Lawyer St. Henry sat at his well-spread breakfast table. He was a little man with a bald head and good-natured face, who enjoyed his breakfast as well as all his other meals. Since his nieces had considered it necessary to their spiritual welfare to attend matins at St. Jerome's, the lawyer had been condemned to breakfast alone. The sun shone on the street, and Mr. St. Henry sat in a room that faced it. Through the wire blinds he could see all the passings and re-passings of his neighbours; which he very well liked to do; as well as the doings of Paradise Row opposite.
"Hallo!" he cried, catching sight of a face at Mrs. Jinks's parlour window, "Cattacomb's not gone out this morning! Puff must have come over early to officiate. Thinks he'll take it easy, I suppose, now he's got an underling: no blame to him, either. The girls will be dished for once. Nobody goes down with 'em like Cattacomb."
Laughing a little at the thought, he helped himself to a portion of a tempting-looking cutlet surrounded with mushrooms. This being nearly despatched, he had leisure to look abroad again and make his mental comments.
"There goes the doctor: he's out early this morning. Going to see old Etheredge, perhaps: wonder how the old fellow is. And there's Mother Jinks taking in a sweetbread. Must be for the parson's breakfast. Sweetbreads are uncommonly good, too: I'll have one myself to-morrow morning if it can be got. Why, here comes Sir Karl Andinnian!Heis out early, too. That young man looks to me as though he had some care upon him. It's a nice countenance; very: and if--I declare he is coming here! What on earth can he want?"
Sir. Karl Andinnian was ringing the door-bell. It has been already said that the lawyer's offices were in Basham, for which place he generally started as soon as breakfast was over. Therefore, if any client wished to see him at Foxwood, it had to be early in the morning or late in the evening. This was known and understood.
Sir Karl was shown in, Mr. St. Henry glancing at his breakfast-table and the three or four dirty plates upon it. He had finished now, and they sat down together at the window. Sir Karl, not to detain him unnecessarily, entered at once upon the question he had come to ask--Had he, or had he not, power to do anything with St. Jerome's? And the lawyer laughed a little; for St. Jerome's afforded him fun, rather than otherwise.
"Of course, Sir Karl, if Truefit choose to warn them off the land, he could do it," was the lawyer's reply. "Not without notice, though, I think: I don't know what the agreement was. As to yourself--well I am not clear whether you could do anything: I should like to see Truefit's lease before giving an opinion. But, if they were shut out of St. Jerome's to-day, they'd contrive to start another place to-morrow."
"That is quite likely," said Karl.
"My advice to you is this, Sir Karl: don't bother yourself about it," said the easy-going lawyer. "People expect you to interfere? Never mind that: let them expect. The thing will die away of itself when winter comes. Once the frost and snow set in, the girls, silly monkeys, won't be trapesing to St. Jerome's; neither will they come jinketing over by omnibusfuls from Basham. Wait and shut it up then. If you attempt to do it now, you will meet with wide opposition: by waiting, you may do it almost without any."
"You really think so?"
"I am nearly sure so," said the hearty lawyer. "There's nothing like bad weather for stopping expeditions of chivalry. But for having had the continuous sunshine the summer has given us, St. Jerome's would not have been the success it is."
"They have dressed Torn Pepp in a conical cap, and put a red cross all down his back outside," said Sir Karl.
The lawyer burst into a laugh. "I know," he said. "I hear of the vagaries from my nieces. It's fun for me. They go in for them wholesale, and come home with their heads full."
"But it is not religion, Mr. St. Henry."
"Bless me, no. Religion? The girls may give it that name; and perhaps one or two among them may be earnest enough in thinking it so; the rest are only after Cattacomb."
"There's another one now, I hear. One Puff."
"And a fine puff of windheis. Got no more brains than a gander. I'll see Truefit and inquire what agreement it was he made with them, if you like, Sir Karl; but I should certainly recommend you to leave the matter alone a little longer."
Sir Karl thought he would accept the advice; and got up to leave. He often saw Truefit about the land, and could take an opportunity of questioning him himself. As he stood for a moment at the window, there passed down the middle of the street a stranger, walking slowly; that is, a stranger to Karl. It was Mr. Strange.
Now it happened that Karl had never yet seen this man--at least, he had never noticed him. For the detective, being warned by Grimley that Sir Karl had, or seemed to have, some reason for screening Salter--had kept out of Sir Karl's way. He thought it would not conduce at all to his success to let Sir Karl know he was down there on the scent. Therefore, whenever he had observed Sir Karl coming along--and he had kept his eyes sharply open--he had popped into a shop, or drawn behind a hedge, or got over a style into another field. And Karl, in his mind's abstraction--for it nearly always was abstracted, lost in its own fear and pain--had not thought of looking out gratuitously for strangers. But, standing up at the lawyer's window, the street close before him, he could not fail to observe those who passed up and down: and his attention was at once drawn to this man.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"That! oh, that's a Mr. Strange," said the lawyer, laughing again--and in his laugh this time there was something significant. "At least, that's his namehere."
"And not elsewhere?"
"I fancy not."
"Is he staying at Foxwood? What is he doing here?"
"He is certainly staying at Foxwood. As to his business, I conclude it is something in the private detective line, Sir Karl."
Mr. Strange, whose attention in passing had been directed to some matter on the other side of the way and not to the lawyer's window, consequently he did not know that he was being watched, had halted a little lower down to speak to the landlord of the Red Lion. All in a moment, as Karl looked at him, the notion flashed into his mind that this man bore a strong resemblance to the description given by Ann Hopley of the man who had invaded the Maze. The notion came to him in the self-same moment that the words of the lawyer fell on his ears--"His business, I conclude, is something in the private detective line." What with the notion, and what with the words, Karl Andinnian fell into a confused inward tumult, that caused his heart's blood to stop, and then course wildly on. Business at Foxwood, connected with detectives, must have reference to his brother, and to him alone.
"A slight-made gentleman with a fair face and light curly hair, looking about thirty," had been Ann Hopley's description; it answered in every particular to the man Karl was gazing at; gazing until he watched him out of sight. Lawyer St. Henry, naturally observant, thought his guest stared after the man as though he held some peculiar interest in him.
"Do you know who that man really is, Mr. St. Henry?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Sir Karl. No reason why I should not, for I have not been told to keep it a secret. Some little time back, my nieces grew full of the new lodger at Mrs. Jinks's; they were talking of him incessantly: A gentleman reading divinity----"
"Why, that's Mr. Cattacomb," interrupted Sir Karl. "He lodges at Mrs. Jinks's."
"Not that ladies' idiot," cried the lawyer, rather roughly. "I beg your pardon, Sir Karl, but the Reverend Guy sometimes puts me out of patience. This man has the upper rooms, Cattacomb the lower----"
"But I--I thought that was a boy: a lad at his studies," reiterated Karl, in some perplexity. "I assumed him to be a pupil of Cattacomb's."
"It is the man you have just watched down the street, Sir Karl. Well, to go on. My nieces were always talking of this new gentleman, a Mr. Strange, who had come to Foxwood to get up his health, and to read up for some divinity examination. That was their account. They said so much about him that I got curious myself: it was a new face, you see, Sir Karl, and girls go wild over that. One morning when I was starting for the office, the gig at the door, Jane ran out to me. 'Uncle,' she said, 'that's Mr. Strange coming down Mrs. Jinks's steps now: you can see him if you look.' I did look, Sir Karl, and saw the gentleman you have just seen pass. His face struck me at once as one that I was familiar with, though at the moment I could not tell where I had seen him. Remembrance came to me while I looked--and I knew him for an officer connected with the detective force at Scotland Yard."
Karl drew a long breath. He was listening greedily.
"About a year ago," resumed the lawyer, "my agent in London, Mr. Blair, had occasion to employ a detective upon some matter he was engaged in. I was in London for a few days at that time, and saw the man twice at Blair's--and knew him again now. It was this same Mr. Strange."
"And you say Strange is not his right name?"
"No, it's not."
"What is the right one?"
"Well, I can't tell you the right one, Sir Karl, for I cannot remember it. I am sure of one thing--that it was not Strange. It was a longer name, and I think rather a peculiar name; but I can't hit upon it. He must be down here on some private business, and has no doubt his own reasons for keeping incog. I recollect Blair told me he was one of the astutest officers in the detective force."
"Has he recognised you?"
"He could not recognise me," said Mr. St. Henry, "I don't suppose he ever saw me to notice me. Each time that he called on Blair, it happened that I was in the front office with the clerks when he passed through it. He was not likely to have observed me."
"You have not spoken to him, then?"
"Not I."
"And--you don't know what his business here may be."
"Not at all. Can't guess at it. It concerns neither you nor me, Sir Karl, and therefore I have not scrupled to tellyouso much. Of course you will not repeat it again. If he chooses to remain unknown here, and pass himself off for a student of divinity--doubtless for sufficient reasons--I should not be justified in proclaiming that he is a London detective, and so possibly ruin his game."
Sir Karl made a motion of acquiescence. His brain was whirling in no measured degree. He connected the presence of this detective at Foxwood with the paragraph that had appeared in the newspaper touching the escaped convict from Portland Island.
"Would there--would there be any possibility of getting to know his business?" he dreamily asked.
"Not the slightest, I should say, unless he chooses directly to disclose it. Why? You cannot have any interest in it, I presume, Sir Karl, whatever it may be."
"No, no; certainly not," replied Sir Karl, awaking to the fact that he was on dangerous ground. "One is apt to get curious on hearing of business connected with detectives," he added, laughing; "as interested as one does in a good novel."
"Ay, true," said the lawyer, unsuspiciously.
"At Mrs. Jinks's he is lodging, is he?" absently remarked Karl, turning to depart; and inwardly marvelling how he could have caught up the notion that the person there was only a lad, a pupil of Cattacomb's.
"At Mrs. Jinks's, Sir Karl; got her drawing-room. Wonder how the Rev. Guy would feel if he knew the man over his head was a cute detective officer?"
"I suppose the officer cannot be looking afterhim," jested Sir Karl. "St. Jerome's is the least sound thing we know at Foxwood."
The lawyer laughed a hearty laugh as he attended Sir Karl to the door; at which Mr. St. Henry's gig was now waiting to take him into Basham.
It was not a hot morning, but Karl Andinnian took off his hat repeatedly on the way home to wipe his brow. The dreadful catastrophe he had been fearing for his unfortunate brother seemed to be drawing ominously near.
"But for that confounded Smith, Adam might have been away before," he groaned. "I know he might. Smith----"
And there Karl stopped; stopped as though his speech had been suddenly cut off. For a new idea had darted into his mind, and he stayed to ponder it.
Was this detective officer down here to look after Philip Salter?--and not after Adam at all?
A conviction, that it must be so, took possession of him; and in the first flush of it the relief was inexpressibly great. But he remembered again the midnight watcher of the Maze and the morning visit following it; and his hopes fell back to zero. That this was the same man who had watched there could remain no doubt whatever.
Passing into his own room, Karl sat down and strove to think the matter out. He could arrive at no certain conclusion. One minute he felt sure the object was his brother; the next, that it was only Salter.
But, in any case, allowing that it was Salter, there must be danger to Adam. If this cunning London detective were to get into the Maze premises again andseethe prisoner there, all would be over. The probability was, that he was personally acquainted with the noted criminal Adam Andinnian: and it might be, that he had gained a suspicion that Adam Andinnian was alive.
One thing Karl could not conceal from himself--and it brought to him a rush of remorse. If the detective had come down after Salter, he--he, Karl--must have been the means of bringing him there.
But for that unpleasant consciousness he would have gone straight off to Smith the agent, and told him of the trouble that was threatening Adam, and said, "What shall we do in it; how screen him?" But he did not dare. He did not dare to make a move or stir a step that might bring Smith and the detective in contact. He could not quite understand why, if Smith were really Salter, the detective had not already pounced upon him: but he thought it quite likely that Smith might be keeping himself out of sight. In short, the thoughts and surmises that crossed and recrossed Karl's brain, some probable enough, others quite improbable, were legion. Not for the world, if he could help it, would he aid--further than he had perhaps unhappily aided--in denouncing Salter; and knowing what he had done, he could not face the man. He had never intended to harm him.
So there Karl was, overwhelmed with this new perplexity, and not able to stir in it. He saw not what he could do. To address the detective himself, and say whom are you after, would be worse than folly; of all people he, Karl Andinnian, must keep aloof from him. It might be that there was only asuspicionabout Adam's being alive, that they were trying to find out whether it was so or not. For him, Karl, to interfere or show interest, would help it on.
But this suspense was well nigh intolerable. Karl could not live under it. Something he must do. If only he could set the question at rest, as to which of the two criminals the detective was after, it would be a good deal gained. And he could only do that by applying to Mr. Burtenshaw. It was not sure that he would, but there was a chance that he might.
Lady Andinnian was in her little sitting-room upstairs, when she heard Sir Karl's footstep. He entered without knocking: which was very unusual. For they had grown ceremonious one with another since the estrangement and knocked at doors and asked permission to enter, as strangers. Lucy was adding up her housekeeping bills.
"I am going to London, Lucy. Some business has arisen that I am very anxious about, and I must go up at once."
"Business with Plunkett and Plunkett?" she asked, a slight sarcasm in her tone, though Karl detected it not, as she remembered the plea he had urged for the journey once before.
"No, not with Plunkett and Plunkett. The business, though, is the same that has been troubling my peace all the summer. I think I shall be home tonight, Lucy: but if I cannot see the person I am going up to see, I may have to wait in town until to-morrow. Should the last train not bring me down, you will know the reason."
"Of course your movements are your own, Sir Karl."
He sighed a little, and stood looking from the window. The first train he could catch would not go by for nearly an hour, so he had ample time to spare. Lucy spoke.
"I was going to ask you for some money. I have scarcely enough, I think, for these bills."
"Can you wait until I return, Lucy? I have not much more in the house than I shall want. Or shall I give you a cheque? Hewitt can go to the bank at Basham and cash it."
"Oh I can wait quite well. There's no hurry for a day or two."
"You shall have it to-morrow in any case. If I stay away as long as that I shall be sure to return during banking hours, and will get out at Basham and draw some money."
"Thank you."
"Goodbye, Lucy."
She held out her hand in answer to his, and wished him goodbye in return. He kept it for a minute in his, stooped and kissed her cheek.
It brought a rush of colour to her face, but she said nothing. Only drew away her hand, bent over her figures again, and began adding them up steadily. He passed round to his chamber, putting a few things in a hand-bag in case he had to stay away the night.
Then he went down to his room and penned a few lines to Adam, entreating him to be unusually cautious. The note was enclosed in an outer envelope, addressed to Mrs. Grey. He rang the bell for Hewitt, and proceeded to lock his desk.
"I want you to go over to the Maze, Hewitt," he said in a low tone--and had got so far when, happening to raise his eyes, he saw it was Giles and not Hewitt who had entered. Karl had his wits about him, and Hewitt came in at the moment.
"Hewitt, I want you to step over to the Maze and inquire whether the plumbers have been there yet. There's something wrong with a drain. Ask the servants at the same time how their mistress is getting on. And----"
Giles had stood gaping and listening. Karl broke off to bid him look for his umbrella.
"No message, Hewitt, and no answer," breathed his master, as he handed him the note. "Put it in your pocket."
"All right, sir," nodded Hewitt, and was away before Giles came back with the umbrella. And Karl got off at last.
Perhaps Mr. Burtenshaw was astonished, perhaps not, to see Sir Karl Andinnian enter that same afternoon. He, the detective, was poring over his papers, as usual, but he turned from them to salute his visitor.
"Will you take a seat, Sir Karl, for two minutes. After that, I am at your service."
"You know me, then, Mr. Burtenshaw!" exclaimed Karl.
"The man who happened to come into the room with Grimley, the last time you were here, sir, said you were Sir Karl Andinnian," replied the officer without scruple. "Take a seat, sir, pray."
Mr. Burtenshaw placed four or five letters, already written, within their envelopes, directed, and stamped them. Then he quitted the room, probably to send them to the post, came in again, and drew a chair in front of Karl. "He is looking worse than ever," was the mental summary of the detective--"but what a nice face it is!"
Ay, it was. The pale, beautiful features, their refined expression, the thoughtfulness in the sweet grey eyes, and the strange sadness that pervaded every lineament, made a picture that was singularly attractive. Karl had one glove off; and the diamond and opal ring he always wore in remembrance of his father flashed in the sunlight. For the buff blinds were not down to-day. He had wished to give the ring back to his brother, when he found he had no right to it himself, but Adam had insisted upon his keeping it and wearing it, lest "the world might inquire where the ring was gone." Another little deceit, as it always seemed to Karl.
"I have called here, Mr. Burtenshaw, to ask you to answer me a question honestly. Have you--stay though," he broke off. "As you know me, I presume you know where I live?"
"Quite well, Sir Karl. I was at the Court once in Sir Joseph Andinnian's time."
"Ay, of course you would know it. Now for my question. Have you sent a detective officer down to Foxwood after Philip Salter?"
"I have not," replied Mr. Burtenshaw, with, Karl thought, a stress upon the "I."
"But you know that one is there?"
"Why do you ask me this?" cried Mr. Burtenshaw, making no immediate reply.
"Because I have reason to believe, in fact to know, that a detective officer is at Foxwood, and I wish to ascertain what he is there for. I presume it can only be to search after Philip Salter."
"And what if it were?" asked Mr. Burtenshaw.
"Nothing. Nothing that could in any way affect you. I want to ascertain it, yes or no, for my own private and individual satisfaction."
"Well, you are right, Sir Karl. One of our men has gone down there with that object."
Karl paused. "I supposeIhave led to it," he said. "That is, that it has been done in consequence of the inquiries I made of you."
"Of those you made of Grimley, sir, not of me. I had nothing to do with sending Tatton down----"
Karl caught at the name. "Tatton, do you call him?" he interrupted. And Mr. Burtenshaw nodded.
"He calls himself 'Strange' down there."
"Oh, does he? He knows what he is about, Sir Karl, rely upon it."
"Who did send him down?"
"Scotland Yard. It appears that Grimley, taking up the notion through you that he had found a clue to the retreat of Salter, went to Scotland Yard, announced that Salter was in hiding somewhere in the neighbourhood of Foxwood, and asked that a search should be set on foot for him."
Karl sat thinking. If the man Tatton went down after Philip Salter, what brought him within the grounds of the Maze, watching the house at night? Whence also that endeavour to get in by day, and his questions to Ann Hopley? Was it Tatton who did this?--or were there two men, Strange and Tatton?
"What sort of a man is Tatton?" he asked aloud. "Slight and fair?"
"Slight and fair; about thirty years of age, Sir Karl. Curly hair."
"They must be the same," mentally decided Karl. "I presume," he said, lifting his head, "that Tatton must have started on this expedition soon after I was here last?"
"The following day, I think."
"Then he has been at Foxwood over long. More than long enough to have found Salter if Salter's there, Mr. Burtenshaw."
"That depends upon circumstances, Sir Karl," replied the detective, with a wary smile. "I could tell you of a case where an escaped man was being looked after for twelve months before he was unearthed--and he had been close at hand all the while. They have as many ruses as a fox, these fugitives."
"Nevertheless, as Tatton has not yet found Salter, I should consider it a tolerably sure proof that Salter is not at Foxwood."
Mr. Burtenshaw threw a penetrating gaze at his visitor. "Will you undertake to give me your word, Sir Karl, that you do notknowPhilip Salter to be at Foxwood?"
"On my word and honour I do not know him to be there," said Karl, decisively. "I should think he is not there."
He spoke but in accordance with his opinion. The conviction had been gaining upon him the last few minutes that he must have been in error in suspecting Smith to be the man. How else was it, if he was the man, that Tatton had not found him?
"Salteristhere," said the detective--and Karl pricked up his ears to hear the decisive assertion. "We have positive information from Tatton that he is on his trail:--I am not sure but he has seen him. For the first week or two of Tatton's sojourn there, he could discover no trace whatever of the man or his hiding-place; but accident gave him a clue, and he has found both: found his hiding-place and found him."
"Then why does he not lay his hands upon him?" returned Karl, veering round again to the impression that it must be Smith.
"It is only a question of time, Sir Karl. No doubt he has good reasons for his delay. Toknowwhere a man is hiding may be one thing; to capture him quite another. Too much haste sometimes mars the game."
"Tatton is going to remain at Foxwood, then?"
"Until the capture is accomplished, certainly."
Karl's heart sunk within him at the answer. While Tatton was delaying his capture of Smith, he might be getting a clue to another escaped fugitive down there--Adam Andinnian. Nay, had he not already the clue? Might not this very delay be caused by some crafty scheme to take both criminals at once--to kill two birds with one stone? He asked one more question.
"Mr. Burtenshaw, how was it that suspicion was directed at all to Foxwood?"
"Grimley took up the notion after your second visit here, Sir Karl, that you had a suspicion of Salter yourself. I thought you understood this. Grimley fancied you were in the habit of seeing some one whom you believed, but did not feel quite sure, might be Salter. And he judged that the individual, whether it was Salter or not, must be in hiding near your dwelling-place--Foxwood."
Ay; Karl saw how it was.Hehad done this. He and no other, had brought this additional danger upon his ill-fated brother, whom he would willingly have given his own life to shield.
There was nothing more to be asked of Mr. Burtenshaw: he had learnt all he came to hear. And Sir Karl with his load of care returned to Foxwood by the evening train.
Commotion at Mrs. Jinks's. Another afternoon kettle-drum on a grand scale. The two pastors, and more guests than could squeeze into the parlour. All the Foxwood ladies and an omnibus load or two from Basham.
Mr. Strange at in his drawing-room, on a three-legged stool; the one that supported Mrs. Jinks's tub on washing days. His chairs had been borrowed. He had good-naturedly given up every one: so Mrs. Jinks introduced the wooden stool. These crowded meetings below had amused him at first; but he was getting a little tired with the bustle and the noise. Every time the street door was knocked at, it shook his room; the talking below could be heard nearly as plainly as though he were taking part in it. Still it made a little diversion in Mr. Strange's solitary existence, if only to watch the arrival of the articles needed for the feast, and to smell the aroma of the coffee, made in the kitchen in a huge kettle. The supplies did not concern Mr. Cattacomb; his gentle flock took that on themselves, cost and all. There was no lack of good things, but rather a superabundance: since the Rev. Mr. Puff had come to augment the clerical force, the contributions had been too profuse. So that every one connected with the entertainment was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and good humour; except Mrs. Jinks.
Perched on the hard stool, Mr. Strange, for lack of other employment, had noted the dainties as they came in. The wisest of us must unbend sometimes. A basket of muffins full to the brim; eleven sorts of jam--since it was discovered that the Reverend Guy loved preserves to satiety, the assortments had never failed; thirteen kinds of biscuits, trays of cake, glass pots of marmalade and honey, ripe rich fruits of all tempting colours, chocolate creams, candied oranges, lovely flowers.
Mr. Strange grew tired of looking; his head ached with the noise, his eyes with the splendour of the ladies' dresses. For the company was arriving now, thick and threefold.
There had arisen a slight, a very slight, modicum of displeasure at Mr. Cattacomb. That zealous divine had been met four or five times walking with Mr. Moore's third daughter, Jemima: at the last lecture he had distinctly been seen manœ uvring to get the young lady next to him. It gave offence. While he belonged to them all, all adored him; but let him once single out one of them for favour more than the rest, and woe betide his popularity. "And that little idiot of a Jemima Moore, too, who had not two ideas in her vain head!" as Jane St. Henry confidentially remarked. However, the Reverend Guy, upon receiving a hint from Miss Blake that he was giving umbrage, vowed and protested that it was all accident and imagination--that he hardly knew Miss Jemima from her sisters. So peace was restored, and the kettledrum grew out of it.
"I must have my chop all the same, Mrs. Jinks," said Mr. Strange to the widow; who had come upstairs to ask the loan of his sugar tongs, and looked very red and excited over it.
"In course, sir, you shall have it. It might be ten minutes later, sir, than ord'nary, but I do hope you'll excuse it, sir, if it is. You see how I'm drove with 'em."
"I see that there seems to be a large company arriving."
"Company!" returned Mrs. Jinks, the word causing her temper to explode; "I don't know how they'll ever get inside the room. I shall have to borrow a form from the school next door but one, and put it in the passage for some of 'em; and, when that and the chairs is filled, the rest must stand. Never as long as I live, will I take in a unmarried parson-gent again, if he's one of this here new sort that gets the ladies about him all day in church and gives drums out of it. Hark at the laughing! Them two parsons be in their glory."
"The ladies must be fond of drums, I should think, by their getting them up so frequently," remarked Mr. Strange.
"Drat the huzzies! they'd be fond of fifes too if it brought 'em round Cattakin," was the widow's uncomplimentary rejoinder. "Better for 'em if they'd let the man alone to drink his tea in quiet and write his sermons--which I don't believe ever does get writ, seeing he never has a minute to himself. Hark at that blessed door!" she continued; and indeed the knocking was keeping up a perpetual chorus. "If they'd only turn the handle they could come in of theirselves. I said so to the Miss St. Henrys one cleaning day that I had been called to it six times while scrubbing down the kitchen stairs, and the young ladies answered me that they'd not come in to Mr. Cattakin's without knocking, for the world."
"I suppose not," said Mr. Strange, slightly laughing.
"Hang that knocker again. There it goes! And me with all the drum on my shoulders. You should see the muffins we've got to toast and butter downstairs, sir; your conscience 'ud fail you. Betsey Chaffin has come in to help me, and she and the girl is at it like steam. I'm afeared that there stool's terrible hard for you, Mr. Strange, sir!" broke off the widow, in condolence.
"It's not as soft as velvet," was the reply. "But I'm glad to oblige: and I am going out presently. Get my chop and tea up when you can."
Mrs. Jinks disappeared; the hum continued. Whether the two parsons, as Mrs. Jinks surmised, felt "in their glory," cannot be told: the ladies were certainly in theirs. These kettledrums at Mr. Cattacomb's were charmingly attractive.
When Mr. Strange did not return home for his chop at midday, he took it with his tea. His tray was yet before him when the kettledrum trooped out to attend vespers. At least, the company who had formed the drum. The two reverend gentlemen hastened on together a little in advance; Miss Blake led the van behind; and curious Foxwood ran to its windows to see.
Mr. Strange, who had nothing particular on his hands or mind that evening, looked after them. Example is infectious. He felt an inclination to follow in their wake--for it had not been his good fortune yet to make one of the worshippers at St. Jerome's; he had never indulged himself with as much as a peep inside the place. Accordingly, Mr. Strange started, after some short delay, and gained the edifice.
The first object his eyes rested on, struck him as being as ludicrous as an imp at the play. It was Tom Pepp in a conical hat tipped with red, and a red cross extending down his white garmented back. Tom Pepp stood near the bell, ready to tinkle it at parts of the service. It may as well be stated--lest earnest disciples of new movements should feel or take offence--that the form and make of the services at St. Jerome's were entirely Mr. Cattacomb's own; invented by himself exclusively, and not copied from any other standard, orthodox or unorthodox. The description of it is taken from facts. Mr. Strange, standing at the back near to Tom Pepp, enjoyed full view of all: the ladies prostrate on the floor,actually prostrate, some of them, the Reverend Guy facing them with the whites of his eyes turned up; Damon Puff on his knees, presenting his back to the room and giving every now and then a surreptitious stroke to his moustache. The detective had never seen so complete a farce in his life, as connected with religion. He thought the two reverend gentlemen might be shut up for a short term as mutinous lunatics, by way of receiving a little wholesome correction: he knew that if he had a daughter, he would shutherup as one, rather than she should make a spectacle of herself as these other girls were doing.
The services over, Tom Pepp set on at the bell to ring them out with all his might--for that was the custom. Most of them filed out; as did Mr. Damon Puff; and they went on their way. A few of them stopped in, for confession to Mr. Cattacomb.
It was growing dusk then. A train was just in, and had deposited some passengers at the station. One of them came along, walking quickly, as if in haste to get home. Happening to turn his head towards St. Jerome's as he passed it, attracted by the bell, he saw there, rather to his surprise, standing just outside the door, Mr. Moore's strong-minded sister. She peered at him in the twilight; she was no longer so quick of sight as she had been; and recognized Sir Karl Andinnian.
"What, is it you, Miss Diana!" he cried, stopping to hold out his hand. "Have you gone over to St. Jerome's?"
"I'd rather go over to Rome, Sir Karl," was the candid answer. "I may lapse to St. Jerome's when I get childish perhaps, if it lasts so long. There's no answering for any of us when the mind fails."
Sir Karl laughed slightly. He saw before him the receding crowd turning down towards Foxwood village, and knew that vespers must be just over. The ringing of Tom Pepp's bell would have told him that. It was clanging away just above Miss Diana's head.
"You have been to vespers, then," remarked Sir Karl again, almost at a loss what to say, and unable to get away until Miss Diana chose to release his hand.
"Yes, I have been to what they call vespers," she rejoined tartly; "more shame for a woman of my sober years to say it, as connected with this place. Look at them, trooping on there, that Puff in the midst, who is softer than any apple-puff ever made yet!" continued Miss Diana, pointing her hand in the direction of the vanishing congregation. "Theyhave gone; but there are five staying in for confession. Hark! Hark, Sir Karl! the folly is going to begin."
A sweet, silvery-toned bell rang gently within the room, and the clanging bell of Mr. Pepp stopped at the signal. The Reverend Guy had gone into the confessional box, and all other sounds must cease.
"I should think they can hardly see to confess at this hour," said Sir Karl jestingly.
"They light a tallow candle, I believe, and stick it in the vestry," said Miss Diana. "Five of them are staying to-night, as I told you: I always count. They go in one at a time and the others wait their turn outside the vestry. Do you think I am going to let my nieces stay here alone to play at that fun, Sir Karl? No: and so I drag myself here every confessional night. One of them, Jemima, is always staying. She is a little fool."
"It does not seem right," mused Sir Karl.
"Right!" ejaculated Miss Diana in an angry tone, as if she could have boxed his ears for the mild word. "It is wrong, Sir Karl, and doubly wrong. I do not care to draw the curb-rein too tightly; they are not my own children, and might rebel; but as sure as they are living, if this folly of stopping behind to confess is to go on, I shall tell the doctor of it. I think, Sir Karl--and you must excuse me for saying so to your face--that you might have done something before now, to put down the pantomime of this St. Jerome's."
"Only this very morning I was with St. Henry, asking him what I could do," was the reply. "His opinion is, that it will cease of itself when the cold weather comes on."
"Willit!" was the sarcastically emphatic retort. "Not if Cattacomb and the girls can help it. It's neither cold nor heat that will stop them!"
"Well, I am not sure about the law, Miss Diana. I don't know that St. Henry is, either."
"Look here, Sir Karl. If the law is not strong enough to put down these places, there's another remedy. Let all the clergy who officiate at them be upwards of fifty years old andmarried. It would soon be proved whether, or not, the girls go for the benefit of their souls."
Sir Karl burst into a laugh.
"It is these off-shoots of semi-religious places, started up here and there by men of vanity, some of whom, I venture to say it, are not licensed clergymen, that bring the shame and the scandal upon the true church," concluded Miss Diana. "There: don't let us talk of it further. Have you come from the train?"
"Yes. I had to run up to London for an hour or two to-day."
"Then I daresay you are tired. Give my love to your wife," added Miss Diana, as she wished Sir Karl good evening and turned into St. Jerome's again to watch over her niece Jemima.
Sir Karl strode onwards. He had just come home from his interview with Mr. Burtenshaw. Miss Diana Moore and her sentiments had served to divert his mind for a moment from his own troubles, but they were soon all too present again. The hum of the voices and sound of the footsteps came back to him from the crowd, pursuing its busy way to the village: he was glad to keep on his own solitary course and lose its echo.
Some one else, who had come out of St. Jerome's but who could not be said properly to pertain to the crowd, had kept on the solitary road--and that was Mr. Strange. He knew the others would take the direct way to the village and Mrs. Jinks's, and perhaps that was the reason why he did not. But there was no accounting for what Mr. Strange did: and one thing was certain--he had been in the habit lately of loitering in that solitary road a good deal after dusk had fallen, smoking his cigar there between whiles.
Sir Karl went on. He had nearly reached the Maze, though he was on the opposite side, when at a bend of the road there suddenly turned upon him a man with a cigar in his mouth, the end of it glowing like an ember. The smoker would have turned his head away again, and passed on, but Sir Karl stopped. He had recognized him: and his mind had been made up on the way from London, to speak to this man.
"I beg your pardon. Mr. Tatton, I think."
Mr. Tatton might possibly have been slightly taken to at hearing himself addressed by his own name: but there was no symptom of it in his voice or manner.
"The same, sir," he readily answered, taking the cigar from his mouth.
"I wish to say a few words to you," pursued Sir Karl. "As well perhaps say them now as later."
"Better, sir. No time like the present: it's all we can make sure of."
"Perhaps you know me, Mr. Tatton?"
"Sir Karl Andinnian--unless I am mistaken," replied the detective, throwing away his cigar.
Sir Karl nodded, but made no assent in words. He would have given a portion of his remaining life to discern whether this man of law, whom he so dreaded, knew, or suspected, that he had not a right to the title.
"I have just come from London," pursued Sir Karl. "I saw Mr. Burtenshaw there to-day. Finding that you were down here, I wished to ascertain whether or not you had come here in search of one Philip Salter. And I hear that it is so."
The officer made no remark to this. It might be, that he was uncertain how far he might trust Sir Karl. The latter observed the reticence: guessed at the doubt.
"We may speak together in perfect confidence, Mr. Tatton. But for me, you would not have been sent here at all. It was in consequence of a communication I made myself, that the suspicion as to Salter reached Scotland Yard."
"I know all about that, Sir Karl," was the reply. "To tell you the truth, I should have made my presence here at Foxwood known to you at once, and asked you to aid me in my search; but I was warned at Scotland Yard that you might possibly obstruct my work instead of aiding it, for that you wished to screen Salter."
"Scotland Yard warned you of that!" exclaimed Sir Karl.
"Yes. They had it from Grimley."
"The case is this," said Sir Karl, wishing with his whole heart he could undo what he had done. "Some short while back, I had a reason for making some enquiries respecting Philip Salter, and I went to my solicitors, Plunkett and Plunkett. They could not give me any information, and referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw. Burtenshaw introduced Grimley to me, and I saw them both twice. But I most certainly never intended to imply that Salter was in this neighbourhood, or to afford just grounds for sending down to institute a search after him."
"But I presume that you do know Salter is here, Sir Karl."
"Indeed I do not."
The officer was silent. He thought Sir Karl was intending to deceive him.
"I can tell you that he is here, Sir Karl--to the best of my belief. I could put out my hand at this minute and almost touch the dwelling that contains him."
They were nearly opposite the Maze gates, close upon the gate of Clematis Cottage. Karl wondered, with an anxiety, amounting to agony,whichof the two dwellings was meant. It would be almost as bad for this man to take Salter as to take Adam Andinnian, since the capture of the former might lead to that of the latter.
"You say to the best of your belief, Mr. Tatton. You are not sure, then?"
"I am as sure as I can be, Sir Karl, short of actual sight."
"Good night, Sir Karl."
The interruption came from Mr. Smith, who was leaning over his gate, smoking a pipe. Karl returned the salutation and passed on.
"He seems to have a jolly kind of easy life of it, that agent of yours, Sir Karl?" remarked the officer. "Do you know him?" questioned Karl.
"Only by sight. I have seen Mr. Smith about on the land; and I took the liberty this afternoon, meeting him by chance near the Brook field, of asking him what the time was. The spring of my watch broke last night as I was winding it."
Karl's heart was beating. Had he been mistaken in supposing Philip Smith to be Philip Salter? Had he been nursing a foolish chimera, and running his head--or, rather, his poor brother's head--into a noose for nothing? God help him, then!
"You seem to know my agent well by sight," he breathed, in a tone kept low, lest its agitation should be heard.
"Quite well," assented the officer.
"Is he--does he bear any resemblance to Salter?"
"Not the slightest."
Karl paused. "You are sure of that?"
Tatton took a look at Sir Karl in the evening dusk, as if not able to understand him. "He is about the height of Salter, and in complexion is somewhat, similar, if you can call that a resemblance," said he. "There is no other."
Karl spoke not for a few moments: the way before him was darkening. "You knew Salter's person well, I conclude?" he said presently.
"As well as I know my own brother's."
Another pause; and then Karl laid his hand upon the officer's arm, bespeaking his best attention.
"I am sorry for all this," he said; "I am vexed to have been the cause of so much trouble. Your mission here may terminate as soon as you will, Mr. Tatton, for it is Smith that I was suspecting of being Salter!"
"No!" cried Tatton in surprised disbelief.
"On my solemn word, I assert it. I suspected my agent, Smith, to be Salter."
"Why, Sir Karl, I can hardly understand that. You surely could not suppose it to be within the bounds of probability that Philip Salter, the fugitive criminal, would go about in the light of day in England as your agent goes--no matter how secluded the spot might be! And five hundred pounds on his head!"
How a word of ridicule, of reason even, will serve to change our cherished notions! Put as the cool and experienced police officer put it, Karl seemed to see how poor and foundationless his judgment had been.
"The whole cause of the affair was this," he said, hoping by a candid explanation to disarm the suspicions he had raised. "A circumstance--I own it was but a slight one--put it into my head that Philip Smith, of whom I had known nothing until he came here a few months ago as my agent, might be the escaped prisoner Philip Salter. The idea grew with me, and I became anxious--naturally you will say--to ascertain whether there were any real grounds for the suspicion. With this view I went up to see if Plunkett's people could give me any information about Salter or describe his person; and they referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw."
"Well, sir?" interposed Tatton, who was listening attentively.
"I am bound to say that I obtained no corroboration of my suspicions, except in regard to the resemblance," continued Sir Karl. "Burtenshaw did not know him; but he summoned the man who had let him escape, Grimley. As Grimley described Salter, it seemed to me that it was the precise description of Smith."
"There is a kind of general resemblance, I admit, Sir Karl, and the description of one might perhaps sound like that of the other. But if you knew the two, you would see how unlike they are."
"Grimley's description seemed to me to be that of Smith," went on Karl. "I came back here, strengthened in my opinion: but not fully confirmed. It was not a satisfactory state of things, and the matter continued to worry me. I longed to set it at rest, one way or the other; and I went up again to town and saw Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw. When I came back once more, I felt nearly as sure as a man can feel that it was Salter."
"And yet you did not denounce him, Sir Karl. You would never have done it, I suppose?"
"I should not," admitted Karl. "My intention was to tax Smith with it privately, and--and send him about his business. Very wrong and illegal of me, no doubt: but I have suffered too severely in my own family by the criminal law of the land, to give up another man gratuitously to it."
At this reference to Sir Adam Andinnian, Mr. Tatton remained silent from motives of delicacy. He could understand the objection; especially as coming from a refined, sensitive, and merciful natured man, as Sir Karl appeared to be.
"Well, sir, I can only say for myself that I wish your agent had been Salter," he resumed: "my hands would have been upon him before to-night. But is it true that you have no other suspicion, Sir Karl?"
"What suspicion?"
"That the real Salter is in hiding at Foxwood."
Karl's heart beat a shade faster. "So far from having any suspicion of that kind, I am perfectly certain, now that you have proved to me Smith is not Salter, that he is not at Foxwood. I know every soul in the place and around it."
"Were you acquainted with the real Salter, Sir Karl?"
"No."
"You take no interest in him, I presume?"
"None whatever."
During the conversation they had been slowly pacing onwards, had passed the Court gates, and were now fairly on the road to Foxwood. It seemed as if Sir Karl had a mind to escort Mr. Tatton to his home.
"By the way," he said, "why did you call yourself Strange down here?"
"I never did," answered Tatton, laughing slightly. "The widow Jinks gave me that name: I never gave it myself. I said to her I was a stranger, and she must have misunderstood me; for I found afterwards that she was calling me Mr. Strange. It was rather convenient than otherwise, and I did not set it right."
Karl strolled on in silence, wondering how all this would end and whether this dangerous man--dangerous to him and his interests--was satisfied, and would betake himself to town again. A question interrupted him.
"Do you know much of a place here called the Maze, Sir Karl?"
"The Maze is my property. Why?"
"Yes, I am aware of that. What I meant to ask was, whether you knew much of its inmates."
"It is let to a lady named Grey. Her husband is abroad."
"That's what she tells you, is it? Her husband is there, Sir Karl, if he be her husband.Thatis where we must look for Philip Salter."
Something born of emotion, of sudden fear, seemed to flash across Karl's eyes and momentarily blind him. A wild prayer went up for guidance, for help to confront this evil.
"Why do you say this?" he asked, his voice controlled to a calm indifference.
"I have information that some gentleman is living at the Maze in concealment, and I make no doubt it is Salter. The description of his person, so far as I have it, answers to him. Until to-night, Sir Karl, I have believed that it was to the Maze your own suspicions of Salter were directed."
"Certainly not--on my word of honour as a gentleman," was the reply. "I feel sure you are mistaken; I know you are. Mrs. Grey lives alone at the Maze, save for her servants: two old people who are man and wife."
"I am aware the general belief is that she lives alone. It's not true, though, for all that, Sir Karl."
"Indeed it is true," returned Karl, calmly as before, for he did not dare to show too much zeal in Mrs. Grey's cause. "I have been over there pretty often on one matter or another--the house is an old one, and no end of repairs seem to be wanted to it--and I am absolutely sure that no inmate whatever is there, save the three I have mentioned: the lady, and the man and woman. I do not count the infant."
"Ay; there; the infant. What does that prove?"
"Nothing--as to your argument. Mrs. Grey only came to the place some five or six months ago. Not yet six, I think."
"Rely upon it, Sir Karl, the lady has contrived to blind you, in spite of your visits, just as she has blinded the outside world. Some one is there, concealed; and I shall be very much surprised if it does not turn out to be Salter. As to the two old servants, they are bound to her interests; are of course as much in the plot as she is."
"I know you are mistaken. I could stake my life that no one else is there. Surely you are not going to act in any way on this idea!"
"I don't know," replied Mr. Tatton, with inward craft. "Time enough. Perhaps I may get some other information before long. Should I require a search-warrant to examine the house, I shall apply to you, Sir Karl. You are in the commission of peace, I believe."
Sir Karl nodded. "If you must have one, I shall be happy to afford it," he said, remembering that if it came to this pass, his being able to avert the Maze privately beforehand, would be a boon. And with that they separated: the detective continuing to pace onwards towards Paradise Row, Sir Karl turning back to his own house.
But the events, of the evening, as concerning the Maze interests, were not altogether at an end. Miss Blake was the last to come out of the confessional, for the rest had taken their turn before her. It was tolerably late then; quite dark; and both Aunt Diana and Tom Pepp were rampant at being kept so long. They all turned out of St. Jerome's together, including Mr. Cattacomb; and all, save Miss Blake and the boy, went in the direction of the village. Tom Pepp, having locked up and doffed his bell-ringing garments, proceeded the other way, accompanied by Miss Blake.
She was going to visit a sick woman who lived next door to Tom's mother. Miss Blake had her good points, though she was harsh of judgment. This poor woman, Dame Bell, was dying of consumption; the end was drawing near, and Miss Blake often went to sit by and read to her. The boy had told her at vespers that night that it was thought she could hardly live till morning: hence the late visit. She found her very ill, and stayed to do what she could.
It was striking ten when Miss Blake quitted the cottage: she heard the quarters and the strokes told out from the distant church at Foxwood. The night was a still one. Tom Pepp, waiting outside, gallantly offered to attend her home. She accepted the escort readily, not caring to go alone, as it was so late.
"But I fear it will be keeping your mother up, Tom," she said, in hesitation. "I know you go to bed early."
"That's nothing, um," said Tom. "Mother have got her clothes from the wash to fold to-night. She telled me I was not to let you go back alone. It have been a rare good day for drying."
So they set off together, talking all the way, for Tom was an intelligent companion, and often had items of news to regale the public with. When they came within view of the Maze gates and Clematis Cottage, the loneliness of the way was over, and Miss Blake sent the lad back again, giving him a three-penny-bit.
She was on the Maze side of the way, not having crossed since leaving Mrs. Bell's cottage. And she had all but reached the gates, when the sound of advancing footsteps grew upon her ear. Drawing back amidst the trees--not to watch for Sir Karl Andinnian as she had watched at other times, for she believed him to be in London, but simply to shield herself from observation, as the hour was so late--Miss Blake waited until the footsteps should have gone by.
The footsteps did not go by. They halted at the gate: and she, peeping through the leaves, saw it was Sir Karl. He took the key from his pocket as usual, opened the gate, locked it after him, and plunged into the maze. Miss Blake heaved a sigh at man's inventions, and kept still until there was no fear that her rustling away would be heard. Then she moved.
She had never been in all her life so near screaming. Taking one step forward to depart, she found herself right in the arms of somebody who had coat sleeves on; another watcher like herself.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am."
"Good gracious, Mr. Strange, how you frightened me!" she whispered. "Whatever are you doing here?"
"Nay, I may ask what you were doing," was the smiling retort. "On your way home, I take it. As for me, I was smoking my cigar, and it has gone out. That was our friend, Sir Karl Andinnian, I fancy, who let himself in there."
"Oh yes, it was Sir Karl," was the contemptuous answer, given as they walked on together. "It is not the first night by a good many he has been seen stealing in at those gates."
"Paying his court to Mrs. Grey!" returned Mr. Strange, really speaking without any sinister motive, and his mind full of Salter.
Miss Blake, in the honest indignation of her heart, and lately come from the upright exhortations of the Reverend Guy, allowed her sentiments their play. Mr. Strange's remark, made in all innocence, had seemed to show her that he too knew of the scandal.
"It is shameful!" she said. "Doubly shameful in Sir Karl, a married man."
Mr. Strange pricked up his ears. He caught her meaning instantly.
"Nonsense!" said he.
"I wish it was nonsense," said Miss Blake. "When the woman, Betsy Chaffen, was telling the tale in your rooms that day, of the gentleman she saw, and whom she could never see afterwards, I could hardly contain myself, dear sir, knowing it was Sir Karl."
"And--and--do you mean--do you think that there's no Mr. Grey there--no gentleman inmate, I would say?" cried the detective, surprised for once.
"Mr. Grey!" she repeated, scoffingly. "The only 'Mr. Grey' that exists is Sir Karl Andinnian; I have known it a long while. One or two others here know it also. It is a scandal."
She wished him good night with the last words, crossed the road, and let herself into the grounds of the Court by one of the small gates, leaving Mr. Strange looking after her like a man in a dream, as he tried to solve the problems set a-working in his brain.