Upon several occasions when Monsieur Canau saw Patty home to the
pleasant manufacturing shades of Duplex Street, he sought to open up
this affair with Jared Pellet, so as to hear his opinion upon the
subject; but it was only to find Jared dull and abstracted, and ready to
return monosyllabic answers to all that was said. Twice over he had
called too, bringing with him his violin; but upon those occasions
weary-looking Tim Ruggles had been there, and no music had followed--no
Mozart, not even one of Corelli's old sad-toned minor trios, with
movements named after the dances of our forefathers, corantos and
sarabands; funeral marches they ought rather to have been, unless it is
that music grows mellow and sad-hued with age, changing even after the
fashion of wine.
Monsieur Canau used to divine that there was trouble afloat, and
refrained from hinting at the object of his visits, contenting himself
with buying a couple of Jared's atrocious Roman strings, and then coming
away.
"They have a bebe there," muttered Canau, "that is like a music-box; and
I think they wind him up every night just before I go, for he is always
cry."
It was as patent to Monsieur Canau as to D. Wragg that the Brownjohn
Street house was under police surveillance, for there was often some
stranger to be seen loitering about, one very ordinary-looking
individual, trying very hard not to seem as if watching the former as he
went out.
But D. Wragg was not deceived in the slightest degree, for beside his
great experience of `natur,' he had attempted to acquire something of
art--to wit, police art--enough to enable him to point out, with the
accompaniment of a peculiar wink, the plain-clothes officer to his
French lodger, who had, however, only replied by a contemptuous shrug of
the shoulders, and a look in another direction.
But D. Wragg did not look another way, evidently bent upon wearing the
aspect of utter defiance of the law. He stood now at his shop-door
fiercely smoking, giving himself twitches and jerks that quite scared
such of his stock-in-trade as were in close proximity, and sent his dogs
shrinking back, snapping and snarling, whenever he turned their way.
Mr John Screwby and he had encountered more than once--the former
gentleman making a practice of insulting the dealer; and, as if out of
revenge for his non-success in obtaining the two hundred pounds
reward,--staring up at the front of the house, or making believe, with a
grin, to peer down into the cellar,--movements which made D. Wragg,
under the idea that he was gnashing his teeth like an ordinary mortal,
snap and snarl like a flea-bitten terrier.
Upon this day, it was fated that, as soon as Monsieur Canau was out of
sight, Mr John Screwby should appear loafing along the opposite side of
the road, so far from upright in his conduct, that he rubbed his right
shoulder here and there against wall and window-frame as he passed. His
cap was drawn down over his ears, a piece of straw in his mouth, and his
hands right above the wrists in his pockets, and their owner staring
heavily here and there after something fresh, till he came in sight of
D. Wragg. Now he grinned spitefully, and, walking slowly on, stopped at
last opposite the dealer's house, to stare heavily up at the attic
windows, shading his eyes, leaning a little on this side and a little on
that, as if eagerly searching for something to be seen. Then, according
to custom, he crossed the road to gaze for a moment through the
cellar-grating, holding one hand to his ear as if listening attentively;
and then fixing his eyes upon the dirty sash of the window seen through
the grating, he began to walk slowly backwards and forwards, totally
ignoring the presence of D. Wragg the while.
"There'll be a row directly, Mr Jack Screwby," said the dealer, with a
sharp snarl, as he stood watching his enemy's actions.
Mr Screwby took not the slightest notice of the speaker, only stopped
short as if he had caught a glimpse of something.
"I wonder wot they've done with the pore chap!" he said at last, in
quite a loud voice. "I shouldn't be a bit s'prised if they've berried
'im in the kitchin."
"If I could have my way with you, young fellow, I'd serve you out for
this!" said D. Wragg, shaking his fist, to the great amusement of a
small crowd fast collecting.
"What 'ud you do with me, eh?" said Screwby, with a grin. "Burke me,
like the pore chap as come arter his dorg, eh?"
"You wouldn't dare to talk like that there, Jack Screwby, if I was a man
of your own size and age," said D. Wragg, viciously.
"P'raps I should--p'raps I shouldn't," sneered Screwby. "But how about
the pore young man?"
D. Wragg made a terrier-like movement, as if about to rush at a
bull-dog, to the great delight of the crowd, especially as at that
moment the thick new boot, freshly completed by Mr Purkis, caught in the
grating, and D. Wragg nearly fell.
"Don't let him come a-nigh you," said Screwby, grinning, "or he'll serve
you same as he did the pore young man."
Here there was another shout, and the popular feeling seemed to be
growing so strong, that, raging within himself, D. Wragg began to think
it would be prudent to retreat, and he did so, followed by a loud
jeering laugh.
But even now he was not to have peace, for he had hardly reached the
sanctuary of his own room before a couple of small boys, probably
incited thereto by Mr John Screwby, thrust their heads in at the
shop-door, to roar, at the utmost pitch of their shrill treble--
"Who burked the boy?" fleeing the next moment as if for their very
lives, on hearing the scraping of the dealer's chair.
This is merely a sample of the unpleasantness that the little dealer was
called upon to bear; for Mr Screwby was exceedingly bitter against the
house of Wragg, inasmuch as there had been no discovery made--not even
the trace or tiny ravelling of a thread sufficient to commence a clue;
and what was more, Sergeant Falkner had strongly negatived the necessity
for rewarding him, even in the slightest degree--though, unseen by the
police, Clayton had slipped a sovereign into the man's hand.
But what was a sovereign as compared with the golden heap that two
hundred would have made? And then what things it would have bought! Mr
John Screwby had already gloated over several articles--notably a brown
fur cap, dyed catskin, which he coveted hugely; but now the whole of his
air-built castle was swept away; and to make matters ten times worse, he
had been requested by the sergeant not to show himself anywhere near a
certain number in Regent Street any more.
This last was rather a serious command, for it was indeed a special
order, although couched in the form of a request. To a gentleman in Mr
Screwby's circumstances, matters might turn out very unpleasantly if he
slighted the sergeant's impressive words.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Under these circumstances, though not caring a jot for the fate of
Lionel Redgrave, Mr John Screwby, failing money, determined to have the
full measure of his revenge, brimming over, if it were possible, and
therefore he joined himself heart and soul to the party whose every
effort was directed towards the elucidation of the mystery which had
prostrated Sir Francis. For after striving most manfully to fight
against bodily weakness, the old baronet lay at his son's chambers in a
state upon which the medical men consulted declined to give a decided
opinion.
To a bystander Sir Francis seemed weak and perfectly helpless, but a few
words relating to information would galvanise him into life once more;
and so it was that one afternoon, when a rough, waterside-looking fellow
presented himself, Sir Francis immediately ordered him to be shown up.
Volume 3, Chapter IV.