in the High Street, wondering what I should do, I felt a touch upon my arm, and turned, to see Jervis Fanshawe standing beside me. He beckoned to me mysteriously, and I followed him down a little lanewhich turned off from the main street of the town, and led down among some tumbledown cottages. There he stopped, and fronted me, with a nervous grin upon his face.
"Well, Brother Derelict," he said, "and how are things going with our friend? What takes Murray Olivant to London just now?"
"Business," I replied shortly. "He won't be back until to-morrow."
"And in the meantime you plot mischief—eh?" he suggested. "Oh, I know you—and I know what you mean to do—and I don't blame you. Serve the brute while it pays you, but work behind his back all the same. That's the ticket."
"I don't understand you," I replied, looking at him steadily. "I've just seen Mr. Olivant off at the station, and I'm now going back to my duties at the house."
"Exactly," he sneered, as he thrust his face into mine. "And that was the reason that you went into theGeorgejust now, and so anxiously inquired concerning the whereabouts of our young friend Millard—eh? I was in the bar at the side, and heard every word. Idiot!—why can't you be more candid with me? I only want to work with you; I'm not against you."
"I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "At all events, I mean to do whatever is in my mind solely on my own account. I'm fighting now not only for the boy, but for my own dead boyhood, away back in the past. It won't be wise of you if you attempt to stop me."
"My dear Charlie, I'd be the last to stop you," he asserted, seizing my hand and giving it a squeeze. "We work together; our interests are the same. Trust me, Charlie—you'll never regret it."
"I don't intend to trust any one," I said. Then, in an incautious moment, I added exultantly—"I mean to snatch both these young people out of the clutches of Olivant; I mean to set them free. And not you nor all the world shall prevent me."
"My dear boy, I wouldn't prevent you, even if I could. It won't be half a bad thing to do; I shall be quite pleased for you to take a rise out of Murray Olivant; I hate the man."
"Your feelings have changed somewhat too rapidly," I said. "I won't trust you, Fanshawe."
"Well, I'll help you, whether you like it or not," he said, with a laugh. "Young Millard has gone down into the woods. I followed him there not an hour ago."
I looked at the man doubtfully; I did not know what to believe. I was so utterly alone in this business of plotting and counterplotting, and I wanted so much to rely on some one for help and advice. I decided, however, that I would have nothing to do with him; with a nod I turned away.
"You'll be sorry," he called after me. "I could help you if you'd let me."
I took no notice of him; I went on my way steadily. I began even to regret that I had made that bombastic speech to him about snatching the two young people out of the clutches of Murray Olivant. I saw that there was the more need for hurry; I went on with long strides towards the wood.
After a long search I found the boy; he was making rough sketches of a part of the wood, not with any serious intention to work, I am convinced, but because he hoped that Barbara might pass that way. I stole upon him unawares; suddenly presented myself before him, and blurted out what I wanted to say.
"Mr. Millard, I have been looking for you everywhere," I said. "It is on account of Miss Barbara Savell."
He turned to me quickly. "Do you come from her?" he asked.
"Yes—and no," I faltered. "Last night, after you had gone, the man Olivant tried to insult her; I was so lucky as to be in the way—and I—I stayed near her for the rest of the night. You must take her away from that house at once."
"I'll go to the house first, and see Olivant," he exclaimed fiercely, as he began to pack up his things. "Tried to insult her, did he?" While he spoke he was savagely tugging at straps and buckles, in a violent hurry to start.
"Stop!" I entreated. "In the first place, Olivant is not there; he's gone to London."
"Are you sure?" He looked up at me quickly.
"I have seen him start myself," I assured him. "This is your opportunity; let him come back to find the bird flown. If the child were here, she would be able to explain to you so much better than I can—would be able to tell you that I am her friend and yours—fighting for you both, for a reason you will never understand. You must take her away, out of that frightful house; you must marry her—and face the world with her."
"Why—has she told you—about me?" He had got to his feet, and was looking at me curiously. "What has she told you?"
"That she loves you," I replied simply. "I that am but a poor servant—a nobody in the world—tell you this, and beg you with all the strength that is in me to take her away. She will go gladly; she will make your life what it could never be without her."
"You're a strange man," he said wonderingly."But if she trusts you—well, so will I. What is best to be done?"
"There is another man in the house—left behind by Olivant," I replied eagerly—"and he will have his instructions, no doubt, to be on guard. If you will wait till darkness sets in, I will arrange that Miss Barbara shall slip out of the house, and meet you where you like. It must be to-night; to-morrow will be too late."
"Why could she not come earlier?" demanded the boy. "There is the rest of the day before us; surely she could slip away?"
"And be called for by her father, or watched and followed by the man Dawkins," I reminded him. "No; if she slips away after her father and Dawkins have settled down for the evening, there will be time for you to get to the junction, and get a train from there to London; she will not be missed for hours—perhaps not till the morning—and then pursuit would be useless. Give me a message to her, and I will go back at once and deliver it."
"Could you not manage to bring her to me, Tinman?" he suggested suddenly. "If they were watching, it would not do for me to come too near the house, and I do not like the thought of her wandering about in the darkness by herself."
"Yes, I could do that easily," I replied, "as Olivant is away. But you must arrange a meeting-place."
"I will be at the point on the road where the path leaves it to enter this wood," he said, after a moment's thought. "I can stand back among the trees there, and watch you coming. I will not leave that spot until you come, however late it is. The rest must be a matter of chance. If we can't reach the junction in time for the train, I'll find a cottage somewhere,and some good woman into whose hands I can put the girl. I'll write a note to her now, just to tell her that she is to put herself in your hands."
He tore a sheet of paper from his sketch-book, and rapidly wrote. "That is just to tell her that I will be waiting, and that you are to bring her to me," he said, as he folded the paper and gave it to me. "Some day, Tinman, my dear wife and I will be able to thank you. I wish I knew why you have done this."
"Perhaps some day you may know that too," I replied, as I thrust the paper into my pocket. "I shall be at the spot you mention at about eight o'clock."
I went back to the house, and was fortunate enough to find Barbara at once. She was crossing the hall, and I stopped her eagerly, and began to whisper the message, even while I fumbled clumsily in my pockets for the note.
"I've seen Mr. Millard, and he has arranged everything," I began. "You are to meet to-night at the end of the path leading into the wood——"
"Yes, I shall want you to wait at lunch, Tinman," she broke in loudly, and drawing away a little. I knew at once that we had a listener; as I bowed and turned away, I saw the man Dawkins standing in the doorway of the dining-room. He smiled with that dazzling smile of his at Barbara; transferred the smile to me when he asked me to be good enough to get him a whisky and soda. There was nothing for it but for me to turn away; I saw his eyes following me, and I knew that I dared not pass the note to the girl then. As she moved away a little, however, I went after her with a quick—"Excuse me, miss," and whispered again: "Be ready at eight at the outer gate of the grounds. I will be there to take you."
I strove during the remainder of that day to deliverup that twisted scrap of paper I had in my pocket; but I was baulked on every occasion. Now it was Savell who came suddenly upon us as I was approaching Barbara; now it was Dawkins, strolling about the house, and bringing his smile to bear suddenly round a corner. Once when I went to her room I found it empty, and I dared not leave the thing there. The day wore on, and I was counting the hours until the moment should arrive when I could meet her in the grounds.
It was more than half-past seven, and the house was very still, when I thought I heard a noise in one of the rooms above. Thinking it might be Barbara moving about, and that here was the opportunity to speak to her, I stole cautiously upstairs. The sound came from Murray Olivant's bedroom; I opened the door quickly, and walked in. Some one was standing at the further side of the room, in the dim light that came through the windows; but before I could see who it was, I felt myself seized in a powerful grip from behind, and forced to my knees. I was too surprised even to cry out; but I had a vague idea that something dreadful had happened to me and to my schemes, when the figure at the further end of the room twisted quickly round, and turned up the gas, which had been burning as a mere tiny speck of light. Then I saw that the man was Murray Olivant.
I was going to cry out in earnest then, with some vague idea of raising an alarm, when I felt a twisted cloth forced into my mouth and tied tightly behind; my arms were already secured. So I remained on my knees, helpless; I turned my head, and saw Dawkins standing beside me, smiling as delightfully as ever.
"Thank you, Dawkins," said Murray Olivant, with a nod; "that was rather neatly done. Now,will you have the goodness to run through his pockets, and see if you can find anything?"
I made a feeble attempt to struggle, but it was useless. The deft fingers of Mr. Dawkins swiftly brought to light the note that young Millard had written but a few hours before; he tossed it across to Olivant. The latter opened it slowly, and read what was written there by the light of the gas jet. Then he turned to me, and shook his head.
"Oh, you sly devil!" he said in a whisper.
I crouched there on the floor, with my arms securely pinioned behind me, and unable to cry out. The man Dawkins had seated himself, after making certain that he had secured me; Murray Olivant had finished his perusal of the note, and was standing tapping his lips with it, evidently deep in thought. He pulled out his watch and looked at it; slipped the watch back into his pocket, and turned again to the note. He read it aloud—with interpolations of his own.
"My Dearest(like his impudence, I must say!),—"That good fellow Tinman (oh, you sly devil!) will tell you what I have decided to do. I will be waiting at the path that leads into the wood at about eight o'clock; you are to come with Tinman without fear (brave, sweet, kind Tinman, so very useful in a crisis!). He will bring you to me, and after that you will have nothing to trouble about. Trust me as much as I know you love me, and all will be well. Until we meet in an hour or two,"Ever your own,"Arnold."
"My Dearest(like his impudence, I must say!),—
"That good fellow Tinman (oh, you sly devil!) will tell you what I have decided to do. I will be waiting at the path that leads into the wood at about eight o'clock; you are to come with Tinman without fear (brave, sweet, kind Tinman, so very useful in a crisis!). He will bring you to me, and after that you will have nothing to trouble about. Trust me as much as I know you love me, and all will be well. Until we meet in an hour or two,
"Ever your own,"Arnold."
He twisted up the note, and came slowly across the room to where I crouched waiting. While hetalked to me, in that hard deadly level voice of his, he launched a kick at me every now and then to punctuate what he said.
"You thought I was safely out of the way."—A kick.—"You meant to play me false, and send this boy flying, with love for company—eh?"—Another kick.—"You dog!—do you think you're likely to win in such a game as this, when you're fighting against me?"—Another kick more savage than the others.—"Look at him, Dawkins; see how brave he is now!"
If I could have got my hands free, I know that I should have made a fight for it, and that in my despair I might have killed or maimed one or other of the men. But I was too tightly bound to be able to move; Dawkins had most skilfully knotted a long bath towel about my elbows, so that my shoulders ached with the strain upon them. I struggled to my feet, and leant against the wall, glancing from one man to the other, and wondering what they meant to do.
"I set you to watch, my dear Tinman," said Murray Olivant between his teeth; "and the better to be sure of you, I had you watched also. You've interested yourself a little too much in regard to this young lady, who, at the present moment I expect, is waiting in the cold and the darkness for you. That's a pleasant thought, isn't it? There they stand—the pair of them; the girl, impatient to hear your footstep; the boy, shivering at the edge of the wood, waiting for you both. Think of that, Tinman; they so near together, and never by any chance to meet."
I stood there, with the sweat dropping off me, straining vainly at my bonds, and striving to work the gag loose with my teeth. Olivant laughed at my struggles; flicked the note at me, and went on derisively—
"Our friend Dawkins here gave me the tip this morning, and I decided that it might be a good idea to make you believe that you'd got the day and the night to yourself. I didn't get into the train, and my luggage is still at the station. I came back, after a decent interval, and waited for you, Tinman. Now the only thing to be decided—and we have just ten minutes in which to decide it, unless we are to keep the lady waiting in the cold—is what to do in regard to these two people, who stand so far apart, longing for you to bring them together. I can't remove your gag, Tinman, or you might shout; but I should like to know what you would do if the choice rested with you."
I stood there, enduring a torture greater than any I had endured yet. I seemed to see Arnold Millard standing at the edge of the wood, waiting and longing and hoping; saw the girl watching the house in which I was held prisoner, and miserably blaming me in her heart for having turned traitor. The two men in the room with me must have guessed what was passing in my mind; they were whispering together, and shaking with laughter.
"But you shan't go disappointed, Tinman; that wouldn't be fair," exclaimed Olivant after a pause. "You may not go yourself to meet the lady, but you shall send a letter to her; we must be polite at all costs. You shall explain that you are unavoidably detained; more than that, you shall send some one in your place. Dawkins shall take up the tale you have begun; Dawkins is quite the ladies' man at a pinch—aren't you, Dawkins?"
"I'm always for a bit of sport," exclaimed Mr. Dawkins, grinning.
Murray Olivant went across to a window, and pulled aside the curtain; he looked cautiously out into thegrounds. After a moment he turned, and jerked his head, as a sign to the other man to join him.
"There she is, Dawkins—there by the gate," he said, in a low voice. "See how patiently she waits—how certain she is that the faithful Tinman will not fail her in this hour of need! You can see the moonlight on her, Dawkins—and mighty pretty she looks!"
I went across the room suddenly, and fell upon my knees before the man, and raised my face to his. I could not speak, but I tried to throw into my expression the prayer to him that was in my heart. He watched me as he might have watched some one with whom he was not concerned at all; touched the man Dawkins on the arm, to call his attention to me. Then suddenly his manner changed; he bent down and looked into my eyes, and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"You have set your puny strength against mine, and have learnt your lesson," he said. "Now you shall hear what I mean to do—you shall understand what you and the impudent dog who pretends to love her have brought upon her. I meant to marry her; that was part of the plan I had formed, if she had behaved properly and as her father wished. But her kisses have been for her lover, and for that she shall pay. I'll have her taken away to-night under false pretences—I'll drag her down through the mud; she shall crawl to my feet, and beg me to kill her for very shame of what she is. And then I'll send her back to the boy she set before me. And you, Tinman—you, my jail-bird—you will have done it!"
I knelt there in agony, praying madly and vainly that God would set me free or strike me dead. Olivant had turned to Dawkins; together they were examining the note they had found upon me.
"It's scarcely likely that she knows this fellow'swriting," said Olivant, indicating me with a glance. "If you're careful you can take a note to her that will seem to come from him; you're a plausible rascal, Dawkins, and she may fall into the trap. You know where the boy's waiting; we'll tell her the plan's been changed, and she's to go in the other direction. Take her to London, and wait instructions there. Now for a little forgery in a gentle cause."
They chuckled together over the note that was to be signed with my name. It was short enough, and they brought it to me that I might hear it read.
"I am suspected, and dare not leave the house. I have had to change the plan at the last moment, but have been lucky enough to find a good friend to help you and Mr. Millard. I thought he was a friend only of Mr. Olivant, but in that I was mistaken. Trust him completely; he will take you straight to Mr. Millard. This is the only way in which it can be managed; if I left the house now I should be followed."Tinman."
"I am suspected, and dare not leave the house. I have had to change the plan at the last moment, but have been lucky enough to find a good friend to help you and Mr. Millard. I thought he was a friend only of Mr. Olivant, but in that I was mistaken. Trust him completely; he will take you straight to Mr. Millard. This is the only way in which it can be managed; if I left the house now I should be followed.
"Tinman."
"By Jove—that's devilish clever!" exclaimed Mr. Dawkins, looking at it in admiration. "The only thing is—I'm afraid the lady may be suspicious."
"That's quite unlikely," said Murray Olivant impatiently. "The mere fact of your carrying a note signed by Tinman shows that you must know all about the business, and you can only have known all about it from him. To London with her; I'll join you in twenty-four hours, after I've decided what to do with this fellow and with my worthy half-brother. I must tread warily, for I have two desperate men to settle accounts with." He laughed, and kicked me softly again.
Dawkins shook hands with him, and went out ofthe room, closing the door after him. Olivant turned the key in the door, as though he feared I might run out, bound and gagged as I was, to try to stop her; and indeed that thought had been in my mind. Then he took up his position at the window, and with a mocking smile on his face began to describe what was happening.
"She starts and turns her head, Tinman, when she hears his step," he began. "Now she comes slowly towards him; they meet, and she is listening intently. Now she reads the note; in the politest way, my dear Tinman, he has lighted a match, and is shading it with his hands while she reads. I know you're praying hard, Tinman, that she may suspect, and refuse to go; I'm praying hard that she may be fool enough to believe, and to trust herself to Dawkins. I wonder which prayer will avail?"
I was indeed praying hard, but there was no hope in my heart that my prayer would be answered. He looked again out of the window, and laughed, and nodded at me.
"She has hesitated but for a moment," he said. "They move towards the gate; he opens it for her. She looks back at the house for a moment—see, I kiss my fingers to her, although she does not know it!—now they are passing out. The gate shuts. They are gone."
He left the window, and dropped into a chair, and burst into a shout of laughter. I crouched on the floor at his feet, with my arms bound behind me, and with my head bowed on my breast.
"I know your story, Tinman," he said at last, when his mirth had subsided a little; "Fanshawe told me something of it. You were a Quixote, I believe; you killed a man because he spoke ill of a woman, or would have done her harm. Look at you now!—a brokenworn-out thing, with all your bombast and bravado gone; all your threats and your heroics mere words blown away by the wind. And if you were free—what would you not do?—what doughty deeds of heroism—eh? And behold, the excellent Dawkins is on his way to London, with a trusting girl for company; behold also—I shall follow very shortly. Bow your head, Tinman, for you are indeed a ghastly failure!"
After that for a time he busied himself about the room, casting a word at me now and then over his shoulder. I had got to my feet, and was sitting dejectedly enough on a chair, thinking miserably of what I had done; I no longer felt the discomfort of the gag or the ache in my shoulders; I was past physical suffering of any kind. After what seemed a long time, Olivant went across to the door and unlocked it; stood for a moment there, looking back at me contemptuously.
"You'll be safe here for a time, Tinman," he said. "A little later I'll come and release you. I'm sorry for your young friend, shivering in the wood and waiting hopelessly; but some one had to suffer. And when I see that other friend of yours—sweet little Barbara—in London, I'll exonerate you, and explain to her that it wasn't really your fault. Make yourself as comfortable as you can, Tinman, under disagreeable circumstances."
He took the key out of the lock, and transferred it to the outside of the door; then went away, locking me in. It did not seem to matter; I had failed hopelessly, and I did not mind what became of me. I had striven to do so much—had flung myself into this business with the ardour of a youth; but my youth was a thing of the past, and I was only a tired old man, easily beaten in an unequal struggle.
I sat there for a long time, picturing horribly enough to myself all that might be happening to those in whom I was interested. I saw the boy waiting among the trees, and listening for every sound that floated to him—now certain that I was coming with the girl fast along the road to him—now blaming me bitterly because by carelessness or intentionally I had betrayed him. I saw the girl, too, in the hands of the scoundrel with whom she had so willingly set off on a journey that must end in disaster; and I ground my teeth on the gag that had been forced between them, in bitter despairing rage at the man who seemed to hold us all in the hollow of his hand.
Slowly the shame and degradation of the thing seemed to drop into my soul like a subtle poison. In a world that should be fair and bright—a world made for lovers—it was horrible and unnatural to think that such a creature as Murray Olivant should triumph over love and beauty and purity. Poor sorry knight that I was, for ever tilting at such monsters as himself, I had already been worsted once in the battle, and rendered, as it seemed, for ever useless; and now again, when I would be taking up the fight with fresh vigour, I had been flung at the first encounter, and my enemy triumphed. What a poor sorry spectacle I had made of myself, and how little good I had really done!
I began to have again that bitter rage in my heart that had been in it twenty years before, and had meant the death of a man. I found myself saying, over and over again, as I sat bound and helpless, that this man should die, no matter what the penalty might be—that I would wipe him off the face of the fair earth on which he crawled, and would leave the way clear for this new Barbara, and for the boy who had striven bravely to carry the flag I once had borne. Nothingcould happen to me worse than had already happened; I felt in that hour almost as though God had brought me from my prison, and set me here to do this thing. And I had been chosen because no worse evil could befall me than I had already suffered; I had touched the depths, and could go no lower. Yes, I was a thing apart, and the way before me was as clear as it had been twenty years before.
I set to work systematically to free myself of my bonds. Getting to my feet, I stumbled stiffly towards the dressing-table in the room, and on the sharp edge at one corner of it began to saw the towel that held me, backwards and forward, until I had torn a hole in it. After that I worked frantically—up and down and across and across—until I felt it giving in places, and until I had torn a great jagged hole in it. It took a long time, but presently I was able to feel that the towel was gradually giving way; then at last, as I worked, I was suddenly flung forward, as the last strand started, and my hands fell to my sides. The rest was an easy matter, and I was presently able to get rid of my gag.
The door was locked, and I dared not break it down; I did not know whether Olivant was still in the house. I pulled back the curtain at the window, and looked out, after first extinguishing the light in the room. The room was on the first floor, and the drop to the ground not an alarming one; I crawled on to the broad window-ledge, and worked myself over it, gripping with my hands. After hanging there for a moment I let go, and dropped, and fell without damage to the ground below.
At first I did not know what to do. On an impulse I was for setting out for the woods, there to find Arnold Millard, and acquaint him with what had happened. But in the very act of doing that I drew back, trembling; for I seemed to know what must inevitably happenthen. Living, as I seemed to do, in the intimate thoughts and hopes and hatreds of the boy, I knew that what must happen would be an encounter between Murray Olivant and the younger man; and whatever punishment must be meted out to Olivant must, I felt, be left to me, and not to the boy. Before I stirred at all in the matter I must have time to think, and I must, above all, find out whether Murray Olivant was still in the house.
I could not, of course, get into the house again in the ordinary way; I must needs creep about the grounds, and watch. I went round to the terrace, and drew near enough to look in at the windows, and to see Lucas Savell sitting alone in the room, with his hands folded on his lap, and his head nodding to slumber. I tried gently to unfasten one of the long French windows, but in vain; and I was just turning away, when I saw him wake up, and shake his head, and blink his eyelids, and look about him. I saw him go to the door of the room, and apparently call out to some one in the house; then come back, closing the door after him. He made straight for the windows, and I was only just in time to draw back out of the way. After fumbling for a moment or two with the fastenings, he got the window open, and called out into the dark garden—
"Barbara! Barbara! What's become of you?"
There was no answer, and he stood for a moment fretfully muttering to himself. I was so close to him that I heard him say that no one ever attended to his wants, and that he was a poor neglected creature, and he wished that he was dead. While he stood there, the door of the room was opened, and Olivant came in.
"What are you bawling about?" I heard him ask.
Savell turned away from the window, leaving it open. "I want Barbara," he said peevishly. "She knows I want her at this time; there are lots of thingsshe has to attend to that no one else can attend to. I'm actually left here—a poor invalid—with nothing to drink. It's a shame!"
"You're not likely to see your precious Barbara again—at all events for a long time," said Murray Olivant, leaning against a table, and looking at the other man. "So make up your mind to that."
"Eh?" Savell stared at him, with a frightened look on his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that the lady has taken matters into her own hands, and has run away with that scoundrelly half-brother of mine—young Millard," said Olivant slowly. "He's been hanging about here for a long time—before ever he came to dinner at all—and I've been afraid that something of this sort would happen. It's a pity; because I had a better fate in store for the girl, as you know."
"Yes—yes—of course I know that," said Savell feebly. "But can't they be stopped?—can't something be done?"
"I intend to do something—to-morrow," said Olivant. "It's too late to do anything to-night," he added, glancing at his watch. "Make your mind easy, my friend; I'll see that sweet Barbara comes to no harm. And if by any chance young Millard should come here, you'll understand that that's only a ruse on his part, to throw you off the scent. You'll very properly have him kicked out of the house."
I had been so intent upon what was happening in the room, and upon the words that passed between the two men, that I had been totally unaware of the fact that once again, as on another night I remembered, a shadow had detached itself from the shadows of the garden, and that what seemed to be a woman was leaning forward eagerly at the further end of the terrace, watching and listening. She had not seenme; she had crept forward step by step, and was staring into the lighted room. As Murray Olivant moved with a shiver towards the window as if to close it, she dropped back into the shadows, and was gone.
For a moment I stood there, staring after her, and vaguely calling to mind the fashion in which I had seen her before, and the white face I had seen looking into the room. Then, recovering myself, I started off quickly in pursuit—hearing her moving swiftly over the dead leaves on her way out of the grounds. Getting further away from the house, I ventured to call to her to stop; but she hastened on more quickly, breaking at last into a run, and finally disappearing among the trees. I ran on blindly, and just when I thought I had lost her stumbled against a figure standing quite still, and grasped it, and held to it. But this was not a woman; it was a man, who cried out feebly to me to let him go, and struggled in my grasp. It was Jervis Fanshawe.
"Some one ran past you—not a moment ago," I gasped. "A woman."
His face in the moonlight was ghastly white; I felt that he was trembling from head to foot. "Did you see it too?" he gasped, holding to me, and staring into my face.
I nodded. "Yes," I replied quickly. "Who was it?"
He shivered, and covered his face with his hands. "The dead come alive!" he whispered.
I thought at first that he had been scared by the hurried flight of the woman, or by my own calling to her in the darkness; above all, I was too anxious concerning what I had to do, and concerning the fugitive, to take much note of him. With an impatient exclamation I thrust him aside, and ran on quickly out of thegrounds; but when I came to the road outside I saw that it lay like a grey streak under the light of the moon, and was empty. A little frightened and shaken, I determined then and there that there was but one thing to be done; I must find the boy, and must tell him what had happened in regard to Barbara.
But even as I started on that errand I heard footsteps behind me, and saw Fanshawe—a mere tottering shadow of a man—coming along the road after me, calling to me feebly to wait. But I ran on, taking no notice of him, and presently came to the end of the path that led into the wood. I dropped down there, calling to the boy softly as I went.
He stepped out to confront me at once, and I shall remember to my dying day the look upon his face when he saw that I was alone. He held to me for a moment in the silence of the wood; then shook me roughly, and flung me aside.
"Where is she?" he demanded, staring about him like one distracted.
"Gone!" I replied, clinging to him, in dreadful fear that he might break away from me when he heard the news, and make for the house. "Spirited away to London."
He stood quite still, with his hand pressed against his forehead, staring at me dreadfully while I went on to explain what had happened, and how I had been tricked. Then, with a laugh that was almost a sob, he broke away from me, and sprang for the road. I caught him as he went, and struggled with him.
"Where are you going?" I panted.
Even before he answered the question I heard the shuffling running footsteps of Jervis Fanshawe go past us on the road above; the man was still gaspingly calling my name. The footsteps died away, and I became aware that young Millard was speaking.
"I'm going to find Murray Olivant," said the boy between his teeth. "Let me go!"
"You're too late," I lied to him. "He's gone too." For I knew that at that time it would have been madness to let him go to the house in search of his brother.
He suddenly turned from me, with all the courage gone out of him as it seemed, and broke down utterly. He leant his arm against a tree, and his head on his arm, and wept as though his heart would break; I trembled to see how the great sobs shook and rent him. I stood wringing my hands, and pleading with him in whispers to be calm, even while at the same time I was so shaken myself that I could scarcely get out the words. When presently that fit of despair had passed, he spoke to me like a man suddenly grown old.
"I shall go to London to find her," he said slowly. "If he has harmed her, then by the mother that bore us both I'll kill him. Life can be nothing to me then, and I shall not mind what happens. Look at that hand, Tinman"—he stretched it out before him, and I saw that it was still and steady as a rock—"and take note that I do not speak in any boyish anger. If he has harmed her, it will be worse than if he had killed her, for he will have killed her soul; it'll be a small vengeance to kill his body. Don't try to stop me; I shall know where to find him in London."
He sprang out on to the road, and set off at a great pace towards the town. For a few moments I strove to keep up with him, trotting by his side, and pleading brokenly with him that he would at least take time to think. But he paid no heed to anything I said; he walked straight on, staring in front of him with that set deadly look in his eyes. And after a time I was compelled from sheer exhaustion to drop behind, and to see him go on steadily before me until he was lost to sight.
I walked on feebly for a little time, perhaps with some faint hope that he might repent of his purpose, and turn back. Presently on the road before me I saw a man standing, and for a moment the wild hope sprang up in my mind that this was Arnold Millard, already hesitating; as I ran up to him, however, I saw that it was Fanshawe, who had evidently run himself to a standstill. He was muttering to himself like one possessed, laughing and trembling, and standing still to look about him and to listen. As I went up to him he took me by the arm, and spoke again those mad words he had used in the grounds of the house.
"The dead come alive, Charlie," he whispered. "As I hope for Heaven, I saw the face—there—going past me like a face in a dream. I saw her, I tell you."
"Who?" I asked, with my mind full of something else.
"Barbara," he whispered. "Not the child—butyourBarbara—myBarbara! She went past me like a spirit!"
Horrified at the mere thought, I clapped my hand upon his lips, and looked about me fearfully; for all at once it seemed almost possible that on that night of disaster the spirit of the dead woman might have come back, in the vain hope to save her child. I shuddered in the wintry wind that swept about us both on the deserted road; I peered into the shadows, awed and afraid.
"Fool!" I muttered savagely, to hide my own fears. "You don't know what you're talking about. It's the new Barbara—the child—about which we're concerned to-night. She's gone."
"And the old Barbara come back," he said; and stood there shuddering, with his face hidden in his hands.
I left him, and went back towards the house. Itseemed as though I was shaken to my very soul, as though something mysterious and wonderful was in the very air itself, threatening me. I pushed open the gate leading into the grounds, and peered in, like a little child afraid of the dark; then I went in, picking my way cautiously through the ruined and neglected garden, with my eyes fixed upon the terrace. Coming to it, I crept among the shadows, and peered in.
Murray Olivant was no longer there; but in his usual chair, with the decanter and a glass beside him, sat Lucas Savell in the lighted room in a heavy slumber. And once again from that opposite end of the terrace I saw the shadowy woman creep forward, and look into the room. With my very hair rising, as it seemed, and my limbs trembling, I took a step towards her, and called her name—
"Barbara!"
After a moment she came slowly towards me, and by the light that came from the room I looked into her eyes. Then with a great cry I fell at her feet, feeling that I held in mine warm hands of flesh and blood.
"Barbara!"
"I've come back—my dear—my dear—to save my child," said the voice of the Barbara I had loved and lost twenty years before.
Inside the lighted room the man whose name she bore started, and shook himself, and fell asleep again; outside in the cold and the darkness I knelt at the feet of the woman I loved, and bowed my face upon her hands, as I had done twenty years before in the same spot.
In some unreal dream, as it seemed, I presently found myself walking through the ruined garden in the darkness, with that shadowy figure of the woman I had loved beside me. It was a shadowy figure then, because there seemed to be nothing tangible about her; I should scarcely have been surprised if she had suddenly melted again into the shadows of the garden, and been lost to me. I found myself, broken trembling creature that I was, walking beside her fearfully, and seizing an opportunity now and then to touch her dress or her hand, to be sure that I was not dreaming. And presently it happened, happily and naturally enough, that we walked out of the place under the winter moonlight hand in hand.
I would not have you laugh at us; I would not have you think that we were old. True, I was old, in the sense that I was broken and forlorn and poor, with no one in the world to cling to, except this dear woman who had so mysteriously come back to me. So intangible had been my dreams of her at all times, that there was less of a shock to me in finding her grown older than I should have thought possible. I had pictured her always, first as being of the age I had known her as a girl, and later as having died young, and never having grown to womanhood at all. But now, as she walked beside me, I found, when I had thecourage to steal a glance at her now and then, that she had the eyes of the Barbara of old, and that the face, though changed and strengthened, was only the face of the Barbara I had loved in all its lines and in all its maturer beauty. It seemed fitting, too, that we should meet like this, with the night and the silence to ourselves; fitting that we should turn naturally towards that wood in which we had met, and presently sit down there, side by side, on a fallen tree to talk. Such poor forlorn lovers we were, that I remember regretting I had no overcoat that I could put about her; and she laughing, in the way I remembered so well, and telling me that it did not matter.
My head was bare after my escape from the house by the window; I remember that she touched my grey hair softly with her hand for a moment before she began to speak.
"My dear, I came first to the prison on the day that I knew you were to be released; I had seen it mentioned in a newspaper. But I was too late; you had already gone. And I had waited so many years, in the hope that I might take your hand, and be the first to give you welcome back to the world."
"But they told me you were dead," I whispered. "They said you had—had died at sea."
"When I came to you for the last time, in that dreadful place where they were to kill you the next day, I strove hard to keep your brave words clearly before me, and to do what you had begged me to do. It was as though you had died young, and so had ended the poor broken story of our loves; so at least I told myself. I would not have you think, my dear, that I was callous; but you had lain down your life, and I could serve you best, and serve your memory best, by taking up mine as you would have had me live it. So I went away with my husband out intothe world, and I strove hard to set aside all my memories, and all my hopes, and all my wishes; I was as a numbed thing, existing only, and striving to forget."
I looked into her eyes, and I held her hands; and it seemed as though the broken useless years dropped away from me, and that I sat there that night, cleansed and purified; I would not have changed places with any one in all the world. I had not a coin in my pocket, nor a friend in the world save this woman as forlorn as myself; but I would not have changed places with any man living that night.
"I heard, of course, that you were reprieved," she went on; "and although I was glad to feel that you still lived, it hurt me most to think that you, who loved the sun and the free air and the woods, were condemned to that death in life. But I strove always to keep my promise to you, and long after my child was born I lived with my husband, and took up my dull round of daily tasks. But by degrees a change came over Lucas Savell; he grew morose and distrustful, and only long afterwards did I understand what had changed him."
"What was it?" I asked.
"When my father prosecuted your guardian, Jervis Fanshawe, I think he heard something about the poor innocent love story that had been ours. I think Fanshawe poisoned his mind and I believe my father breathed something of his suspicions to Lucas Savell. From that time he began to treat me badly, with little petty acts of tyranny at first, and then with open slights and small degradations, until at last my health broke down. I think he became a little frightened, and at the urgent request of the doctors he took me away on a sea voyage with the child."
"But from that sea voyage you never returned," I reminded her.
"My dear, be patient, and listen," she urged gently. "On that long voyage it seemed to me that life, as I had once hoped to live it, came back to me; in the long watches of the night, when I could not sleep, I thought of you in your prison, and my life seemed a thing shameful and horrible. I remembered your gentleness; even in the prison garb in which I sometimes thought of you, you stood before me always as a king—strong and self-sacrificing and wonderful. Because a man had dared to speak ill of me, you had gone out, without a thought of the consequences, and struck him dead; there was no man I'd ever met who would have done half so much for me."
I thought of a boy who was even then setting out to do the same thing again; I shuddered as I sat there.
"At last one night the thing had become intolerable to me," she went on, in a whisper that grew sharp and eager as she remembered that time. "I made up my mind that I could no longer live the life I was living; I must get away somewhere, and hide myself; I must, if possible, begin again. It seemed to me, my dear, as though your sacrifice had been in vain; I must consecrate what was left of my life to you, and to the memory of you. We were in mid-ocean—but I made up my mind to escape."
"How did you do it?" I asked.
"There was a stewardess on board—a strong, stern, repressed woman, whose confidence I had gained, and who seemed to be deeply interested in me. I told her just so much of my story as was necessary; I swore to her that I could not and would not meet the man whose name I bore again. I told her that I would, if necessary, fling myself into the sea rather than endure his presence any longer. And she showed me a better and a simpler way, yet a harder way to bear."
She sat for a moment or two with her elbows on herknees, leaning forward, and evidently thinking deeply; I did not dare to interrupt her. I stole a hand into hers, and she clasped my hand between her own, and so held it while she went on talking.
"At her suggestion I left a note for my husband, telling him that I was tired of my life, and that I meant to end it; I implored him to be good to the child. I left the note in our cabin, and I stole out, when all the ship except those on watch above was asleep, and met my friend the stewardess. She took charge of me; and she locked me into a tiny second-class cabin that had before been empty. And for the remainder of that voyage she tended me, and brought me food, and kept me hidden."
"And your husband—Lucas Savell? What of him?" I asked.
"After the first shock I do not think he cared very much," she replied. "We had lived very unhappily; perhaps he saw in this a release. I was told by the stewardess that the ship was searched; but she managed to put them off the scent, as far as my hiding-place was concerned—smuggled me into her own quarters while the search was going on. When we reached the end of the voyage she lent me clothes and a heavy veil, and I walked out unnoticed among the crowd of passengers and the other crowd that had come to meet them. I landed in England a free woman, and I began again, under another name."
"And what was that other name?" I asked.
She laughed softly, and coloured like a girl. "Barbara Avaline," she replied. Then more quickly she added: "I would not have you think that I took that name merely for a whim; it was because I loved you, and because I felt that in spirit at least I belonged to you. I have lived quietly, and not unhappily; I had my memories to sustain me. The hardest part hadbeen, of course, the giving up of little Barbara; I almost failed in my purpose once or twice—almost went back to Savell for the sake of the child. But, thank God, I was able in all those long years to get news of her; I have been near her many and many a time—poor unhappy mother that I was!—and have known that she was well. I have had to work for my living, but that has not mattered; I might have gone mad if I had not had something to do."
"And what first brought you down here?" I asked after a pause, during which it seemed as though we sat together looking into the past.
"My father had left the business to Lucas Savell, but it was never any good in his hands. It went down and down, and I knew that Savell was borrowing money anywhere and everywhere. After a time they got quite poor—Barbara and her father—and I began to see a number of people gathering about the place, just as they say birds of prey gather when a man is dying and his hours are numbered. I did not think of Savell; I thought only of Barbara and of what might happen to her. And so, in a poor futile way, I've haunted this place, and watched her—even hungered for her more than I dare say."
"Where are you living?" I asked her.
"I have a couple of rooms at a cottage on the outskirts of the town," she said, "and I do needlework for a living. I lie hidden all day, and only come out like this when the darkness has fallen. And to think that I have seen you here before, and did not guess who you were."
"I am so changed," I reminded her sadly.
"I might have known that you would steal back to the place where for an hour or two we were happy; I might have guessed that. I have seen you once or twice about the house and the grounds, and wondered a little who you were, and why I was so strongly movedat the sight of you. But we must not think any more of ourselves," she went on eagerly—"we must think of those who have grown up to take our places."
"They have grown up to take our places indeed," I said. "The new Barbara rises up in your image, to find herself hopelessly in love with a boy who may be something like myself twenty years ago; like myself, the boy has no chance, from a worldly point of view. Some strange fate has cast us up here together, like ghosts out of the past, and it is for us to help them. That will be beautiful, Barbara, because in doing that we may mend that broken love story that was our own."
"I have thought of that, too," she replied. We had risen to our feet, and she was looking at me earnestly. "I saw Barbara go away to-night with a strange man: I was watching in the garden. She went reluctantly; I heard her question him as to whether he was sure of this and that. Tell me what it meant."
"Danger for her—ruin for her, unless she can be found," I replied. Then I told her rapidly of all that had happened that night, and of the plot that was afoot. She listened eagerly, questioning me on this detail and on that, speaking especially about the boy, and what attitude he would take in the business.
"Don't you see, Barbara," I exclaimed in a whisper—"don't you understand that he sets his feet to-night absolutely in the footmarks that were mine twenty years ago?"
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly, catching at my arm.
"Barbara, I set out twenty years ago to make a man eat his words, or to kill the lie that he had told about you. To-night this boy sets out on the same errand, with a new Barbara—your child—to inspire him. Sheis to him as pure and precious a thing as you were to me all those years ago. If he finds the man, he will strike him down, as I struck down Gavin Hockley; he will suffer as I suffered—although they may be more merciful in his case, and may take his life. Think of it!" I cried, wringing my hands as I stood there, bareheaded, trembling and helpless in the winter night—"think of it! I can do nothing, because I have no money and no strength left; you can do nothing, because you died to the world years ago, and at the best, even though you lived, you are poor and helpless as I am. While we stand here—two poor ghosts come back out of the world that is dead—this boy and girl take up the tale, and rush straight to disaster, just as we did."
"But we have come back to save her," she exclaimed quickly. "This is no time for despair, Charlie; we have a greater power given to us than you imagine. We shall work in secret—you and I—and we shall succeed. See now"—she held my hands, and looked into my eyes, and smiled encouragingly—"you are calmer already than you have been. It seems to me that the best thing we can do is to get to London at the earliest possible moment. Barbara has been taken there—the boy has gone there; this man Murray Olivant will inevitably follow. You know where he is to be found, and we may be able to trace the boy. There is nothing to be frightened of yet, Charlie; we will fight together, because we understand so much more than these other people do."
She was so wise and calm that she seemed to give me wisdom too. I presently found myself walking beside her back towards the town; it was her intention to shelter me for the night at that tiny cottage where she lived near Hammerstone Market. She had a key to the place, and we crept in silently; she gave me some poor food she had there, and insisted that I shouldstretch my weary limbs on an old couch in the sitting-room for the remainder of the night.
I slept heavily, and long before dawn, as it seemed, I found her standing beside me, gently waking me. She had prepared some steaming hot coffee, and I drank it gratefully, while she sat beside me and told me what I was to do.
"This man Murray Olivant still feels that you may be useful to him," she said; "in any case, you know too much about his plans to be lightly thrown aside. I have money here that will take you to London; you will go to those rooms where Fanshawe first took you, and you will wait there for Olivant. Do you understand?"
I said that I did, and that I would do all she suggested.
"Two things you have to remember," went on the calm voice. "The first, that the boy must be prevented, at the present time at least, from meeting Olivant; I shudder to think what might happen if they met now. Persuade Olivant to get away—to hide—anything. The second is to get hold of poor Barbara, and to bring her back to her father, if by any chance we do not find young Millard. It may happen that, if Olivant is frightened of what may befall him if the boy finds him, he may throw up the game, and get out of the way; then our course is clear. But in any case, Charlie, we must not travel together. You will go first, and I will come afterwards; we can arrange some place in which to meet in London."
She knew as little about London as I did; therefore she chose the first public place she could think of for our later meeting. I was to find her on one of the seats on the north side of Trafalgar Square, just under the terrace; it was the only place we could think of in the hurry of the moment.
I found that she had thought of everything; she had even bought an old discarded brown wideawake hat from her landlady for me, and had found out at what time the earliest train started for London. With a little money in my pocket I set off eagerly enough on my mission. I felt more hopeful than I had for many days past; I somehow felt that together we must succeed.
It was cold and raw, and there was a biting wind. There were but few people on the platform, and those for the most part were market folk going to intervening stations. I looked eagerly about, wondering if by any chance Murray Olivant had made up his mind to travel so early as that; but I saw nothing of him. Evidently he was so sure of the plans he had laid that he was not going to trouble himself to turn out on such a bitter morning, or to hurry to London.
I went straight to his rooms on reaching London, only to be told by the manservant that he was not there, and was not expected; indeed, the man seemed somewhat astonished at seeing me at all. I evaded his questions, and came away; turned back to deliver a message to the effect that if Mr. Murray Olivant came to the place, the man would beg him to stay until I came again; I had news for him of vital importance. Then I went away, and roamed the streets in the bitter weather, pursued and haunted by a thousand doubts and fears. And so back again to the rooms of Murray Olivant—to see the boy Arnold Millard pacing up and down outside, and keeping watch upon them.
I seemed to see myself again, twenty years before, raging up and down the pavement of Lincoln's Inn Fields, waiting for the man I was to kill!
I was afraid to go to him, or to let him know thatI was there, because I feared lest he might think I was on the side of the enemy, fighting against him and the girl. And yet I was afraid, too, that Murray Olivant might at any moment come swinging into the street, and find himself face to face with the boy who had sworn to kill him. Keeping that borrowed hat well down over my brows, I set about to find Olivant, guessing pretty well which way he would come. I went to the end of the street, and presently saw a cab driving fast in the direction of Olivant's rooms; in the cab was the man I sought.
I ran along beside it, and called to Olivant excitedly. He threw up the trap in the roof, and told the man to stop; leaned out over the apron to speak to me.
"Hullo, friend Tinman," he said genially, "where have you sprung from? And who let you loose from the house?"
"There's danger—great danger," I panted, standing on the step of the cab and whispering to him. "Everything has come out; young Mr. Millard is waiting there up the street—has been waiting there for hours."
"Well—what of it?" he asked; but I thought his face went suddenly pale.