Before Jim could recover from his astonishment at seeing the man whom he
had been led to believe was upon the high seas, standing before him, the
cabman had whipped up his horse once more, and was half across the
Circus. Springing to his feet, he pushed up the shutter, and bade the
driver pull up as quickly as possible. Then, jumping from the cab, he
gave the man the first coin he took from his pocket.
"Did you see which way that fellow went we so nearly knocked down?" he
cried.
"Went away towards Regent Street, I believe," answered the cabman. "He
had a narrow shave and it isn't his fault he isn't in hospital now."
Jim waited to hear no more, but made his way back to the policeman he
had noticed standing beside the fountain in the centre of the Circus.
"Did you see that man who was so nearly knocked down by a cab a few
minutes ago?" he enquired, scarcely able to speak for excitement.
"I did," the officer answered laconically. "What about him?"
"Only that you must endeavour to find him, and arrest him at once," said
Jim. "There is not a moment to be lost. He may have got away by this
time."
"And he's precious lucky if he has," said the policeman. "Never saw a
closer thing in my life."
"But don't you hear me? You must find him at once. Every second we waste
is giving him the chance of getting away."
"Come, come, there's no such hurry: what's he done that you should be so
anxious to get hold of him?"
By this time Jim was nearly beside himself with rage at the other's
stupidity.
"That man was the Childerbridge murderer," he replied. "I am as certain
of it as I am that I see you standing before me now."
"Come, come, Sir, that's all very well you know," said the policeman,
with what was plainly a kindly intent, "but you go along home and get to
bed quietly; you'll be better in the morning and will have forgotten all
about this 'ere murderer."
After which, without another word, he walked away.
"Well, of all the insane idiots in the world," muttered Jim, "that
fellow should come first. But I am not going to be baulked; I'll search
for Murbridge myself."
He thereupon set off along Regent Street, but before he had gone half
the length of the street the folly of such a proceeding became apparent
to him. He knew that Murbridge had seen him, and, for this reason, would
most likely betake himself to the quiet of the back streets. To attempt
to find him, therefore, under cover of darkness, and at such an hour,
would be well-nigh an impossibility. Then another idea occurred to him.
Hailing a cab, he set off for Scotland Yard. On arrival there, he handed
in his card, and in due course was received most courteously by the
chief officer on duty. He explained his errand, and in doing so showed
the mistake under which Detective-sergeant Robins had been and was still
labouring.
"He shall be communicated with at once," said the official. "I suppose
you are quite certain of the identity of the man you saw in Piccadilly
Circus, Mr. Standerton?"
"As certain as I am of anything," Jim replied. "I should recognise him
anywhere. I was permitted a full view of his face, and I am quite sure
that I am not making a mistake. If only the cabman had pulled up a few
moments earlier, I might have been able to have stopped him."
"In that case, you should be able to give us some details of his present
personal appearance, which would afford us considerable assistance in
our search for him."
"He was wearing a black felt hat, and a brown overcoat, the collar of
which was turned up."
The officer made a note of these particulars, and promised that the
information should be dispersed in all directions without loss of time.
Then, feeling that nothing more could be done Jim bade him good-night,
and drove back to his hotel. In spite of the work he had done that day
he was not destined to obtain a wink of sleep all night, but tumbled and
tossed in his bed, brooding continually over the chance he had missed of
securing his father's murderer. If only he had alighted when the cabman
first stopped, he might have been able to have secured Murbridge. Now
his capture seemed as remote as ever; further, indeed, than if he had
been, as Robins supposed, on board the vessel bound for South Africa.
Jim had just finished his breakfast next morning when Robins called to
see him.
"This is a nice sort of surprise you have given us, sir," said the
detective, when he had made a few commonplace remarks, "I mean your
seeing Murbridge last night; I don't know what to think of it. It seems
to me to be more of a mystery than ever now."
"The only thing you can think of it is that Murbridge is in London, and
not on board the mail boat as you supposed," Jim replied. "You must have
got upon a wrong track again. I suppose there is no further news of him
this morning?"
"There was none when I left the Yard," the other replied. "At present we
are over-hauling all the doss-houses and shelters, and it is possible we
may make a discovery before long. When you think of the description we
have of him--a man wearing a brown coat and a felt hat--it is not very
much to go upon. There must be hundreds of men dressed like that in
London. If only we had a photograph of him it would make the labour a
good deal easier."
This set Jim thinking. In the lumber-room at Childerbridge there was, as
he remembered, a number of cases containing books, photograph albums,
etc., which his father had brought with him from Australia, but which
had never been unpacked. He recalled the fact that his father had told
him that he had been on intimate terms with Murbridge many years before.
Was it not possible, therefore, that among his collections there might
be some portrait of that individual. He felt inclined to run down and
turn the boxes over. What was more, if he did so, he might chance to
obtain an interview with Helen. He explained his hopes with regard to
the photograph to the detective, who instantly agreed that it might be
worth his while to make the search.
"In that case I will go down by the eleven o'clock train, and if I
discover anything, I will wire you and post the photograph on to you by
the evening mail."
"It is unnecessary for me to assure you it would be an inestimable help
to us in our search," the other answered; "we should have something more
definite to go upon then."
True to this arrangement, therefore Jim, Alice, and Terence returned to
Childerbridge by the morning train. A carriage met them at the station,
and in it they drove through the village. As they were drawing near the
park gates, an exclamation from Alice roused Jim from the reverie into
which he had fallen, and caused him to glance up the lane that led from
the main road. To his unspeakable joy, he discovered that Helen was
coming towards them. In a moment the carriage was stopped, and Jim
alighted and hastened to meet her.
"My darling," he cried, "I never counted upon having the happiness of
seeing you so soon. This is most fortunate."
"But what brings you back to-day, Jim?" Helen replied. "From your letter
I gathered that I should not see you for at least a week. There is
nothing wrong, I hope?"
She scanned his face with anxious eyes, and as she did so it occurred to
Jim that she herself was looking far from well.
"Nothing is the matter," he answered. "We have merely come down to try
and find some photographs that would help us in our search. But, Helen,
you are not looking at all well. Your face frightens me."
"I am alright," was the reply. "I have been a little worried lately
about my grandfather, and that probably accounts for my appearance, but
we will not talk of that now. I must say 'How do you do' to Alice."
She accordingly approached the carriage, and held out her hand to her
friend. They conversed together for a few moments, and then Alice
proposed that Helen should return with them to the Hall, but this being,
for more reasons than one, impossible, it was arranged that Jim should
see her home across the park, a suggestion which, you may be sure, he
was not slow to take advantage of. They accordingly watched the carriage
pass through the lodge gates, and then themselves set out for the Dower
House. As they walked Jim told his sweetheart of the ill success that
had attended his mission to London.
"But, Helen," he said at last, as they approached the house, "you have
not told me what it is that is worrying you about your grandfather. I
hope he has not been making you unhappy?"
She hung her head but did not answer.
"Ah, I can see that he has," he exclaimed, "and I suppose it was
something to do with me. I wonder whether I should be right if I
hazarded a guess that Mr. Bursfield had been trying again to force you
into giving me up? Is that the case, Helen?"
"I am afraid in a measure it is," she replied, but with some diffidence.
"You may be quite sure, however, that whatever he may do it will not
influence me. You know how truly I love you?"
"Yes, I know that," he answered, "and I am quite content to trust you. I
know that nothing Mr. Bursfield can say will induce you to do as he
proposes."
"Remember that always," she said. "But, oh, Jim, I wish he were not so
determined in his opposition to our marriage. Sometimes I feel that I am
acting not only like a traitor to him, but to you as well."
"That you could never be," Jim returned. "However, keep up a good heart,
dear, and you may be sure all will come right in the end. In the future
we shall look back upon these little troubles, and wonder why we so
worried about them."
A few minutes later they reached the gates leading into the grounds of
the Dower House. Here Jim bade his sweetheart good-bye, and, having
arranged another meeting for the morrow, set off on his walk to his own
home. Immediately upon his arrival there, he made his way, accompanied
by Alice, to the lumber-room on the top story of the house, in which the
boxes he had come down to over-haul had been placed. How well he could
recall the day in Australia on which his father had packed them. Little
had he imagined then that those boxes would next be opened in order to
discover a portrait of the same kind father's murderer. When the first
box had been overhauled it was found to contain unimportant papers
connected with the dead man's various properties in Australia. In the
second was a miscellaneous collection; which consisted of a variety of
account books, with specimens of ore, wool, and other products of the
Island Continent. It was not until they had opened the third box that
they began to think they were on the right track. In this were a few
engravings, perhaps half-a-dozen sketch books, filled with pen-and-ink
drawings by Jim's mother, upwards of a hundred novels between thirty and
forty years old, and at the bottom a large album filled with
photographs, each of which looked out upon a forgetful world from a
floral setting. Jim took it to a window, where he sat down on a box to
examine it.
To my thinking there is nothing more pathetic than an old album. What
memories it recalls of long-forgotten friends; as one looks upon the
faded pictures, how clearly old scenes rise before one.
On the first page was a photograph of William Standerton himself, taken
when he was a young man. His coat was of a strange cut, his trousers
were of the peg-top description, while a magnificent pair of "Dundreary"
whiskers decorated his manly face. With a sigh Jim turned the page, to
discover a portrait of his mother, which had been taken on her wedding
day. Then followed a long succession of relatives and personal friends,
each clad in the same fashion, and nearly all taken in the same
constrained attitude. But examine each picture as he would, no
representation of the man he wanted could he discover.
"Well, I'm afraid that's all," said Jim to Alice, as he replaced the
album in his box. "I am disappointed, though I cannot say that I hoped
to be very successful. I shall have to write to Robins and tell him that
I have found nothing."
Having relocked the boxes, they descended to the hall once more. It was
growing dark, and the dressing bell for dinner had already sounded. They
accordingly separated, and went to their respective rooms. If the truth
must be confessed, Jim was more disappointed by the failure of his
search than he cared to admit.
"It would have been of inestimable value," he said to himself, "to have
a portrait of Murbridge just now."
He had tied one end of his tie and was in the act of performing the same
operation with the other, when he stopped and stared at the wall before
him with half-closed eyes.
"By Jove!" he said, "I believe I've hit it. I think I know where there
is a portrait of him."
He recalled a scene that had taken place at Mudrapilla one winter's
evening, many years before, when Alice and he were children. The lamp
had been lighted, and to amuse them before they went to bed, their
father had promised a prize to whichever one of the pair should
recognise and describe by name the greater number of the portraits in
the very album he had been looking through that afternoon. Jim
remembered how on that occasion he had chanced upon a certain _carte de
visite_, showing a tall young man leaning, hat in hand, against a marble
pillar.
"Who is this, father?" He had enquired for he was not able to recognise
the individual portrayed in the picture.
"Do not ask me," returned his father in a tone that the children never
forgot, so stern and harsh was it. Then, drawing the portrait from the
page, he placed it in the pocket at the end of the book. After that the
game had recommenced, but was played with less vigour than before.
"I wonder if it could have been the same man?" said Jim. "I cannot
remember father ever having expressed such a dislike for any one else
save Murbridge. After dinner I'll go up and endeavour to find it. It was
there for many years, for I can recall how I used to creep into the
drawing-room and peep at it on the sly, wondering what sort of villainy
he had committed that was sufficient to prevent his name being mentioned
to us. Poor father, it is certain that he was not deceived in him after
all."
Throughout dinner that evening his mind dwelt on the remembrance of that
scene at Mudrapilla, and as soon as they rose from the table he begged
Alice to excuse him, and went upstairs candle in hand, to recommence his
search. He left his sister in the drawing-room, and the household were
at supper in the servants' hall, so that, so far as the disposition of
the house went, he had all the upper floors to himself. Entering the
lumber-room, he knelt down and unlocked the box which contained the
album. To take the book from the box, and to turn to the pocket in
question was the work of a moment. It had been placed there for the
purpose of holding loose photographs, and it extended the whole width of
the cover. With a half fear that it might not be contained therein, Jim
thrust his hand into the receptacle. He was not to be disappointed this
time, however, for a card was certainly there, and he withdrew it and
held it up to the light with a feeling of triumph. Yes, it was the
picture he remembered, and, better still, _it was the portrait of
Richard Murbridge_. Though it had been taken when the latter was a young
man, Jim recognised his enemy at once. There was the same crafty look in
his eyes, the same carping expression about the mouth. The man who had
been so nearly knocked down by the cab on the previous evening was the
same person who, in the picture, posed himself so gracefully beside the
marble pillar "This must go to Robins to-night," said Jim, to himself,
"copies of it can then be distributed broadcast. It will be strange
after that if we do not manage to lay hands upon him."
So saying, he replaced the album in the box, locked the latter, and then
placed the photograph in his pocket, and prepared to return to Alice
once more. As he descended the stairs, he extinguished the candle, for
the hanging lamp in the hall below gave sufficient light for him to see
his way. He was only a few steps from the bottom when a curious noise,
which seemed to come from the gallery above, attracted his attention. It
resembled the creaking of a rusty hinge, more than anything else. He had
just time to wonder what had occasioned it, when, to his amazement, he
became aware of a little black figure passing swiftly along the corridor
in the direction of the further wing. A moment later it had vanished,
and he was left to place such construction as he pleased upon what he
had seen. For a space, during which a man might have counted twenty, he
stood as if rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe the evidence of
his senses.
"Good heavens! The Black Dwarf," he muttered to himself. "I must find
out what it means."
Then he set off in pursuit.