Jack had an hour in which to think over his plan of operations as he
went flying up to London in the express. The day was bright and frosty,
the sky lightly flecked with clouds, the trees beautiful with the lights
on their trunks, with the delicate web-work of their branches clear
against the blue, with ivy hanging here and there brave and green.
Every little pool of water showed a deep steely blue. Red berries
brightened the hedges, and at the stations there were bundles of glossy
holly and mistletoe, tied up for the London markets, hampers thrust into
the train, a general air of approaching good cheer. It was next to
impossible not to feel some exhilaration, actual or reflected.
And yet his own position was not very enviable just now. He had lost
Phillis, he had lost Hetherton, and he had an awkward affair on his
hands for which, except in the moments when his easy-going nature was
roused to an active dislike of Trent--and these moments quickly
exhausted themselves--he felt a strong distaste. He meant to carry it
through, because Phillis had set her heart upon it, but he had nothing
of the detective in him, and at no time found any satisfaction in
proving a fellow-creature a sinner. So that, although the remembrance
of Bice's wistful eyes stirred him, and he was aware that it would be
cowardly to leave friendless Clive under the shadow which had been
thrown over him, he yet would have been glad to have kept Oliver Trent's
share in the matter in the background. It was partly laziness, partly a
general good-will. As he was swept along by the train, past field and
copse, and commons, he tried to think of some possible means by which
justice and mercy might both be satisfied, but, as is generally the
case, found it hard to keep the balance true. Perhaps he would not have
minded so greatly if he had not found Trent domiciled at Hetherton. He
knew nothing, it is true, of that last idea of Mr Thornton's, but he
saw that he was on a very friendly footing there, and hated the notion
of being the one to push him out. The consequence of all these
misgivings was that when he reached Waterloo Station he had not made up
his mind as to any more definite course of action than that he would go
out to Kensington again in the evening, and get Clive to speak more
freely.
When he found himself there, after some hours of work in his chambers,
he was told that Mr Masters had not come in. He went for a stretch
along Kensington High Street as far as Holland House, where the trees
stood up dark against the grey dusk, and then came back to receive the
same answer. The girl, with a dirty apron thrown over her arm, was too
much taken up with staring at the visitor, to be communicative.
"Can you tell me at all whether Mr Masters is likely to be in soon?"
asked Ibbetson.
"No, sir, I couldn't."
"Is he generally back by this time?"
"Sometimes he is, and sometimes he isn't. Mostly he is," she added with
the jerk of an after-thought.
"I'll go in and wait, I think. No, I won't," he said finally, feeling a
strong dislike to anything which looked like invading Clive's secrets,
whatever they might be. After a little deliberation he left his card
with a few pencilled words on it to say that he would call at the city
office next day, in order to appoint a meeting, and went back to his
lodgings.
He found himself thinking a good deal that night of Hetherton and Oliver
Trent. His presence there was unlikely to bode any good to Jack's
interests, and yet that very conviction made him dislike to be the one
to expose him, if exposure should be needed. But calmer reflection made
him believe this to be impossible. There might be some error, or
possibly an exaggerated putting forward of his own services, such as
should impress Bice, but of anything worse, Jack in the kindness of his
heart, which always reasserted itself, after he had been stirred to
anger, was disposed to acquit him. Yet it was difficult to reconcile
the small bits of information which as yet were all he had succeeded in
picking up with each other, and he fell asleep with the determination to
induce Clive to speak more clearly, now that chance had disclosed to him
this business of the promissory note.
The following morning he was at the office in good time. Of course he
was well-known there, and there had been days when Mr Thornton dreamed
of his taking to this city life--a dream which never got any nearer to
its fulfilment, but which always could be remembered as a grievance.
Old Davis, the senior clerk, was fetched in a moment. Ibbetson was
beginning to explain his errand, when Davis interrupted him.
"Walk this way, if you please, sir," he said, "and we shall have the
place to ourselves."
"What a den it is, to be sure!" said Jack, looking round the dreary
little room, with its drearier fittings. "Davis, do you mean to tell me
you don't sometimes feel disposed to hang yourself?"
"Bless my soul, sir, why?"
"Why, for want of anything more lively to do. And this is what that
unfortunate Masters has to grind at!" continued Jack in an audible
soliloquy. Davis caught at the name.
"The fact is, Mr Ibbetson," he said, looking grave, "we're in great
perplexity about Mr Masters."
"What's happened?"
"He hasn't turned up to-day at all."
"Ill, I suppose," said Jack.
"Well, sir, not at his lodgings. I sent a boy off and I find he has not
been there since leaving this at the usual hour yesterday. Then he was
in good health, to all appearance. I can't help fearing there's
something wrong."
"Good Heavens, Davis, what can be wrong?" said Ibbetson hastily.
"The young man has not been himself for some time, and perhaps that
makes me nervous," said the old man with a deliberation which tried his
companion's patience. "Besides, if you know him, Mr John, you are
aware that there has been an unpleasantness about a money matter. It
always is love or money with those young fellows. He got into debt,
borrowed from one of those rascally money-lenders, giving him a
promissory note, and when the time came had nothing to meet it. I
believe it was a small sum, and it's not such an uncommon story, but a
bad one to get to the ears of the principals, and somehow or other, I'm
sure I don't know how, that is what happened here."
"Ah, I see," said Ibbetson.
"The consequence is that they have looked coldly on him ever since, and
you'll understand, Mr John, that others who would not be shocked on
their own account will follow the heads, if only to curry favour. I've
been quite surprised, I declare, to see how many know it. And I can't
help feeling sorry for the poor lad, wrong as he has been, for he seems
to take it to heart terribly."
"Does he say anything for himself?"
"Well, he has a cock-and-a-bull sort of story," said old Davis, putting
his head on one side. "He was sent down to Birmingham on business the
week the note became due, and he says he gave the money to a man he
trusted to pay it up for him, and that the man has made off or
something, for he can find no trace of him. Very unlikely, I am afraid.
Mr Trent did all he could in the matter, paid the money, and made it a
personal favour to Mr Thornton to keep Mr Masters on, but I feared how
it would be when I saw how much had leaked out. I'm sorry, too, for I
liked him."
Jack walked to the dingy window and looked out.
"Have you no sort of idea where he has gone, if he has gone, as I see
you believe?"
"Yes," said the clerk confidently. "I think he has gone to Liverpool."
"Why?"
"They all go there, that's one reason. And then I know he has been
asking questions in and out about Liverpool of one of the others. I
feel pretty sure he has America in his head."
"Now, Davis, you can do me a favour," said Jack, coming back suddenly.
"We're close on Christmas. Make some excuse about his absence to-day--
put it on me if you like--and, give me a chance of getting hold of him.
I shall go down to Liverpool at once. And, mind you, it's my opinion he
will turn out not to blame in that money business."
"But, Mr John, how can I!"
"Nonsense, man, you haven't been here five-and-twenty years for nothing.
I'll telegraph back, and be responsible to my uncle," added Jack with a
half laugh. "Hey, boy, call a cab."
He left Davis standing bewildered, drove to his lodgings, crammed what
he wanted into a portmanteau, and dashed off to the station, luckily
catching a fast train. On his way he had plenty of time for reflection
on the increasing oddity of his position. There seemed so little to
connect him with Clive, that it was absolutely comical to realise that
Clive had brought him to England, excited him to various warlike
passages entirely opposed to his usual temperament, and was now drawing
him off on what was likely to prove a fool's errand. "I hope Phillis at
least will appreciate my efforts," thought Jack, with a laugh. It was
she, not Bice, who presented herself to his mind as the motive power for
his present energy, her influence always keeping its full strength when
they were apart, while Bice's faded, seeming to depend upon presence,
and probably the fascination of her beauty. And yet Jack's kind heart
was enlisted by this time on behalf of the young fellow, who, he could
not but believe, was in some strange way a victim.
While he was in London, there had seemed a chance of finding Clive at
Liverpool, but when in the darkness and bitter cold of a December
evening he stood on the Liverpool platform, the chance seemed to run
down at once until it looked like an impossibility. The police were his
only hope, and he drove at once to a police station in order to put them
on the track, experiencing the usual relief in finding how ordinary--
however doubtful--a matter he seemed to be engaged upon. A
superintendent put a few questions, gave a few instructions, and then
delivered his opinion. Always supposing that the young man had come
there at all--in which case America was tolerably certain to be his
aim--it was of course quite possible that he had got off that day, but
not likely. In the first place he was a stranger and would not know how
to set to work, and would be shy of asking advice--a good thing, too,
put in the superintendent. It would be necessary for him to dispose of,
or change his clothes, as money for others would probably be wanting.
Also he would have to ship himself. At some seasons this might be a
difficulty: but Christmas was not a bad time for him to have chosen, as
men did not like sailing just then, and therefore hands were scarce.
There was a chance, and not a slight one, that he might go on board that
very night, and if he meant to hide, there might be difficulties in
getting him away. That the superintendent could not pronounce upon.
But his own opinion inclined to the more hopeful view that he would not
sail till the next day. Ibbetson was not sorry to be advised to leave
the inquiries absolutely in their hands for that evening, only promising
to be ready at an early hour the next morning in case he was called upon
to accompany them.
The call came when he was sound asleep, and a message was joined to it
to the effect that he was begged to lose no time. Accordingly he was
quickly downstairs, and found a policeman waiting at the door of the
hotel.
In the damp chill of the early morning--very damp and very chill it
was--it was almost a matter of course that things should look yet more
hopeless than they had looked the night before. Night appeals to the
imagination and works her wonders easily, while morning is coldly
prosaic and depressing. A little rain had fallen, lights were still
flashing about, shining on wet stones, on which bales and barrels lay
heaped; and of the great forest of masts in the river, only those near
at hand were beginning to loom out of the mist. Jack's conductor
walking briskly along, and quite unaffected by atmospheric influences,
told him that they had found that one vessel was to sail that day, and
that the gentleman was not on board.
"And that's all?" said Jack, disappointed.
"That's all, sir, at present. She has been closely watched, and if he
joins her it will be soon, and you can't miss him."
"Keep out of sight," said Ibbetson, "and if he does turn up, settle with
the captain and come to the hotel."
They had reached the wharf where the vessel lay, and Ibbetson sat down
on a barrel. His watch did not last long. A young light figure came
running, carrying a bundle, and leaping over a coil of rope which lay in
the way, and Jack, more from precaution than any actual conviction that
this was Clive, stopped him. It was the young fellow's start which
first assured him, but recognition did not at once dawn in Clive's eyes.
When it did, he turned pale.
"You here!" he stammered.
"And just in time," was Jack's cheerful answer. "I never did anything
half so neatly in my life before. My dear fellow, don't be looking
round to see how you can give me the slip. The most inveterate of bores
never stuck to you as closely as I shall stick."
"Mr Ibbetson," said Clive imploringly, "let me go. It's my best
chance, it is indeed--don't be so hard on me as to take it away.
Somehow or other everything has got into a mess here, and over there,"
and as he spoke he pointed towards that shadowy world out of which the
masts were beginning to stretch themselves, "I may do better."
"You will do better here," said Jack.
"No, you don't know."
"Yes. I do know--quite enough. Come along," he added, drawing him
away, and anxious that the policeman should not become visible. "If
there is a mess, the more reason you should be here to set things
right;" and seeing Clive was still reluctant, he added more gravely,
"Look here, Masters. If, when we've gone into the matter and tried to
put it straight, it seems as if America would be your best chance after
all, I give you my word I'll help you to go there in a straightforward
fashion, better than this. Now we'll get back your clothes. Are they
sold?"
"Most of them."
"Let's hunt them up again, then. You lead on, for I know nothing of the
place."
"But how on earth did you come here?" asked Clive, beginning to find
time for astonishment.
"Well, I heard from old Davis--I must telegraph to him, by the bye--and
came down last night, made a few inquiries, and hearing the Queen of the
Ocean was to sail, kept an eye upon her."
It sounded so simple in Jack's cheery voice, that Clive, who had fancied
he had arranged so as to baffle all pursuit, listened with a blank
conviction of powerlessness.
"My coming away didn't matter much," he muttered.
"Except to yourself," said Ibbetson quietly. "Hallo, is this the
street?"
Clive was silent through all the transactions which followed, but when,
restored to his own garments, he and Ibbetson had nearly reached the
hotel, he said suddenly,--
"I don't know how much or how little you know, but you may as well hear
the right facts."
"Not till we've breakfasted," said Jack with decision. "This early
rising has a wonderful effect upon the appetite. Breakfast first,
afterwards your story if you like, and then we'll go up by the 11:30
train."