NEPTUNE TO THE RESCUE
Not daring to venture near the Cottage again, Philip got as near to the
village as he could, and hung about, until lights were gleaming only in
the upper windows of cottages, and until the doors of the Chater Arms
had been closed for some time upon the last roystering yokel who had
had more than was good for him. His purpose was to see Betty Siggs, and
assure her, in accordance with his promise, of Clara’s welfare. But it
took a longer time to carry out his purpose than he had anticipated.
Over and over again, when he was almost within touch of the place, he
would fancy he heard a door being opened, or that footsteps were coming
cautiously towards him; and would make a dash back into the darkness.
At last, however, he managed to get round to the back of the inn, and
to take a survey of its windows.
Now, it so happened that two of those windows were lighted—clearly
showing that some one else was going to bed, in addition to Toby Siggs
and his wife. Knowing nothing about the disposition of the various
rooms upstairs, Philip was, for a time, at a loss what to do; being
dreadfully afraid that he might rouse the wrong party and bring
disaster upon himself. At last, tired with waiting, he determined to
take the risk, and to throw a few small pebbles at the larger of the
two lighted windows. This he did—sending the stones rattling smartly
against the glass once or twice—and then crept into the darkness, and
awaited results.
Unfortunately, it happened that the chief guest room at the Chater Arms
was the largest room upstairs; and that Mr. and Mrs. Siggs, in their
modesty, and with an eye to business, occupied a smaller apartment. And
in that guest room, at that particular time, reposed the important
figure of Inspector Tokely, who had been stopped, in his projected
return to London that afternoon, by the intelligence that his prisoner
had broken jail, and was thought to be in the neighbourhood of
Bamberton.
At first, the rattle of the stones had no effect upon the sleeping
officer of the Law; but Philip’s second attempt roused him from sleep,
and drove him to the unwelcome thought that some one was playing
practical jokes upon him, as a form of rustic humour. Not at all
relishing this, he sprang out of bed, just as a third handful pattered
against the panes.
The indignant Tokely dashed to the window, and drew up the blind; then,
unable to see anything, he flung up the window-sash, and poked out his
head.
“Who’s down there?” he cried out. “You’d better come out—because I
know who you are, and I’ll lay you by the heels to-morrow morning, as
sure as a gun. Now then—are you coming out of it?”
Philip, who had drawn himself up in the darkest corner of the yard,
horror-struck at his blunder, very naturally declining to obey the
Inspector’s bidding, that indignant man continued to shout various
threats of future punishment into the darkness, until he contrived to
rouse his host and hostess; so that, in a minute or two, the second
lighted window was raised, and old Toby Siggs put his head out, with a
most prodigious nightcap upon it, and looked round at Tokely.
“Wot’s all this?” he asked, in his slow heavy fashion. “If so be as you
’ave a pain anywheres, the Missis ’ll be on’y too glad to git up, an’
make a poultice, or anythink of that kind, double quick; on’y don’t go
a ’owlin’ at the moon like that there—jist like a lost dorg—’cos it
ain’t restful at this time o’ night.”
“I’m not howling at the moon—or at anything else,” retorted Tokely,
savagely. “And I’m not in pain, you idiot. Only some yokel has had the
impudence to keep on shying pebbles at my window, this half hour
past—by way of a joke, I suppose. I wish they’d try any one else’s
window, for a change.”
“Wot did you ’ave for supper?” was the extraordinary query propounded
by Toby, after a thoughtful pause.
“What the deuce has that got to do with it?” snapped out the Inspector.
“Oh—nothink,” replied Toby, innocently. “On’y I thought you might
p’raps ’ave bin dreaming’—that’s all.”
Tokely muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary under his breath,
and jerked down the blind—quite forgetting, in his rage, about the
window. Moreover, being thoroughly roused from any sleep, or thoughts
of it, he sat down near his bedstead, to think about the matter, and to
decide how best he could visit his wrath upon some one for the offence
on the morrow.
Sitting thus, engaged with his own angry thoughts, he lost count of
time, until presently he was startled by another sound of the striking
of pebbles against glass. But the curious thing was, that it was not
his window which received the attack this time, but another—for the
sound was far less distinct. The Inspector quietly blew out his candle,
and crept to the window.
In a few moments, there was another little shower of pebbles; and the
Inspector, quietly drawing aside the blind, peered down into the
darkness. Then he heard the creak of a window being softly raised, and
a bright light, as from a candle, fell on the ground below, and on a
figure standing there. And this figure, raising its head, and looking
up, revealed to the watching Tokely the face of Dandy Chater, who
should have been, by all right and propriety, at that moment in
Chelmsford Jail.
“Little mother!” came in a quick whisper from below; and a voice—that
of Mrs. Siggs—responded promptly in the same cautious fashion.
“Oh, my dear, dear boy. Wait just one blessed minute, and I’ll come
down to you,” cried Betty, softly.
“Wait just one blessed minute, and _I_’ll come down to you,” muttered
the Inspector to himself. “This is a piece of luck, indeed!” The
Inspector crept away from the window, and began, hurriedly and
noiselessly, to get into his garments.
In a few moments, he heard, as he had fully anticipated, a rustling
upon the staircase, and a quick footstep going downwards; immediately
after, the cautious drawing back of bolts, and the turning of a key;
then, the subdued sound of voices. The Inspector dressed with greater
rapidity than ever.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Siggs had drawn Philip into the little parlour, and had
laid her old head—nightcap and all—upon his shoulder, and was crying
comfortably. It was some time before she could compose herself
sufficiently to listen to what he had to say; but she did at last, only
punctuating what he said by an occasional sob.
“First—for my time is very short—about Clara,” he said. “I blame
myself horribly for all the anxiety she has caused you; but you know,
little mother, that she fell in love with that scapegrace brother of
mine, and only transferred her affections to me, without knowing it.
But the child’s safe—I give you my word for it; and I think you can
trust me, Betty, to deliver her into your hands again, when the time
comes for speaking the truth. But that time is not yet; for the
present, you must be silent; everything I value most on earth depends
on that. I am getting nearer, every hour, little mother, to the end of
my difficulties; I am on the track of the man who murdered my brother,
and can declare my innocence. If I can remain free but a few hours
longer, I may be able to devise some plan—some way out of the tangle.
Don’t you see my strange position; that, for my own sake, as well as
yours, I want to declare to the world that I am Philip Chater, and
innocent of all these sins which have been visited upon me; while, for
the sake of one dear woman, I want to remain Dandy Chater, because—God
help me!—she loves Dandy Chater—and I am a stranger to her.”
“Well—yer don’t stand much chance of goin’ free if yer chucks stones
up at that there Tokely’s winder,” said Betty, laughing through her
tears.
“I had no idea that the man was still here,” replied Philip, “and, of
course, I couldn’t be expected to know which window was yours; I had to
take the risk of that. But I saw his light go out; there’s no doubt
that he is sleeping peacefully, and dreaming of anything but Dandy
Chater.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when the door leading from
the staircase was opened abruptly, and Toby Siggs thrust in his head,
and looked at them with a scared face. On the principle that whatever
Betty did was sure to be right, Toby would not have thought of
questioning her, concerning her championship of the supposed Dandy
Chater, or of her endeavours to hide him. Obedient to Philip’s
injunction, Mrs. Siggs had refrained from entering into any explanation
with Toby—who was, if the truth be told, somewhat of a gossip. But, at
the present moment, loyalty to his wife, no less than to the man whose
cause she upheld, had prompted him to leave his chamber, and creep down
to give them warning.
“Betty, old gal—that there Tokely—as is the deepest ever I see—an’
the most careful of ’is precious skin—’as gorn off to fetch
assistance.” It took Toby a long time to say this, in his slow and
ponderous fashion; but he got it out at last, and stood nodding his
head prodigiously when he had finished.
“What do you mean?” asked Philip quickly, making a movement towards the
door. “I’ve heard no one about the house; how could he have got out?”
“Artfulness—downright perlice artfulness—an’ nothink else,” replied
Toby, slowly. “Arter you chucked stones at ’is winder, an’ arter I’d
’ad that little argyment with ’im, I thought ’e’d gone to by-bye; but
not ’e. I ’eard a scrapin’ agin’ the wall, an’ looked out; an’ there
was that Tokely, shinnin’ down a sort of rope, made of the Missis’ best
company sheets. ’E’s gone straight down to the village constable, to
get ’im an’ a few more—so as to make sure of yer, Master Dandy. An’,
by the noise—’ere they come!”
Philip Chater, even while Toby’s slow speech was in progress, had
become aware of a noise of feet and a murmur of voices outside. “It’s
all over, Betty, I’m afraid,” he said, in a low voice—“but I think
I’ll try a dash for it. Good-bye, little mother; don’t fear for me.”
Feeling more valiant than usual, with a good backing of yokels, and the
village constable, Inspector Tokely came straight into the room, and
walked up to Philip, smiling grimly. Before, however, he had had an
opportunity for saying a word, Philip stepped forward, and caught him
by the arms; swung him round, by the impulse of that movement, straight
to Toby Siggs, and dashed headlong at the crowd in the doorway. Toby,
for his part, receiving the full weight of the Inspector on his
stockinged feet, immediately held fast to that gentleman, and began to
pummel him soundly on his own account—heedless of the fact that Philip
had only been able to fight his way into the midst of a considerable
crowd of men, and had there been secured. The Inspector, writhing under
his punishment, and struggling vainly to get away, was shouting out
orders, entreaties, and threats, in the most confusing fashion.
At last, some sort of order being restored, and the Inspector released,
the two principals in the little scene faced each other in Betty
Siggs’s parlour, with a crowd of eager faces about them.
“Well,” gasped Tokely—“so I’ve got you, have I, Mr. Dandy Chater!”
“Pray be accurate, policeman,” replied Philip, coolly. “_You_ haven’t
got me; it’s these good fellows you have to thank for that. I
congratulate you on your bravery, policeman; you have brought a pretty
good mob against me.”
There was a smothered laugh at the expense of the Inspector, who turned
rather red. “I knew you to be a dangerous character,” he said—“and I
did not intend that you should slip through my fingers again. For the
present, Mr. Siggs”—he turned towards Toby, with a malicious grin on
his face—“I must trouble you to give over this room—in the Queen’s
name—until such time as I can get a trap, to drive this man back to
Chelmsford; one or two of us will wait here with him, until it arrives.
He may be a desperate character, but he won’t get over me in a hurry.
Here—catch his arms, some of you.”
Almost before Philip realised what had happened, his arms were
pinioned, and he felt something hard and cold forced over his wrists.
When the men fell away from him, he discovered that he was securely
handcuffed.
“You’re surely not going to drive me through the open country, with
these things on my hands—are you?” he asked bitterly. “If I give you
my word not to attempt to escape——”
“We won’t trust your word, Dandy Chater,” said Tokely, grinning again.
“You’ve given us a pretty good chase, as it is—and any amount of
trouble; and there are one or two people”—he glanced for a moment at
Toby, and then at Betty Siggs—“against whom I intend to apply for
warrants—for aiding and abetting you to escape, and for obstructing me
in the execution of my duty. I’ve been hit over the head with
decanters—and have barked myself painfully again trees—and have been
struck heavily in the region of the ribs by——”
“If you should ’appen to refer to me, with that there last
remark”—said Toby, slowly—“let me recommend that you don’t go a
jumping’—promiscuous-like—on a man’s corns, without so much as ‘by
yer leave.’ I don’t permit no man—much less a perliceman—to jump on
me in my own parlour.”
Without deigning any reply to this, the Inspector told off two or three
of the men to remain with him, and dismissed the others outside the
door, which he shut. The crowd by the sounds which proceeded from the
yard, was evidently in no mood to go home to bed; but remained,
discussing the matter excitedly, and no doubt taking much individual
credit to itself, for the successful issue of the business.
For a long and weary half hour, Philip sat, with his eyes upon the
ground, waiting until such time as the man who had been sent for a
conveyance should return; and, during that time, a curious thing
happened.
There sat next to him, a tall, thin individual, with a melancholy
visage—a man who had not, curiously enough, taken any part in the
actual fray, but who, nevertheless, had thrust himself forward eagerly,
when the men who were to guard the prisoner were selected. Once or
twice, Philip was under the curious impression that the man was
striving to attract his attention; he lunged out one of his thin legs
at him sideways, once or twice, while the Inspector happened to be
engaged in conversation with the constable and the other men. At last,
he found an excuse to get up from his chair, and pass in front of
Philip; tripped—purposely, as it seemed over the prisoner’s feet; and
turned swiftly to make an apology.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I’m sure—’adn’t no intention of”—the words
died away, in a sort of growl; but at the end of them, as the man bent
his head to speak, Philip heard distinctly the whisper—“Cap’n Quist.”
Philip was so astounded, and his heart began to beat so fast, at the
probable thought that a friend was near at hand, that he could scarcely
control himself. But he managed to keep his eyes fixed, apparently on
the floor, even while he turned towards the man, who had resumed his
seat. His astonishment was greater than ever, when he saw that man, on
the pretext of scratching his arm, pull up his sleeve a little way, and
disclose—so that Philip alone saw them—certain heavy tattoo marks,
such as would scarcely be likely to be on the skin of any one but a
sailor.
At that moment, wheels were heard at the front of the house, and, the
door being unfastened by Toby—who had gone with Betty into the bar—a
man came in, and walked straight through to where Tokely was standing.
“Couldn’t get a trap, sir, anywheres; but I managed to get a fly—and
it’s at the door.”
“All right—a fly will do better than anything; we’ll have him safer
there than elsewhere.”
The man with the melancholy visage suddenly emitted a most
extraordinary sound—a sound which, had it moved any part of his face
in any way, might have been described as a laugh; but, as his
countenance appeared as melancholy after it as before, it did not seem
possible that it arose from mirth.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tokely, turning towards the man.
“Nuffink, guv’nor. It’s rather a nasty corf, that ketches me now and
agin,” replied the man.
Philip was thrust into the vehicle, together with the man of the
melancholy countenance—who stuck close to him, and even held his arm,
as though afraid of losing him—and Tokely. When one of the watchers
suggested that he might want other assistance, in view of the prisoner
proving refractory, Tokely admitted that it might be better for one of
them to get on the box with the driver; but, immediately afterwards,
thinking apparently that such extra precaution might be put down to
cowardice on his part, he countermanded the order; so that the prisoner
drove off with only the melancholy-looking man and Tokely inside, and
the driver on the box.
Philip’s mind was chiefly occupied with wonder as to what was going to
happen. That the melancholy man was an emissary of Captain Quist, he
did not doubt; at the same time, lest he should alarm the Inspector,
and so frustrate any plan which might have been formed for his own
rescue, he sat still in a corner of the fly, apparently in a sulky
humour, but really alert and watchful.
The moment came at last. A shrill whistle sounded somewhere out of the
blackness of the night. It was answered, in an instant, with deafening
intensity, by the melancholy man, who on the instant leapt upon Tokely,
and seemed to be doing something extraordinary, in the midst of a
violent struggle, with that gentleman’s arms. In less time than it
takes to tell, a figure appeared, through the glass of one window,
racing along beside the vehicle; the door was wrenched open, and Philip
was tumbled out, with the melancholy man literally on top of him, into
the road; the door was slammed, and the horse, maddened by a cut across
his haunches from a long whip, fairly took the bit in his teeth, and
dashed straight down the road like a racer. The last that Philip saw of
the vehicle, as he sat up in the road and looked after it, was it
swaying from side to side of the road, while the unfortunate Tokely
(whose arms had been pinioned behind him with true sailor-like
adroitness) had his head thrust out of one window, and was vainly
shouting to the driver.
Then, a familiar voice broke upon Philip’s ear, and Captain Quist,
looking ruefully at a tall silk hat, which lay battered in the roadway,
and on which some one must have fallen, muttered a familiar phrase.
“That comes,” said the Captain, “of gettin’ into bad company.”