A NIGHTLY VISITOR.
ON my way home, despite my having to listen to Farmer Metcalf, I
decided where I would deposit the money belonging to my employers. I
was satisfied that no one could see my movements in the house-place,
for its windows were protected by old-fashioned wooden shutters on the
outside, and shaded within by blinds and checked curtains.
I determined not to tell Jabez and Betsy about the cash, for fear of
making them uneasy. I was certain that, if they knew such a sum of
money was under their roof, the fact would be enough to banish sleep.
My piano was always locked at night, and inside it, unseen by the old
people, I placed my valuable packet after I had played a few tunes for
their amusement. My music that night was of a very simple sort, for I
could not enjoy it as usual. That listener's scarred face haunted me,
though I strove hard to banish it from my mind. I was fully convinced
that the owner of it was after no good. Wherever I looked, I seemed to
see the scarred cheek, and at the same time to hear the muttered words
which accompanied the man's rapid exit from the station.
These feelings became more intense when I found myself alone in my
room. It will be remembered that it had two windows, the larger
looking into the garden, and protected by shutters like those in the
house-place; the second, rather higher up, and consisting of only four
panes, being at the side of the house and facing a quiet lane, along
which few people passed by daylight, hardly any after dark.
There was only a blind before this smaller window, and I may say, that
the shutters attached to the others were rather for warmth than safety.
People living in such humble dwellings felt little anxiety on the score
of thieves, their possessions not being of a character to attract these
gentry.
On that night, however, I felt glad that of the side window only one
pane swung on hinges for ventilating purposes, and I examined it
carefully to see that the hasp was securely fastened. Once, after I
got into bed, I fancied I heard it shaken; but as the sound was not
repeated, I thought I had been mistaken, and that it had been caused by
the old people moving overhead.
Sleep came at length, and it was all the sounder from having been so
long delayed. I was aroused at my regular time in the morning by the
tones of my alarum-clock, and I at once became sensible of the unusual
coldness of the room.
It was still dark, but not so dark as it had been the night before,
when no stars were visible. Now they were shining brightly in the
wintry sky, and a keen frost had followed several dull, raw days. I
might well feel cold. The north wind was blowing the blind of the side
window straight across, and at first, I thought the window itself had
been carried bodily away.
A brief inspection showed me that I was mistaken. The whole window
would actually swing on hinges, though apparently only a single pane
could be opened. A subsequent examination showed that by removing a
couple of laths, the hinges were freed at one side, and the window
could be drawn outward at the other; this done, the open space was
large enough to admit a full-sized man.
Some one had entered—no doubt of that—and my heart sank within me as
this became evident. My desk had been carried away bodily. My watch
was gone from my bed's head, and attached to the chain was the little
coin with my motto on it—Nelly's gift. The desk and watch had been my
mother's, and were very precious on that account. My money was in the
former, but I could better have borne the loss of any amount in mere
coin, than of the other articles.
I had not much time for consideration. I was due at the station within
half-an-hour, and I only took a little milk and a piece of bread each
morning before going on duty, then returned between trains for my
proper breakfast. I could get these without disturbing the Harwoods,
and I resolved to say nothing about my loss until I came back.
I had taken the piano-key off the bunch the night before, and slipped
it into my waistcoat-pocket. I sought and found it there, and on
opening the instrument was thankful to discover my employers' property
just as I left it.
It is said: "There is nothing so bad but it might have been worse." My
loss was a sufficient trial, and increased at first by the thought that
I owed it to my folly, in keeping so much of my savings at the cottage.
I afterwards rejoiced that things had so happened. If my own money
had not been there, the thief would have sought elsewhere for that
belonging to the railway, and perhaps neither I nor the old folks would
have escaped uninjured.
I remembered Gibbs' remark that there would be at least fifteen pounds
at the station, and the burglar who found that much in my desk would
think he had got the whole available booty, and never dream that the
money belonged to a young railway "employé," living under such a humble
roof.
I at once associated the strange listener with the robbery. I felt
that if he could be laid hold of, there would be no need for further
search. His stealthy conduct at the station, the certainty that he must
have overheard Gibbs' remark about the cash, and indeed the previous
conversation about the safe-key, made it most natural to suppose that
the information thus obtained had guided him to the cottage.
Whilst my thoughts were thus occupied, I heard steps on the stairs, and
found that Betsy was coming down.
"You are early this morning," I said. "Did you not sleep well through
the night?"
"Middling the first part, but I woke up at three o'clock, feeling as
if I had been roused by a noise of some sort. I dare say I was only
dreaming it, but you know when old folks lose their sleep, they don't
easily catch it again. I heard no more, but after lying awake till you
were on the move, I thought I might as well get up as toss about there.
I can get a nap in the afternoon if I feel to want it."
I now decided to tell Betsy what had happened, and in as few words as
possible, I made her acquainted with my own loss and the greater amount
which was in the house, which the thief had missed.
When I named the window, and showed how it had been opened, the poor
woman's face went ashy pale, and she dropped down on a chair as if she
would faint.
"Cheer up, Betsy," I said. "Things might have been much worse. No one
is hurt, the railway cash is safe, and I am not penniless, though I
would give far more than their value to get back my mother's watch,
chain, and desk. I feel certain one man did it."
I then told of the incident at the station, adding, "I shall know the
listening fellow anywhere by a great scar on his cheek and the absence
of two fingers on his left hand."
Betsy uttered a cry which seemed to express suffering and despair. Then
seizing my hand, she gasped out—
"Mr. John, for the sake of your own dear mother that's gone, I ask you
to have pity on me."
I was at a loss to understand her meaning, as well I might be, and
asked—
"What can I do? Only tell me. I would do anything for you and your
husband, Betsy; you know that."
"Just this. If you mention the robbery—and I suppose you must—don't
describe that man. It couldn't have been him. He would never come to
this house. Promise me, Mr. John."
Tears were streaming down the pale troubled face, usually so cheerful
and rosy with health; for Betsy was a comely old body, with the clear
complexion of a girl.
I had no time to ask for or listen to any explanation of her emotion,
but I gave the required promise, then rushed from the cottage and
hurried towards the station as fast as my feet would carry me.
I was at my post to the minute, and found everything in the office as I
had left it the night before.
No doubt the eavesdropper was quite satisfied that it contained nothing
worth stealing, and turned his attention to the cottage instead.
I said nothing to Gibbs about the robbery until Mr. Pritchard came,
which he did before my breakfast-hour. Otherwise, I should have been
afraid to leave the office, seeing I could not lock up the cash.
As he entered, he said—
"I fear my carelessness has caused you some inconvenience, for in my
hurry I carried off your key. I was very sorry when I found it out,
but I could not restore it last night, seeing there was no train back.
You would have to carry the cash home with you. Luckily nobody would
suspect you of having it, so no harm would follow."
"The railway cash is safe enough," I said, "but I lost some of my own
last night, and articles which I value far more than money."
I then told him of the robbery, and my thankfulness that I had taken
the precaution of putting the larger amount in a place where no one
would be likely to look for it, so that I was the only loser.
Gibbs stood staring open-mouthed as I told my story, then remarked—
"If I were you, I should be sorry that they had found my things and
missed the other. It would not hurt the company to lose a few pounds,
and they would be a great deal to you—to say nothing of your watch."
"You and Mr. Simpson look at the matter from different sides, Gibbs,"
said Mr. Pritchard. "I agree with him, though the loss of his
valuables is most annoying. Who can have done it? No Oakhill man, that
is certain. I wonder if any suspicious characters were seen about
yesterday. They have taken on some fresh hands at those Works up above.
It would be as well to inquire quietly if any have left again."
"Do you think that man who was listening at the window last night
could have been the thief?" said Gibbs eagerly. "You know he went out
swearing after you told him you could not give him work."
Mr. Pritchard was on the alert at once, and before I had time to say a
word, Gibbs blurted out his account of a listener who must have heard
our talk about the key being gone and the money.
"What was he like, Gibbs?" asked Pritchard.
"I did not see his face, only that a big man in dark, rough clothes was
standing outside after everybody else had gone, and when the porters
were putting all right for the night. They were at the other end of the
station, near the points."
"But you said that the man went out swearing."
"That was at Mr. Simpson. I never spoke to him."
"Now that you have had your say, Gibbs, I will finish the story," said
I, and I told Pritchard what had passed between the stranger and myself.
"Should you know him again?" asked Pritchard.
"I think I should, though I had only a momentary sight of him."
"It is difficult to describe a person so that others would know him,
when you have only seen him once, and for so short a time. Yet you
might recognise him, if he were brought face to face with you and you
heard his voice."
I assented, and then I described the stranger, much as Gibbs had done,
in a very general way. Bearing in mind my promise to Betsy, I made no
allusion to the scarred face or the two fingers missing from the left
hand.
Before I returned to the cottage, the police had been put in possession
of the fact of the robbery. And Mr. Pritchard had convinced himself,
by personal inquiry, that no new or old "employé" was missing from the
neighbouring works.
When I entered the cottage, a surprise awaited me. On the table was my
desk, which had not been very roughly handled. It must have been opened
by a skeleton-key, and not battered or torn from the hinges. The money
was gone, of course, but the remaining contents, though tumbled and
in some cases soiled, were there, and otherwise uninjured. Beside it
was my watch, but the chain and appendages were gone, my little coin
included.
The chain was a massive one, of the best quality, but of an ordinary
pattern. The watch, being old-fashioned, would be of little value to a
thief, and would be the most likely article to lead to his detection.
So, to my equal surprise and pleasure, it had been abandoned. Jabez and
Betsy found it in the lane with the desk, nearly covered with decaying
leaves and earth which had been hastily thrown over it.
The inquiries of our local police proved unsuccessful. No one could be
found who had noticed the stranger to whom I had spoken on the previous
evening. Most likely he had tramped to Oakhill, bided his time in some
out of the way place, perhaps the lane near the cottage, effected an
entrance at the early hour when Betsy was roused by a noise, and having
secured the plunder, escaped whilst it was yet dark. Everything was in
his favour, and he might have cut across country to some other small
station and taken train straight to London, without risk of detection.
Mr. Pritchard and others besides him were surprised at my having so
much money of my own in the house, and all in gold.
I admitted that I had acted very foolishly, but explained that I had in
the first instance, kept some extra money in hand to meet the cost of
a seaside holiday. Then I had determined always to have a few pounds
within reach in case of any unexpected emergency. I regretted that the
sum lost was so large, but, after all, it had saved a larger, though at
my cost.
The police did not take much notice of the swinging window by which the
burglar had entered, and this was hardly to be wondered at.
In all my life, I had never before heard of a house being broken
into in the neighbourhood of Oakhill. There had been petty thefts of
poultry, garden produce, and fruit in the season, but a burglary was an
altogether out of the way matter.
No doubt any cottage in the place might have been as easily entered,
as the one in which I lived. People who have little to lose are mostly
careless about locking and barring their doors. If that stranger
vagabond had not listened at the office window, his attention would
never have been directed to my place, and he would probably have either
attempted the station safe, or gone his way and been seen no more
hereabouts.
I had quite made up my mind as to the culprit, and I felt how utterly
hopeless was the recovery of the rest of the booty. No one could
identify the sovereigns, and the chain would have, no doubt, gone into
a receiver's melting-pot, and as an article of use exist no longer.
I did feel very glad to have the watch back and uninjured. In my heart,
I thanked the thief for this much. My desk would have been difficult to
carry off, and worse than worthless—a mere burden, and a dangerous one
to possess—so I owed him no thanks for leaving it. I did wish, however,
that my motto-sixpence had been spared me, because it was, to use the
set phrase, "of no value except to the owner."
Of course, the news of the burglary spread like wildfire, and the
cottage was besieged by visitors curious to look at the scene of the
event. These went away disappointed at finding that there was nothing
unusual to be seen.
There were also many inquirers at the station, and amongst these came
Mr. Burford.
He gave me a good-humoured lecture about my boyish folly in keeping
money at the cottage of which I was not in immediate need, but I
noticed a very peculiar expression on his face, when I explained how
the thief got into my room.
"Did not Jabez or Betsy tell you that the whole window would open?" he
asked.
"No. I do not suppose they would think it of any consequence. Most
likely the window was at first made to open in that way, and the single
swinging pane a mere after-thought, sufficient for every requirement.
I can fancy Betsy thinking it had a staring appearance, and that it
would expose the room too much, especially as it was used for sleeping
purposes. You know they have generally had a lodger occupying the
parlour, and he would hardly like to have the whole of the square
window swung open."
"Very likely," said Mr. Burford. "It is curious, though, that the thief
went straight to that weak place, is it not?"
"I thought so myself at first," I replied. "But there are shutters to
the other windows, and the door has a strong lock and bolts."
"True. Well, I am sorry for your loss. You will not buy back Lint Hall
if you are not more careful of your cash."
And then he went his way.