In the same Train.
"You must step out sharp, Sir Karl. The train is on the move."
Sir Karl Andinnian had gone hastening into the railway-station, late,
on Monday morning, to catch the eleven o'clock train, and was taking a
ticket for London. It was the station-master who had addressed him, as
he handed him his ticket. One of the porters held open the door of a
first-class compartment, and Sir Karl jumped in.
A lady was gathered into the corner beyond him, her veil down: there
was no one else in the carriage. Karl did not look round at her until
the train had left the station. And when he saw who it was, he thought
his eyes must be playing him false.
"Why, Rose!" he exclaimed. "Can it be you?"
She smiled and threw her veil back, leaning towards him at the same
moment to explain why she was there. The whistle set up a shriek at
the time, and though Sir Karl, his ear bent close to her, no doubt
heard the explanation, the air of the carriage did not. "Slight
accident--last night--quite useless--would have me come--Rennet--"
were all the disconnected words _that_ caught.
"I quite shrunk from the journey at first," she said, when the whistle
had subsided. "I feel always shy and timid now: but I am not sorry to
go, for it will give me the opportunity of making some needful
purchases. I would rather do it in London than Basham; in fact, I
should not dare to go to Basham myself: and I did not care to trust
Ann Hopley to buy these fine little things."
"Is Adam better?"
"Yes, I think so: he seemed pretty well yesterday. You did not come to
the Maze last night, Karl. He was wishing for you."
Karl turned off the subject. The fright he had had, coming out on
Saturday night, would serve to keep him away for some days to come. In
his heart of hearts he believed that, in the interests of prudence,
the less he went to the Maze the better: instinct was always telling
him so.
"I suppose you will return to-night, Rose?"
"If I can," she answered. "It depends on Rennet. Should I be obliged
to wait until to-morrow, I shall have to sleep at an hotel: Adam has
directed me to one." And so the conversation innocently progressed,
and the train went on.
But now, as capricious fortune had it, who should be in that self-same
train but Miss Blake! Miss Blake was going up to London en cachette.
That is to say, she had not intended Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian to
know of the journey. Some grand piece of work, involving choice silks
and much embroidery, was being projected by Miss Blake for Mr.
Cattacomb's use at St. Jerome's: she had determined to get the silks
at first hand, which she could only do in London; and took the train
this morning for the purpose. "If I am not in to luncheon, don't
think anything of it: I can get a biscuit out," she said to Lucy: and
Miss Blake's general out-of-door engagements appeared to be so
numerous--what with the church services, and the hunting-up little
ragamuffins from their mothers' cottages for instruction--that Lucy
would have thought nothing of it had she been away all day long. Miss
Blake, however, intended to get back in the afternoon.
Seated in her compartment, waiting for the train to start, she had
seen Sir Karl Andinnian come running on to the platform; and she drew
her face back out of sight. She saw him put into a carriage just
behind her own: and she felts a little cross that he should be going
to London at all.
"What is taking him, I wonder?" she thought. "He never said a word
about it at breakfast. I don't believe Lucy knows it."
Arrived at the terminus, Miss Blake, knowing that gentlemen mostly
leap out of a train before it has well stopped, held back herself.
Cautiously peeping to see him pass and get fairly off, she saw what
she had not expected to see--Sir Karl helping out a lady. They passed
on quickly: Sir Karl carrying a large clasped reticule bag, and the
lady clinging to his arm. She was closely veiled: but Miss Blake's
keen eyes knew her through the veil for Mrs. Grey.
Miss Blake could have groaned the roof off the carriage. She was the
only passenger left in it. "The deceitful villain!" she exclaimed: and
then she burst on to the platform, and sheltered herself behind a
projecting board to look after the criminals.
Sir Karl was putting Mrs. Grey into a four-wheeled cab. He handed in
her reticule bag after her, shook hands, gave a direction to the
driver, and the cab went off. Then he looked round for a hansom, and
was driven away in his turn. Miss Blake, making good her own
departure, believed she had not yet suspected half the tricks and
turns there must be in this wicked world.
"Poor Lucy! poor wife!" she murmured, pityingly. "May Heaven look down
and shield her!"
Karl's errand in London was to find out what he could about Philip
Salter. On the Saturday night, patiently searching the file of
newspapers--the "Times"--he at length came upon the case. One Philip
Salter had been manager to a financial firm in London, and for some
years managed it honestly and very successfully. But he got
speculating on his own account, lost and lost, and continued to lose,
all the while using the funds, that were not his, to prop him up, and
prevent exposure. To do this, unsuspected, he was forced to resort to
forgery: to fabricate false bonds; to become, in short, one of the
worst of felons. The day of discovery came; but Mr. Salter had not
waited for it. He was off, and left no trace, as he thought, behind
him. Some clue, however, fancied or real, was obtained by a clever
ordinary police officer. He went down to Liverpool, seized Philip
Salter on board an American vessel just about to steam out of port,
and started with him for London at once by the night train,
disguised as he was. Midway on the road, Salter did what only a
desperate man, fighting for very life, would have dared to do--he
jumped from the carriage and made his escape.
So much Karl read: but, though he searched onwards, he could see
nothing else. Some of the newspapers were missing; had not been filed;
and, it might be, that they were the very papers that spoke further.
He then resolved to seek information elsewhere.
All day on the Sunday it had been floating through his mind. His
wife's ankle was better. He walked to church with her as usual,
sitting by her side in their conspicuous pew--placed sideways to the
pulpit and exposed to the eyes of all the congregation. Throughout the
service, throughout the sermon, Karl's mind was dwelling on the
suspicion connecting Philip Smith with Philip Salter. Lucy thought him
very still: as still and sad as herself. The only other conspicuous
pew was opposite; it belonged to the vicarage. Margaret Sumnor was in
it alone, in the half-reclining seat that had been made for her. Mrs.
Sumnor rarely went to church in the morning: the younger daughters
were of course at St. Jerome's.
"I will go to London to-morrow," decided Karl in his own mind that
night. "Could Smith be got away from his post of espionage it might be
Adam's salvation." And that's what brought him taking the eleven
o'clock train on Monday morning.
His hansom cab conveyed him to Plunkett and Plunkett's. That he must
conduct this inquiry in the most cautiously delicate manner, he knew
well; or he might only make bad worse, and bring the hornet's nest,
that he was always dreading, about his brother's head. Once let
Smith--if he were really Salter--suspect that inquiries were being
made about himself, and he might in revenge denounce Sir Adam.
Mr. Plunkett, with whom Karl as well as the rest of the family had
always transacted business, was not in town. Mr. George Plunkett saw
him, but he was to Karl comparatively a stranger. Even this seemed to
fetter him and make him feel more uneasily, but without reason, the
necessity of caution. In a decidedly hesitating way, he said that he
had a reason for wishing to learn some particulars about a man who had
cheated the community a year or two ago and had made his escape, one
Philip Salter: he wanted to know whether he had been re-caught; or, if
not, where he was now supposed to be. Mr. George Plunkett immediately
asked--not supposing there was any reason why he should not be
told--for what purpose Sir Karl wished for the information. Was it
that any of his friends had been sufferers and were hoping to get back
what they had lost? And Karl contrived, without any distinct
assertion, to leave this impression on the lawyer's mind. Mr.
Plunkett, however, could give him no information about Salter, beyond
the fact--or rather, opinion, for he was not sure--that he had never
been retaken. The matter was not one they had any interest in, he
observed; and he recommended Sir Karl to go to Scotland Yard.
"I will write a note of introduction for you to one of the head
officers there, Sir Karl," he said. "It will insure you attention."
But Karl declined this. "If I went to Scotland Yard at all," he said,
"it would be as an unknown, private individual, not as Sir Karl
Andinnian. I don't much care to go to Scotland Yard."
"But why?" exclaimed Mr. George Plunkett. And then, all in a moment an
idea flashed across him. He fancied that Sir Karl was shy of
presenting himself there as the brother of the unfortunate man who had
stood his trial for murder.
"I have reasons for not wishing it to be known that I am stirring in
this," admitted Karl. "Grave reasons. At Scotland Yard they might
recognize me, and perhaps put questions that at present I would rather
not answer."
"Look here, then," said the lawyer. "I will give you a letter to one
of the private men connected with the force--a detective, in fact. You
can see him at his own house. He is one of the cleverest men they
have, and will be sure to be able to tell you everything you want to
know. There's not the least necessity for me to mention your name to
him, and he'll not seek to learn it. I shall say you are a client and
friend of ours, and that will be sufficient."
"Thank you, that will be best," replied Karl.
Mr. George Plunkett wrote the note there and then, and gave it to
Karl. It was addressed to Mr. Burtenshaw, Euston Road. He took a cab
and found the house--a middling-sized house with buff-coloured blinds
to the windows. A maid servant came to the door, and her cap flew off
as she opened it.
"Can I see Mr. Burtenshaw?" asked Sir Karl
"Mr. Burtenshaw's out, sir," she replied, stooping to pick up the
"cap,"--a piece of bordered net the size of a five-shilling piece. "He
left word that he should be back at five o'clock."
"If I were a detective officer, my servants should wear caps on their
heads," thought Karl, as he turned away, and went to get some dinner.
The church clocks were striking five when he was at the door again.
Mr. Burtenshaw was at home; and Karl, declining to give his name, was
shown to an upstairs room. A little man of middle age, with a sallow
face and rather nice grey eyes, was standing by a table covered with
papers. Karl bowed, and handed him Mr. George Plunkett's note.
"Take a seat, sir, pray, while I read it," said Mr. Burtenshaw,
instinctively recognising Karl for a gentleman and a noble one. And
Karl sat down near the window.
"Very good; I am at your service, sir," said the detective, drawing a
chair opposite Karl's. "What can I do for you?"
With less hesitation than he had shown to Mr. George Plunkett, for he
was gathering courage now the ice was broken, Karl frankly stated why
he had come, and what he wanted--some information about the criminal,
Philip Salter.
"Do you know much about the case?" continued Karl--for Mr. Burtenshaw
had made no immediate reply, but sat in silence.
"I believe I know all about it, sir. I was wondering whether you had
unearthed him and were come to claim the reward."
"The reward! Is there an offered reward out against him?"
"Five hundred pounds. It was offered after he had made his desperate
escape, and it stands still."
"He has not been retaken then?"
"No, never. We have failed in his case, I am ashamed to say. What
particulars are they, sir, that you wish to hear of him? Those
connected with his frauds and forgeries?"
"Not those: I have read of them in some of the old papers. I want to
know where he is supposed to be; and what he is like in person."
"Our belief is that he is still in Great Britain; strange though it
may sound to you to hear me say it. England or Scotland. After that
escapade, all the ports were so thoroughly guarded and watched, that I
don't think he could have escaped. We have a more especial reason,
which I do not speak of, for suspecting that he is here still: at
least that he was three months ago."
"There are a hundred places in England where he may be hiding," spoke
Karl impulsively. "Where he may be living as an ordinary individual,
just like the individuals about him."
"Exactly so."
"Living openly as may be said, but cautiously. Perhaps wearing a
disguise."
"No doubt of the disguise. False hair and whiskers, spectacles, and
all that."
Karl remembered Mr. Smith's green spectacles. His hair might not be
his own: he wished he had taken better note of it.
"And in person? What is he like?"
"That I cannot tell you," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "I never saw him. Some
of us know him well. Grimley especially does."
"Who is Grimley?"
"The man who let him escape. He has been under a cloud since with us.
My wonder is that he was not dismissed."
"Then you don't know at all what Salter is like?"
"Are there no photographs?"
"I think not. I have seen none. Is it very essential your ascertaining
this?"
"The most essential point of all. Is this Grimley to be got at? If I
could see him to-day and get Salter's description from him, I should
be more than glad."
Mr. Burtenshaw took some ivory tablets from his pocket and consulted
them. "I will send for Grimley here, sir. Will eight o'clock be too
late for you?"
"Not at all," replied Karl, thinking he could get away by the
half-past nine train.
Mr. Burtenshaw escorted him to the head of the stairs, and watched him
down, making his mental comments.
"I wonder who he is? He looks too full of care for his years. But he
knows Salter's retreat as sure as a gun--or thinks he knows it. Won't
denounce him till he's sure."
When Karl got back at eight o'clock, some disappointment was in store
for him. Grimley was not there. The detective showed the scrap of
message returned to him, scribbled in pencil on a loose bit of paper.
Karl read as follows,
"Can't get to you before eleven: might be a little later. Suppose it's
particular? Got a matter on hand, and have to leave for the country at
five in the morning."
"Will you see him at that late hour, sir?"
Karl considered. It would involve his staying in town for the night,
which he had not prepared for. But he was restlessly anxious to set
the question at rest, and resolved upon waiting.
He walked away through the busy London streets, seemingly more crowded
than usual that Monday evening, and sent a telegraphic message to his
wife, saying he could not be home until the morrow. Then he went into
the Charing Cross Hotel and engaged a bed. Before eleven he was back
again at Mr. Burtenshaw's. Grimley came in about a quarter past: a
powerful, tallish man with a rather jolly face, not dressed in
his official clothes as a policeman, but in an ordinary suit of
pepper-and-salt.
"You remember Philip Salter, Grimley?" began the superior man at once,
without any circumlocution or introduction.
"I ought to remember him, Mr. Burtenshaw."
"Just describe his person to this gentleman as accurately as you can."
"He's not dropped upon at last, is he?" returned the man, his whole
face lighting up.
"No. Don't jump to conclusions, Grimley, but do as you are bid." Upon
which rebuke Grimley turned to Sir Karl.
"He was about as tall as I am, sir, and not unlike me in shape: that
is, strongly made, and very active. His real hair was dark brown, and
almost, black--but goodness only knows what it's changed into now."
"And his face?" questioned Karl. As yet the description tallied.
"Well, his face was a fresh-coloured face, pleasant in look, and he
was a free, pleasant man to talk to you. His eyes--I can't be sure,
but I think they were dark brown: his eyebrows were thick and rather
more arched than common. At that time his face was clean-shaved,
whiskers and all: daresay it's covered with hair now."
"Was he gentlemanly in his look and manners?"
"Yes, sir, I should say so. A rather bustling, business-kind of
gentleman: I used to see him often before he turned rogue. Leastways
before it was known. You'd never have thought it of him: you'd have
trusted him through thick and thin."
Smith at Foxwood was not bustling in his manners: rather quiet. But,
as Sir Karl's thoughts ran, there was nothing there for him to be
bustling over: and, besides, the trouble might have tamed him. In
other particulars the description might have well served for Smith
himself, and Karl's hopes rose. Grimley watched him keenly.
"Have you a photograph of him?" asked Karl.
"No, sir. 'Twas a great pity one was never took. I might have had it
done at Liverpool that day; but I thought I'd got himself safe, and it
didn't occur to me. Ah! live and learn. I never was _done_ before, and
I've not been since."
"You let him escape you in the train?"
"I let him: yes, sir, that's the right word; as things turned out.
'Don't put the handcuffs on me, Grimley,' says he, when we were about
to start for the up-night train. 'It's not pleasant to be seen in that
condition by the passengers who sit opposite you. I'll not give you
any trouble: you've got me, and I yield to it.' 'On your honour, sir?'
says I. 'On my word and honour,' says he. 'To tell you the truth,
Grimley,' he goes on, 'I've led such a life of fear and suspense
lately that I'm not sorry it's ended.' Well, sir, I put faith in him:
you've heard me say it, Mr. Burtenshaw: and we took our seats in the
carriage, me on one side, my mate, Knowles, on the other, and Salter,
unfettered, between us. He had got a great thick fluffy grey wrapper
on, half coat, 'half cloak, with them wide hanging sleeves: we touched
the sleeves on both sides, me and Knowles, with our arms and
shoulders. There was one passenger besides; he sat opposite Knowles,
and slept a good deal. Salter slept too--or seemed to sleep. Well,
sir, we had got well on in our journey, when from some cause the lamp
goes out. Soon after, the train shoots into a tunnel, and we were in
utter darkness. Salter, apparently, was sleeping fast. A glimmer of
light arose when we were half way through it, from some opening I
suppose, and I saw the opposite passenger, as I thought, leaning out
at the far window, the one next Knowles. The next minute there was a
sound and a rush of air. Good heavens he has fell out, I says to
Knowles: and Knowles--I say he had been asleep too--rouses up and says
'Why the door's open.' Sir, when we got out of the tunnel, the rays of
the bright lamp at its opening shone in; the opposite passenger was
safe enough, his head nodding on his breast, but my prisoner was
gone."
Karl caught up his breath; the tale excited him. "How could it have
been done?" he exclaimed.
"The dickens knows. There was his thick rough coat again our arms, but
his arms was out of it. How he had managed to slip 'em out and make no
stir, and get off his seat to the door, I shall never guess. One thing
is certain--he must have had a railway key hid about him somewhere and
opened the door with it: he must have been opening it when I thought
it was the passenger leaning out."
"What did you do?"
"We could do nothing, sir. Except shout to arouse the guard; we did
enough of that, but the guard never heard us. When the next station
was reached, a deal of good time had been lost. We told what had
occurred, and got the tunnel searched. That Salter would be found
dead, everybody thought. Instead of that he was not found at all; not
a trace of him."
"He must have received injuries," exclaimed Karl.
"I should say so," returned Grimley. "Injuries that perhaps he carries
from that day to this." And Karl half started as he remembered the arm
always in a sling.
Just for a single moment the temptation to denounce this man came over
him, in spite of his wish and will. Only for the moment: he remembered
the danger to his brother. Besides, he would not have betrayed Smith
for the world.
"What age is Salter?" he resumed.
"He must be about five-and-thirty now, sir. He was said to be
three-and-thirty when it happened."
That was the first check. Smith must be quite forty. "Did Salter look
older than his years?" he asked.
"No, I think not. Ah, he was a cunning fox," continued Mr. Grimley,
grating his teeth at the remembrance. "I've known since then what it
is to trust to the word and honour of a thief. Can you tell me where
to find him, sir?" he suddenly cried, after a pause. "To retake that
man would be the most satisfactory piece of work I've got left to me
in life."
"No, I cannot," replied Karl, gravely: which Mr. Grimley did not
appear to like at all. So the interview came to an end without much
result; and Karl departed for his hotel. Both Grimley and Mr.
Burtenshaw, bowing him out, remained, firmly persuaded in their own
minds that this unknown gentleman, who did not give his name,
possessed some clue or other to the criminal, Salter.
We must return for a few minutes to Foxwood Court. Miss Blake got back
by an early afternoon train as she had intended, and found some
visitors with Lady Andinnian. It was old General Lloyd from Basham
with two of his daughters. They were asking Lady Andinnian to take
luncheon with them on the morrow, and accompany them afterwards to the
flower-show that was to be held at the Guildhall. Sir Karl and Miss
Blake were included in the invitation. Lucy promised: she seemed worn
and weary with her solitude, and she loved flowers greatly. For Sir
Karl she said she could not answer: he was in London for the day: but
she thought it likely he would be able to accompany her. Miss Blake
left it an open question: St. Jerome's was paramount just now, and
to-morrow was one of its festival-days.
They dined alone, those two, Sir Karl not having returned for it: and,
in spite of troubles, it seemed very dull to Lucy without her husband.
"Did you know Sir Karl was going to London?" asked Miss Blake.
"Yes," said Lucy; "he told me this morning. He had business with
Plunkett and Plunkett."
Miss Blake suddenly pushed her hair from her forehead as if it
troubled her, and bit her lips to enforce them to silence.
After dinner Miss Blake went out. Tom Pepp, who was appointed
bell-ringer to St. Jerome's, in his intervals of work, had played
truant at Matins in the morning and wanted looking up; so she went to
do it. This bell was a new feature at St. Jerome's, and caused much
talk. It was hung over the entrance-door, communicating with a stout
string inside: which string Tom Pepp had to pull--to his intense
delight.
When Miss Blake got back, Lucy was still alone. The evening passed on,
and Sir Karl did not come. Soon after nine o'clock a telegraphic
dispatch arrived from him, addressed to Lady Andinnian. Her heart beat
a little faster as she opened and read it.
"I cannot get my business done to-night, and must sleep in town. Shall
be home to-morrow."
"I wonder what business it is that is detaining him?" spoke Lucy,
mechanically, after handing the dispatch to Theresa, her thoughts bent
upon her absent husband.
Theresa Blake was trembling to her fingers' ends. She flung down the
dispatch after reading it, and flung after it a contemptuous word. The
action and the word quite startled Lady Andinnian.
"I'll tell you, Lucy; I'll tell you because you ought to know it," she
cried, scattering prudence to the winds in her righteous indignation;
scattering even all consideration touching Jane Shore, the pillory,
the white sheet, and the lighted taper. "The plea of business is good
to assume: very convenient! Sir Karl did not go to London alone this
morning. That girl was with him."
"What girl?" faltered Lucy.
"She at the Maze. She with the angel face." Lucy slightly shivered.
For a moment she made no comment. Her face turned ghastly.
"Oh, Lucy, my dear, forgive me!" cried Miss Blake. "Perhaps I have
been wrong to tell you; but I cannot bear that you should be so
deceived. I went up to London myself this morning after some
embroidery silks that I could not get at Basham. Sir Karl and she were
in the same train. I saw them get out together at the terminus."
It was cruel to hear and to have to bear; but Lucy said never a word.
Her tell-tale face had betrayed her emotion, but she would not let
anything else betray it.
"Perhaps both happened to have business in London," she quietly said,
when she could trust her voice to be steady. "I am sure Karl went up
to go to Plunkett and Plunkett's."
And not another allusion did she make to it. Ringing for Hewitt, she
calmly told him his master would not be home: and after that talked
cheerfully to Theresa until the evening was over. Miss Blake wondered
at her.
Calm before _her_ and the world. But when she got upstairs and was
alone in her chamber, all the pent-up anguish broke forth. Her heart
seemed breaking; her sense of wrong well nigh overmastered her.
"And it was only on Saturday he vowed to me the sin was all of the
past!" she cried. And she lay in torment through the live-long
summer's night.