Learmont’s Sneers.—The Spy.—The Amateur Constable.
Sir Francis Hartleton paused a moment in doubt whether he should speak
to the gloomy squire, whom he so much suspected of many crimes, or pass
on his way without meeting him. Before, however, he could decide upon
any course of action, Learmont settled the question by walking up to
Hartleton, and saying,—
“Good morning, Sir Magistrate—you are early afoot.”
“I own Sir Squire,” said Hartleton, rather amazed at the confident tone
and manner of Learmont, “my duties take up as much of my time as other
people’s crimes do theirs.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said Learmont; “Yours is an onerous position.
’Tis well criminality is not contagious, for otherwise, coming in
contact with so many troublesome thieves, and disagreeable characters,
London would lose her fine-spirited, upright, and noble magistrate.”
“You are right,” said Hartleton, determined not to take offence, “I can
even speak to worse than thieves, and yet, thank Heaven, escape
contamination from them.”
Sir Francis Hartleton’s words were barbed, but Learmont was quite as
resolved as his opponent not to understand any insinuations, and he
merely replied,—
“You are a judge of human nature, sir.”
“As far as my opportunities go, I am,” replied Sir Francis.
“I trust,” added Learmont, “that, notwithstanding I am but a poor
squire, you will do me the honour of visiting me in my London abode.”
“That I am willing to do,” said Hartleton, “forgetting all
disagreements, Squire Learmont of course.”
“Disagreements, sir,—I really am not aware of any. You were at one
time, if I remember rightly, subject to bad dreams, from which I hope
you have now quite recovered—I should think it a most grievous and
affecting malady.”
Sir Francis felt that Learmont had rather the better of him in the
dialogue, and with a smile he bowed and passed on.
The squire looked after him with a smile of bitterness mingled with
contempt.
“You have entered, most-sapient magistrate,” he said, “into a war with
me. You shall abide the issue, and pay the penalty of defeat—I swear by
all the powers of heaven and hell, that you shall have my life, or I
will have yours. He who thrusts his hand into a fire, cannot be
expected to withdraw them unburnt. Beware, Sir Magistrate,—I will have
vengeance upon you when I am safe in some important matters—but first
as to Jacob Gray—ay, there is the great—difficulty—Jacob Grey.”
He sauntered among the then ancient trees that adorned the park, and
continued muttering to himself for more than an hour before he came to
any firm resolve, and then he suddenly quickened his pace, and
proceeded homewards.
When Sir Francis Hartleton reached his office, his first act was to
summon the man named Stephy, and to tell him to prepare to accompany
him, at a short notice, some distance in the country, for he resolved
to take him with him to Learmont village, whether or not he should upon
mature consideration think it desirable that Ada should accompany him
there.
This matter being settled, he received a report from a man whom he had
set to watch the house of Learmont, who deposed to the effect that a
man who he was sure was Jacob Gray, by the description given of him by
the magistrate, had visited the squire. He then detailed the whole of
Gray’s proceeding during the night, concluding by saying, that when his
watch was relieved, Gray had been left at the Old Chequers, and that
his further progress would be reported by the man who had taken his
place.
“That will do,” said Hartleton; “he must not be lost sight of for a
moment, unless fairly housed, and then the house must be carefully
watched, and above all things, do not let him suspect he is in any
danger.”
“The greatest trouble, sir, during the night,” said the spy, “has
arisen from a shoemaker in Westminster, who is smitten with the notion
of his cleverness in apprehending criminals. He has been following Gray
about, and but for his cowardice would have apprehended him.”
“And so spoil all,” said Sir Francis Hartleton. “It is of the greatest
importance that this Gray should remain at large for some time. He is
in possession of information which, I fear, would never be got from him
after his capture, for no kind of promise could possibly be held out to
him of mercy in this world. If once taken, his trial and execution for
the murder of Vaughan must ensue. And then too,” added Sir Francis, in
a low tone to himself, “Ada would be dragged from her present
retirement forward as a witness against him, and so seal his lips for
ever against any disclosure for her benefit.”
A knock at the door announced some one near, and when Sir Francis cried
“Come in”—one of his officers appeared, saying—“that a man of the name
of Bruggles wished to see him, on very particular business.”
“Bruggles, I don’t know him.”
“Your worship,” said the spy upon Gray, “it is the
troublesome-shoemaker.”
“Oh, admit him.”
The amateur constable was ushered into the presence of Sir Francis, who
said,—
“Well, sir, your business?”
“My business is private, confidential, and most important.”
“Will it take long in the telling?”
“Why, no, not very long.”
“Then leave us,” said Sir Francis to his officer, “and mind that I have
regular reports about the man. Of course your former instructions hold
good. On any attempt to leave by boat or vessel, an immediate
arrestment takes place.”
The spy bowed and retired.
“Now, sir, if you please,” said Sir Francis to the shoemaker, “my time
is precious; pray tell me in as few words as you can what you want.”
The manner of the magistrate rather damped the ardour of the shoemaker,
and he replied—
“Your worship, I thought it but right to call upon you to say that I
have seen—”
Here he looked about him mysteriously, to assure himself that they were
alone.
“What have you seen, sir?” cried the other.
“The murderer of Mr. Vaughan.”
The shoemaker, as he said this, leaned forward in a confident manner,
and then threw his head back with a jerk, to see what effect it had
upon the magistrate, who, to his surprise, merely said, “Have you?” and
did not seem at all put out of the way by such an astounding piece of
information.
“I—I have spoken to him, sir—your worship, I mean.”
“Then, why didn’t you say so at once? You have got him outside, I
suppose?”
“Got him outside, your worship?”
“Of course.”
“Why—why—I—haven’t exactly got him at all.”
“What!—Saw him, and spoke to him, and not got him?”
“Why—why—your worship he looks a powerful villain.”
“Sir, I’m afraid you are a great coward,” said Sir Francis. “What do
you mean by coming to me, and saying you have seen and spoken to a
criminal? I don’t know but it’s my duty to commit you for aiding,
abetting, and comforting a man accused of one of the most heinous
crimes in the calendar.”
“Commit me?”
“Yes—you.”
“I come here to—to—ask your worship to—to—let me have an officer to go
with me to try to find him.”
“Sir, my officers will find him themselves, only some caution is
requisite, as he belongs to a gang who have bound themselves by a
solemn oath to barbarously murder any person who may be at all
instrumental in the capture of any of their body.”
“Eh? You—you—really—then I should have been murdered?”
“I dare say you would, but I hope when you see him again that you will
take him; and when you are dead, the reward shall be paid to any one
you may appoint in your will, which I think you had better make here at
once in my office in case of accidents. Two of my officers shall
witness it.”
“No—no—I—I—God bless me. What danger I have been in, to be sure.
Gracious! If I see him again, I shall knock at some door and ask to be
let in till he is gone. I—I—I’ll run into a shop—I’ll leave London till
some one else has taken him.”
“What!” cried Sir Francis, hardly able to control his laughter. “Do you
shrink?”
“Shrink! I should think I do. I’m all over in a cold perspiration, I
am.”
“Then you’ll never do for an officer, sir. I’d advise you to stick by
your last, and not interfere with other people’s affairs. Leave
thief-takers to catch thieves. You’ll get all the danger, my friend,
and none of the profit, in travelling from that you know to that you
know nothing about.”
“I will—bless me! Make my will indeed! The very idea is dreadful, I—I
wish you an uncommon good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr.—a—”
“Bruggles, your worship.”
“Bruggles—good morning.”
Sir Francis Hartleton enjoyed a hearty laugh at the shoemaker’s expense
after he had left, and was shortly afterwards fully immersed in the
active duties of his office.