A FATEFUL DECISION.
Nevill paused, latch-key in hand; a cautious impulse checked the
admission of his identity. The individual who had accosted him, seen by
the glow of a distant street-lamp, was thickset and rakish-looking, with
a heavy mustache. He repeated his question uneasily.
"If I've made a mistake--" he went on.
"No, you are not mistaken," said Nevill. "But how did you learn my name,
and what do you want with me?"
On a natural impulse, fancying he recognized a racing tipster who had
been of service to him in the past, he reached for his pocket; the
jingling of coin was heard.
"Stow that--I'm not a beggar!" the man said, sharply.
"I beg your pardon! I thought I recalled--"
"We never met before, Mr. Nevill."
"Then it's a queer time of night for a stranger to hunt me up. If you
have business with me, come in the morning; or, better still, write to
me."
"I've got to talk to you to-night, sir, and I ain't to be put off. For
two blessed hours I've been hanging around this house, watching an'
waiting--"
"A sad waste of time! You are an impudent fellow, whoever you are. I
refuse to have anything to do with you."
"I think you'll change your mind, sir. If you don't you'll be sorry till
your dying day."
"You scoundrel, do you dare to threaten me?" cried Nevill. "There is
only one remedy for ruffians of your kind--" He looked up and down the
street in search of a policeman.
"You can call an officer if you like," the man said, scornfully; "or, if
you choose to order me away, I'll go. But in that case," he bent nearer
and dropped his voice to a whisper, "I'll take my secret straight to Sir
Lucius Chesney. And I'll warrant _he_ won't refuse to hear it."
Nevill's countenance changed, and he seemed to wilt instantly.
"Your secret?" he muttered. "Are you telling the truth? What is it?"
"Do you suppose I'm going to give that away here in the street? It's a
private matter, and can only be told under shelter, where there ain't no
danger of eavesdroppers."
"I'll trust you," replied Nevill, after a brief hesitation. "Come, you
shall go to my rooms. But I warn you in advance that if you are playing
a game of blackmail I'll have no mercy on you."
"I won't ask none. Don't you fear."
Nevill opened the house door, and the two went softly up the dimly lit
staircase. The gas-lamps were turned on, revealing the luxuries of the
front apartment, and the visitor looked about him with bewildered
admiration; he seemed to feel his unfitness for the place, and
instinctively buttoned his coat over his shabby linen. But that was only
for a moment. With an insolent smile he took possession of a
basket-chair, helped himself to a cigar, and poured some brandy from a
_carafe_ into a glass. Meanwhile Nevill had drawn the window curtains,
and when he turned around he had hard work to restrain his anger.
"What the devil--," he began, and broke off. "You are the cheekiest
fellow I ever came across," he added.
"It ain't often," replied the man, puffing away contentedly, "that I get
a chance to try a swell's tobacco and liquor. That's prime stuff, sir. I
feel more like talking now."
"Then be quick about it. What is your business? And as you have the
advantage of me at present, it would be better if you began by stating
your name."
"My name," the man paused half a second, "is Timmins--Joe Timmins. It
ain't likely that you--"
"No; I never heard it," Nevill interrupted. He sat down at the other
side of the table, and endeavored to hide his anxiety and impatience.
"I can't spare you much time," he added.
"Sure there ain't nobody within earshot?"
"Quite sure. Make your mind easy."
Mr. Joe Timmins--_alias_ Noah Hawker--expressed his satisfaction by
a nod. He produced a paper from his pocket, and slowly unfolded it.
"If you will kindly read that," he said.
Nevill took the document curiously. It consisted of half a dozen pages
of writing, well-worded and grammatical, but done by a wretched,
scrawling hand, and embellished with numerous blots and smudges. From
the first he grasped its import, and as he read on to the end his face
grew pale and his hands shook. With a curse he started to his feet and
made a step toward the grate, where the embers of a coal fire lingered.
Then, dropping down again, he laughed bitterly.
"Of course this is only a copy?" he exclaimed.
"That's all, sir," replied Mr. Timmins, with a grim smile. "It ain't
likely I'd been fool enough to bring the original here. I did the copy
myself, an' though I ain't much of a scholar, I do say as it reads for
what it's meant to be, word for word."
"I want better proof than this, my man."
"Ain't you satisfied? Look at the date of the letter, an' where it was
written, an' what it says. Could I invent such a thing?"
"No; you couldn't," Nevill admitted. "You have the original letter, you
say?"
"I've had that and other papers for years, hid away in a safe place,
which is where they lie now. It's only lately I looked into them deep,
so to speak, and saw what they might be worth to me. I studied them,
sir, and by putting things together I found there were three persons
concerned--three chances for me to try."
"You are a cunning fellow," said Nevill. "Why did you bring the letter
to me?"
"Because it pointed that way. I knew you were the biggest bird, and the
one most likely to pay me for my secret. It was quite a different matter
with the others--"
"You haven't seen them?"
"No fear!" Mr. Timmins answered, emphatically. "I spotted you as my man
from the first, and I'm glad you've got the sense to look at it right.
I hope we understand each other."
"I don't think there can be much doubt about that," replied Nevill,
whose quick mind had grasped the situation in all its bearings; he
realized that there was no alternative--save ruin--but to submit to the
scoundrel's terms. But the bargain must be made as easy as possible.
"I must know more than you have told me," he went on. "How did the
letter come into your possession? And why have you waited more than five
years to make use of it?"
Mr. Timmins was not averse to answering the questions. He pulled his
chair closer, and in low tones spoke for some minutes, revealing all
that Nevill wished to know, and much besides that was of interest.
"You'll find me a square-dealing customer," he concluded, "and I expect
the same of a gent like you."
Nevill shrank from him with ill-concealed disgust and repulsion; contact
with the lower depths of crime affected his aristocratic sensibilities.
"You swear that you have all the papers?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And they are in a safe place?"
"If I was to drop over dead, sir, they wouldn't be found in a hundred
years."
"We'll proceed to the next question," Nevill said, abruptly. "To speak
with brutal frankness, Mr. Timmins, what is your price?"
"One thousand pounds in cash, when the papers are handed over," was the
prompt reply, "and a signed agreement to pay me as much more when you
come into--"
"Do you take me for a millionaire?" cried Nevill. "It's all right about
the agreement, but a thousand pounds is utterly beyond my means. Say two
hundred."
Mr. Timmins shook his head, and glanced significantly about the room.
"I can't take a shilling less," he firmly replied. "I know a good thing
when I have it, sir."
Nevill temporized. He argued and entreated, but without avail. He had an
inflexible customer to deal with, who would not be put off with anything
but his pound of flesh. A decision that night was impossible, and
arrangements were made for another meeting within a few days. Then Mr.
Timmins filled his pocket with cigars and took his leave.
Nevill let him out into Jermyn street, locked the door, and returned
to his sitting-room. His face was distorted with evil passions, and he
spilled the brandy on the table as he poured some into a glass.
"Curse him!" he said, hoarsely. "_He_ again! Is he destined to blast my
life and ruin my prospects?"
* * * * *
The "do" at Joubert Mansions, Chelsea, by no means fell short of Jack's
forecast; on the contrary, it exceeded it. His memory failed him as to
what transpired after three in the morning; he woke at noon in a strange
bed, with a sense of overmastering languor, and a head that felt too big
for his body. Vance Dickens, with a palette on his thumb, was standing
over him. He laughed till the roof threatened to come off.
"I wish you could see yourself," he howled. "It's not exactly the
awakening of Venus. You _wouldn't_ be undressed, so we had to tuck you
away as you were--some chaps helped to bring you here."
"You beggar!" growled Jack. "You look as fresh as a new penny."
"Two whiskies is my limit, old boy--I don't go beyond it. And I had
a page black-and-white to do to-day. Stir yourself, and we'll have
breakfast. The kettle is boiling. Wait--I'll bring you a pick-me-up."
The pick-me-up, compounded on the principle that like cures like, did
not belie its name. It got Jack to his feet and soothed his head. The
two men were about of a size, and Dickens loaned his friend a shirt and
collar and a tweed suit, promising to send his dress clothes home by a
trusty messenger.
"No; I'll attend to that," demurred Jack, who did not care to tell where
he lived.
He nibbled at his breakfast, drank four cups of strong tea, and then
sauntered to the window. It was drizzling rain, and the streets between
the river and the King's road were wrapped in a white mist.
"This sort of thing won't do," he reflected. "I must pull up short, or
I'll be a complete wreck." He remembered the brief, sad note--with more
love than bitterness in it--which he had received from Madge in reply to
his letter of explanation. "I owe something to her," he thought. "She
forgave me, and begged me to face the future bravely. And, by heavens,
I'll do it! I hope she doesn't know the life I've been leading since I
came back. Work is the thing, and I'll buckle down to it again."
Fired by his new resolve, Jack settled himself in a cozy corner and
lighted a pipe. With a stimulating interest he watched Dickens, who had
finished his black-and-white, and was doing a water color from a sketch
made that summer at Walberswick, a quaint fishing village on the Suffolk
coast. He blobbed on the paint, working spasmodically, and occasionally
he refreshed himself at the piano with a verse of the latest popular
song.
"By Jove, this is Friday!" he said suddenly; "and I'm due at the London
Sketch Club to-night. Will you come there and have supper with me at
nine?"
"Sorry, but I can't," Jack replied, remembering his promise to Sir
Lucius Chesney. "I'm off now. I'll drop in to-morrow and get my
dress-suit--don't trouble to send it."
Dickens vainly urged a change of mind. Jack was not to be coerced, and,
putting on a borrowed cap and overcoat, he left the studio. He walked to
Sloane square, and took a train to the Temple; but he was so absorbed
in a paper that he was carried past his station. He got out at
Blackfriars, and lingered doubtfully on the greasy pavement, staring at
the sea of traffic surging in the thick, yellow fog. He had reached
another turning-point in his life, but he did not know it.
"I'll go to the 'Cheese,'" he decided, "and have some supper."