The wretched girl did not come alone. A woman dragged her forward.
"Here you are, Mr. Parkinson," said the woman. "Blooming Bess can tell
you something about Mary's disappearance last night."
"I am ruined," thought Mark Inglefield, and hoped that Blooming Bess
would not recognize him. There were chances in his favor. It was night
when they met, and he had taken the precaution to change his clothes
and wrap himself in an ulster. To these chances he was compelled to
trust; and perhaps he could keep himself out of the girl's sight.
"What do you know about it?" asked Mr. Parkinson, in great excitement.
"Oh, I don't mind telling," said the girl. "Here, you! Just let go of
me, will you?"
She released herself from the woman's grasp.
"Do you want the lot," she asked of Mr. Parkinson, "from beginning to
end?"
"I must know everything," he replied, "everything."
"You must, must you? Well, that's for me to say, not you. I could tell
you a lot of lies if I wanted to."
He made a threatening motion towards her, but was held back by his
mates. "You'll only make things worse," they said.
"A precious sight worse," said Blooming Bess, with a reckless laugh.
"Oh, let him get at me if he likes! Who cares? I don't. But I'll tell
him what he wants, never fear. She's a respectable one, she is! When I
went to the bad, passed me by as if I was so much dirt. Wouldn't look
at me--wouldn't speak to me; holding her frock like this, for fear I
should touch it. And now what is she, I'd like to know? Better than
me--or worse?"
Mr. Parkinson groaned.
"Groan away; much good it'll do you. It won't bring her back; and if
it did, who'd look at her? Not me. She's come down, with all her
stuck-up pride. I'm as good as her, any day of the week!"
"Come, come, Bess," said a man in the crowd, "you're not a bad sort;
let us have the truth, like a good girl."
"Oh, yes, I'm a real good un now you want to get something out of me!
But never mind; here goes. It was in the middle of the night, and I
didn't have a brass farthing in my pockets. They turned me out because
I couldn't pay for my bed. It wasn't the first time, and won't be the
last. So out I goes, and here I am in the middle of this very street,
when a swell comes up to me, and says, says he, 'Do you want to earn
half a bull?' I laughs, and holds out my hand, and he puts sixpence in
it, and says, says he, 'The other two bob when you tell me what I want
to know.'"
"Are you making this up out of your head, Bess?"
"Not me! not clever enough. Never was one of the clever ones, or I'd
be a jolly sight better off. Then the swell asks me if I can tell him
the names of the people that lives in the street, and plump upon that
asks me if I can keep a secret. I thought he was kidding me, I give
you my word, and I says, 'Make it worth my while.' With that he
promises me five bob, and I walks with him, or he walks with me--it
don't matter which, does it?--from one end of the street to the other,
and I tell him everybody that lives in it. 'Who lives here?' says he,
and 'Who lives here?' says he; and thinks I, this is a rum game;
wonder what he's up to! But it ain't my business, is it? My business
is to earn five bob, and earn it easy; and when I have told him all he
wanted, he gives me four bob and a bender, and sends me off. What can
you make of all that?"
"Not much," said the man who had taken her in hand. Mr. Parkinson
could not trust himself to speak, and Mark Inglefield did not dare.
"What time was it when this occurred?"
"By my gold watch," replied the girl, "with a fine sarcasm, it was
half-past the middle of the night. Perhaps a minute or two more. I
like to be particular."
"And that is all you know? You can't tell us anything more?"
"Oh, I didn't say that, did I? All? Not a bit of it. Why, the cream's
to come. It's only skim-milk you've got as yet."
"Let's hear the end of it, Bess," said the man, coaxingly.
"That's the way to speak to me. Be soft, and you can do what you like
with me; be hard, and to save your life I wouldn't speak a word. The
end of it was this. The swell had done with me, and thought I had done
with him. Never more mistaken in his life. I was born curious, I was;
so thinks I to myself, 'I'm blowed if I don't see what he's up to;'
and when I turned the corner of the street and he thought I was gone
for good, I come back, and there I was, you know, standing in the
dark, out of sight. He walks back to the middle of the street, and
stops right before this house, and looks up at Mary's--I beg your
pardon, at Miss Parkinson's window. There's a light burning there, you
know. He's got a letter in his hand, and what does he do but pick up a
stone and tie them together. Then he picks up another stone, and
throws it at Mary's window, and it opens and she looks out. I'm too
far off to hear what they say to each other; but I suppose he says,
'Catch,' as he throws the letter up, and catch she does. And would you
believe it? A little while afterwards down she comes and takes his arm
as natural as life, and off they go together. I follow at a distance;
I didn't want my neck twisted, and he looked the sort of cove that
wouldn't mind doing it, so I keep at a safe distance, till he calls a
growler, and in they get and drive away. And that's the end of it."
"It's a true story," said Mr. Parkinson. "When I went into her bedroom
this morning, her window was open."
Those who had heard it gathered into groups, and discussed its various
points; some suggesting that it looked as if the police were mixed up
in it; others favoring Mark Inglefield's view that Mary Parkinson's
statements to her father were false, from first to last. Meanwhile
Mark Inglefield and Mr. Manners were left to themselves, the younger
man congratulating himself that he had escaped being seen by Blooming
Bess. His great anxiety now was to get away as quickly as possible,
and, at the risk of offending Mr. Manners, he would have chosen the
lesser evil, and have made an excuse for leaving him, had it not been
that he was prevented by Blooming Bess, whose aimless footsteps had
led her straight to Mark Inglefield, before whom she now stood. She
gazed at him, and he at her. Her look was bold, saucy, reckless; his
was apprehensive; but knowing, if she exposed him, that there was no
alternative for him but to brazen it out, he did not decline the
challenge expressed in her eyes. She said nothing, however, but
slightly turned her head and laughed. As she turned she was accosted
by Mr. Parkinson, who had joined this group.
"Did you see the man?" asked Mr. Parkinson.
"Did I see him?" she exclaimed. "Yes; though it was the middle of the
night, and dark, I saw him as plain as I see you. Why, I could pick
him out among a thousand."
But to Mark Inglefield's infinite relief she made no movement towards
him; she merely looked at him again and laughed.
"Describe him," said Mr. Parkinson, roughly. "It may be a laughing
matter to you, but it is not to us."
"To us!" retorted the girl. "What have these gentlemen got to do with
it?"
"We are interested in it," said Mr. Manners.
"Oh, are you? And are you interested in it too, sir?" she asked,
addressing Mark Inglefield.
"I am," he replied, finding himself compelled to speak.
"That's funny. You're the sort of gentleman, I should say, that would
pay well for anything that was done for him."
"I am," said Mark Inglefield, growing bold; her words seemed to
indicate a desire to establish a freemasonry between them, of which
neither Mr. Parkinson nor Mr. Manners could have any suspicion.
"That's a good thing to know," said Blooming Bess, "because, you see,
I should be an important witness--shouldn't I?"
"Very important," said Mr. Manners, "and I would pay well also."
"You would, would you, sir?" She looked from one man to the other.
"Allow me to manage this, sir," said Mark Inglefield. "It is more to
my interest than yours."
Mr. Manners nodded acquiescence.
"I asked you to describe the man," said Mr. Parkinson.
"I can do that. He was short and fat, and his face was covered with
hair. Oh, I can spot him the minute I see him."
Mark Inglefield gave the girl a smile of encouragement and approval.
The description she had given could not possibly apply to him. Every
fresh danger that threatened vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
"There seems to be nothing more to stop for, sir," he said to Mr.
Manners; "with respect to this man's daughter, we have learned all
that we are likely to hear. It occurs to me that you might prefer to
carry out the second portion of your visit to this neighborhood
alone."
"You refer to my son," said Mr. Manners.
"Yes; and I might be an encumbrance. Whether justly or not--out of
consideration for you I will not enter into that question--your son
and his wife would not look upon me with favor if they were to see me
suddenly; and the circumstance of my being in your company might be
misconstrued. I am willing, sir, that the past should be buried; your
simple wish that your son and I should become friends again is
sufficient for me. I will obey you, but a meeting between us should be
led up to; it will be more agreeable to both of us. Do you not think
so?"
"You are doubtless right, Inglefield," said Mr. Manners. "I appreciate
your delicate thoughtfulness."
"Thank you, sir. There is another reason why I should leave you now.
The story that girl has told may be true or false. You must not mind
my expressing suspicion of everything in connection with Mr.
Parkinson's daughter. It is even possible that she and that girl may
be in collusion for some purpose of their own, and that they have
concocted what we have heard. I have cleared myself, I hope."
"It would be unjust to deny it," said Mr. Manners.
"But I shall not allow the matter to end here," said Mark Inglefield,
warmly. "I shall put it at once in the hands of a detective, who will,
I dare say, be able to ascertain how far we have been imposed upon.
The sooner the inquiry is opened up the stronger will be our chances
of arriving at the truth. Do you approve of what I propose?"
"It is the right course," said Mr. Manners. "I was about to propose it
myself."
"I will go then at once. In simple justice to me, sir, if you see Mr.
Hollingworth, you should tell him how cruelly I have been suspected."
"You shall be set right in his eyes, Inglefield. If I can find time
to-day, I will make a point of paying him a visit."
"My mind is greatly relieved, sir. Good-morning."'
"Good-morning, Inglefield."
Mark Inglefield, without addressing a word to Mr. Parkinson, went his
way. The conversation between him and Mr. Manners had been quite
private. Before he left the street he looked to see if Blooming Bess
was still there, but she had disappeared.
He did not proceed to the office of any detective. Slowly, and in deep
thought, he walked towards the Mansion House; the crowds of people
hurrying apparently all ways at once disturbed him and annoyed him; it
was impossible to think calmly in the midst of such noise and bustle.
If ever there was a time in his life when he needed quiet and repose
to think out the schemes which were stirring in his cunning mind, that
time was now. The danger was averted for a while, but he could not yet
regard himself as safe. He had to reckon with Blooming Bess.
That she had recognized him was certain--as certain as that she had
played into his hands, and put his enemies off the scent.
"I wonder," he thought, "that she did not ask my name and address.
What a misfortune that she should have presented herself when I was in
the street!"
He was not aware that the girl of whom he was thinking was following
him stealthily, and had never for a moment lost sight of him.
He turned to the left, and reached the Embankment. It was quieter
there. Blooming Bess followed him. There were few people about, and he
strolled leisurely along, looking at the river. The principle of evil
was strong within him. He belonged to that class of men who will
hesitate at nothing that can be done with safety to protect
themselves. He was not bold enough for deeds of violence; his nature
was sufficiently ruthless, and he was not troubled with qualms of
conscience; but his first consideration had ever been to keep himself
on the safe side. In his methods he was sly, cunning, deceitful,
treacherous; but physically he was a coward. He had, however, the
greatest confidence in his resources. "I shall beat them all yet," he
thought; and thought, too, what a stroke of fortune it would be if
sudden death were to overtake those who stood in his path. He had
passed Waterloo Bridge when he felt a touch upon his arm. He looked
down and saw Blooming Bess.
"Oh," he said, with no outward show of displeasure.
"Yes," she said, with a smile.
To strangers this simple interchange of greeting would have been
enigmatical, but these two understood each other, though socially he
stood so high and she so low.
"Have you been following me?" he asked.
"Of course I have," she replied. "Too good to miss. I'm in luck. I
say, you _are_ a gentleman, ain't you--a real swell?"
"I am a gentleman, I hope," he said, with perfect sincerity.
"I hope so too. You've got plenty of tin?"
"Very little."
"All right. I'll go off to the other one."
He caught her arm.
"Don't be a fool!"
"That's just what I ain't going to be. Well, you're a nice one, you
are! Not even a thankee for standing by you as I did."
"You will not be content with thanks," he said, gloomily.
"Not likely. Want something more solid. Now, didn't I stand by you
like a brick? Just one word from Blooming Bess, and your whole box of
tricks would have been upset. But I didn't let on, by so much as a
wink. We took 'em in nicely between us, didn't we? 'You're the sort of
gentleman,' says I, 'that would pay well for anything that was done
for him.' 'I am,' says you. I say, if they'd guessed the game we were
playing there'd have been a rumpus. I want to know your name, and
where you live."
"You don't," he retorted. "You want money."
"I want that, too; but I want your name and address, and I mean to
have it. I won't use it against you so long as you square me."
She spoke with so much determination that he gave her what she
demanded.
"Mr. Parkinson knows the other one," she said; "and if I don't find
you at home when I want, I'll find him. Have you got a sovereign about
you?"
Surprised at the moderateness of the request, he gave her a sovereign.
"How's Mary?" she asked.
The question suggested to him a plan which offered greater safety than
allowing her to go away with money, and perhaps drinking herself into
dangerous loquacity.
"Would you like to see her?" he asked.
"I wouldn't mind," she replied.
"Come along with me, then," he said. "I'll take you to her."