THE SECOND DANDY CHATER
BY
TOM GALLON
_Author of_
“Tatterly,”
“The Kingdom of Hate,”
et cetera.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
Dodd, Mead & Company
_Copyright, 1900_,
By TOM GALLON.
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Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET 1
II. ON THE TRACK OF A SHADOW 14
III. BETTY SIGGS BECOMES ALARMED 27
IV. A SUNDAY TO BE REMEMBERED 40
V. AN HONEST SAILOR-MAN 53
VI. AT THE SIGN OF “THE THREE WATERMEN” 66
VII. MASTER AND SERVANT 80
VIII. TELLS OF SOMETHING HIDDEN IN THE WOOD 93
IX. A SUMMONS FROM SHYLOCK 106
X. A BODY FROM THE RIVER 120
XI. MISS VINT HEARS VOICES 133
XII. WANTED—A DEAD MAN! 146
XIII. INSPECTOR TOKELY IS EMPHATIC 159
XIV. BETTY SIGGS DREAMS A DREAM 173
XV. SHADY ’UN AS A MORAL CHARACTER 186
XVI. WHO KILLED THIS WOMAN? 199
XVII. CLARA FINDS A LODGING 212
XVIII. A CHASE IN THE DARK 224
XIX. HAUNTED 238
XX. NEPTUNE TO THE RESCUE 252
XXI. DR. CRIPPS IS INCOHERENT 265
XXII. OGLEDON PLAYS HIS LAST CARD 279
XXIII. DANDY CHATER COMES FROM THE GRAVE 293
XXIV. A RACE FOR A LIFE 306
XXV. GOING—GOING—GONE! 320
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The Second Dandy Chater
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN THE QUICK AND THE DEAD MEET
If there is one place, in the wide world, more dreary and
disconsolate-looking than another, on a gusty evening in March, it is
that part of Essex which lies some twenty miles to the north of the
Thames, and is bordered nowhere, so far as the eye can reach, by
anything but flat and desolate marshlands, and by swampy roads and
fields. For there, all the contrary winds of Heaven seem to meet, to
play a grand game of buffets with themselves, and everything else which
rises an inch or two above the ground; there, the very sun, if he
happen to have shown his face at all during the day, sinks more
sullenly than anywhere else, as though disgusted with the prospect, and
glad to get to bed; there, the few travellers who have been so unwise,
or so unfortunate, as to be left out of doors, are surly in
consequence, and give but grudging greeting to any one they meet.
On just such an evening as this a solitary man, muffled to the eyes,
fought a desperate battle with the various winds, something to his own
discomfiture, and very much to the ruffling of his temper, on the way
to the small village of Bamberton. The railway leaves off suddenly,
some six miles from Bamberton, and the man who would visit that
interesting spot must perforce pay for a fly at the Railway Inn, if he
desire to enter the place with any ostentation, or must walk.
In the case of this particular man, he desired, for purposes of his
own, to attract as little notice as possible; and was, therefore,
tramping through the mud and a drizzling rain, as cheerfully as might
be. He was a tall, well-built man, of about eight-and-twenty years of
age; with strong, well-defined features, rendered the more so by the
fact that his face was cleanly shaven; possibly from having led a
solitary life, he had a habit of communing with himself.
“A cheery welcome, this, to one’s native land—to one’s native place!”
he muttered, bending his head, as a fresh gust of wind and rain drove
at him. “Why—if the devil himself were in league against me, and had
made up his mind to oppose my coming, he couldn’t fight harder than
this! ’Pon my word, it almost looks like a bad omen for you, Philip
Crowdy—a devilish bad omen!”
Despite the wind and the rain and the gathering night, however, the man
presently seated himself on a stone, near the roadside, and within
sight of the twinkling lights of the village, as though he has
something weighty on his mind, which must be thrashed out before he
could proceed to his destination. Despite the wind and the rain, too,
he took the matter quite good-humouredly, in putting a suppositious
case to himself—even doing it with some jocularity.
“Now Phil, my boy—you’ve got to be very careful. There’s no getting
away from the fact that you are not wanted—and you certainly will not
be welcome. The likeness is all right; I’ve seen a picture of the
respected Dandy Chater—and there’s nothing to be feared, from that
point of view. The only thing is, that I must feel my way, and know
exactly what I am doing. And, for the moment, darkness suits me better
than daylight. My first business is to get as near to Dandy Chater as
possible, and observe him.”
The tall man, bringing his ruminations to a close, sat for a moment or
two, deep in thought—so deep in thought, indeed, that he did not hear
the sound of light steps approaching him, from the direction of the
village; and was absolutely unaware that there was any other figure but
himself in all the landscape, until he felt a light touch on his
shoulder, and started hurriedly to his feet.
Facing him, in the semi-darkness, was a young girl, who, even by that
light, he could see was unmistakably pretty. She was quite young, and,
although her dress was poor and common, there was an indefinable air of
grace about her, which set her apart—or seemed to do, in the man’s
eyes—from any mere rustic girl. To his surprise, she stood quite still
before him, with her eyes cast down, as though waiting for him to
speak. After a moment or two of embarrassing silence, Mr. Philip Crowdy
spoke.
“What is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice.
The girl raised her eyes—and very beautiful eyes they were, too,
although they seemed haggard and red, and even then had the traces of
tears in them—and looked steadily at him. Even though the man knew
that he had been mistaken by her for some one else, there was no start
of surprise on her part; he knew, in an instant, that she thought she
saw in him the person she wanted.
“Dandy, dear,” she said, appealingly—and her voice had a faint touch
of the rustic in it—“you promised that you would see me again
to-night.”
The man had given a faint quick start of surprise, at the mention of
the name; he turned away abruptly—partly in order to have time to
collect his thoughts, partly to hide his face from her.
“Better and better!” he muttered to himself. “Nearer and nearer!
Now—who on earth is this, and what is Dandy Chater’s little game?”
“I can’t go down to the village, Dandy,” went on the girl piteously.
“You know why I can’t go. You promised to meet me to-night, in the
little wood behind the mill—didn’t you, Dandy?”
“Yes—yes—I know,” replied the man, impatiently. In reality, in this
sudden surprising turn of events, his one object was to gain time—to
give such replies as should lead her to state more fully who she was,
and what her errand might be. “What then?”
“Don’t be hurt, Dandy dear,” the girl went on, coming timidly a little
nearer to him. “You know how much it means to me—my good
name—everything. I was afraid—afraid you might—might forget.”
How piteously she said it—and what depth of pleading there was in her
eyes! She seemed little more than a girl, and the man, looking at her,
felt a certain hot indignation growing in him against the real Dandy
Chater, who could have brought tears to eyes which must once have been
so innocent. It was not his purpose, however, to undeceive her; he had
too much at stake for that; so he felt his way cautiously.
“I shan’t forget; you need not fear. I will meet you, as I have
promised,” he replied slowly.
“You are very good to me, Dandy,” said the girl, gratefully. “And you
are going to take me to London—aren’t you?”
This had evidently been promised by the real Dandy Chater, and Philip
Crowdy felt that he must deal delicately with the matter, as he had
still much to learn. Accordingly, pitiful though the thing was, he took
it half laughingly.
“To London? But what am I to do with you there. Where shall we go?”
She laughed, to please his humour. “Why—Dandy dear—how soon you
forget! Didn’t you promise that I should go with you to the old
place—there, I can see you’ve forgotten all about it already—the old
place at Woolwich—the Three Watermen—near the river; didn’t you say
we might wait there until to-morrow? And then——Oh, Dandy, the thought
of it takes away my breath, and makes my heart beat with joy and
gratitude—and then—we are to be married!”
“There is some desperate game afoot here,” thought Philip Crowdy to
himself, as he stood in the dark road, looking at the eager face of the
girl. “Why—in Heaven’s name, does he want to meet her in a wood, if
he’s going to take her to London? I must follow this up, if possible,
at any cost.” Aloud he said, “Of course—how stupid of me; I’d quite
forgotten. And to-morrow Dandy Chater, Esq., and——”
“Patience Miller,” broke in the girl, quickly—“will be man and
wife—and Patience will be the happiest girl in England!”
“Got her name, by George!” muttered the man to himself. “Poor girl—I
hope to goodness the man is dealing fairly with her.” Turning to the
girl again, he said carelessly—“Let me see, what time did I say we
were to meet in the wood?”
“At half-past seven,” replied the girl. “You said we should have time
to walk across the fields, from there to the station, to catch the last
train, without any one seeing us—don’t you remember?”
“Yes—yes, I remember,” replied the man. “I shan’t be late; till
then—good-bye!”
He had turned away, and had gone some few paces down the road towards
the village, when the girl called piteously after him.
“Dandy—you’re not going like that? Won’t you—won’t you kiss me?”
The man retraced his steps slowly. As, after a moment’s hesitation, he
put an arm carelessly round her shoulders, and bent his face towards
hers, he looked fully and strongly into her eyes; but there was no
change in her expression—no faintest start of suspicion or doubt.
“That was a trial!” he muttered, when he had started again towards the
village, and had left her standing in the road looking after him. “The
likeness must be greater even than I suspected. Now to find Mr. Dandy
Chater—or rather—to keep out of his way, until I know what his
movements are.”
Coming, in the darkness, into the little village—a place consisting of
one long straggling street of cottages, running up a hill—he found the
road flanked on either side by a small inn. On the one side—the right
hand—was the Chater Arms; on the other—the Bamberton Head. Standing
between them, and looking up the long straggling street, Mr. Philip
Crowdy could discern, in the distance, perched on rising ground, the
outlines of a great house, with lights showing faintly here and there
in its windows.
“That’s Chater Hall—evidently,” he said softly to himself. “Now the
question is, where is Mr. Dandy Chater? Shall I go up to the Hall, and
reconnoitre the position, or shall I try one of the inns? I think I’ll
try one of the inns; if I happen to drop into the wrong one, and he’s
there, I must trust to making a bolt for it; if he’s _not_ there, I
think the likeness will serve, and I may hear something which will be
useful. Now, then—heads, right—tails, left!”
He spun a coin in the air—looked at it closely—returned it to his
pocket—and turned to the left, into the Bamberton Head. Knowing that
any sign of hesitation might mean his undoing, he thrust open a door
which led into the little parlour, and boldly entered it. There were
one or two men in the room, and a big surly-looking giant of a fellow,
who appeared to be the landlord. The men exchanged glances which, to
the man keenly watchful of every movement, seemed to be glances of
surprise; the surly landlord put a hand to his forehead.
“Evenin’, Muster Chater,” said the man. “’Tain’t of’en as we sees
anything o’ you this side the way, sir.”
“Wrong house,” thought Philip Crowdy. “So much the better, perhaps; I
am less likely to meet the real man, until I wish to do so.” Aloud he
said, with a shrug of the shoulders—“Oh—anything for a change. Bring
me some brandy, it can’t be worse than that at the other shop—and it
may be better.”
“A deal better, Muster Chater, take my word for ’t,” replied the
landlord, hurrying away to execute the order.
During the time that the stranger sat there, and had leisure to look
about him, he became aware of one unpleasant fact. He saw that, however
great might be their respect for the mere position of the man they
supposed him to be, there was a curious resentment at his presence, and
a distrust of him personally, which was not to be disguised. When,
having leisurely drunk his brandy, he left the place, to their evident
relief, and came again out into the darkness of the village street, he
expressed the opinion to himself, in one emphatic phrase, that Dandy
Chater was a bad lot.
In the strangeness of his position, and in his uncertainty as to what
future course he was to take, his interview with the girl, on the road
outside the village, had gone, for the time, clean out of his mind;
when he looked at his watch, he discovered, to his dismay, that it was
nearly eight o’clock. More than that, he did not even know where the
wood of which she had spoken was situated, and he dared not ask the way
to it.
Trusting to blind chance to guide him, and looking about anxiously over
the flat landscape, for anything at all answering the description of a
mill, or even of a wood, he lost more valuable time still; and at last,
in sheer desperation, remembering that the last train for London
started at a few minutes to the hour of nine, he set off, at a rapid
rate, for the railway station—running along the road now and then, in
his anxiety not to miss it.
“If the real Dandy Chater has kept his promise to the girl, even so far
as taking her to London is concerned,” he muttered, as he ran on,
“they’ve met in the wood long ago, and are well on their way to the
station. I’ll follow them; that’s the best course. Besides—I don’t
like the look of that business with the girl; her eyes seem to haunt me
somehow. If I miss them at the station, I can at least go on to that
place she mentioned at Woolwich, and keep my eye on the man.”
The wind and rain were less heavy and boisterous than they had been,
and the moon was struggling faintly through driving clouds. As the man
hurried along, seeing the lights of the station in the distance before
him, a figure suddenly broke through the low hedge beside the road,
scarcely more than a hundred yards in advance, and ran on in front, in
the same direction. Philip Crowdy, hearing the warning shriek of the
train, hurried on faster than before.
At the very entrance of the station-yard was a gas lamp, which served
to light feebly the dreary-looking muddy roads converging upon it. And,
beneath this lamp, the figure which had broken through the hedge, and
run on before, had stopped, and was carefully scraping and shaking some
heavy wet clay from its boots. Catching a glimpse of the face of the
figure, as he hurried past, Crowdy, with an exclamation, drew his hat
down well over his face, and pulled his coat collar higher.
There was no time even to get a ticket; Crowdy raced across the
booking-office, and reached the platform just in time; wrenched open a
door, and jumped in. He heard a shout, and, looking out, saw a porter
pulling open another door, while the man who had been so particular
about his boots sprang into the train. Then, the door was slammed, and
the train, already in motion, steamed out of the station.
Philip Crowdy leant back in the compartment in which he found himself
alone, and whistled softly. “This is a new move,” he muttered, “Dandy
Chater himself—and without the girl. Well, most respectable Great
Eastern Railway Company,” he added, with a laugh, apostrophising the
name of the Company staring at him from the wall of the carriage—“it
isn’t often that you carry, in one train, two such queer people as you
carry to-night!” Then, becoming serious again, he said softly—“But I’d
like to know what’s become of the girl.”
When the train reached Liverpool Street, Philip Crowdy remained in the
carriage as long as possible, in order to avoid meeting the other man;
and, on getting out, discovered to his annoyance that the other man had
vanished—swallowed up in the restless crowds of people who were moving
about the platforms. However, having one faint clue to guide him, he
set off for Woolwich.
The Three Watermen is a little old-fashioned gloomy public-house,
situated at the end of a narrow street, which plunges down towards the
river, and on the very bank of that river itself. Indeed, it is half
supported, on the riverside, by huge baulks of timber, round which the
muddy water creeps and washes; and it is the presiding genius, as it
were, over a number of tumble-down sheds and out-houses, used for the
storage of river lumber of one sort or another, or, in some cases, not
used at all. And it is the resort of various riverside men; with
occasionally some stranger, who appears to belong to salter waters, and
to have lost his way there, in getting to the sea.
Outside this place, Philip Crowdy waited, for a long time, in the
shadow of a doorway, debating with himself what to do. Being
practically in strange quarters, he had had to enquire every step of
the way, both as to his journey by train to Woolwich, and afterwards,
when he had reached the place. In consequence, he had lost a very
considerable amount of time; and was well aware that, if the man he
pursued had come to the place at all, he had had all the advantage,
from the fact of knowing the way clearly, and being able to make
straight for his destination. Under these circumstances, it was quite
impossible for Crowdy to know whether the man was in the place, or, if
so, how long he had been there—or even if he had not already left the
house.
Turning over all these points in his mind, Crowdy wandered, half
aimlessly, down a little alley, which led beside the Three Watermen
towards the river. He had just reached the end of it, and was shivering
a little, at the melancholy prospect of dark water and darker mud
before him, when a man, rushing hurriedly from the direction of the
water, almost carried him off his legs; snapped out an oath at him; and
was gone up the alley, and into the street, before Crowdy had recovered
his breath.
“People seem in a hurry about these parts,” he murmured to himself.
“Now, I wonder what on earth that fellow was running away from?”
Impelled, half by curiosity, and half by the restlessness which
possessed him, he turned and walked some little distance, over a kind
of dilapidated wharf, in the direction from which the man had come. The
place was quite lonely and deserted, and only the skeleton-like frames
of some old barges and other vessels, which some one, at some remote
period, had been breaking up, stood up gaunt against the sky. Some
darker object, among some broken timbers at the very edge of the water,
attracted his attention; he went forward quickly, and then, with a
half-suppressed cry, threw himself on his knees beside it.
It was the body of a man, who had apparently fallen just where he had
been struck down; the hand which Philip Crowdy touched was quite warm,
although the man was stone dead. But that was not the strange
part—that was not the reason why the living man, bending close above
the dead, stared at the face as though he could never gaze enough.
The faces that stared so grimly, in that desolate spot, into each
other—the dead and the living—were alike in every particular, down to
the smallest detail; it was as though the living man gazed into a
mirror, which threw back every line, even every faint touch of
colouring, in his own face.
“Dandy Chater!” whispered Crowdy to himself in an awed voice. “So, I’ve
found you at last!”