Mr Fastnet's lodgings were a good deal less imposing than Roger, who
had hitherto only met the owner at the club, had pictured to himself.
In fact, the small sitting-room, with bedroom to match, commonly
furnished, reeking of tobacco, and hung all round with sporting and
dramatic prints, was quite as likely a refuge for an unfledged medical
student as for a person of the swagger and presence of Mr Felix
Fastnet.
"No use to me," he explained, interpreting his young guest's thought,
"except as a dog-kennel. I live at the club--breakfast, lunch, dinner--
everything; but I was so disgusted with the performance of that young
cad to-night that I even prefer the dog-kennel. Have a soda?"
Roger accepted, and sat down by the fire.
"Yes," growled on his host; "I'm father of that club, and I don't like
to see it degraded. If he'd gone for you, and kicked you into the
street, I shouldn't have lifted a finger to stop him. He could have
made hay of you if I'd chosen, a sickly youngster like you."
"I wonder he did not," said Roger; "but, Mr Fastnet, now I have met
you, I want to ask you a question."
"Ask away."
"My name, as you know, is Roger Ingleton. Have you never met any one of
my name before?"
"Bless me, no. Why should I?"
"I had a namesake once who came to London, and I wondered if you
possibly knew him."
"My dear sir, I don't know quite all the young men who have come to
London during the last twenty years. What makes you think it?"
"My namesake was a brother--son of my father's first wife. He left home
and disappeared. Rumour says he went to London, where he was last heard
of in company of a companion named Fastnet."
Mr Fastnet put down his glass.
"Eh?" said he. "The Fastnets are not a big clan. Are you sure that was
the name?"
"It was certainly the name that reached me."
"Must refer to some one else then. I never knew or heard of any one of
the name of Ingleton in my life."
Roger's countenance fell. The new scent appeared likely to be a false
one after all.
"How long ago is all this?" asked his host.
"More than twenty years. My brother left home in a pique, and, I'm
afraid, went to the bad in--"
"Twenty years?" said Mr Fastnet, putting down his cigar beside the
glass. "What sort of fellow was he? A harum-scarum young dog, with
impudent eyes, and a toss of his head that would have defied the bench
of bishops?"
"That is he," said Roger excitedly.
"Sit down!" continued Fastnet--"curly hair, arms like a young Hercules,
as obstinate as a bulldog, with a temper like a tiger?"
"Yes, yes! that must be the same."
"Left his mother and father in a furious tantrum, with a vow to cut off
his head before he showed face at home again? A regular young demon, as
honest as the Bank of England--no taste for vice in any shape or form,
but plunged into it just to spite his friends, civil enough when you got
him on the weather side, and no fool? Was that the fellow?"
"I'm sure you describe the very man," said Roger.
"Man? He was a boy; a raw-boned green boy, smarting under a sense of
injustice, a regular, thorough-paced young Ishmaelite as you ever saw.
I should fancy I did know him. But his name was not Ingleton."
"What was it?"
"Jack Rogers."
"No doubt he adopted his own Christian name as a disguise."
"Very likely. I could never get him to talk about his people. His one
object was to lose himself--body and soul--it seemed to me. Bless you,
I had little enough voice in his proceedings. I was wild enough, but I
promise you I was a milksop to him. Neck or nothing was his motto, and
he lived up to it. The one drawback to success in his particular line
was that he would insist on being a gentleman. Fatal complaint to any
one who wants to go to the bad."
"Have you any idea what became of my brother?"
"Not in the least. He knocked about with me for about a year, till he
suddenly discovered he was living on me. Not that I minded; I had pots
of money--it's been my curse. Never had to do a day's work in my life.
He pulled up short at that, pawned his watch, and refused to take
another crust of bread, and left me without a penny in his pocket. I
only heard once of him afterwards. He wrote to enclose a five-pound
note."
"Have you got his letter? Can you remember where he wrote from?" asked
Roger excitedly.
"I don't believe there was a letter. The note was wrapped up in an old
play-bill of some strolling company of actors. I remember it now,"
added Fastnet, laughing and re-lighting his cigar. "Yes, it was
_Hamlet_. Rogers was cast for the ghost in one act, Polonius in
another, and the grave-digger in another. I remember how I roared when
I read it. Fancy that fellow as Polonius!"
"Can't you remember the town?"
"Not a ghost of an idea. Some little village in the Midlands probably,
where _Hamlet_ would be appreciated. I remember, by the way, the bill--
pity I didn't keep it--mentioned that this enterprising company was
going to give a performance in Boulogne, of all places. It occurred to
me it would be a source of great consolation to our fellow-countrymen in
that dismal colony to witness Jack Rogers in the ghost for one night
only."
"That would be eighteen or nineteen years ago," said Roger, with a sigh
at the hopelessness of his quest. "You have heard nothing since?"
"Not a syllable. Have some more sherry?"
Roger reached his hotel that night in more than mental distress. The
fatigue and anxiety of the last few days had had their inevitable result
on his health, and though the penalty had been postponed, it was coming
to account at last.
When his worthy guardian returned on the following day, he was much
shocked to find his ward really ill. He did his best. He tried to
induce the patient to make an effort to "shake off" his ailments. He
sat up late in his room at night, talking and attempting to amuse him.
He even purchased a few amateur specifics; and finally, when the boy was
as ill as ill could be, called in a pettifogging practitioner, who might
be trusted to bungle the case.
"Regular bad case," said that learned gentleman, after the third or
fourth visit. "May last a week with care."
The good captain naturally grew concerned. Matters seemed to be
progressing beyond even his expectations. The practitioner's verdict
speedily got wind in the hotel. Visitors came anxiously to inquire
after the young gentleman's condition, and urged a second opinion. And
one or two were inconsiderate enough to suggest that the patient was not
having fair play.
Under these distressing circumstances, Captain Oliphant decided to write
a line to Dr Brandram.
"Roger has unfortunately taken a chill. Will you kindly forward me the
prescription which benefited him so much last summer, as I am naturally
anxious to omit no precaution for the dear fellow's good. He is being
well cared for, and will, I trust, be all right in a day or two."
Dr Brandram's reply to this transparent communication was to order his
dogcart and take the first train to London. Before starting, he had
time to send a telegram to Armstrong to meet him at the hotel the same
evening.
Little dreaming of the effect of his message, Captain Oliphant was
spending a resigned afternoon in the sick-room. Fate was working on his
side once more. Mr Ratman had apparently vanished into space. Mr
Armstrong was out of the way. The practitioner's face had been longer
than ever when he took his leave a few hours ago. The difficulties and
disappointments of the past few months were giving way to better
prospects. The good man's conscience accused him of no actual injury to
his ward. On the contrary, he could honestly say he had devoted time,
money, personal fatigue, to tending him. He had secured him medical
attendance, he had advised the family doctor of his indisposition. He
had sat up with him day and night. Was it his fault if the illness took
a bad turn, and the Maxfield property changed its owner? He should like
to meet the man who could lay anything at his door.