"No news," day after day--day after day, till Harry was weary of
repeating the words to the troubled father. Sergeant Falkner came often
enough to repeat his story, that so far he had done everything possible;
but that he had scent of something which he felt sure must turn out
right.
At last Harry was wandering one evening towards Decadia, he knew not
why, he said, but it always appeared to him as if elucidation of the
mystery must come from that direction; and though he would not own to
it, he made this surmise his excuse for going often to Brownjohn Street,
seeing Janet but seldom--Canau often--quite an intimacy having arisen
between the latter and himself.
Harry wandered thoughtfully on, till, nearing the end of St Martin's
Lane, he started back, for from out of a busy street there came a sharp
rattling of wheels, a shout, a dull heavy sound; then the customary rush
of sight-seers till a crowd had collected.
"There, that's the seccun' acciden' I've seen at that there corner with
my own blessed eyes," said a man. "Them cabs comes cutting along
fierce, never thinking as they've got anything to do but shout, and
everybody's to get out o' the way in a instan'. If its panels as
scratches, they pulls up; but if its human flesh and blood, drive on.
It ought to be put a stop to--that it ought."
There was a chorus of indignant acquiescent growls, though no one said
what ought to be stopped; and Harry Clayton pressed forward through the
swaying crowd, in the midst of which the shiny crown of a policeman's
hat was to be seen.
"Get a stretcher--Take him to the hospital--Poor creature!" exclaimed
various voices; and then came a score of indignant commands: "Give him
air!--Stand back, will yer!"--the speakers never seeing the necessity of
themselves moving.
"Why don't you look alive, and take him to the hospital!" exclaimed a
strident voice again.
"Non--non! chez moi--chez moi!" groaned the sufferer.
"What's he say? He's foreign! Any one here understand Dutch? Anybody
know who he is?"
"I do," said Harry, pushing foward. "He wishes to be taken home," just
as, half insensible, the sufferer babbled a few words in his native
tongue, to which he seemed naturally to revert; and then, under the
young man's guidance, poor Canau was borne to his lodgings, and a
surgeon procured--one who came the more willingly upon Harry furnishing
him with his address, and undertaking, if necessary, to defray all
expense.
"I did try to get away; but I was confused, and stumbled; and ah! ma
belle patrie!" muttered Canau, "I shall see thee no more."
For the surgeon had made his examination, bandaged, and done all that
was possible to ease the sufferer, and then taken his departure.
"I am hurt--much hurt," said Canau, feebly, as he reached out a withered
hand to Harry; "but I should like just once--"
He turned his eyes towards a violin hung upon the wall; but when Janet
eagerly reached it down, and Canau tried to raise the bow, his bruised
muscles refused to act, and he shook his head.
"Had you not better try and sleep?" said Harry to the injured man, who
seemed momentarily to grow more feverish and excited.
"Sleep!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, "sleep now? Shall I not soon sleep
without waking? No, no--no, no! Look here! you are a gentleman--you
have feelings. Listen! Years ago--many now--I fled from my country. I
was sought for; I was called `traitor!' But why? mon Dieu, why?
Because I loved my rightful monarch, and would have seen him on the
throne. But might is right, even as you say it here; and I fled to
beggary and wretchedness amongst these poor--I, a gentleman--to drink at
last to drown my misery, till I tried to live by my violin, and then I
took to that poor child, saved her from misery and death, and now she
loves me."
Worn out at last, and half delirious with the fever from the injuries he
had received, the Frenchman at last dozed off, when Harry rose to leave,
wondering whether, after all, Canau knew what had become of Lionel, and
hopeful that, if he did, his prostrate and weak state would offer
opportunities for arriving at the truth.
As Harry reached the bottom, D. Wragg, pipe in hand, made his
appearance, craning his neck, and thrusting his face forward in
disagreeable proximity to that of his visitor, as in answer to Harry's
"Good night," he exclaimed--
"I know!"
"Know what," said Harry, sharply, his thoughts instantly reverting to
Lionel, and the hope that if D. Wragg knew anything, now in his state of
semi-intoxication, he might divulge some clue to the mystery that had
troubled them for so long. But if D. Wragg possessed a secret, it
seemed to be one from which he felt in no haste to part; for, with
drunken solemnity, he merely shook his head a great many times, and then
drew back softly into his shop, closing the door after him; but only to
open it again a few inches, so as to allow the passage of his head as he
muttered gruffly, throwing the words, as it were, at his visitor--
"Never mind!"
Volume 3, Chapter XIV.