"From Worcester itself, sir. Leastways from St. John's, which is the
same thing."
"Whether you are from Worcester, or whether you are from Jericho, I'll
let you know that you can't put empty lamps into first-class carriages
on this line without being made to answer for it!" roared the lunatic.
"What's your name! I am a director."
"My name is Thomas Brooks, sir," replied the man, respectfully touching
his cap. "But I declare to you, sir, that I've told the truth in saying
the lamps were all right when we started: how this one can have got
douted, I can't think. There's not a guard on the line, sir, more
particular in seeing to the lamps than I am."
"Well, light it now; don't waste time excusing yourself," growled the
lunatic. But he said nothing about the dog; which was surprising.
In a twinkling the lamp was lighted, and we were off again. The lady and
her dog were quiet now: he was out of sight: she leaned back to go to
sleep. The Squire lodged his head against the curtain, and shut his eyes
to do the same; the little man, as before, never looked off his book;
and the lunatic frantically shifted himself every two minutes between
his own seat and that of the opposite corner. There were no more
tunnels, and we went smoothly on to the next station. Five minutes
allowed there.
The little man, putting his book in his pocket, took down a black
leather bag from above his head, and got out; the lady, her dog hidden
still, prepared to follow him, wishing the Squire and me, and even the
lunatic, with a forgiving smile, a polite good morning. I had moved to
that end, and was watching the lady's wonderful back hair as she stepped
out, when all in a moment the Squire sprang up with a shout, and
jumping out nearly upon her, called out that he had been robbed. She
dropped the dog, and I thought he must have caught the lunatic's
disorder and become frantic.
It is of no use attempting to describe exactly what followed. The lady,
snatching up her dog, shrieked out that perhaps she had been robbed
too; she laid hold of the Squire's arm, and went with him into the
station-master's room. And there we were: us three, and the guard, and
the station-master, and the lunatic, who had come pouncing out too at
the Squire's cry. The man in spectacles had disappeared for good.
The Squire's pocket-book was gone. He gave his name and address at once
to the station-master: and the guard's face lighted with intelligence
when he heard it, for he knew Squire Todhetley by reputation. The
pocket-book had been safe just before we entered the tunnel; the Squire
was certain of that, having felt it. He had sat in the carriage with his
coat unbuttoned, rather thrown back; and nothing could have been easier
than for a clever thief to draw it out, under cover of the darkness.
"I had fifty pounds in it," he said; "fifty pounds in five-pound notes.
And some memoranda besides."
"Fifty pounds!" cried the lady, quickly. "And you could travel with all
that about you, and not button up your coat! You ought to be rich!"
"Have you been in the habit of meeting thieves, madam, when travelling?"
suddenly demanded the lunatic, turning upon her without warning, his
coat whirling about on all sides with the rapidity of his movements.
"No, sir, I have not," she answered, in indignant tones. "Have you?"
"I have not, madam. But, then, you perceive I see no risk in travelling
with a coat unbuttoned, although it may have bank-notes in the pockets."
She made no reply: was too much occupied in turning out her own pockets
and purse, to ascertain that they had not been rifled. Re-assured on the
point, she sat down on a low box against the wall, nursing her dog;
which had begun its snarling again.
"It must have been taken from me in the dark as we went through the
tunnel," affirmed the Squire to the room in general and perhaps the
station-master in particular. "I am a magistrate, and have some
experience in these things. I sat completely off my guard, a prey for
anybody, my hands stretched out before me, grappling with that dog, that
seemed--why, goodness me! yes he _did_, now that I think of it--that
seemed to be held about fifteen inches off my nose on purpose to attack
me. That's when the thing must have been done. But now--which of them
could it have been?"
He meant which of the passengers. As he looked hard at us in rotation,
especially at the guard and station-master, who had not been in the
carriage, the lady gave a shriek, and threw the dog into the middle of
the room.
"I see it all," she said, faintly. "He has a habit of snatching at
things with his mouth. He must have snatched the case out of your
pocket, sir, and dropped it from the window. You will find it in the
tunnel."
"Who has?" asked the lunatic, while the Squire stared in wonder.
"My poor little Wasp. Ah, villain! beast! it is he that has done all
this mischief."
"He might have taken the pocket-book," I said, thinking it time to
speak, "but he could not have dropped it out, for I put the window up as
we went into the tunnel."
It seemed a nonplus for her, and her face fell again. "There was the
other window," she said in a minute. "He might have dropped it there. I
heard his bark quite close to it."
"_I_ pulled up that window, madam," said the lunatic. "If the dog did
take it out of the pocket it may be in the carriage now."
The guard rushed out to search it; the Squire followed, but the
station-master remained where he was, and closed the door after them. A
thought came over me that he was stopping to keep the two passengers in
view.
No; the pocket-book could not be found in the carriage. As they came
back, the Squire was asking the guard if he knew who the nobleman was
who had got out at the last station with his servant. But the guard did
not know.
"He said they knew him on the line."
"Very likely, sir. I have not been on this line above a month or two."
"Well, this is an unpleasant affair," said the lunatic impatiently; "and
the question is--What's to be done? It appears pretty evident that your
pocket-book was taken in the carriage, sir. Of the four passengers, I
suppose the one who left us at the last station must be held exempt from
suspicion, being a nobleman. Another got out here, and has disappeared;
the other two are present. I propose that we should both be searched."
"I'm sure I am quite willing," said the lady, and she got up at once.
I think the Squire was about to disclaim any wish so to act; but the
lunatic was resolute, and the station-master agreed with him. There was
no time to be lost, for the train was ready to start again, her time
being up, and the lunatic was turned out. The lady went into another
room with two women, called by the station-master, and _she_ was turned
out. Neither of them had the pocket-book.
"Here's my card, sir," said the lunatic, handing one to Mr. Todhetley.
"You know my name, I dare say. If I can be of any future assistance to
you in this matter, you may command me."
"Bless my heart!" cried the Squire, as he read the name on the card.
"How could you allow yourself to be searched, sir?"
"Because, in such a case as this, I think it only right and fair that
every one who has the misfortune to be mixed up in it _should_ be
searched," replied the lunatic, as they went out together. "It is a
satisfaction to both parties. Unless you offered to search me, you
could not have offered to search that woman; and I suspected her."
"Suspected _her_!" cried the Squire, opening his eyes.
"If I didn't suspect, I doubted. Why on earth did she cause her dog to
make all that row the moment we got into the tunnel? It must have been
done then. I should not be startled out of my senses if I heard that
that silent man by my side and hers was in league with her."
The Squire stood in a kind of amazement, trying to recall what he could
of the little man in spectacles, and see if things would fit into one
another.
"Don't you like her look?" he asked suddenly.
"No, I _don't_," said the lunatic, turning himself about. "I have a
prejudice against painted women: they put me in mind of Jezebel. Look at
her hair. It's awful."
He went out in a whirlwind, and took his seat in the carriage, not a
moment before it puffed off.
"_Is_ he a lunatic?" I whispered to the Squire.
"He a lunatic!" he roared. "You must be a lunatic for asking it, Johnny.
Why, that's--that's----"
Instead of saying any more, he showed me the card, and the name nearly
took my breath away. He is a well-known London man, of science, talent,
and position, and of world-wide fame.
"Well, I thought him nothing better than an escaped maniac."
"_Did_ you?" said the Squire. "Perhaps he returned the compliment on
you, sir. But now--Johnny, who has got my pocket-book?"
As if it was any use asking me? As we turned back to the
station-master's room, the lady came into it, evidently resenting the
search, although she had seemed to acquiesce in it so readily.
"They were rude, those women. It is the first time I ever had the
misfortune to travel with men who carry pocket-books to lose them, and I
hope it will be the last," she pursued, in scornful passion, meant for
the Squire. "One generally meets with _gentlemen_ in a first-class
carriage."
The emphasis came out with a shriek, and it told on him. Now that she
was proved innocent, he was as vexed as she for having listened to the
advice of the scientific man--but I can't help calling him a lunatic
still. The Squire's apologies might have disarmed a cross-grained hyena;
and she came round with a smile.
"If any one _has_ got the pocket-book," she said, as she stroked her
dog's ears, "it must be that silent man with the gold spectacles. There
was no one else, sir, who could have reached you without getting up to
do it. And I declare on my honour, that when that commotion first arose
through my poor little dog, I felt for a moment something like a man's
arm stretched across me. It could only have been his. I hope you have
the numbers of the notes."
"But I have not," said the Squire.
The room was being invaded by this time. Two stray passengers, a
friend of the station-master's, and the porter who took the tickets, had
crept in. All thought the lady's opinion must be correct, and said the
spectacled man had got clear off with the pocket-book. There was no one
else to pitch upon. A nobleman travelling with his servant would not be
likely to commit a robbery; the lunatic was really the man his card
represented him to be, for the station-master's friend had seen and
recognized him; and the lady was proved innocent by search. Wasn't the
Squire in a passion!
"That close reading of his was all a blind," he said, in sudden
conviction. "He kept his face down that we should not know him in
future. He never looked at one of us! he never said a word! I shall go
and find him."
Away went the Squire, as fast as he could hurry, but came back in a
moment to know which was the way out, and where it led to. There was
quite a small crowd of us by this time. Some fields lay beyond the
station at the back; and a boy affirmed that he had seen a little
gentleman in spectacles, with a black bag in his hand, making over the
first stile.
"Now look here, boy," said the Squire. "If you catch that same man, I'll
give you five shillings."
Tod could not have flown faster than the boy did. He took the stile at a
leap; and the Squire tumbled over it after him. Some boys and men joined
in the chase; and a cow, grazing in the field, trotted after us and
brought up the rear.
Such a shout from the boy. It came from behind the opposite hedge of the
long field. I was over the gate first; the Squire came next.
On the hedge of the dry ditch sat the passenger, his legs dangling, his
neck imprisoned in the boy's arms. I knew him at once. His hat and gold
spectacles had fallen off in the scuffle; the black bag was wide open,
and had a tall bunch of something green sticking up from it; some tools
lay on the ground.
"Oh, you wicked hypocrite!" spluttered the Squire, not in the least
knowing what he said in his passion. "Are you not ashamed to have played
upon me such a vile trick? How dare you go about to commit robberies!"
"I have not robbed you, at any rate," said the man, his voice trembling
a little and his face pale, while the boy loosed the neck but pinioned
one of the arms.
"Not robbed me!" cried the Squire. "Good Heavens! Who do you suppose you
have robbed, if not me? Here, Johnny, lad, you are a witness. He says he
has not robbed me."
"I did not know it was yours," said the man meekly. "Loose me, boy; I'll
not attempt to run away."
"Halloa! here! what's to do?" roared a big fellow, swinging himself over
the gate. "Any tramp been trespassing?--anybody wanting to be took up?
I'm the parish constable."
If he had said he was the parish engine, ready to let loose buckets of
water on the offender, he could not have been more welcome. The Squire's
face was rosy with satisfaction.
"Have you your handcuffs with you, my man?"
"I've not got them, sir; but I fancy I'm big enough and strong enough to
take _him_ without 'em. Something to spare, too."
"There's nothing like handcuffs for safety," said the Squire, rather
damped, for he believed in them as one of the country's institutions.
"Oh, you villain! Perhaps you can tie him with cords?"
The thief floundered out of the ditch and stood upon his feet. He did
not look an ungentlemanly thief, now you came to see and hear him; and
his face, though scared, might have been thought an honest one. He
picked up his hat and glasses, and held them in his hand while he spoke,
in tones of earnest remonstrance.
"Surely, sir, you would not have me taken up for this slight offence! I
did not know I was doing wrong, and I doubt if the law would condemn me;
I thought it was public property!"
"Public property!" cried the Squire, turning red at the words. "Of all
the impudent brazen-faced rascals that are cheating the gallows, you
must be the worst. My bank-notes public property!"
"Your what, sir?"
"My bank-notes, you villain. How dare you repeat your insolent
questions?"
"But I don't know anything about your bank-notes, sir," said the man
meekly. "I do not know what you mean."
They stood facing each other, a sight for a picture; the Squire with his
hands under his coat, dancing a little in rage, his face crimson; the
other quite still, holding his hat and gold spectacles, and looking at
him in wonder.
"You don't know what I mean! When you confessed with your last breath
that you had robbed me of my pocket-book!"
"I confessed--I have not sought to conceal--that I have robbed the
ground of this rare fern," said the man, handling carefully the green
stuff in the black bag. "I have not robbed you or any one of anything
else."
The tone, simple, quiet, self-contained, threw the Squire in amazement.
He stood staring.
"Are you a fool?" he asked. "What do you suppose I have to do with your
rubbishing ferns?"
"Nay, I supposed you owned them; that is, owned the land. You led me to
believe so, in saying I had robbed you."
"What I've lost is a pocket-book, with ten five-pound bank-notes in it;
I lost it in the train; it must have been taken as we came through the
tunnel; and you sat next but one to me," reiterated the Squire.
The man put on his hat and glasses. "I am a geologist and botanist, sir.
I came here after this plant to-day--having seen it yesterday, but then
I had not my tools with me. I don't know anything about the pocket-book
and bank-notes."
So that was another mistake, for the botanist turned out of his pockets
a heap of letters directed to him, and a big book he had been reading in
the train, a treatise on botany, to prove who he was. And, as if to
leave no loophole for doubt, one stepped up who knew him, and assured
the Squire there was not a more learned man in his line, no, nor one
more respected, in the three kingdoms. The Squire shook him by the hand
in apologizing, and told him we had some valuable ferns near Dyke Manor,
if he would come and see them.
Like Patience on a monument, when we got back, sat the lady, waiting to
see the prisoner brought in. Her face would have made a picture too,
when she heard the upshot, and saw the hot Squire and the gold
spectacles walking side by side in friendly talk.
"I think still he must have got it," she said, sharply.
"No, madam," answered the Squire. "Whoever may have taken it, it was not
he."
"Then there's only one man, and that is he whom you have let go on in
the train," she returned decisively. "I thought his fidgety movements
were not put on for nothing. He had secured the pocket-book somewhere,
and then made a show of offering to be searched. Ah, ha!"
And the Squire veered round again at this suggestion, and began to
suspect he had been doubly cheated. First, out of his money, next out of
his suspicions. One only thing in the whole bother seemed clear; and
that was, that the notes and case had gone for good. As, in point of
fact, they had.
* * * * *
We were on the chain-pier at Brighton, Tod and I. It was about eight
or nine months after. I had put my arms on the rails at the end,
looking at a pleasure-party sailing by. Tod, next to me, was bewailing
his ill-fortune in not possessing a yacht and opportunities of
cruising in it.
"I tell you No. I don't want to be made sea-sick."
The words came from some one behind us. It seemed almost as though they
were spoken in reference to Tod's wish for a yacht. But it was not
_that_ that made me turn round sharply; it was the sound of the voice,
for I thought I recognized it.
Yes: there she was. The lady who had been with us in the carriage that
day. The dog was not with her now, but her hair was more amazing than
ever. She did not see me. As I turned, she turned, and began to walk
slowly back, arm-in-arm with a gentleman. And to see him--that is, to
see them together--made me open my eyes. For it was the lord who had
travelled with us.
"Look, Tod!" I said, and told him in a word who they were.
"What the deuce do they know of each other?" cried Tod with a frown, for
he felt angry every time the thing was referred to. Not for the loss of
the money, but for what he called the stupidity of us all; saying always
had _he_ been there, he should have detected the thief at once.
I sauntered after them: why I wanted to learn which of the lords he was,
I can't tell, for lords are numerous enough, but I had had a curiosity
upon the point ever since. They encountered some people and were
standing to speak to them; three ladies, and a fellow in a black glazed
hat with a piece of green ribbon round it.
"I was trying to induce my wife to take a sail," the lord was saying,
"but she won't. She is not a very good sailor, unless the sea has its
best behaviour on."
"Will you go to-morrow, Mrs. Mowbray?" asked the man in the glazed hat,
who spoke and looked like a gentleman. "I will promise you perfect
calmness. I am weather-wise, and can assure you this little wind will
have gone down before night, leaving us without a breath of air."
"I will go: on condition that your assurance proves correct."
"All right. You of course will come, Mowbray?"
The lord nodded. "Very happy."
"When do you leave Brighton, Mr. Mowbray?" asked one of the ladies.
"I don't know exactly. Not for some days."
"A muff as usual, Johnny," whispered Tod. "That man is no lord: he is a
Mr. Mowbray."
"But, Tod, he _is_ the lord. It is the one who travelled with us;
there's no mistake about that. Lords can't put off their titles as
parsons can: do you suppose his servant would have called him 'my lord,'
if he had not been one?"
"At least there is no mistake that these people are calling him Mr.
Mowbray now."
That was true. It was equally true that they were calling her Mrs.
Mowbray. My ears had been as quick as Tod's, and I don't deny I was
puzzled. They turned to come up the pier again with the people, and the
lady saw me standing there with Tod. Saw me looking at her, too, and
I think she did not relish it, for she took a step backward as one
startled, and then stared me full in the face, as if asking who I might
be. I lifted my hat.
There was no response. In another moment she and her husband were
walking quickly down the pier together, and the other party went on to
the end quietly. A man in a tweed suit and brown hat drawn low over his
eyes, was standing with his arms folded, looking after the two with a
queer smile upon his face. Tod marked it and spoke.
"Do you happen to know that gentleman?"
"Yes, I do," was the answer.
"Is he a peer?"
"On occasion."
"On occasion!" repeated Tod. "I have a reason for asking," he added; "do
not think me impertinent."
"Been swindled out of anything?" asked the man, coolly.
"My father was, some months ago. He lost a pocket-book with fifty pounds
in it in a railway carriage. Those people were both in it, but not then
acquainted with each other."
"Oh, weren't they!" said the man.
"No, they were not," I put in, "for I was there. He was a lord then."
"Ah," said the man, "and had a servant in livery no doubt, who came up
my-lording him unnecessarily every other minute. He is a member of the
swell-mob; one of the cleverest of the _gentleman_ fraternity, and the
one who acts as servant is another of them."
"And the lady?" I asked.
"She is a third. They have been working in concert for two or three
years now; and will give us trouble yet before their career is stopped.
But for being singularly clever, we should have had them long ago. And
so they did not know each other in the train! I dare say not!"
The man spoke with quiet authority. He was a detective come down from
London to Brighton that morning; whether for a private trip, or on
business, he did not say. I related to him what had passed in the train.
"Ay," said he, after listening. "They contrived to put the lamp out
before starting. The lady took the pocket-book during the commotion she
caused the dog to make, and the lord received it from her hand when he
gave her back the dog. Cleverly done! He had it about him, young sir,
when he got out at the next station. _She_ waited to be searched, and to
throw the scent off. Very ingenious, but they'll be a little too much so
some fine day."
"Can't you take them up?" demanded Tod.
"No."
"I will accuse them of it," he haughtily said. "If I meet them again on
this pier----"
"Which you won't do to-day," interrupted the man.
"I heard them say they were not going for some days."
"Ah, but they have seen you now. And I think--I'm not quite sure--that
he saw me. They'll be off by the next train."
"Who are _they_?" asked Tod, pointing to the end of the pier.
"Unsuspecting people whose acquaintance they have casually made here.
Yes, an hour or two will see Brighton quit of the pair."
And it was so. A train was starting within an hour, and Tod and I
galloped to the station. There they were: in a first-class carriage: not
apparently knowing each other, I verily believe, for he sat at one door
and she at the other, passengers dividing them.
"Lambs between two wolves," remarked Tod. "I have a great mind to warn
the people of the sort of company they are in. Would it be actionable,
Johnny?"
The train moved off as he was speaking. And may I never write another
word, if I did not catch sight of the man-servant and his cockade in the
next carriage behind them!
IX.
DICK MITCHEL.
I did not relate this story by my own wish. To my mind there's nothing
very much in it to relate. At the time it was written the newspapers
were squabbling about farmers' boys and field labour and political
economy. "And," said a gentleman to me, "as you were at the top and tail
of the thing when it happened, and are well up in the subject generally,
Johnny Ludlow, you may as well make a paper of it." That was no other
than the surgeon, Duffham.
About two miles from Dyke Manor across the fields, but in the opposite
direction to that of the Court where the Sterlings lived, Elm Farm was
situated. Mr. Jacobson lived in it, as his father had lived before him.
The property was not their own; they rented it: it was fine land, and
Jacobson had the reputation of being the best farmer for miles round.
Being a wealthy man, he had no need to spare money on house or land, and
did not spare it. He and the Squire were about the same age, and had
been cronies all their lives.