REVENGE.
Reg had now fully determined to follow Wyck to Australia, and he lost no
time in making his preparations. His first step was to go to a firm of
die-sinkers, where he ordered a die to be cut in the shape of a broken
heart, exactly similar to the device on Wyckliffe's letter-paper.
"Make it of the finest steel," he said, "and have its edges as sharp as
that of a razor. Have a case made to fit it, so that it can be kept
constantly sharp and bright, and ready for use at any time."
"It will be an expensive article, sir," said the shopman.
"Never mind, have it made exactly to order. Let me know when it will be
ready, and I will call and pay the bill."
That done, he called a cab, drove to Finsbury Pavement, and got out at
a large warehouse.
"Is Mr. Bridgland in?" he asked at the Inquiry Office, and was ushered
into a small room on the door of which was painted the word "Manager."
"Good morning, Bridgland," he said, entering and shaking hands with a
man sitting at a desk.
"What, Morris!" he replied. "You look like a ghost. Are you ill, man?"
"She's dead and buried, old chap."
"Who?--not Miss Johnson," almost gasped Bridgland.
"Yes, Amy Johnson is dead. She was murdered."
"Murdered!"
"Yes, murdered." And sitting down, Reg told Bridgland everything,
omitting not the slightest detail from the day of the ball to the
present.
Joseph Bridgland was the only man in London Reg had ever called a
friend. He had met him through a business transaction shortly after his
landing, and had taken a great fancy to him. Bridgland was a self-made
man, and had started in life as the office boy to the large firm of
whose business he was now manager. He was short and stout, with a
full-moon-like face that was always twinkling with good-humour. He
always faced his troubles with a smile; met all difficulties lightly,
and generally conquered them in the end. But Reg's trouble was too
serious to be smiled at, the sight of the pale, drawn face of the friend
who had always been so gay and light-hearted was a shock to him, and
when Reg had told his pitiful story, he found it difficult to restrain
his tears. He was fairly intimate with Reg and Amy Johnson, and looked
upon them as an ideal couple.
"My dear old chap, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. This fellow
Wyckliffe must be a miserable scoundrel, but I think I can help you."
"You can, Bridgland?" said Reg, starting.
"Yes, sit down and I will tell you. Listeners are people I despise, but
I was compelled to overhear a conversation, which has troubled me ever
since, but now I see there must have been something in the fact that I
was given this chance. One of the partners here leads the life of a man
about town. His office is there, next to mine, and he frequently has a
young fellow called Tommy drop in and have a chat with him."
"I know him," said Reg.
"Well, on this particular day the door I suppose was not closely shut,
and I chanced to hear them talking about a certain secret club called
the Detlij Club, or some such name. It is nothing more or less, I
believe, than an association of youthful rakes who lay plans to ruin
women. Tommy and he were apparently members, and they frequently spoke
of Wyck."
"That's my man, Bridgland," said Reg, fiercely.
"From what I could gather, this Wyck boasts of the possession of a
diabolical faculty for making girls fall in love with him. His next move
is to throw them over and one more is added to his record, which is kept
by means of notches on a stick. Now I distinctly heard Tommy say that
Wyck had his fiftieth notch booked, and that she was an Australian."
"My God! that was Amy. Bridgland, I will see you again, but I cannot
stay longer now. I begin to see my way clear. A thousand thanks and
good-bye." To Bridgland's astonishment he left the office hurriedly,
without another word.
Calling a cab, Reg drove to the Angora Club in Piccadilly, and asked for
Mr. Thomas. Finding he was not in, he left a letter asking him to meet
him on business of importance at a certain hotel at three o'clock the
following afternoon.
That evening he and the Whytes discussed his project.
The old couple were bearing up well, and so deep was their indignation
against the man who had ruined the peace of their home that they
encouraged Reg in his revenge.
"You are young and strong, Reg. I wish I was too, then I would go with
you," said Whyte; "but I am getting too old."
"Leave it to me, Whyte. I have sworn to brand him, and as long as I have
breath in my body, I will not give in."
The following day, Reg engaged a private room in the hotel, and gave
instructions that Mr. Thomas was to be shown up immediately on his
arrival, an event which soon happened.
"How do you do, Morris?" said Tommy, genially coming towards him.
"Awfully good of you to think of me."
"Yes, I wanted to have a chat with you."
"You don't look well, old fellow. Nothing wrong, I hope."
"I have a little trouble, but--"
"Then let me share it, old fellow."
"What will you have to drink?" asked Reg, disregarding the invitation.
"Ah! the best way to kill trouble. Drink, and put your care in the
grave."
The liquor was brought, and the waiter dismissed with instructions that
they were not on any account to be disturbed.
"Do you mind my drawing the curtains?" said Reg, "the light affects my
eyes."
"Not at all, old man. Here's good luck to you," answered Tommy, filling
his glass.
Reg did not reply, but going to the door, he locked it, and put the key
in his pocket. Tommy looked on in amazement. The little man had not much
pluck, and he felt his knees tremble.
"What's the joke, old chap!" he asked, in a voice intended to be
jocular.
"Thomas Thomas, listen to me. Amy Johnson is dead."
"Dead!" gasped Tommy, upsetting his glass in astonishment.
"Yes, she is dead. Your friend Wyck murdered her."
"Murdered her!"
"Yes, murdered her," reiterated Reg.
"My God, old chap, I'm----"
"Silence!" cried Reg, in a stern voice. "You were the man who introduced
her to him, and it is to you I look for some explanation. Who is this
Villiers Wyckliffe, and what is his power?"
"My dear Morris, really I don't know. I always thought he was a straight
chap."
"Tommy, you're a liar. You do know, so out with it."
"But I've sworn not to divulge," almost whined Tommy.
"Then you refuse," said Reg, placing pen, ink and paper before Tommy,
and producing a revolver from his pocket. Then he quietly placed his
watch on the table in front of him, and said:
"There are pen and paper. If you want to write to your friends, do so,
for you have five minutes to live."
This was too much for Tommy. All his dapper gaiety had disappeared. His
clothes seemed to hang loosely on his limbs, and a perspiration broke
out on his forehead. All his self-control vanished, and he fell
abjectly on his knees and cried out for mercy.
"Get up, you lying scoundrel," said Reg. "What mercy did you or he
show."
"I'll tell you all, Morris. I'll tell you all," gasped his victim.
"Then get up and do so at once, for you have but three minutes."
"What do you want to know?"
"All you know about Villiers Wyckliffe, and this power he is said to
possess."
Tommy started with a tremulous voice, and narrated in disjointed
sentences all that is known to the reader, the Detlij Club, all Wyck's
secrets, his affair with Miss Williamson, and his own share in procuring
the invitations for the Bachelors' Ball.
"Where has he gone now?" said Reg, still fingering the revolver.
"To Adelaide by the _Himalaya_."
"Is he going direct?"
"Yes he is, I swear."
"Then go down on your knees, Tommy, and swear you will never divulge
that you have told me all this, and that you will not communicate with
him."
"I swear, Morris," and Tommy was fairly on his knees.
"Now go. You are only his accomplice. You did not do the deed, so I'll
let you go; but mark my words, if ever I hear of you mixing my name up
with yours, I shoot you like a dog. Now go," said Reg, unlocking the
door, through which Tommy rapidly slipped without a second bidding.
"It's really wonderful what an empty pistol can do with some fellows,"
said Reg to himself, as he drank a glass of wine and straightened the
table.
"Miss Williamson," he continued, musing to himself, "Marjorie
Williamson; you are the poor victim who lost your mother and your
livelihood through the same man. I must see you, for you and I ought to
shake hands."
Half-an-hour later, he entered the Caledonian Theatre by the stage-door,
at the entrance of which he was confronted by an old fellow, who gruffly
enquired his business.
"Have you been here long?" he asked.
"Yes, close on twenty years; why?"
"I want a little information. What's your name?"
"Jones. What's yours?"
"Mine is Morris."
"Well, what is it you want to know?" said Jones, looking suspiciously at
him.
"Do you know Miss Williamson?"
"Yes, I do."
"Can you tell me where she lives?"
"No, I can't; and what's more, you'd better clear. She was ruined by one
of you cursed--"
"Stay, Jones, I understand you. I don't come here as one of those vile
cattle who hang round stage doors. I want to offer help and sympathy."
"Then you can go away, for she don't want either," said Jones, pointing
to the door.
"My good fellow, I see you are a friend of hers, and I am glad to find
she has one so good and true."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Can I trust you, Jones?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Then listen. The same man who ruined that girl, and killed her mother,
killed also the girl I loved, the girl I had been engaged to for years.
And I now look for my revenge."
"But what has she to do with it?" asked he, in a softer voice.
"I want to know her. I want her to have her revenge too. I am a rich man
and I am off on his tracks to Australia next Friday."
"I don't think she'd see you, sir. She's never seen a gent since."
"You are an old friend, I can see?"
"Yes, sir, I am. Her dead mother and I were old friends. She was one of
the good sort. She didn't put on airs because her daughter was a great
actress. She used to sit and talk to me every night."
"Jones, you can manage it. Come, we'll go together."
As they drove along very little conversation passed between the two. At
length the cab stopped at a house in a shabby street in Camden Town.
"You stay here, sir, until I've seen her," said Jones, as he knocked at
the door. The curtain was drawn aside for a moment before he was
admitted. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and he did not return. Reg became
impatient, but at last he heard the door open, and Jones was saying,
"You see him, Miss Marjorie, he has a good face." But still she seemed
to hesitate, and Reg, without waiting for more, walked up to her and
grasping her hand, said in an earnest voice:
"Miss Williamson, I _must_ see you."
She offered no further resistance, and Reg passed with her into a small
sitting-room.
"Stay where you are, Jones," said Reg, as he saw him about to leave them
alone. "You can hear all I have to say. Miss Williamson, I have heard
all about your troubles, and I want you to listen to mine:" and again
his sad story was recited.
"Now Miss Williamson I am off to Australia to take vengeance, and I want
you to assist me."
"Assist you! how? Mr. Morris."
"In this way. You are here toiling your life away for a meagre pittance.
You must give it up."
"Indeed I--"
"Stay, let me finish. I want you to clear your name and honour before
the world. I want you to rise again to your old position, and be
revenged that way."
"Impossible," she said.
"No it's not, sir," chimed in Jones, eagerly.
"She could get a good engagement to-morrow if she liked."
"Miss Williamson, as I said before, I am a rich man. I have thousands a
year, and now I have no use for the money I want you to accept--"
"I shall accept nothing, sir," said she, sharply.
"I want you to accept," resumed Reg, tranquilly, "a small loan in order
to enable you to have a fair start, and as you will not quite trust me,
I will place it in Jones's hands. Here, Jones," he continued, handing
him a roll of notes, "are a hundred and fifty pounds. You are to watch
over Miss Williamson and see that she resumes her calling. Miss
Williamson, once more I beg of you to assist me, and when you are a
successful woman again, and making lots of money, you can repay me."
"Miss Marjorie, do it. I'll help you," said Jones, appealingly.
"Then I'll do it, Mr. Morris, and God bless you;" then words failed her,
and she laid her head on the sofa and burst into tears.
Reg bid her good-bye and, followed by Jones left the house, feeling
lighter-hearted than he had been for several days. And Jones, when he
was put down at the theatre door, said, in a choking voice:
"You'll never regret this day's work, sir. God bless you."
Reg next went to the shop at which he had ordered his die, and found it
a most satisfactory piece of workmanship. Then he drove to the offices
of the Orient Company, and found if he left London on the following
Friday he could catch the _Orltuz_ at Naples.
"There's only one berth left, sir," said the clerk. "It's in a two-berth
cabin, and a Mr. Allen Winter has the other."
"Then cable and secure it for me," he said, putting down the money and
receiving his ticket.
The next day he called on Bridgland, related all he had done, and told
him his plans.
"You are a marvel, Morris," said that worthy man. "I could not
understand why you left me so suddenly. So you leave England to-morrow
for certain?"
"Yes. Wyck has a clear week's start and, as the _Himalaya_ is a faster
boat, I expect he will reach Adelaide eight days ahead of me."
"And when you catch him what will you do?"
"Do you see this die, Bridgland?" asked Reg, as he produced his case.
"This is his device. I'll brand him with it on both ears. He shall be a
marked man for life."
"But that's rather dangerous, is it not?"
"Listen, Brigland. I have sworn by the corpse of the girl I loved that I
would avenge her death, and I will do it at any cost. Your high-class
Englishman looks upon a woman's honour as his legitimate prey, and his
fellows feast and toast and testimonialise his success in his nefarious
deeds; but we Australians are made of different stuff from the rotten
fabric of European civilisation. We hold the honour of our women in
respect, and we have only one law for those who sully or sport with
it--the law that a right-minded man makes for himself. Here is a
murderer gone to our country to continue his infamous amusement. Mark my
words, Bridgland, if he ever returns alive to England, he will return so
that it is impossible for him to hold up his head. Now good-bye, old
chap. When you see me again, rest assured Australia will have been
revenged."
"My God!" said Bridgland to himself when Reg had left him. "I would
rather be dead than have a sleuth-hound like that on my track. Wyck,
your time has come, but not before you deserve it."
The final arrangements were completed, and Reg started on his journey.
He bade a fond farewell to the Whytes, and his last word rang in Oliver
Whyte's ears for many a day. It was "Revenge."