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ALL BUT LOST.
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ALL BUT LOST.
_A Novel._
BY
G. A. HENTY,
AUTHOR OF “THE MARCH TO MAGDALA,” ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1869.
[The Right of Translation is reserved.]
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LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
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CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. —ARCADES AMBO 1
II. —RUINED 17
III. —PROFFERED AID 31
IV. —SHOWING THE HOOF 53
V. —FINDING A CLUE 67
VI. —STRANGE TIDINGS 85
VII. —OWNED AT LAST 100
VIII. —SCOTCHING A SNAKE 114
IX. —JOHN HOLL, DUST CONTRACTOR 132
X. —WELL MATCHED 146
XI. —AVENGED 159
XII. —SHAKING OFF THE YOKE 170
XIII. —NOT GUILTY! 200
XIV. —WAITING FOR THE SHIP 218
XV. —RECONCILED 248
XVI. —SQUARING ACCOUNTS 272
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ALL BUT LOST.
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CHAPTER I.
ARCADES AMBO.
Fred Bingham was now rather an important person in his way. He had a
large number of works in hand; he was contractor for miles of sewers in
and around London. He was building a nobleman’s mansion in Sussex, and a
large church in Birmingham. He had a pier in hand down in Cornwall, and
a railway in Durham. Altogether he appeared to be a flourishing man.
People who met him casually, spoke of him as an extremely pushing, sharp
young fellow, with a pleasant manner; men who met him in business said
he was a cute fellow, but hard, sir, hard as nails. Any one who had seen
him at home, as his wife and his servants saw him, knew him for a morose
and irritable tyrant. Not that he had not his pleasant moments, when he
would jest with his wife, and speak jokingly to the servants, and be for
a short time pleasant and apparently light-hearted, but the slightest
thing would bring the cloud over his face, and his sharp voice would say
the most bitter things to every one around him, regardless of who heard
him. His wife was greatly changed since he married her; never actually
pretty, there had yet been a trusting kindliness in her face, and under
happier auspices the poor little heiress might have blossomed out into a
very bright little flower. But now the bud had closed up on itself, as
if stricken with the touch of a bitter March wind, and she was a silent,
timid woman. She loved her husband still, but she feared him even more
than she loved him. She was always nervously trying to please him, and
was ever ready to laugh if he was in a humour to joke. She bore his
bitterest taunts without an answer, although a flush of pain, as if she
had been struck, came up sometimes over her face when he spoke so to her
before the servants. In money matters her husband was liberal. He had
always been openhanded as a boy, and now he never grudged his wife any
thing that she fancied. She had her carriage, and her maid, and when she
was in the country he seldom came back from his visit to London without
a rich dress, or a pretty bonnet, or some present which he thought she
would like. To his servants too he was a liberal, and in some respects a
kind master. He liked the pleasure of giving, and if presents could have
bought love, he would have been adored by those around him. But his
irritable temper and his bitter tongue would constantly inflict wounds
which no presents could salve, no mere burst of good humour heal. One
reason of his irritability was unquestionably the state of his business.
Large as it apparently was, his position was precarious. The whole of
his wife’s capital was sunk in it, but that was as nothing in comparison
to the requirements of such extensive works as he was now carrying on.
He had, therefore, been obliged to borrow large sums of money, and to
discount his payments for work done. He was staying alone now in his
house in Harley Street, his wife being down at a place he had taken to
be near his work at Durham; and as usual, during these London visits,
was in an exceedingly irritable state of temper, when among his letters
he received one signed Robert Barton. Its contents were brief.
“PRIVATE ENQUIRY OFFICE.
“SIR,—I am in possession of information of the last importance
to yourself, and which I wish an early opportunity of discussing
with you. I shall be at this office from eleven until one every
day, or will call upon you at any time for which you may choose
to make an appointment.”
Fred Bingham’s pale face became even whiter than usual. “What the devil
does this fellow want to see me about? Business of the last importance;”
and his thoughts at once flew to the matter of his cousin Frank.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “that is out of the question. It must be that he
has heard that some one is not solvent, or that some of my bills perhaps
have got into bad hands. At any rate, I must go and see the fellow.”
Then he put Mr. Barton’s letter aside, opened several of the others,
some of which he read through carefully, others threw aside at a glance.
The last he opened was from his wife.
“Bah!” he said, impatiently, “what quantities of twaddle women write, as
if any one was going to read them through,” and he tore the letter up
and threw the fragments into a waste-paper basket. He drew his desk to
him and wrote several letters; then he looked at his watch. “Eleven
o’clock. I will go up to the City at once, and see this Barton. I shall
only worry about it until I know what it is. Mary,” he said sharply, as
the servant entered, “fetch a hansom, and look sharp about it.”
Mr. Barton was alone in his den when the clerk brought in Mr. Bingham’s
card. “Show him in,” and as the clerk left the room, Mr. Barton rose,
took a small bundle of papers from an iron safe, and placed them in a
drawer by his side. Fred Bingham entered. “Take a seat, Mr. Bingham.”
“I have received a note from you this morning,” Fred said shortly, “and
thought it as well to call at once.”
“Quite as well,” Mr. Barton said slowly, rubbing his chin and examining
his visitor’s face, as if to read his character; “quite as well,” he
repeated rather more rapidly, as if his survey had been a satisfactory
one. “Yes. There is nothing like attending to business at once. That has
always been my rule.”
Fred Bingham made a gesture of impatience.
“If you will tell me what you want,” he said, “I shall be glad. I have
business of importance to attend to.”
“No doubt, no doubt, Mr. Bingham, but hardly I imagine of such
importance as the present, as you will I am sure allow when you have
heard me. Now, Mr. Bingham,” he went on sharply and decisively, as if he
had now quite made up his mind as to his visitor’s character, and the
conclusion he had arrived at were satisfactory, “we will proceed to
business. We are both of us men of the world.”
Fred Bingham did not like the opening. His own experience had been
universal that when two men agreed that they were men of the world, they
were about to propose or to carry out some doubtful business which would
not bear a rigid investigation. He only nodded, however, and the
detective went on—
“The business relates to family matters.” Again the old fear came into
Fred Bingham’s thoughts, and the man who was watching him saw instantly
that there was some sore point or other in his family affairs. “You are,
I believe, sir, the next of kin and recognised heir of Captain Bradshaw,
of Lowndes Square and of Wyvern Park, in the county of Leicester. You
may readily imagine that a man of my profession does not ask such a
question from mere impertinent curiosity.”
“I presume not,” Fred Bingham said coldly. “You are mistaken. My cousin,
Mr. Maynard, is an equally near relative with myself,—indeed, as son of
the elder sister, he is Captain Bradshaw’s nearest heir.”
“Quite so,” Mr. Barton said; “so I understood. But I am also aware—for
in these matters one, of course, makes oneself acquainted with all
particulars—that a quarrel has arisen between Captain Bradshaw and Mr.
Maynard, and that you may now not unreasonably be regarded as his sole
heir.”
“I am not aware of Captain Bradshaw’s intention with regard to the
disposal of his property,” Fred Bingham said stiffly.
“No!” Mr. Barton said as if surprised. “I imagined that you were, at
least it is whispered—these things get whispered, you know—that you
applied to a party in the city, who shall be nameless, and obtained a
heavyish loan on the strength of your expectation in that quarter.”
Fred Bingham coloured scarlet, and was about to speak, when Mr. Barton
stopped him.
“Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, don’t be angry. As men of the world we
understand these matters, and the little affair in question is not known
beyond a very small circle of safe men. If men did not mention the
matter to their particular friends, you know, accidents might happen; a
gentleman might borrow twice, for instance, from different parties upon
the strength of his expectations.”
Fred Bingham bit his lip, for he had only the night before been
meditating on the possibility of some such step as that suggested. He
did not speak, and Mr. Barton went on—
“I think, then, that it will assist us to a better understanding of the
position, if we assume—just assume, you know—that you are the probable
heir to Captain Bradshaw’s very large property, now that Captain
Bradshaw has had this unfortunate quarrel with your cousin.”
Mr. Barton laid a meaning stress upon the word unfortunate, and Fred
Bingham said hastily—
“I had nothing to do with the quarrel.”
“Of course not, of course not,” Mr. Barton said, having not the least
doubt but that he had, a doubt of which he made a mental note for future
use. Fred Bingham felt that thus far he had had much the worst of the
struggle, and he said,—
“I really do not see, Mr. Barton, where the conversation about family
matters is leading us to.”
“Patience, my dear sir,” Mr. Barton said, composedly, “I am coming to
the point. Now you being, as we have assumed for the sake of argument,
the probable heir to the very large property of Captain Bradshaw, it
would be a new and somewhat unpleasant circumstance if another person
should appear being a nearer relation than yourself, and having
consequently stronger claims upon his affections. In fact, let us
suppose a grandson.”
Fred Bingham was relieved of the fear which had hitherto oppressed him,
and he said, angrily,—
“Really, Mr. Barton, I cannot enter upon any such impossible
conjecture.”
“But suppose I tell you, Mr. Bingham, that it is not a conjecture at
all, but a fact, and that such a grandson is really in existence?”
Fred Bingham for a moment sat speechless, and then exclaimed, fiercely,—
“I should say it was a lie.”
“No doubt you would; no doubt you would,” Mr. Barton said, very
composedly; “and very natural too. But for all that it is true. Your
cousin, Captain Bradshaw’s daughter, ran away from home, married and
died, leaving a child behind her. That child is alive!”
Fred Bingham sat in complete stupefaction. He had heard, it is true,
years ago of a daughter of Captain Bradshaw, but the possibility of her
child being in existence to step in between him and the fortune had
never entered his mind. He did not doubt the fact, for Barton’s manner
was too earnest to be doubted. He sat astounded and crushed under the
unexpected disaster.
“Here,” Mr. Barton went on, quietly taking the papers from the drawer,
“here is a copy of the register of her marriage, here is a copy of the
baptism of the infant, and I could procure—were it to the point, which
it is not—a copy of the register of her burial.”
Fred Bingham sat for some time in silence, but after the first burst of
surprise and despair, his busy brain began to work again. Why did this
man come to him instead of going either to Captain Bradshaw himself, or
to the heir? Why did he come to him? Naturally because he saw an
advantage in so doing; because, in fact, he would get more out of him.
At least there was hope then. When he spoke, his words expressed these
thoughts.
“You have not finished, Mr. Barton. Of course you come to me with an
object; of course that object is money. Now why do you come to me before
you go to them? Why do you suppose I would pay you more?”
“Very good, indeed, sir. I like doing business in a practical way, and
that’s what I call practical talk. I can only give you the answer in the
words of your own question. I came to you simply because I do believe
you would give me more than either Captain Bradshaw or his grandson and
also, and mainly, because when you and I have agreed upon the matter,
there is no fear of its going any further—it would not suit either of us
for it to get abroad. Now, on the other hand, Captain Bradshaw or his
grandson might refuse to pay. The relationship once disclosed I lose my
hold upon them, and if I were to try to enforce my claim, I should not
go into court with clean hands. I was employed by Captain Bradshaw to
trace his daughter, and when I told him of her death, I forgot to
mention she had left a child. You see the public might take a wrong view
of it, and it is even possible that I might lose my suit. Now with you I
have none of these inconveniences. I know if you agree to pay me you
will do so, because it is your interest. You know I shall keep my part
of the bargain, because in the event of my opening my lips, the public
would know that I have acted in a rather unprofessional and underhand
way, and I should be spoken of in a way I should not like.”
“There is only one other point, Mr. Barton. How am I to know this boy is
still alive?”
“Ah,” Mr. Barton said approvingly, “I do like to deal with a man with
his head well on his shoulders. Now you have hit upon the only weak
point. I cannot prove it. I know the young man. I see him constantly,
but without letting him know it. I cannot prove it to you without his
having his suspicions awakened. How can I? You must take my word for it.
I tell you he is alive. If any sort of oath will satisfy you, I will
take it; I can’t say more than that.”
Fred Bingham rose.
“I can give you no answer now upon this. It is all new to me. I must
think it over. I will call to-morrow about the same time.” And he went
out and got into the cab which had been waiting for him. “Back again to
Harley Street, and drive quick.”
Fred Bingham sat for some hours in his study that evening thinking over
the new and unexpected impediment to his hopes. “To think of a grandson
of the old man being alive just when everything looked so well. Was ever
anything so frightfully unlucky?” However of course the question was,
was it worth while to buy this man off or not? Fred Bingham had a clear
head, and he considered every possible argument which could be urged
upon either side. If he refused to treat, and the heir was produced,
what then? Captain Bradshaw had, he had heard, bitterly regretted his
treatment of the mother, and would no doubt receive the boy with joy,
and establish him as his heir. Of course he would leave a considerable
sum to himself. He would feel bound to do so. Fred did not deceive
himself, his uncle had never liked him as he had Frank; still he would
leave him perhaps a third of the whole property. Suppose he bought this
man off. The whole property was worth perhaps £150,000; suppose he gave
£20,000 for silence, of course it would pay him well. But would that be
the end of it? Would he find himself in this man’s power if he did so?
Yes, that was the real question. The agreement of course would be, that
he would give a bond to pay a certain amount at his uncle’s death,
provided his uncle died ignorant of the existence of his grandson. Yes,
that would be it. Then he would pay the money in cash, so that no trace
of the transaction could be brought against him, and he would receive in
exchange the bond. Would Barton have any hold upon him afterwards? He
did not think so. He did not see how he could have any. Suppose he
produced the grandson, what then? The will would have left the property
to him, and the grandson would not have the slightest claim. Could
Barton threaten to divulge the compact? He could deny that it ever
existed, and Barton would have no proof to adduce. Over and over again
he thought it over, and again and again he arrived at the same
conclusion; the grandson could have no claim, Barton could hold no
threat over his head. It was not so very bad after all. And with this
conclusion he went to bed. The next day he called again at Mr. Barton’s
office. The interview was brief this time.
“How much do you want to hold your tongue?”
“The estate is worth £150,000 by what I hear. I will charge ten per
cent.”
“No,” Fred Bingham said, “if this heir turns up I should get at least a
third. I will give you ten per cent. upon the rest.”
“Come,” Mr. Barton said, “I have waited twenty years. I will take
£12,000, not a farthing less.”
“Very well,” Fred Bingham said; “payable of course at my uncle’s death,
in the event of no nearer heir than myself appearing.”
“Just so,” Mr. Barton assented. “I have drawn up a bond on stamped paper
up to £15,000, the figures are not put in. I will fill it up. ‘I owe
Robert Barton the sum of £12,000, which I agree to pay upon the death of
Captain Bradshaw of Lowndes Square, providing that no nearer heir than
myself to his property be found.’”
“But supposing,” Fred Bingham said, “that my uncle quarrels with me and
leaves his property to some one else?”
“I don’t think you are likely to let him quarrel with you, Mr. Bingham;
but should he do so, I rely upon you for your own sake to come here and
tell me so frankly, and I will then restore you this paper, and produce
the grandson.”
Fred thought for a minute, and then said, “Yes, that would suit us both.
There, I have signed the bond. Don’t leave it about. Good morning, Mr.
Barton.”
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