AN ACCOUNT BALANCED.
When Lamport left Halsa unconscious on the roadside and escaped into
darkness, he ran on without stopping for nearly half an hour. At last
he pulled up, fairly exhausted, and leaned against the wall on the
roadside to rest and regain his breath. The run and the excitement had
sobered him, and as he rested he began to think over his next move.
Bill's knife was still in his hand. He closed the blade carefully.
"If only they had been a minute later!" he said to himself as he put
it away.
Yes, if only they had been a minute later Stephen Lamport would have
added another item to his long list of crimes. Not that the record
troubled him in any way. His only regret was that he had been foiled.
He had begun to hate his wife with the savage hatred that was born of
the knowledge that he had done her terrible wrong.
After a while Lamport began to walk on again as fast as he was able to
escape the rain. It was now very late, almost in the small hours of
the morning, and a longing seized upon him for more drink. He had
reached Digby Street by this time, and, with that strange fatality
which seems to haunt criminals, the fatality which brings them back to
the scenes of former crime, he entered the Hotel Metropole. It was
still full, and Lamport's entrance excited no particular attention. In
the glare of the lamps, however, he was enabled to see that he was
splashed and covered with mud, and his clothes, where they were not
protected by his rough pea-jacket, were dripping wet. He glanced at
his face in the oval mirror which gleamed from the wall. It was
deathly pale, and he felt a cold shivering down his limbs. He moved
into the crowd at the bar, and called out for "three fingers hot." At
the sound of his voice Kavasji looked up at him. Lamport was, however,
certain that the shaving of his beard had so altered his appearance
that he was, comparatively speaking, unrecognisable; besides, as he
was spattered with mud, and with his cap pulled well over his brows,
he felt perfectly secure. He was mistaken, however. Kavasji was one of
those men who have a born genius for remembering faces, and he
recognised Lamport at once. He said no word at first, but silently
mixed his tumbler of liquor and handed it to him. Lamport stood a
little on one side at the end of the bar, and began to drink. When he
had finished he called for another tumbler, and as the Parsee handed
this to him he said in a low voice, "Bill is here; he is looking for
you." Lamport started at the warning, but said nothing. He drank his
second tumbler quietly, and, after paying his score, slipped out into
the street once more. Kavasji had not given this warning with any
friendly feeling toward Lamport, but simply for the reason that he
wished to get rid of him. It was perfectly true that Bill had been
there that evening. He might be back at any moment, and then, if there
was recognition, there would perhaps be murder. Kavasji had not
forgotten the scene when Bill woke from his drugged sleep and found
that he had missed his ship and had been robbed. In order that the
matter might be kept quiet, the Parsee had placed Dungaree in funds,
knowing that it would mostly come back to him over the counter, and
what little loss he might suffer would be well repaid by the absence
of a police visitation. Kavasji had suffered much from such inroads.
Bill had, however, shown no inclination to get another ship. As long
as Kavasji's advance lasted he determined to wait, in the hopes of
meeting Lamport, of recovering his lost property and of exacting
vengeance. He was perfectly convinced that it was Lamport who had
stolen the money. He had done similar things himself, and therefore
knew. Moreover, the thought that he, Dungaree Bill, the old and
hardened campaigner, should have been taken in in so transparent a
manner was gall and wormwood to him, and therefore he swore to himself
that he would have vengeance, even to the death of Lamport. So Bill
husbanded his resources and waited, and at last the time came when
Lamport was to reap what he had sown. This was Bill's last day. He was
unable to get any further funds from Kavasji, and had with regret in
his heart shipped on an American cargo-boat that was to sail the next
day. He had stipulated for a last day on shore, and, as he had asked
for no advance of pay, this was readily granted to him. Besides, he
was known to the master of the vessel as a good sailor, and one whom
he could rely on for good as well as evil. Lamport had hardly been
gone half an hour when Bill re-entered the bar and feverishly looked
round him. It was his last chance, and he had to go back to his ship.
There was a look of disappointment on his face as he saw that the man
he wanted was not there, and that after all he should miss him. A
light of eagerness came into his eyes as Kavasji beckoned to him, and
whispered a few words in his ear. "Where? Which way did he go?" said
Bill. Kavasji pointed to the street, and Bill, turning, rushed out of
the door. Once in the street, however, he looked blankly around. There
was no knowing what direction Lamport had taken, and with a curse on
his ill-luck Bill squared his broad shoulders and strode through the
mud toward the quay. He could have--in fact, to keep up the tradition
of his kind, he ought to have--hailed a cab and been driven toward the
harbour roaring a wild song. But Bill did not fancy this to-night. It
was enough for him that his prey had escaped for the present. If they
should meet! Dungaree swore under his bushy black beard that no mortal
should part them until he had exacted his tithe of vengeance to the
uttermost farthing.
In the meantime what had become of Lamport? When he entered the street
again he found that it had practically given over raining, and the
moon was shining brightly behind the dark masses of clouds that glided
slowly after each other. Lamport looked up with an expression of
relief, and his first thoughts were to make his way back to his
lodgings as fast as possible, change his wet things, and sleep, if he
could, over the events of the past few hours. He changed his mind,
however, and, hailing a cab, told the man to drive him to the quay.
Why he did this it is impossible to explain. It was the working of
that fatality which was leading him to the reaping of the harvest.
Perhaps the knowledge that Dungaree was on his track induced him to do
this. He wanted to think. Perhaps an indefinite idea of escaping, the
forlorn hope of being able to get to sea somehow, moved him. And so he
went. When he reached the quay he dismissed his cab, and, walking to
the end of the pier, leaned over the chains and listened to the _lap_,
_lap_, _lap_ of the waters against the stone walls. Under the lee of
the pier was a small fleet of boats securely fastened one to the
other, and heaving in unison with the motion of the sea. The myriad
stars of the street lamps twinkled behind him, and the signal lights
from the tall masts of the shipping in the harbour shone like beacons
overhead. A high wind had arisen, an augury of fair weather, and the
now rapidly moving clouds alternately obscured and unveiled the
moonlight. From the far distance came the dull boom of the breakers as
they beat against the head of the island, and occasionally there was a
jarring sound as the sides of the boats grated against each other.
Lamport, leaning over the chains of the pier, noticed not one of these
things. If he saw, or heard, they had no more effect on him than the
flickering of one's fingers before the eyes of a blind horse. Yet
Lamport unconsciously began to think of the past. Possibly the danger
he had escaped and the hour were not without their influence on him.
After all, he had nothing to fear, he repeated to himself. There was
not the remotest possibility of Bill meeting him. Anyway he would make
that possibility as small as it could be by shipping himself off this
very day. And while he was thinking Bill came up the pier, walking
rapidly with that rolling lurch peculiar to sailors. Lamport was
unconscious of this. He never heard the footfalls behind him, and, if
he did, paid no attention to them. When Bill was scarce ten yards off,
Lamport lighted a fusee and held it to his pipe. The sudden hiss of
the match and the flare of light stopped Dungaree at once, and, as the
blaze lit up Lamport's face, Bill saw from the gesture, the poise of
the head, the cunning glitter of the eye, that he had found his man.
He drew back for a moment, and waited till Lamport had lit his pipe
and flung the end of his fusee away. Bill felt the veins on his
forehead stand out like knotted ropes. For a moment he stood, his
sinewy hands working convulsively, and then, walking up to Lamport, he
gripped him on the shoulder and swung him round.
There was no word spoken. Quick as thought Lamport's knife was in his
hand. It flashed a moment in the air, and Bill staggered back with an
oath. He had been only just in time to escape the stroke, which
nevertheless inflicted a slight flesh wound. The next moment the knife
was dashed from Lamport's hand, and Bill's fingers were round his
throat. He made an effort to struggle, he tried to shout, but, active
and powerful as he was, he was like a child in the hands of the giant.
* * * * *
It was ended very soon, that noiseless struggle, and Bill stood over
the dead man. He felt for his belt, and regained it with a feeling of
intense satisfaction. It was light, but the lost weight was balanced
now.
Bill was not of those who hesitated at a critical moment. "Over he
goes," said he, and, lifting the body, he flung it over the chains,
where it fell with a plash into the water. "And now to follow suit."
He ran down the stone steps of the quay, and, carefully removing his
boots, held them together in his teeth. He then pulled off his coat,
and for the first time realized that he was wounded.
"Better this way than any other," muttered he to himself as he made a
bold plunge and struck out for his ship.