RESTLESS WANDERINGS.
The commotion was great. Six days had elapsed since Arthur Channing's
singular disappearance, and he had never been heard of.
Six days! In a case of this nature, six days to anxious friends will
seem almost like six weeks. Nay, and longer. And, while on the topic,
it may be well and right to state that these circumstances, this loss,
occurred just as written; or about to be written; and are not a
réchauffé from a dish somewhat recently served to the public in real
life.
Arthur Channing arrived at the Euston Square Station on a certain
evening already told of, and was met there by Roland Yorke. Later,
soon after eight, he went to the private hotel in Norfolk Street, in
which a room had been engaged for him, and where he had stayed before.
Roland saw him go in: the waiter, Binns, received him, and left him in
the coffee-room reading his letters. Upon the waiter's entering the
room nearly half an hour subsequently, he found it empty. A small
parcel and an umbrella belonging to him were there, but he himself was
not. Naturally the waiter concluded that he had but stepped out
temporarily. He was mistaken, however. From that moment nothing had
been seen or heard of Arthur Channing.
If ever Roland Yorke went nigh to lose his mind, it was now. Strangers
thought he must be a candidate for Bedlam. Totally neglecting the
exigencies of the office, he went tearing about like a lunatic. From
one place to another, from this spot to that, backwards and forwards
and round again, strode Roland, as if his legs went on wires. His
aspect was fierce, his hair wild. The main resting-posts, at which he
halted by turns, were Scotland Yard, Waterloo Bridge, and the London
docks. The best that Roland's dark fears could suggest was, that
Arthur had been murdered. Murdered for the sake of the money he had
about him, and then put quietly out of the way. Waterloo Bridge,
bearing a reputation for having been a former chosen receptacle for
mysterious carpet-bags, was of course pitched upon by Roland as an
ill-omened element in the tragedy now. It had also just happened that
a man, drowned from one of the bridges, had been found in the London
docks: having drifted in, no doubt, with an entering or leaving ship.
This was quite enough for Roland. Morning after morning would find him
there; and St. Katharine's docks, being nearer, sometimes had him
twice in the day.
Putting aside Roland's migrations, and his outspoken fears of dark
deeds, others, interested, were to the full as much alarmed as he. The
facts were more than singular; they were mysterious. From the time
that Arthur Channing had entered the hotel in Norfolk Street, or--to
be strictly correct--from a few minutes subsequent to that, when the
waiter, Binns, had left him in the coffee-room, he seemed to have
disappeared. The police could make nothing of it. Mr. Galloway, who
had been at once communicated with by Hamish Channing, was nearly as
much assailed by fears as Roland, and sent up letters or telegrams
every other hour in the day.
The first and most natural theory taken up, as to the cause of the
disappearance, was this--that Arthur Channing had received some news,
amidst the letters given to him, that caused him to absent himself.
But for the circumstance of the letter (written by Charles Channing on
board the P. and O. steamer, and posted at Marseilles) _not_ having
been handed to Arthur, it might have been assumed that it had
contained bad news of Charles, and that Arthur had hastened away to
him. As the letter was omitted to be given to him--and it was an
exceedingly curious incident in the problem that it should so have
fallen out--this hope could not be entertained: Charles was well; and
by that time, no doubt, in Paris enjoying himself. But, even had
circumstances enabled them to take up this hope, it could not have
lasted long: had Arthur been called suddenly away, to Charles, or
elsewhere, he would not have failed to let his friends know it.
His portmanteau remained at the hotel unsought for; with his umbrella
and small parcel, containing the few articles he had bought earlier in
the night; full proof that when he quitted the hotel, he had meant to
return to it. Now and again, even yet, a letter would reach the hotel
from some stray individual or other, whom he ought to have seen on
business during his sojourn in London, and had not. The letters, like
the luggage, remained unclaimed, except by Hamish. In reply to
inquiries, Mr. Galloway stated that the amount of money brought up to
town by Arthur from himself, was sixty pounds; chiefly in five-pound
notes. This was, of course, exclusive of what Arthur might have about
him of his own. Mr. Galloway, in regard to the transmission of money,
seemed to do things like nobody else: who, save himself, but would
have given Arthur an order on his London bankers, Glyn and Co.? Not
he. He happened to have the sixty pounds by him, and so sent it up in
hard cash.
The first thing the police did, upon being summoned to the search, was
to endeavour to ascertain what letters Arthur had received that night
upon entering the hotel in Norfolk Street, and whom they were from.
The waiter said there were either four or five; he was not sure which,
but thought the former. He fancied there had been five in all; and, as
the one was accidentally left in the rack, it must, he felt nearly
sure, have been but four he delivered over. One of them--he was
positive of this--had arrived that same evening, only an hour or two
before Mr. Arthur Channing. The young person who presided over the
interests of a kind of office, or semi-public parlour, where inquiries
were made by visitors, and whence orders were issued, was a Miss
Whiffin. She was an excessively smart lady in a rustling silk, with
frizzy curls of a light tow on the top of her forehead, and a
remarkable chignon behind that might have been furnished by the
coiffeur of Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Miss Whiffin could not, or would not,
recollect what number of letters there had been waiting for Mr.
Channing. Being a supercilious young lady--or, at least, doing her
best to appear one--she assumed to think it a piece of impertinence to
be questioned at all. Yes she remembered there were a small few
letters waiting for Mr. Arthur Channing; foreign or English; _she_ did
not notice which: if Binns said it _was_ five, no doubt it was five. She
considered it exceedingly unreasonable of any customer, not to say
ungentlemanly, to write and order a bedroom, and walk into the house
and then walk out again, and never occupy it: it was a thing she
neither understood nor had been accustomed to.
And that was all that could be got out of Miss Whiffin. Binns'
opinion, that the number of letters given to Arthur had been four, was
in a degree borne out: for that was just the number they had been able
to trace as having been written to him. Three of them were notes from
people in London, making appointments for Arthur to call on them the
next day; the fourth (the one spoken of by Binns as having arrived
just before Arthur himself) was known to be from Mr. Galloway, that
gentleman having despatched it by the day-mail from Helstonleigh.
What could have taken Arthur out again? That was the point to be, if
possible, solved. Unless it could be, neither the police nor anybody
else had the smallest clue as to the quarter their inquiries should be
directed to. Had he quitted London again (which seemed highly
improbable), then the railway stations must be visited for news of
him: had he but strolled out for a walk, it must be the streets.
One of the three notes mentioned came from a firm of proctors in
Parliament Street. It contained these words from the senior partner,
who was an old friend of Mr. Galloway's:--"If it were convenient for
you to call on me the evening of your arrival in town, I should be
glad, as I wish to see you myself, and I am leaving home the following
morning for a week. I shall remain at the office until nine at night,
on the chance that you may come."
That Arthur, on reading the note, might have hastened to make a call
in Parliament Street, was more than probable.--He knew London fairly
well, having been up on two previous occasions for Mr. Galloway.--But
Arthur never made his appearance there. Though of course that did not
prove that he did not set out with the intention of going. Another
feasible conjecture, started by Roland Yorke, was, that he might have
forgotten some trifling article or other amidst his previous
purchases, and gone out again to get it. Allowing that one or other of
these suppositions was correct, it did not explain the mystery of his
subsequent disappearance.
What became of him? If, according to this theory, he walked, or ran,
up Norfolk Street to the Strand, and turned to the right or the left,
or bore on across the road in pursuance of his purposed way, wherever
that might be, how far did he go on that day? Where had his steps
halted? at what point had he turned aside? How, and where, and in what
manner had he disappeared? It was in truth a strange mystery, and none
was able to answer the questions. A thousand times a day Roland
declared he had been murdered--but that assertion was not looked upon
as a satisfactory answer.
Upon a barrel, which happened to stand, end upwards, in a corner of an
outer office at one of the police stations, into which he had gone
dashing with dishevelled hair and agitated mien, sat Roland Yorke. Six
days of search had gone by, and this was the seventh. With every
morning that rose and brought forth no news of Arthur, Roland's state
of mind grew worse and worse. The police for miles round were
beginning to dread him, for he bothered their lives out. The shops in
the Strand could say nearly the same. When it was found beyond doubt
that Arthur was really missing, Roland had gone to the shops ringing
and knocking frantically, just as he had done at Mrs. Jones's door,
and bursting into those accessible. It happened to be evening: for a
whole day was wasted in inquiring at more likely places, proctors' and
solicitors' offices, Gerald's chambers, and the like: and so a great
many of the shops were closed. Into all that he could get, dashed
Roland, asking for news of a gentleman; a "very handsome young fellow
nearly as tall as himself, who might have gone in to buy something."
Every conceivable article, displayed or not displayed for sale, did
Roland's vivid imagination picture as having possibly been needed by
Arthur, from "candied rock" at a sweet-stuff mart to a stomach-pump at
the doctor's. Some, serving behind the counters, thought him mad;
others that he might have designs on the till; all threatened to give
him into custody. In the excited state of Roland's mind it was not to
be expected that he could tell a quiet, coherent tale. When Hamish
Channing went later, with his courteous explanation and calm bearing,
though his inward anxiety was quite as great as Roland's, it was a
different thing altogether, and he was received with the utmost
consideration. Threats and denial availed not with Roland: day by day,
as each day came round, the shops had him again. In he was, like a man
that stood head downwards and had no mind left; begging them to try
and recall every soul who might have gone in to make purchases that
night. But the shops could not help him. And, as the days went on, and
nothing came of it, Roland began to lay the fault on the police.
"I never heard of such a thing," he was saying this morning as he sat
tilting on the high barrel, and wiping his hot face after his run;
which might have been one of twelve miles, or so, comprising Scotland
Yard, and in and out of every shop in the Strand and Fleet Street, and
all round the docks and back again. "Six days since he was missing,
and no earthly news of him discovered yet! Not as much as a _scrap_ of
a clue! Where's the use of a country's having its police at all,
unless they can do better than that?"
He spoke in an injured tone; one that he would have liked to make
angrily passionate. Roland's only audience was a solitary stout
policeman, with a prominent, buttoned-up chest and red face, who stood
with his back against the mantelpiece, reading a newspaper.
"We have not had no clue to work upon, you see, Mr. Yorke," replied
the man, who bore the euphonious name of Spitchcock, and was, so to
say, on intimate terms with Roland, through being invaded by him so
often.
"No skill, you mean, Spitchcock. I know what the English police are;
had cause to know it, and the mistakes they make, years ago, long
before I went to Port Natal. I could almost say, without being far
from the truth, that it was the pig-headed, awful bungling of one of
your lot that drove me to Africa."
"How was that, sir?"
"I'm not going to tell you. Sometimes I wish I had stayed out there; I
should have been nearly as well off. What with not getting on, and
being picked short up by having my dearest friend murdered and flung
over Waterloo Bridge--for that's what it will turn out to be--things
don't look bright over here. I know this much, Spitchcock: if it had
happened in Port Natal, he would have been found ere this--dead or
alive."
"Yes, that must be a nice place, that must, by your description of it,
sir," remarked Spitchcock with disparagement, as he turned his
newspaper.
"It was nicer than this is just now, at any rate," returned Roland. "I
never heard at Port Natal of a gentleman being pounced upon and
murdered as he walked quietly along the public street at half-past
eight o'clock in the evening. Such a villainous thing didn't happen
when I was there."
"You've got to hear it of London yet, Mr. Yorke."
"Now don't _you_ be pig-headed, Spitchcock. What else, do you suppose,
could have happened to him? I can't say he was actually murdered in
the open Strand: but I do say he must have been drawn into one of the
alleys, or some other miserable place, with a pitch-plaster on his
mouth, or chloroform to his nose, and there done for. Who is to know
that he did not open his pocketbook in the train, coming up, and some
thief caught sight of the notes, and dodged him? Come, Spitchcock?"
"He'd be safe enough in the Strand," remarked the man.
"Oh, would he, though!" fiercely rejoined Roland, panting with emotion
and heat. "Who is to know, then, but he had to dive into some bad
places where the thieves live to do an errand for old Galloway,
perhaps pay away one of his notes--and went out at once to do it? Do
you mean to say that's unlikely?"
"No, that's not unlikely. If he had to do anything of the sort that
took him into the thieves' alleys, that's how he might have come to
grief," avowed Mr. Spitchcock. "Many a one gets put out of the way
during a year, and no bones is made over it."
Roland jumped up with force so startling that he nearly upset the
barrel. "That's how it must have been, Spitchcock! What can I do in
it? I never cared for any one in the world as I cared for him, and
never shall. Except--except somebody else--and that's nothing to
anybody."
"But this here's altogether another guess sort of thing," remonstrated
Mr. Spitchcock. "Them cases don't get found out through the party not
being inquired for: his friends, if he's got any, thinks he's, may be,
gone off on the spree, abroad or somewhere, and never asks after him.
_This_ is different."
He spoke in a cool calm kind of way. It produced no effect on Roland.
The fresh theory had been started, and that was enough. So many
conjectures had been hazarded and rejected in their hopelessness
during the past few days that to catch hold of another was to Roland
something like a spring of water would have been, had he come upon one
during his travels in the arid deserts of Africa. Ordering Spitchcock
to propound this view to the first of his superiors that should look
in, Roland went speeding on his course again to seek an interview with
Hamish Channing.
Making a detour first of all down Wellington Street: for, to go by
Waterloo Bridge without inquiring whether anything had "turned up,"
was beyond Roland. Perhaps it was because Arthur seemed to have
disappeared within the radius of what might be called its vicinity,
taken in conjunction with its assumed ill-reputation--as a convenient
medium over which dead cats and the like might be pitched into the
safe, all-concealing river--that induced Roland Yorke to suspect the
spot. It haunted his thoughts awake, his dreams asleep. One whole
night he had sat on its parapet, watching the water below, watching
the solitary passengers above. The police had got to know him now and
what he wanted; and if they laughed at him behind his back, were civil
to him before his face.
Onward pressed Roland, his head first in eagerness, his long legs
skimming after. How many wayfarers and apple-stalls he had knocked
over (so to say, walked through) since the search began, he would have
had some difficulty to reckon up. As to bringing him to account for
damages, that was simply impracticable. Before the capsized individual
could understand what had happened to him, or the bewildered
apple-woman so much as looked at her fallen wares, Roland was out of
sight and hearing. A young shoe-black at the corner had got to think
the gentleman, pressing onwards everlastingly up and down the street,
never turning aside from his course, might be the Wandering Jew; and
would cease brushing to gaze up at Roland whenever he passed.
Look at him now, reader. The tall, fine, well-dressed young fellow,
his pale face anxious with not-attempted-to-be-concealed care, his
arms swaying, the silk-lined breasts of his frock-coat thrown back, as
he strides on resolutely down Wellington Street! Neither to the right
nor the left looks he: his eyes are cast forth over the people's
heads, towards the bridge and the river that it spans, as if staring
for the information he is going to seek. One great feature in Roland
was his hopefulness. Each time he started for Waterloo Bridge, or
Scotland Yard, or Hamish Channing's, or Mr. Greatorex's, or any other
place where news might possibly be awaiting him, renewed hope was to
the full as buoyant in his heart as it had been that memorable day
when he had anchored in the beautiful harbour of Port Natal, and gazed
on the fair shore with all its charming scenery that seemed to Roland
as a very paradise. Bright with hope as his heart had been then, so
was it now in the intermittent intervals. So was it at this moment as
he bore on, down Wellington Street.
"Well," said he to the toll-keeper. "Anything turned up?"
"Not a bit on't," responded the man. "Nor likely to." Roland went
through, perched himself on the parapet, and took his fill of gazing
at the river. Now on this side the bridge, now leaping over to that. A
steamer passed, a rowing-boat or two; but Arthur Channing was not in
them. Roland looked to the mud on the sides, he threw his gaze
forwards and backwards, up and down, round and about. In vain. All
features were very much the same that they had been from the day of
his first search: certainly returning to him no signs of Arthur. And
down went hope again, as completely as the pears had gone, earlier in
the day, at a corner stall. Despair had possession of him now.
"You say that no suspicious character went on to the bridge that
night, so far as you can recollect," resumed Roland in the gloomiest
tone, when he had walked lingeringly back to the man at the gate.
Lingeringly, because some kind of clue seemed to lie with that bridge
and he was always loth to quit it. If he did not suspect Arthur might
be lying buried underneath the stone pavement, it seemed something
like it.
"I didn't say so," interrupted the gate-keeper, in rather a surly
tone. "What I said was, as there warn't nothing suspicious chucked
over that night."
"You can't tell. You might not hear."
"Well, I haven't got no time to jabber with you today."
"If I kept this turnstile, I should make it my business to mark all
suspicious night characters that went through; and watch them."
"Oh, would you! And how 'ud you know which was the suspicious ones?
Come! They don't always carry their bad marks on their backs, they
don't; some on 'em don't look no different from you."
Roland bit his lips to keep down a retort. All in Arthur's interest.
Upon giving the man, on a recent visit, what the latter had called
"sauce," his migration on and off the bridge had been threatened with
a summary stoppage. So he was careful.
"Well, I've just had a clue given me by the police. And I don't hold
the smallest doubt now that he _was_ put out of the way. And this is
the likeliest place for him to have been brought to. I don't think it
would take much skill, after he had been chloroformed to death, to
shoot him over, out of a Hansom cab. Brought up upon the pavement,
level with the parapet, he'd go as easily over, if propelled, as I
should if I jumped it."
The toll-keeper answered by a growl and some sharp words. Truth to
say, he felt personally aggrieved at his bridge being subjected to
these scandalizing suspicions, and resented them accordingly. Roland
did not wait. He went off in search of Hamish, and ere he had left the
bridge behind out of sight, hope began again to spring up within him.
So buoyant is the human heart in general, and Roland's in particular.
Not--let it always be Understood--the hope that Arthur would be found
uninjured, only some news of him that might serve to solve the
mystery.
Shooting out of a Hansom cab (not dead, after the manner of a picture
just drawn, but alive) came a gentleman, just as Roland was passing
it. The cab had whirled round the corner of Wellington Street,
probably on its way from the station, and pulled up at a shop in the
Strand. It was Sir Vincent Yorke. Roland stopped; seized his hand in
his impulsive manner, and began entering upon the story of Arthur
Channing's disappearance without the smallest preliminary greeting of
any kind. Every moment Roland could spare from running, he spent in
talking. He talked to Mrs. Jones, he talked to Henry William Ollivera,
he talked to Hurst and Jenner, he would have talked to the moon. Mr.
Brown had been obliged to forbid him the office, unless he could come
to it to work. In his rapid, excited manner, he poured forth the
story, circumstance after circumstance, in Sir Vincent's ear, that
gentleman feeling slightly bewildered, and not best pleased at the
unexpected arrest.
"Oh--ah--I dare say he'll turn up all right," minced Sir Vincent. "A
fella's not obliged to acquaint his friends with his movements. Just
got up to town?--ah--yes--just for a day or two. Good day. Hope you'll
find him."
"You don't understand who it is, Vincent," spoke Roland, resenting the
want of interest; which, to say the best of it, was but lukewarm. "It
is William Yorke's brother-in-law, Annabel's brother, and the dearest
friend I've ever had in life. I've told you of Arthur Channing before.
He has the best and bravest heart living; he is the truest man and
gentleman the world ever produced."
"An--yes--good day! I'm in a hurry."
Sir Vincent made his escape into the shop. Roland went on to Hamish
Channing's office. Hamish could not neglect his work, however Roland
might abandon his.
But Hamish would have liked to do it. In good truth, this most
unaccountable disappearance of his brother was rendering him in a
measure unfit for his duties. He might almost as well have devoted his
whole time just now to the interests of the search, for his thoughts
were with it always, and his interruptions were many. To him the
police carried reports; it was on him Roland Yorke rattled in half a
dozen times in the course of the day, upsetting all order and quiet,
and business too, by the commotion he raised. To see Roland burst in,
breath gone, hair awry, face white, chest heaving with emotion, was
nothing at all extraordinary; but Hamish did wish, as the doors swung
back after Roland, once more, on this morning, that he would not burst
in quite so often. Perhaps Roland was a little more excited than
usual, from the full belief that he had at length got hold of the
right clue.
"It's all out, Hamish," he panted. "Arthur's as good as found. He went
out of the hotel to do some errand for Galloway; it took him into
those bad, desperate, pick-pocketing places where the police dare
hardly go themselves, and that's where it must have been done."
Hamish laid down his pen. The colour deserted his face, a faintness
stole over his heart.
"How has it been discovered, Roland?" he inquired, in a hushed tone.
"Spitchcock did it. You know the fellow,--red face, fat enough for
two. I was with him just now; and in consequence of what he said, it's
the conclusion I have come to."
Naturally, Hamish pressed for details. Upon Roland's supplying them,
with accuracy as faithful as his state of mind allowed, Hamish knew
not whether to be most relieved or vexed. Roland had neither wish nor
thought to deceive; and his positive assertion was made only in
accordance with the belief he had worked himself into. To find that
the present "clue," as Roland called it, turned out to be a
supposititious one of that impulsive gentleman's mind, on a par with
the theory he entertained in regard to Waterloo Bridge, was a relief
undoubtedly to Hamish; but, nevertheless, he would have preferred
Roland's keeping the whole to himself.
"I wish you'd not take up these fancies, Roland," he said, as severely
as his sweet nature ever allowed him to speak. "It is so useless to
bring me unnecessary alarms."
"You may take my word for it that's how it will turn out to have been
Hamish."
"No. Had Mr. Galloway charged him with any commission to unsafe parts
that night--or to safe ones, either--he would have written up since to
tell me."
"Oh, would he, though!" cried Roland, wiping his hot brow. "You don't
know Galloway as I do, Hamish. He's just likely to have given such a
commission (if he had it to give) and to think no more about it.
Somebody ought to go to Helstonleigh."
Hamish made no reply to this. He was busy with his papers.
"Will you go, Hamish?"
"To Helstonleigh? Certainly not. There is not the slightest necessity
for it. I am quite certain that Mr. Galloway holds no clue that he has
not imparted."
"Then if nobody goes down, I will go," said Roland, his eyes lighting
with earnestness, his cheeks flushing. "I never thought to show myself
in Helstonleigh again until fortune had altered with me; but I'd
despise myself if I could let my own feelings of shame stand in old
Arthur's light."
"Don't do anything of the kind," advised Hamish. "Believe me, Roland,
it is altogether an ideal notion you have taken up. Your impulsive
nature deceives you."
"I shall go, Hamish. I am not obliged to carry your consent with me."
"I should not give it," said Hamish, slightly laughing, but speaking
in an unmistakably firm accent.
He was interrupted by a hacking cough. As Roland watched him, waiting
until it should cease, watched the hectic colour it left behind it, a
sudden recollection came over him of _one_ who used to cough in much
the same way before he died.
"I say, old fellow, you've caught cold," he said.
"No, I think not."
"I'd get rid of that cough, Hamish. It makes me think of Joe Jenkins.
Don't be offended: I'm not comparing you together. He was the thinnest
and poorest lamp-post going, a miserable reed in the hands of Mrs. J.;
and you are bright, handsome, fastidious Hamish Channing. But you
cough alike."
With the last words Roland went dashing out. When he had a purpose in
view, head and heels were alike impetuous, and perhaps no earthly
power, unless it had been the appearance of Arthur, could have
arrested him in the end he had in view--that of starting for
Helstonleigh.