ON THE TRACK.
Theobald's Row was as depressing in the morning as it had been in the
evening, and looked as if a bath would do it good. The workingmen's
lodging houses bore even a more striking resemblance to prisons, and
the men and women I passed looked as if they had been up all night,
and had hurried out to their depressing occupations without having had
recourse to soap and water. On the doorstep of Dr. Cooper's shop the
same half dozen children were playing the same games with pieces of
broken crockery and dry mud, and bore no appearance of having been
washed since I last set eyes on them. One of the children, catching
sight of me, jumped up and ran into the shop, screaming:
"Here's the gentleman, mother!" At which summons the slatternly woman
immediately presented herself. It struck me that there was something
aggressive in her aspect.
"Oh," she said, in no amiable tone, "it's you!"
"Yes," I replied, "it is I."
"And you call yourself a workingman," she exclaimed.
"I am not aware that I have done so."
"So my husband told me last night; you are the man who called last
night, and went to seek my husband at the Britannia. Don't deny it."
"I have not the least intention of doing so. You gave me the
information where to see him."
"So I did, and he said you pretended to be a workingman. Now, a
workingman wouldn't say, 'it is I'; he'd say 'it's me.' I have been
brought pretty low, but I had fair schooling when I was young, and I
know a workingman from a gentleman."
"Well," I observed, "say that I am a gentleman; is that anything
against me?"
"It is everything against you. I heard from my husband all that passed
between you--as nearly as he could remember, in the state he was. When
he's in his cups his tongue runs too free, and you gave him rope
enough. Perhaps you're not a gentleman, after all. What do you say to
detective?"
"I am not a detective," I answered, with, I confess, a rather guilty
feeling, for if I was not doing the work of a detective, what else was
I doing? "For what reason on earth should a detective be running after
your husband?"
"An admission!" she cried, and I saw that I had to do with a sharp
woman. "Then you _are_ running after him." She folded her arms
defiantly. "Now, what for?"
I smiled rather feebly as I said, "You would not believe me if I told
you I have come to put something in his way."
"You are right there. I should not believe you."
"But it is the truth, nevertheless, and it will not serve me to talk
it over with you. Can I see your husband?"
"You cannot see him."
"Is he not at home?"
"He is not at home."
"Will he be in soon?"
"He will not be in soon."
There was no mistaking her meaning; she regarded me as an enemy, and
it was her intention to be personally offensive.
"You do not wish me and your husband to meet?"
"You shan't meet if I can help it."
"Then you must have something to fear."
This thrust, which I gave involuntarily--for I had no desire to hurt
the poor woman's feelings--drove the color from her face. She
retreated a step, and stumbled over a child that was playing on the
floor. The slight accident seemed to infuriate her; she angrily pushed
the child away with her foot, and turned upon me like a tigress.
"What are you hunting us down for?" she cried. "Do you think I have
not had trouble enough in my life? Driven here and there, with a pack
of hungry children in rags, and tied to a man who expects me to keep a
home and a family upon ten shillings a week! But he's my husband for
all that, and I'm not going to help you bring a deeper disgrace upon
us. You came here yesterday to set a trap for him, with a lying story
that you owed him a few pence which you were anxious to pay. God knows
what you wormed out of him, for, clever as he is, he's a fool when he
pours the drink down his throat. I've warned him over and over again
to be careful what he says; but I might as well have talked to a
stone. He's out of your reach now, at all events, and you'll have a
job to find him. I wish you joy of your task, you cowardly sneak!"
The passion of her defiance of me was wonderful to witness; but
underlying this defiance was a terror which did not escape my
observation.
"I came here," I said gently, for her despair and her poverty inspired
me with genuine pity, "in the hope that he would assist me in the
discovery of a crime which has not been brought to light. If he is not
implicated in it he would have earned a few pounds; if in any way he
is involved in it, all I can say is, Heaven pity him--and you!"
My time was too precious to waste further words upon her, and I left
the shop, and entered the cab which was waiting for me. Before I could
close the door a man accosted me.
"I heard what passed inside the shop," he said. "Make it worth my
while, and I'll tell you something about Dr. Cooper."
"Jump in," I answered; "I have no time to stop talking here." I gave
the driver Ronald Elsdale's address, and we sped thitherward. "Now,
what have you to say?"
"You want to know where the doctor is?" he commenced.
"I do."
"Well, I can't tell you that exactly, but I can put you on his track.
It's worth, I should say,"--he deliberated, and looked at me covertly
to decide what he would be likely to screw out of me--"not less than
half a crown."
"I will give you that if you keep nothing back."
"All right. Where's the coin?"
"No, my friend," I said, "I'll have the goods before I pay for them."
"You're a sharp old file, but I'm out of work; It's capital and labor,
and we know who's the grinder. Here was I, at six this morning,
looking for work and not getting it. The doctor's shop shut, it's not
the likes of him that catches worms. Back I come home at a quarter
past seven, and there's a telegraph boy banging at the doctor's door.
I help him bang, and out comes the doctor, doing up his buttons; takes
the telegram, reads it, turns red and white, rushes into the house,
rushes out in a brace of shakes, and scuds off. 'What's up?' thinks I,
and off I scuds after him; he's too excited to notice. At St. George's
Hospital, walking up and down in a fume, and looking as if he'd knock
everything and everybody into a cocked hat if he had his way, there's
a gentleman waiting for him, and a four-wheeler, with trunks atop,
waiting for both of 'em. They have a hurried talk; I'm not near enough
to hear what passes, but I get up to the cab as they step in. 'Charing
Cross Station,' cries the gentleman to cabby. 'Break your horse's neck
if you like; if I don't catch the Continental train I'll break yours.'
Off goes the cab, and then, what do you think? off goes another cab
that I hadn't noticed, after the first. I've got no money to pay for
cabs, but having nothing better to do, and looking upon the move as a
rum sort of move, I foots it to the station, and gets there at five
minutes to eight. There they are, Dr. Cooper and his gentleman friend,
as busy as bees, and there's the bell ringing and porters shouting,
and everything hurry scurry. Away they go through the gate, and off
goes the train; and if all that aint worth half a dollar I'd like to
know what is."
"You shall have the money," I said; "are you sure they both went away
in the train?"
"I'm sure they didn't comeback. I asked one of the porters what train
that was. 'Train for Paris,' he said."
"Did you see the man who went after them in the second cab?"
"Never caught sight of him in the cab or out of it."
"But you saw the gentleman who met Dr. Cooper at the hospital."
"Of course I did."
"Was there anything peculiar in his appearance that you noticed
particularly?"
"I noticed he had a red beard and mustache."
"Did he wear spectacles?"
"He had a pair of gold eyeglasses that he was continually putting on
and off."
"You have earned the money. Here it is."
He took the half crown, bawled to the driver to stop, jumped out of
the cab, and was off.
At five minutes past ten my cab drew up at Ronald Elsdale's house. Bob
had been expeditious, and was there before me; he had even found time
to tell Ronald everything. He informed me of this as he himself
admitted me into the house.
"How did he take it?" I inquired.
"Very quietly," Bob answered. "He did not interrupt me once, nor did
he ask a single question. When I finished he said, 'I must write
letters to my pupils, telling them that there must be an unavoidable
interruption in their lessons for a short time----'"
I did not follow Ronald's excellent example of listening quietly, but
interrupted Bob excitedly. "For what reason?" I asked.
"He intends to accompany us. I did not argue with him. When my nephew
makes up his mind to a thing he is not to be turned from it. His
mother is packing his bag now. I had no difficulty at your house. The
maid showed me where your clothes were, and I bundled a lot of them
into the Gladstone. Here is Ronald. Don't oppose him; it will be quite
useless."
"Good-morning, Mr. Emery," said the young man. "My uncle has related
to me all the particulars of this strange affair, which we have not
time to talk over now. You have heard of my intention to accompany
you."
"Yes."
"I have taken it upon myself to send to my uncle's house for the poor
child, Barbara, and she will go with us, too. She has no clothes for
such a trip, I understand, but my mother has found a few things that
will do for her, and when we are in Paris we can buy whatever else she
requires. She will not be an additional expense to you; I will pay for
her."
"We can arrange that when we are on the road," I said, somewhat amazed
at this unexpected addition to our party. "Do you really consider it
necessary that she should accompany us?"
"Otherwise," he replied, "I should not have ventured to send for her.
Mr. Emery, we must not allow a chance to escape us; we must take
advantage of everything that suggests or presents itself that is
likely to assist us. I am blind; if Mr. Nisbet stood before me I
should not know it. My uncle has not seen him; you are under the
impression that you would be certain to recognize him, but there are
thousands of men with red hair and gold eyeglasses. The only one of us
who can be positive is Barbara."
I saw that he was resolved, and that it would be useless to
remonstrate. What struck me, also, was that he seemed already to have
assumed the command of the expedition, and to have placed himself at
the head of it. Undoubtedly he had the right to take the initiative,
for if a foul deed had been committed it was the lady he loved who had
been the victim.
"Mr. Elsdale," I said, "I am satisfied with what you have done."
"Thank you, Mr. Emery," was his response. "There is here a mystery to
be solved, a horrible wrong to be righted, a criminal to be brought to
the bar of justice. I do not pretend to say that in so short a time I
have reduced to order the terrible suggestions and possibilities that
have presented themselves to my mind, but a man's duty is before me,
and I will perform it faithfully and inexorably. Mere worldly
considerations do not weigh in the scale. Though I lived to be an old
man with this mystery still unsolved, I would not relinquish it. I
will pursue it unflinchingly to the end, if I walk the earth barefoot.
To you has come a spiritual sign and a spiritual mandate, and, through
you, it has come to me." He drew me aside. "Is the apparition that
first appeared to you in that ill-fated house visible to you? Is it
here with us in the room?"
"It is not."
"It will appear again; be sure that it will appear again; and when
justice is satisfied it will disappear, and you will no longer be
troubled by it." He turned to Bob, and included him in the
conversation. "Another reason why it is necessary and right that the
little girl, Barbara, should accompany us is that we go not only to
seek Mr. Nisbet, but to seek her sister. The young woman may have
fallen under the spell of Mr. Nisbet's evil influence; he may have
made her his slave. If that is the case, the efforts of strangers like
ourselves to enlist her on our side would be futile; the love she bore
her sister may help us here."
"You have entirely convinced me, Mr. Elsdale," I said, honestly and
sincerely. "Little Barbara's aid may be invaluable to us."
As I made this remark the child knocked at the door, and as the
maid-servant admitted her, Ronald's mother entered the room and said
that all was ready. I looked at my watch.
"We have barely time to catch the eleven o'clock train," I said.
"Wot d'yer want of me, sir?" asked Barbara, whose appearance denoted
that she had been summoned from household duties, without having had a
moment given to her to tidy herself.
"We are going to take you for a trip, Barbara."
"A trip! Where to, sir?"
"To Paris, Barbara." The child gasped, and almost fell to the ground
in her astonishment. "Don't be frightened. A brave little girl like
you will be glad to see foreign countries."
Ronald's mother was busy with the little girl, smoothing her hair and
arranging her poor clothes. She had a child's mantle, which she put on
the girl, and a hat which made her look quite presentable. It was
surprising what a few skillful touches achieved in poor little
Barbara's appearance.
"Foring countries, sir!" she exclaimed, making no resistance to what
was being done. "But I can't go, sir; I can't go! I must wait in
London for Molly."
"We are going to try and find Molly, my dear."
"To find Molly! Oh--oh!"
Her joy was so profound that she could not utter another word. And
when Ronald Elsdale, after embracing his mother fondly, took Barbara's
hand and led her to the door, she yielded unresistingly. Away flew the
cabs, and landed us at the railway station just in time to catch the
eleven o'clock train. It was fortunate that we had only hand baggage
with us, or we should have missed it. Within a few moments of our
seating ourselves in the carriage we were speeding to Dover pier.