While the letter from Helen cheered James Standerton wonderfully, it did
not in any way help him out of his difficulty with Mr. Bursfield. The
latter had most decisively stated his intention not to give his consent
to the marriage of his adopted granddaughter with the young Squire of
Childerbridge. What his reasons were for taking such a step, neither Jim
nor Helen could form any idea. It was a match that most guardians would
have been only too thankful to have brought about. In spite of Helen's
statements, he could only, after mature consideration, assign it to the
old man's natural selfishness, and, however bitterly he might resent his
treatment, in his own heart he knew there was nothing for it but to wait
with such patience as he could command for a change in the other's
feelings towards himself. He had the satisfaction of knowing, however,
that Helen loved him, and that she would be true to him, happen what
might. He was not a more than usually romantic young man, but I happen
to know that he carried that letter about with him constantly, while he
had read it so often that he must have assuredly known its contents by
heart. All things considered, it is wonderful what comfort it is
possible for a love-sick young man to derive from a few commonplace
words written upon a sheet of notepaper.
After the momentous interview with Mr. Bursfield, the days went by with
their usual sameness at Childerbridge. No news arrived from the
detective, Robins. Apparently it was quite impossible for him to
discover the smallest clue as to Murbridge's whereabouts. To all intents
and purposes he had disappeared as completely as if he had been caught
up into the skies. The reward, beyond bringing a vast amount of trouble
and disappointment to Jim, had not proved of the least use to any one
concerned.
Numerous half-witted folk, as is usual in such cases, had come forward
and given themselves up, declaring that they had committed the murder,
but the worthlessness of their stories was at once proved in every case.
One man, it was discovered, had been on the high seas another had never
been near Childerbridge in his life; while a third, and this was a still
more remarkable case, was found to have been an inmate of one of Her
Majesty's convict establishments at the time the murder was committed.
"Never mind," said Jim to himself; "he must be captured sooner or later.
If the police authorities cannot catch him, I'll take up the case
myself, and run him to ground, wherever he may be."
As he said this he looked up at the portrait of his father, which hung
upon the wall of his study.
"Come what may, father," he continued, "if there is any justice in the
world, your cruel murder shall be avenged."
Another month went by, and still the same want of success attended the
search for Murbridge.
"Alice, I can stand it no longer," said Jim to his sister one evening,
after he had read a communication from Robins. "I can gather from the
tone of this letter that they are losing heart. I ought to have taken up
the case myself at the commencement, and not have wasted all this
precious time. The man may now be back in Australia, South America, or
anywhere else."
Alice crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Dear old Jim," she said, "I am sure you know how I loved our father."
"Of course I do," said Jim, looking up at her. "No one knows better. But
I can see there is something you want to say to me. What is it?"
"Don't be angry with me, Jim," she replied, seating herself on the arm
of his chair "but deeply as that man has wronged us, I cannot help
thinking that we should not always be praying for vengeance against him,
as we are doing. Do you think it is what our father, with his noble
nature, would have wished?"
Jim was silent for a moment. The desire for vengeance by this time had
taken such a hold upon him, and had become such an integral part of his
constitution, that he was staggered beyond measure by her words.
"Surely you don't mean to say, Alice," he stammered, "that you are
willing to forgive the man who so cruelly killed our father?"
"I shall try to forgive him," the girl replied. "I say again, that I am
sure it is what our father would have wished us to do."
"I am no such saint," Jim returned angrily. "I wish to see that man
brought to justice, and, what's more, if no one else will, I mean to
bring him. He took that noble life, and he must pay the penalty of his
crime. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, was the old law. Why
should we change it?"
Alice rose and crossed the room to her own chair with a little sigh. She
knew her brother well enough to be sure that, having once made up his
mind, he would carry out his determination.
On the morning following this conversation, Jim was standing after
breakfast at the window of his sister's boudoir, looking out upon the
lawn, across which the leaves were being driven by the autumn wind. His
brow was puckered with thought. As a matter of fact, he was wondering at
the moment how he should commence his search for Murbridge. London was
such a great city, and for an amateur to attempt to find a man in it,
who desired to remain hidden, was very much like setting himself the
task of hunting for a needle in a bundle of hay. He neither knew where
or how to begin. While he was turning the question over in his mind, his
quick eye detected the solitary figure of a man walking across the park
in the direction of the house. He watched it pass the clump of
rhododendrons, and then lost it again in the dip beyond the lake.
Presently it reappeared, and within a few moments it was within easy
distance of the house. At first Jim had watched the figure with but
small interest; later, however, his sister noticed that he gradually
became excited. When the stranger had passed the corner of the house he
turned excitedly to his sister.
"Good gracious, Alice!" he cried, "it surely cannot be."
"What cannot be?" asked Alice, leaving her chair, and approaching the
window.
"That man coming up the drive," Jim replied. "It doesn't seem possible
that it can be he, yet I've often boasted that I should know his figure
anywhere. If it were not the most improbable thing in the world, I
should be prepared to swear that it's Terence O'Riley."
"But, my dear Jim, what could Terence be doing here, so many thousand
miles from our old home?"
But Jim did not wait to answer the question. Almost before Alice had
finished speaking he had reached the front door, had opened it, and was
wildly shaking hands with a tall, spare man, with a humorous, yet
hatchet-shaped face, so sunburnt as to be almost the colour of mahogany.
The newcomer, Terence O'Riley, was a character in his way. He boasted
that he knew nothing of father or mother, or relations of any sort or
kind. He had received his Hibernian patronymic from his first friend, a
wild Irishman on the diggings where he was born. He had entered William
Standerton's service at the age of twelve, as horse-boy, and for upwards
of thirty years had remained his faithful henchman. In every respect he
was a typical Bushman. He could track like a blackfellow, ride any horse
that was ever foaled, find his way in the thickest country with unerring
skill, was a first-class rifle shot, an unequalled judge of cattle, a
trifle pugnacious at certain seasons, but, and this seems an anomaly, at
other times he possessed a heart as tender as a little child. When
William Standerton and his family had left Australia, his grief had been
sincere. For weeks he had been inconsolable, and it meant a sure
thrashing for any man who dared to mention James' name in his hearing.
"What on earth does this mean, Terence?" asked Jim, who could scarcely
believe that it was their old servant who stood before him.
"It means a good many things, Master Jim," said Terence, with the drawl
in his voice peculiar to Australian Bushmen. "It's a longish yarn, but,
my word, I _am_ just glad to see you again, and, bless me, there's Miss
Alice too, looking as pretty as a grass parrot on a gum log."
With a smile of happiness on her face, that had certainly not been there
since her father's death, Alice came forward and gave Terence her hand.
He took it in his great palm, and I think, but am not quite sure, that
there were tears in his eyes.
"Come in at once," said Jim. "You must tell us your tale from beginning
to end. Even now I can scarcely realise that it is you. Every moment I
expect to see you vanish into mid-air. If I had been asked where you
were at this moment, I should have said 'out in one of the back
paddocks, say the Bald Mountain, riding along the fence on old Smoker,
with Dingo trotting at his heels.'"
"No, sir," Terence answered, looking round the great hall as he spoke,
"I sold Smoker at Bourke before I came away, and one of the overseers
has Dingo, poor old dog. The fact of the matter was, sir, after you left
I got a bit lonesome, and the old place didn't seem like the same. I had
put by a matter of between four and five hundred pounds, and, thinks I
to myself, there's the Old Country, that they say is so beautiful, and
to think that I've never set eyes on it. Why shouldn't I make the trip,
and just drop in and see the Boss, and Master Jim, and Miss Alice in
their new home. Who knows but that they might want a colt broken for
them. As soon as I made up my mind, I packed my bag and set off for
Melbourne, took a passage on board a ship that was sailing next day, and
here I am, sir. I hope your father is well, sir?"
There was an awkward pause, during which Alice left the room.
"Is it possible you haven't heard, Terence?" Jim enquired, in a hushed
voice.
"I've not heard anything, sir," Terence answered. "I was six weeks on
the water, you see. I _do_ hope, sir, there is nothing wrong."
Jim thereupon told Terence the whole story of his father's death. When
he had finished the Bushman's consternation may be better imagined than
described. For some moments it deprived him of speech. He could only
stare at Jim in horrified amazement.
"Tell me, sir, that they've got the man who did it," he said at last,
bringing his hand down with a bang on the table beside which he was
seated. "Tell me that they're going to hang the blackguard who killed
the kindest master in all the world, or I'll say that there's not a
trooper in England that's fit to call himself a policeman."
The poor fellow was genuinely affected.
"They haven't caught him yet, Terence," said Jim. "The police have been
searching for him everywhere for weeks past, but without success."
"But they must find him, run him down, and hang him, just as we used to
string up the cowardly dingoes out back when they worried the sheep. If
I have to track him like a Nyall blackfellow, I'll find him."
"Terence, I believe you've come at the right time," said Jim, holding
out his hand. "Seeing the way the police Authorities are managing
affairs, I've decided to take up the case myself. You were a faithful
servant to my father, and you've known me all my life. You've got a head
on your shoulders--do you remember who it was that found out who stole
those sheep from Coobalah Out Station? Come with me, old friend, and
we'll run the villain down together. _I_ would not wish for a better
companion."
"I'm thankful now that I came, sir," Terence replied. "You mark my
words, we'll find him, wherever he's stowed himself away."
From that day Terence was made a member of the Childerbridge household.
In due course, accompanied by Jim, he inspected the stables and was more
than a little impressed by the luxury with which the animals were
surrounded.
"Very pretty," he muttered to himself, "and turned out like racehorses;
all the same, I wouldn't like to ride 'em after cattle in the Ranges on
a dark night."
The sedate head coachman could not understand the situation. He was
puzzled as to what manner of man this might be, who, though so poorly
dressed, while treating his master with the utmost respect, conversed
with him on terms of perfect equality. His amazement, however, was
turned into admiration later in the day when Mr. O'Riley favoured him
with an exposition of the gentle art of horse-breaking.
"He's a bit too free and easy in his manners towards the governor for my
likin'," he informed the head gardener afterwards, "but there's no
denyin' the fact that he's amazin' clever with a youngster. They do say
as 'ow he did all Mr. Standerton's horse-breaking in foreign parts."
It soon became apparent that Terence was destined to become one of the
most popular personages at Childerbridge. His quaint mannerisms,
extraordinary yarns, and readiness to take any sort of work, however
hard, upon his shoulders, won for him a cordial welcome from the
inhabitants of the Manor House. As for Jim and Alice, for some reason
best known to themselves they derived a comfort from his presence that
at any other time they would scarcely have believed possible.
On the day following Terence's arrival James stood on the steps at the
front door, watching him school a young horse in the park. The
high-spirited animal was inclined to be troublesome, but with infinite
tact and patience Terence was gradually asserting his supremacy. Little
by little, as he watched him, Jim's thoughts drifted away from
Childerbridge, and another scene, equally familiar, rose before his
eyes. He saw a long creeper-covered house, standing on the banks of a
mighty river. A man was seated in the verandah, and that man was his
father. Talking to him from the garden path was another--no less a
person than Terence. Then he himself emerged from the house and stood by
his father's side--a little boy of ten, dressed in brown holland, and
wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. Upon his coming his
father rose, and, taking him by the hand, led him down to the
stock-yard, accompanied by Terence. In the yard stood the prettiest pony
that mortal boy had ever set eyes on.
"There, my boy," said his father, "that is my birthday present to you.
Terence has broken him."
And now here was this self-same Terence in England, of all places in the
world, making his hunters for him, while the father, who all his life
had proved so generous to him, was lying in his grave, cruelly murdered.
At that moment Alice came up behind him.
"What are you thinking of, Jim?" she enquired.
"I was thinking of Mudrapilla and the old days," he answered. "Seeing
Terence out there on that horse brought it back to me so vividly that
for a moment I had quite forgotten that I was in England. Do you know,
Alice, that sometimes a wild longing to be back there takes possession
of me. If only Helen were my wife, I'm not quite certain that I should
not want to take you both back--if only for a trip. It seems to me that
I would give anything to feel the hot sun upon my shoulders once again,
to smell the smoke of a camp fire, to see the dust rise from the
stock-yards, and to scent the perfume of the orange blossoms as we sit
together in the verandah in the evening. Alice, that is the life of a
man; this luxurious idleness makes me feel effeminate. But there, what
am I talking about? I've got my duty to do in England before we go back
to Mudrapilla."
At that moment Terence rode up, very satisfied with himself and with the
animal upon whose back he was seated. He had scarcely departed in the
direction of the stable before Jim descried a carriage entering the
park. It proved to be a fly from the station, and in it Robins, the
detective, was seated.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said, as he alighted; "in response to your
letter, I have come down to see you personally."
"I am very glad you have done so," Jim replied, "for I have been most
anxious to see you. Let us go into the house."
He thereupon led the way to his study, where he invited the detective to
be seated.
"I hope you have some good news for me," Jim remarked, as he closed the
door. "Have you made any discovery concerning Murbridge?"
The detective shook his head.
"I am sorry to say," he answered, "that our efforts have been entirely
unsuccessful. We traced the man from Paddington to a small eating-house
in the vicinity of the station, but after that we lost him altogether.
We have kept a careful watch on the out-going ships, tried the hotels,
lodging-houses, Salvation Army Shelters and such places, and have sent a
description of him to every police station in the country, but so far
without an atom of success. Once, when the body of a man was found in
the river at Greenwich, I thought we had discovered him. The description
given of the dead man tallied exactly with that of Murbridge. I was
disappointed, however, for he turned out to be a chemist's assistant,
who had been missing from Putney for upwards of a fortnight. Then a man
gave himself up to the police at Bristol, but he was found to be a mad
solicitor's clerk from Exeter. This is one of the deepest cases I have
ever been concerned in, Mr. Standerton, and though I am not the sort of
man who gives up very quickly, I am bound to confess that, up to the
present, I have been beaten, and beaten badly."
"You are not going to abandon the case, I hope?" Jim asked anxiously.
"Because you have been unsuccessful so far, you are surely not going to
give it up altogether?"
"The law never abandons a case," the other observed sententiously. "Of
course it's quite within the bounds of possibility that we may hit upon
some clue that will ultimately lead to Murbridge's arrest; it is
possible that he may give himself up in course of time; at the present,
however, I must admit that both circumstances appear remarkably remote."
"Well," returned Jim, "I can assure you that, whatever else happens, _I_
am not going to give up. If the authorities are going to do so, I shall
take it up myself and see what I can do."
There was a suspicion of a smile upon the detective's face as he
listened. Was it possible that an amateur could really believe himself
to be capable of succeeding where the astute professionals of Scotland
Yard had failed?
"I am afraid you will only be giving yourself needless trouble," he
said.
"I should not consider it trouble to try and discover my father's
murderer," Jim returned hotly. "Even if I am not more successful than
the police have been, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I
have done my best. May I trouble you for the name of the eating-house to
which Murbridge proceeded on leaving Paddington?"
Taking a piece of paper from the writing-table, Robins wrote the name
and address of the eating-house upon it, and handed it to Jim. The
latter placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and felt that he must
make the house in question his starting point.
When the detective took his departure half an hour later, Jim gave
instructions that Terence should be sent to him.
"Terence," he began, when the other stood before him, "I am going up to
London to-morrow morning to commence my search for Murbridge. I shall
want you to accompany me."
"Very good, sir," Terence replied, "I've been hoping for this, and it'll
go hard now if we can't track him somehow. But you must bear in mind,
sir, that I've never been in London. If it was in the Bush, now, I won't
say but what I should not be able to find him, but I don't know much
about these big cities, so to speak. It will be like looking for a track
of one particular sheep in a stock-yard after a mob of wild cattle have
been turned into it."
Jim smiled. He saw that Terence had not the vaguest notion of what
London was like.
That evening he informed Alice of the decision he had come to. She had
been expecting it for some days past, and was not at all surprised by
it. She only asked that he would permit her to accompany him.
"I could not remain here," she said, "and I'll promise that I'll not be
in your way. It will be so desolate in this house without you,
especially as Mr. Bursfield will not allow Helen to visit us, and I have
no other companion."
"By all means come with me," said Jim, "I shall choose a quiet hotel in
the West End, and you must amuse yourself as best you can while I am
absent."
Later in the evening he wrote a note to his sweetheart informing her of
his decision, and promising to let her know, day by day, what success
attended his efforts.
Next morning they left Childerbridge Station at eleven o'clock for
London. As the train steamed out of the village past the little
churchyard, Jim looked down upon his father's grave, which he could just
see on the eastern side of the church.
"Dear father," he muttered to himself, "If have to devote the rest of my
life in bringing your murderer to justice, I'll do it."