"Been here five minutes, sir," said Sergeant Falkner, as Harry Clayton
entered the passage of the Regent Street house. "Yes, five minutes
exactly," he continued, referring to his watch. "I'd allowed myself ten
minutes to wait and see if Sir Richard woke up; and if he had not at the
end of that time, I was off. But as you've come, sir, that'll do as
well, for I promised him I'd look in and state progress every day."
"What news have you, then?" said Harry.
"I don't know as I have any as yet, sir."
Harry gave a fresh gesture of impatience.
"Slow and sure, sir, 's my motto," said the sergeant. "'Tain't always
that one can make a dead swoop down. I should have liked to have
brought you word that I had found next day after getting instructions;
but a case of this sort is like hatching chickens--it takes time.
You've been thinking as the eggs are all addled, but p'raps you're
wrong, sir. I don't know. I won't say but what I might have heard one
little thing beginning to peck inside, and one may have a good brood
yet--who knows!"
"But have you anything authentic you can tell me?" said Harry, who was
wearied out with these many purposeless visits, the endless
consultations, the trivial information demanded, and after all the small
result.
"Nothing, sir, as yet. Only I tell you this, I think I shall have
something for you directly."
"Hope deferred," said Harry, bitterly.
"Maketh the heart sick--eh, sir? Exactly so, and good news is the
physic as makes it well again. Have a little more patience with me, and
you may be satisfied yet."
Harry bent his head.
"Look here, sir," said the sergeant; "just another word before I go.
You've been very often to Decadia lately."
"Yes," said Harry.
"Well, sir, if you'll take my advice, you won't go there so often. Why
not? you think. My answer to that is--We haven't found your friend yet;
and my experience of some parts of London is, that there are men in it
who think a deal more of a pound or two than they do of a man's life."
Here Sergeant Falkner fixed a bold clear eye upon that of the young man
for a few seconds, nodded sagely, and then departed.
Left alone, Harry stood thoughtful and half startled for a few minutes
before going up to Sir Francis' room, where the baronet still remained
sleeping, evidently under the influence of some sedative, for there was
a graduated bottle upon the little table by the head of his couch, and a
faint odour that reminded Harry of visits to a photographer's pervaded
the room.
"Must be ether!" he said, softly, as he went on tip-toe to the bedside,
and anxiously looked down on the pallid troubled face, whose
expression--even in sleep--told of the tortured mind, and the pangs
which the old man was called upon to suffer.
"Let him sleep," said Harry to himself, and he stole gently from the
room to sit and think for a while, when, the hour being far too early
for bed, he lit a cigar, and went out for half-an-hour's stroll before
retiring for the night.
"I wonder whether we shall ever see him again?" thought Harry, as he
turned down one of the quiet streets, intending to make a circuit and
return to the chambers by another route. His thoughts were busy now,--
he was running over in a half-troubled way the words of the sergeant
that night, for they had left their impression; then he felt
disheartened and sad, as he thought of Patty's intimacy with the Decadia
people, and the way in which she was dragged into the affair, trembling,
too, as it struck him that there might be legal inquiry, and she called
upon to give evidence. At last he came to the conclusion that he would
go and boldly beg of Jared Pellet to keep her away from the wretched
district, and quickened his steps as if about to go at once, till he
recollected the hour, and once more slackened his pace.
The street was perfectly empty, the lines of lamps looking in the
distance like a vista of golden beads hung in the air.
Suddenly he was aroused from his musings, and, turning sharply, he was
face to face with, and so close as to be even touching, his follower,
who, with one arm upraised, was about to seize him by the neck, the
gaslight falling full upon the features of Mr John Screwby.
Mr John Screwby had indeed been about to administer the garotter's hug,
for he had followed Harry through the frequented streets till he had
turned into one that was retired, and afforded an opportunity that this
gentleman did not feel disposed to resist.
Times had been what he termed "hardish" lately. Buoyed up by the hope
of obtaining the reward, he had fallen into the habit, while hope
lasted, of boasting among his companions of the luck about to fall to
his share. That luck, though, had never been his; and the failure of
several little adventures had also tended to lower Mr Screwby's banking
account. Hence, then, he had been on the look out for an unconsidered
trifle or two.
The opportunity was excellent--the hour was late. A glance up and down
the street had shown him that there was not a soul in sight, while as to
the houses, for the most part the lights were now in the upper stories.
Mr John Screwby's teeth glistened brightly, and with rapid action he
stepped forward, at the same time softly turning up his cuffs as if to
strike.
It was a chance and no mistake, he thought. Nothing could have happened
better--cash, a watch and chain, and a bit of revenge, all at one swoop.
For if it had not been for this swell, the old gentleman would have
written his cheque for the reward, and it would have been cashed, and
there would have been an end of it.
A quarter--one half of the street had been traversed, and Screwby told
himself that it was time to close. He gave another glance behind him--
all right. If he had only had a mate now, how easy the job would have
been. But then a mate would have wanted half the proceeds, and there
might have been a row afterwards, and a split, so that it was better so.
Hunting--sporting of any kind--pooh! what could they be to such sport as
this--so exciting, and dashed with a tinge of danger? And then the game
was so profitable!
Mr Screwby licked his lips as, with head down and hands held in true
pedestrian fashion, he pressed on.
Now was the time, he felt. He had closed to within a yard--a dash in
and it would be done--the arm thrown round the victim's neck, a sharp
twist, a kick at his legs, and he would be down upon the pavement, which
would effectually stun him. Then a little rapid manipulation, and all
would be right.
"Now for it, then!" he resolutely exclaimed, and he raised his arm.
Is there, or is there not, some instinct of coming danger--some strange,
ethereal, electric wire of sympathy, along which, as rapidly as thought,
speeds the warning "Look out!" What do psychologists say? Some are
for, some against the possibility of such influences: take, then, your
own experience and judge. See how often, as if feeling the _wind_ of
the coming peril, people have been known to swerve aside, or halt, or
hurry on, or stay away scores of times, and escape. Instances
innumerable might be cited of where the preyer has been balked of his
quarry, even as here, when, just as Screwby was in the act of making his
spring, Harry turned and faced his enemy, and both stood for a brief
minute without moving.
The next moment Screwby drew back to gather force, then, with fingers
crooked like a beast's talons, he leaped at Harry's throat, but only to
receive full upon that flat and ugly nose a tremendous blow sent right
from a desperate man's shoulder.
In itself the stroke seemed hard enough to have made the organ flat;
but, joined to it, there was the force with which Screwby was making at
his destined prey--the two forces added forming a total whose result was
a dull, unpleasant-sounding thud--a heavy, drunken stagger--and then Mr
John Screwby seemed to collapse, his legs doubling beneath him, his
whole body assuming a wavy motion, and he was upon the pavement in a
curious heap, emitting as he went down a groan that sounded as if the
collapse were total.
"'Ullo! what's up now?" greeted Harry's ears, as he stood binding a
handkerchief around his bleeding knuckles, and gazing at his fallen
assailant.
Harry turned to find that a policeman had made his appearance.
"This man attacked me, and I struck him down," replied Harry.
"Then you must come on, and enter the charge," said the constable.
"Now, then rouse up here," he continued, giving Mr Screwby a shake which
made his bull head tap the pavement in a most unpleasant manner, till in
a confused fashion he rose to his knees, and then stood up, staring hard
at the proximate area railings, as if he were in doubt as to where he
was, and evidently took the iron bars for those of a very different
place. A moment later, though, he saw more clearly his position, and,
thrusting the constable back, he darted off, and would have escaped, but
for the appearance of another officer from round the corner--the shouts
of his fellow galvanising him into activity.
Then there was a rush, a struggle, and the rending off of buttons, the
loud bang of a heavy hat falling upon the pavement, and but for the
coming up of Harry and the other constable, Mr Screwby would once more
have been on the way to his den. The reinforcements, though, prevailed,
and the next instant the ruffian was prone upon his back, and swearing
powerfully.
This time the ignominious bracelets of the ill-doer were produced, and a
sharp "click, click" told that they were ornamenting the wrists for
which they were destined.
"I'd put a pair round his legs if I had my will," growled the first
constable. "What d'yer mean by falling in that ere way?"
The man took a great cotton handkerchief from his hat, and with it
mopped his head hard, for he was tightly buttoned up in his coarse,
heavy greatcoat.
"Yer might ha' known you'd ha' been ketched without coming these games,"
he growled again, taking it as a deep offence against his own dignity
that the culprit had tried to escape after being "took."
But Mr Screwby did not condescend to reply with words. His responses
were all looks, and those of a class that the second constable, who had
found a dent in his hat, stigmatised as "gallows;" but whether deserving
of that appellation or no, they were sufficiently evil, heightened as
they were by a stained countenance and eyes swollen sufficiently to
startle any one who met their gaze.
Mr John Screwby was caught and handcuffed, but he was not caged; but lay
upon the pavement sullen and heavy, refusing to hearken to the voice of
the charmer when requested to rise; even a playful tap or two from a
staff, and a sharp twist of the handcuffs had no effect; the result
being that one constable had to seek the station for more help, and Mr
Screwby rode off in triumph, his chariot being a stretcher, and the
paean of praise the mutterings and growlings of the perspiring police.
It was too late for there to be much of a popular gathering; such as
there was, though, was decidedly of a sympathetic cast. Fortunately the
station was near at hand, in which place of security Harry saw his
assailant safely lodged, and then sought his temporary home, wondering
the while whether a similar attack had caused the disappearance of
Lionel Redgrave, and also whether the man was taken who could bring the
affair to light.
Volume 3, Chapter XV.
"COMING EVENTS."
The morning dawned before Harry Clayton fell asleep. After an early
walk, he met Sir Richard at breakfast, to find him pale, but calm and
composed.
It was very evident to the young man that the father was losing hope,
and that he was having a hard struggle to resign himself to what had
fallen to his lot. Two months had now elapsed, and not the faintest
trace of a clue by which Lionel could be traced had been found.
"I have been thinking, Clayton," said Sir Francis, as they sat over
their meal, "that it would be cruel and unjust on my part to retain you
here any longer. You have your career mapped out, and every day that I
keep you is to your injury."
"Never mind that, Sir Francis," said Harry. "I am as deeply interested
in the search as yourself, and I cannot give up hope so easily. When I
feel despair creeping upon me I will give up--not before. But you are
better this morning?"
"More resigned, Clayton--more resigned," said the old man, sadly. "It
is time to try and bear it."
Harry reminded him that the sergeant was still hopeful, and also told
him of the man's last words; but Sir Francis only shook his head sadly.
He grew more interested, though, when Harry related his adventures of
the past night, and also laid bare a few of his thoughts; but they
seemed to make no lasting impression; and soon after, leaving the room,
Harry made his way anxiously to the police court, for the feeling grew
stronger that he had at last run the villain to earth--this man whom he
had recognised on the previous night as the informer, and also as the
low-browed scoundrel who had watched them at the bird-dealer's.
Might not this be poor Lionel's destroyer? It was mere suspicion, but
might he not have committed some foul deed, with Lionel Redgrave for
victim, even as he had essayed on the previous night, for it was by the
narrowest shade that he had himself escaped. Poor Lionel was perhaps
caught in one of the vile purlieus of Decadia, and had been dragged away
and hidden after being plundered; while to divert suspicion, with extra
cunning--where no suspicion existed--this scoundrel had essayed to lay
the blame upon the house of Wragg.
Suspicions these, certainly; but as Harry walked on, from being shadowy
they gradually grew more solid and firm, so that he eagerly waited at
the court the turn of Mr John Screwby, whose vile countenance, when
placed in the dock, wore anything but an improved aspect, with the
addition of a damaged nose and a pair of hideously discoloured eyes.
The case was plain enough as far as the attempt was concerned.
Suspicion of other matters, of course, could not be raised. But there
were several little ugly facts brought forward respecting Mr John
Screwby's character--touching six months' imprisonment for this, three
months' imprisonment for that, a year for something else,--altogether a
total of four years for different offences that the warders of different
prisons could declare to. Consequently, as Mr Screwby's name stank in
the nostrils of the law, he was remanded, with the certain prospect of
being committed for trial at the next hearing.
Weary and unsettled, Harry strolled down the next evening to Decadia.
The first face he encountered was that of D. Wragg, who was seated
behind his counter with the shutters up, and the gas turned down very
low.
"Oh, yes! you can go up," said the little man, gloomily; "but don't you
make no mistake, and think I ain't so sharp as I should be, because I've
seemed a bit queer lately. It was all through a drop o' drink, and I
shouldn't ha' taken that if it hadn't been along o' that friend o'
yours. Cuss him! what did he want to go losing dorgs for, and come here
bringing mis'ry into a pore man's home?"
D. Wragg ended his speech almost with a whine, wiping away two or three
maudlin drink-begotten tears; when, seeing from the man's state that it
would be of little avail to remind him of the cause of Lionel's first
visit, Harry ascended to find Canau sitting up in bed, holding one of
Janet's hands in his.
"Aha!" he said, softly; "then you have come again. What news of your
friend? None? Aha! I suspect D. Wragg once, and he trapped me like
one of his pigeons; but there--he is innocent; he has no secrets but
about wretched dogs. He is not bad, but he is little--little at heart.
He has no soul for a great crime. He hides away dogs in holes and
cupboards and corners, and we hear mysterious cries, and think them
dreadful, here in this house, and the good Madame Vink faints away.
Then I go looking--to find what? Ma foi! dogs--dogs--dogs. Nothing
more. There was nothing to find."
"Are you an arch-traitor?" thought Harry for a moment, as he sat gazing
at the injured man. "If your heart could be laid bare, would it
disclose anything?" The sad calm look upon the little Frenchman's face
disarmed him, though, the next instant, and he felt half angry at the
flash of suspicion, as Canau continued--
"We have strange ideas all of us; and we all suspect one another. I
have often think D. Wragg knows where your poor foolish friend has gone,
and he think the same of me; and the work-people outside say it is a
judgment on me that I am struck down, and that it will save me from what
they call `scragg.' But no, no! I shall not be hung at Vieux Bailee.
But they are _sots_--fools all."
Harry sat by the bed half-disposed to tell of Screwby's attack, but he
refrained.
"Monsieur," said Canau, after a pause, "I think I shall be the better
for this hurt. It has made me think of how I have let myself drift--
drift away, when I ought to have fought, and been something better.
There is only one thing that I have kept of the past, when I was another
man, and that is my music. Janet, my child, when I am well, we will go
from here and live otherwise: I have not been just to you. But D. Wragg
has been good to me, and a friend when I was in despair with life; still
I must change. Yes, we will go and live away from this wretched place.
Pah! how could I have kept you here so long? Only let me get well, for
I shall not die of this hurt. I wish that you too were glad and happy
as I feel. Poor Janet, too, would be glad of heart did she know that
your friend was found, and the old man his father at peace."
Janet listened eagerly as Harry spoke of the inutility of their search,
and then the poor girl shrank back; but attention was drawn from her by
a sharp cry of pain from Canau.
"Shall I fetch a doctor?" said Harry earnestly.
"No, no; I shall be better--well directly. The pain is sometimes sharp.
But ah, bah! it is nothing. I shall live--I shall be well soon. I do
not trouble myself at all. But hark! Mon Dieu! listen! Is there fresh
trouble in the house? They will not search again--I cannot have it!
Monsieur, I am weak."
Harry, as he started up, gazed curiously at the injured man, for there
was a strange dread in his tones that again raised suspicion. But there
was evidently something important on the wing. Amidst a good deal of
noise, there arose the sound of voices in loud altercation; and as he
opened the door D. Wragg could easily be heard as he exclaimed--
"Don't you make no mistake now; I'm not going to have my place searched
again; so now, then!"
"Ah-h-h! Ma foi!" ejaculated Canau, and a spasm sent its trace across
his features, while Janet, wild-eyed and strained, held tightly by his
hand.
"There is something coming now!" thought Harry, and his heart beat
painfully as D. Wragg's voice was again heard.
"Yes; he is here! And if he is here, what o' that? Don't you make no
mistake. There ain't no harm in his coming here if he likes, is there?
No one ain't a-going to burke him. I'll fetch him down, for I ain't
going to have no more searchings in my house."
"Searching! Ah! I cannot bear it!" groaned the Frenchman.
Directly after there was the thump, thump, of D. Wragg's heavy boot on
the stairs.
"'Tis for me," said Harry, turning to Canau. "There seems to be news;"
and then, with a feeling of compassion, he continued, "but do you know
anything of it all?--speak if you do."
"I know! No, no; not a word!" exclaimed Canau, when, waiting to hear no
more, Harry hurried excitedly to the door, to encounter Sergeant
Falkner, while closely following him came D. Wragg, growling viciously,
and tearing at his spikey hair, as he set his boot down violently upon
each stair, as if crushing under it vermin in the shape of the police.
A few words, though, from the sergeant had the effect of setting D.
Wragg off into a set of terpsichorean evolutions that were grotesque in
the extreme. Certainly a triumphal dance was intended, with
accompanying stamps of the thick boot and snappings of his fingers; but
how he could possibly have contrived to jerk, and start, and jig as he
did, and yet live, was a puzzle that brought down the far-famed Gordian
knot into a contemptible cat's-cradle of Berlin wool. Dislocation! It
might have been thought that he was out of joint from head to toe, and
india-rubber had taken the place of his muscles.
"I told you so--I told you so!" he shouted. "There! don't you make no
more mistakes, any on you, because--Hip--hip--hip--hooray! I say,
though, Mr Canau, ain't it glorious? But I say, sir, Mr Clayton, sir,
is there any little thing in the shop? Don't you make--there! ain't I
glad!"
Another triumphal dance succeeded D. Wragg's burst of eloquence, when he
stumped off, sowing turnips as he went, to find Mrs Winks; while Harry
hurried back into the room to whisper one word--a word which made the
Frenchman fall back upon his pillow with a sigh of content, as Janet
turned to the window to hide her face from those who were too much
engrossed with their own thoughts to think of the poor girl's feelings.
"I am content now, Monsieur Clayton," sighed Canau. "There will be no
more suspicion, and you will come and see me when I am a different man.
But I could not bear that there should be a slur upon the place where we
have lived so long. But there! go--you are anxious;" and as Harry
hurried from the room, Canau repeated, with brightening eye, that most
important word which Harry had uttered, and that word was--
"Found!"
Volume 3, Chapter XVI.