A SURPRISE
Raston was astonished when Pratt disappeared so suddenly, and Marton
rushed out after him. He went to the door, but his friend was not to be
seen. It was little use following, for he did not know which direction
the man had taken, and the fog was so thick that he could hardly see the
length of his hand before him. The whole of the spur upon which Colester
was built was wrapped in a thick white mist, and those who were abroad
in the streets ran every chance of being lost. The village was small,
but the alleys and streets were tortuous, so there would be no great
difficulty in mistaking the way.
For over an hour the curate waited, yet Marton did not return. He could
only suppose that the detective had followed Pratt, for what purpose he
could not divine. Evidently Marton knew something not altogether to
Pratt's advantage, and Pratt was aware of this, else he would hardly
have disappeared so expeditiously. Moreover, Marton had addressed Pratt
as "Angel," which hinted that the American was masquerading under a
false name. Still wondering at what was likely to be the outcome of this
adventure, Raston placed himself at the door and waited for the return
of his friend. But, as time passed, he made sure that the detective, a
stranger in the village, had lost his way.
"I can't leave him out of doors all night," soliloquised Raston, peering
into the fog; "yet I do not know where to look for him. However, his own
good sense must have told him not to go too far."
It was now after ten o'clock, and most of the villagers were in bed. Mr
Raston then ventured upon a course of which he would have thought twice
had the situation been less desperate. He placed his hands to his mouth
and sent an Australian "cooe" through the night. This accomplishment had
been taught to him by an Australian cousin. As this especial cry carried
further than most shouts, Raston congratulated himself that he knew how
to give it. It was the only way of getting into communication with
Marton.
After shouting once or twice, Raston heard a faint cry in response. It
came from the right. So the curate, feeling his way along the houses,
started in that direction, shouting at intervals. Shortly the answering
cry sounded close at hand, and after some difficulty and inarticulate
conversation the two men met. With an ejaculation Marton grasped the
hand of his friend. "Thank Heaven you have found me," said the
detective. "I have been going round in a circle."
"Did you catch up with Pratt?" asked Raston.
"No; the rascal disappeared into the fog, and I lost myself in pursuit
of him in about three minutes."
"Why do you call him a rascal?"
"Because he is one; I know all about him. But I never thought I should
have stumbled on 'Mr Angel' in this locality. I feel like Saul, who went
out to look for his asses and stumbled on a kingdom."
"Is his name Angel?"
"That is _one_ of his names; he has at least a dozen. Why he should have
chosen one that fitted him so badly I cannot say."
By this time Raston, holding on to Marton's coat sleeve, had guided the
detective back to his lodgings. The man was shivering with cold, for he
had gone out without coat or hat. He hastily swallowed a glass of port,
and began getting his things to go out. "You're not going into that fog
again!" protested Raston. "You'll only get lost."
"Not under your capable guidance," laughed the detective. "You must
guide me to the house of this Mr Pratt. I intend to arrest him."
"Arrest him!" echoed the curate, staring. "Dear me, what has he done?"
"Ask me what he hasn't done," said Marton, with a curl of his lip, "and
I'll be better able to tell you. It's a long story, Raston, and time is
passing; I want to go to the man's house. Is it far from here?"
"Some little distance," replied the curate, wondering at this haste. "I
can find my way to it by guiding myself along the walls. But you can't
arrest him, Marton, whatever he has done, unless you have a warrant."
"I accept all responsibility on that score," replied Marton, grimly.
"The police have wanted Mr Angel, _alias_ Pratt, for many a long day.
Now the rascal knows that I am here, he will clear out of Colester in
double quick time. I want to act promptly and take him by surprise. Now
don't ask questions, my dear fellow, but take me to the house. I'll tell
you all about this man later on. By the way, he is the individual who
gave your church this celebrated cup?"
"Yes. I really hope there is nothing wrong."
"_Everything_ is wrong. I expect the cup was stolen--"
"It _is_ stolen--"
"Pshaw! I don't mean this time. Pratt stole it himself. I wonder he
dare present his spoils to the Church. The fellow must have very little
religion to think such an ill-gotten gift could be acceptable."
"Stolen!" murmured Raston, putting on his coat. "But why--who is Pratt?"
"Simply the cleverest thief in the three kingdoms. Come along!"
Raston gasped, but he had no time to ask further questions. The
detective had him by the arm and was hurrying him to the door. When
outside he made the curate lead, and followed close on his heels.
Raston, rather dazed by this experience, turned in the direction of The
Nun's House, and, guiding himself along the walls and houses, managed to
get into the street in which it stood--that is, he and Marton found
themselves on the highroad which led down to King's-meadows. It was
fully an hour before they got as far as this, for the fog grew denser
every moment. Finally, Raston stumbled on the gate, drew his friend
inside with an ejaculation of satisfaction, and walked swiftly up the
path that led to the house. On the ground floor all was dark, but in the
centre window of the second storey a light was burning. Marton did not
wait for the curate, but ran up the steps and knocked at the door; he
also rang, and he did both violently. For a time there was no response,
then the light disappeared from the window above.
In a few minutes the noise of the bolts being withdrawn was heard, and
the rattle of the chain. The door opened to show Leo in his
dressing-gown standing on the threshold with a lighted candle in his
hand. He looked bewildered and angry, as though he had just been aroused
from his first sleep, which indeed was the case. "What the devil is the
matter?" he asked crossly, peering out into the night. "You make enough
noise to wake the dead! Who is it?"
"It is I, and a friend, Haverleigh," said the curate, pushed forward by
the detective. "Is Mr Pratt within?"
"I suppose so," replied Leo, much astonished at this nocturnal
visitation; "he is no doubt in bed. I can't understand why he did not
hear the noise you made. Has he left anything at your place, Raston?"
"Ah! You knew he was going to see Mr Raston?" put in Marton, sharply.
"He left here over two hours ago, and I went to bed. Then I heard him
come back just as I was falling asleep, but he did not come up to my
room. If you will tell me what is the matter, I'll rouse him.
"Let us enter, Haverleigh," said the curate, who was shivering. "We have
much to tell you."
Still much puzzled, Leo led the way to the library after shutting the
door, and the two men followed him. He lighted the gas--Colester was not
sufficiently civilised for electric light--and then turned to ask once
more what was the matter. Raston thought the best way to bring about an
explanation was to introduce his friend, who was already looking keenly
round the well-furnished room. "This is Mr Marton," he said. "He is a
London detective."
With a bitter laugh Leo set down the candle on the table. "What," he
said, "are you the man with the bow-string, Raston? Scarcely worthy of
your cloth! If you wanted to arrest me, you might have waited until
morning!"
"Who is this young gentleman?" asked Marton, suddenly.
"I am Leo Haverleigh, Mr Detective," replied the young man, sharply;
"and I suppose you have come here at the instance of Mr Tempest to
arrest me!"
Marton snatched up the candle, and held it close to Leo's face. He was
apparently quite satisfied, for he spoke in a more friendly tone.
"You need not be afraid, Mr Haverleigh," he said soothingly. "I have not
come to arrest you--but to investigate the case. I don't think there is
any chance of your being arrested. Your face is enough for me. But this
is all very well," he added impatiently; "I want Pratt!"
"I will go and wake him," said Leo, who could make neither top nor tail
of all this, but who was relieved to find that he was not in danger of
arrest. He retired from the room, while Marton darted about here there,
and everywhere. He was like a bloodhound nosing a trail. Suddenly he
stopped before a cabinet, a drawer of which was open.
"Too late!" said Marton in a tone of disgust. "He's bolted."
"How could he bolt in this fog?" asked Raston, dubiously.
"Oh, he'll find his way somehow. Tony Angel is the cleverest of men for
getting out of a difficulty. He has evaded the police for years. See, my
dear chap, this drawer is open. That means he has taken money or
valuables from it, and is now on his way to Heaven knows what
hiding-place.
"Can you be sure of that? The open drawer may be an accident. Besides,
he would not think you would act so promptly."
"Indeed, that is just why he has bolted so expeditiously," said Marton,
with something of admiration in his tones. "Angel has experienced my
promptitude before, and several times I have been on the point of
capturing him. He has taken French leave within the last two hours. But
for that infernal fog I should have stuck to him till I ran him down.
Or, at all events, I might have disabled him with a shot."
The curate looked at his friend aghast. "A shot!" he stammered.
Marton produced a neat little revolver. "I should have used that had I
been able," he said quietly. "It does not do to adopt half measures with
our mutual friend. Besides, if hard pressed he would have returned the
compliment. Your Haverleigh fellow is a long time!"
"He'll be back soon. You can trust Leo. Surely, Marton, you do not think
he knew anything of Pratt's doings?"
"With such a face as that he knows precious little," retorted Marton;
"he is a good fellow, but not sharp. He did not steal that cup, nor did
he help Pratt to get away. No, Raston. Our criminal friend came back
here while I was blundering in the fog, and after taking some money
cleared out without loss of time. I sha'n't catch him now. I suppose the
telegraph-office is closed?"
"Yes. It closes here at nine o'clock. And even if you sent a wire, it
would not be delivered at Portfront to-night."
"No, I suppose not. You are all so slow in these country places! It is
clever of you to mention Portfront, Raston. You think that Tony Angel
will go there?"
"How else can he get away?"
"I don't know. You know the country better than I do. But I tell you
what, our friend will not go to Portfront or anywhere near it."
"Why not?" asked the curate, bewildered.
"Because you expect him to go there. Angel always does the thing that is
not expected. I wish I had caught him! I've been years trying to hunt
him down. And the beast has made himself comfortable here!" said Marton,
with a glance round. "I bet you, Raston, that the greater part of these
things have been stolen."
"Stolen, Marton! How terrible. And the cup?"
"He stole that also," replied Marton, promptly, lighting one of his
cigarettes. "Oh, he is a clever man, is Angel. Ah! here is our young and
enterprising friend. Well, Mr Haverleigh, so Pratt has gone?"
"Yes," said Leo, looking puzzled. "I went to his room and found that his
bed had not been slept in. The back door is open, although closed--that
is, it has not been locked. How do you know Pratt has gone?"
"I'll tell you later. Throw a few logs on that fire, Raston. It will
soon burn up. Here is a bottle of whisky, too, and some soda."
"I left that for Pratt," said Leo, somewhat surprised at the cool way in
which this man was behaving.
"And Pratt was too clever to muddle his head when he needed all his wits
about him. By the way, has his jackall gone also?"
"Adam is not in, if that is what you--"
"Yes, Mr Haverleigh, that is exactly what I do mean. Ha! Clever man
Pratt! He came back here straight, and, warning his pal, walked off,
leaving the empty house to me and to you, Mr Haverleigh. Did you hear
him leave?"
"I heard nothing until you knocked at the door. Then I wondered why Adam
did not hear you. The other servants are asleep at the back of the
house, and I suppose they also expected Adam to answer the bell."
"That is extremely probable. Well, let us hope the remaining servants
will sleep well. To-morrow they must leave this house!"
"Why, in Heaven's name?" asked Leo, starting up.
"For the very simple reason that the police will be put into possession
here by me to-morrow."
"What? Did Pratt steal the--I don't understand. Raston, what does this
man mean? Who is he? What are--"
"Wait a bit, Mr Haverleigh," interrupted Marton, motioning the curate to
hold his tongue, "all in good time. I am Horace Marton, a detective. I
was asked by Mr Raston to investigate this robbery, and he was telling
me about it at his lodgings. Your friend Mr Pratt arrived, and when he
saw me he bolted out into the fog. I followed and lost him. Then I got
back to Raston here, and we have been over two hours looking for this
confounded place. During that time Pratt and Adam have made themselves
scarce."
"But why should they do that?" asked Leo, still puzzled.
"Because this man who calls himself Pratt, and poses as a giver of gifts
to the Church, is a well-known London thief, and his man Adam is what he
would call a pal. 'Tony Angel,' that is the real name of Mr Pratt, but
he had half-a-dozen others beside. I congratulate you on your friend, Mr
Haverleigh!"
"I never knew anything of this," cried Leo, utterly taken aback.
"I am quite sure of that, Haverleigh," said the curate, heartily.
Marton chuckled. "Wait a bit, Harold," he said; "do not be in such a
hurry. How do we know that Mr Haverleigh has not been working together
with Tony Angel? He may know all about him and may have been employed by
him to steal the very cup which was given by Pratt as an evidence of his
respectability."
Leo jumped up and would have flung himself on Marton; but Raston held
him back. "How dare you make such an accusation against me?" cried the
young man, furiously. "Let me go, Raston; don't you hear what he says?"
"Wait a bit, Haverleigh," urged the curate. "Marton does nothing without
a motive. He can explain if you will remain quiet."
Thus advised, Leo sat down again, but in rather a sulky humour. "I am a
trifle tired of being called a blackguard," he said, frowning at Marton,
who regarded him with a friendly smile. "I know absolutely nothing about
Mr Pratt, save that he was a friend of Mrs Gabriel's, and that he has
been very good to me. I always thought he was what he represented
himself to be."
"Small wonder you did," said Marton, coolly. "Angel would deceive a much
cleverer man than you appear to be, Mr Haverleigh! And look here, I may
as well tell you at once that I am certain you knew nothing about him.
Also I am equally certain that you have had nothing to do with this
robbery. I cannot say yet whether Pratt--as I may continue to call him
for clearness' sake--stole the cup. But you are innocent, Mr
Haverleigh; and I intend to do my best to get you out of your trouble.
Shake hands."
At first Leo hesitated, for he was still sore about the accusation. But
the detective regarded him in a friendly manner, and his smile was so
irresistible, that in the end he shook hands heartily. He felt that the
man who spoke thus would be a good friend. "You know all about the
case?"
"All that Mr Raston could tell me," said the detective, "even to the
fact that you borrowed the money for which you are accused of stealing
the cup from Sir Frank Hale."
"Then I wish you would make him acknowledge the loan," said Leo,
petulantly.
Marton started and looked at the young man. "Does he not do so?"
"No. He is in love with Miss Tempest, who is engaged to me, and he says
he will deny the loan if I do not give her up."
"And marry his sister, I suppose!" interposed the curate, whereat Leo
nodded.
"Humph!" said Marton, thoughtfully, caressing his chin. "It seems to me,
Mr Haverleigh, that you have been made a tool of by unscrupulous people.
But I'll give my attention to this to-morrow. I'll get the truth out of
this Hale! He don't dare to palter with me. Leave yourself and your
reputation in my hands, Haverleigh."
"Very gladly," said Leo, heartily; "but what about Pratt?"
Marton reflected, and took a sip of whisky and water. "He's gone. I do
not think he will appear again in Colester."
"But he has left his house and all these beautiful things behind him,"
put in Raston, with a glance around.
"I see he has made himself comfortable," said Marton, with a shrug; "it
was always his way! This is not the first time he has furnished a house,
settled down. He has been driven out of every burrow, however. This time
I discovered his hiding-place by accident. Colester was about the best
place in the whole of England he could have chosen. No one would have
thought of looking for him here. I daresay he expected to settle down
and die in the odour of sanctity, surrounded by his ill-gotten gains.
But he has not gone empty-handed, Haverleigh. He is too clever for that,
and is always prepared for an emergency."
"But _who_ is Pratt?"
"Well; you are asking me a hard question. I understand he is a workhouse
brat of sorts. He himself claims to be the illegitimate son of a
nobleman. Certainly, he has a very gentlemanly appearance. He has been
working for at least thirty years, and has always contrived to evade the
English police. I believe he was laid by the heels in America."
"He has travelled a great deal."
"I believe you! He knows the whole world and all the scoundrels in it. A
king of crime! That is what Pratt is. The generality of thieves adore
him, for he has his good points, and he is generous. Well, we have
talked enough for to-night. I'll sleep here, Haverleigh. Raston?"
"I'll return to my own place," said the curate, rising to go.
And this he did, but Marton, having found the burrow of Pratt, _alias_
Angel, did not intend to leave it. He was quite as clever as the man he
was hunting.