On the conclusion of the proceedings, Mr. Melton, having no further
need of Amelius or the lawyer, drove away by himself. But he was too
inveterately polite to omit making his excuses for leaving them in a
hurry; he expected, he said, to find a telegram from Paris waiting at
his house. Amelius only delayed his departure to ask the landlady if
the day of the funeral was settled. Hearing that it was arranged for the
next morning, he thanked her, and returned at once to the cottage.
Sally was waiting his arrival to complete some purchases of mourning for
her unhappy mother; Toff’s wife being in attendance to take care of
her. She was curious to know how the inquest had ended. In answering
her question, Amelius was careful to warn her, if her companion made
any inquiries, only to say that she had lost her mother under very sad
circumstances. The two having left the cottage, he instructed Toff to
let in a stranger, who was to call by previous appointment, and to close
the door to every one else. In a few minutes, the expected person,
a young man, who gave the name of Morcross, made his appearance, and
sorely puzzled the old Frenchman. He was well dressed; his manner was
quiet and self-possessed--and yet he did not look like a gentleman. In
fact, he was a policeman of the higher order, in plain clothes.
Being introduced to the library, he spread out on the table some sheets
of manuscript, in the handwriting of Amelius, with notes in red ink on
the margin, made by himself.
“I understand, sir,” he began, “that you have reasons for not bringing
this case to trial in a court of law?”
“I am sorry to say,” Amelius answered, “that I dare not consent to the
exposure of a public trial, for the sake of persons living and dead.
For the same reason, I have written the account of the conspiracy with
certain reserves. I hope I have not thrown any needless difficulties in
your way?”
“Certainly not, sir. But I should wish to ask, what you propose to do,
in case I discover the people concerned in the conspiracy?”
Amelius owned, very reluctantly, that he could do nothing with the old
woman who had been the accomplice. “Unless,” he added, “I can induce
her to assist me in bringing the man to justice for other crimes which I
believe him to have committed.”
“Meaning the man named Jervy, sir, in this statement?”
“Yes. I have reason to believe that he has been obliged to leave the
United States, after committing some serious offence--”
“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir. Is it serious enough to
charge him with, under the treaty between the two countries?”
“I don’t doubt it’s serious enough. I have telegraphed to the persons
who formerly employed him, for the particulars. Mind this! I will stick
at no sacrifice to make that scoundrel suffer for what he has done.”
In those plain words Amelius revealed, as frankly as usual, the
purpose that was in him. The terrible remembrances associated with Mrs.
Farnaby’s last moments had kindled, in his just and generous nature, a
burning sense of the wrong inflicted on the poor heart-broken creature
who had trusted and loved him. The unendurable thought that the wretch
who had tortured her, robbed her, and driven her to her death had
escaped with impunity, literally haunted him night and day. Eager to
provide for Sally’s future, he had followed Mrs. Farnaby’s instructions,
and had seen the lawyer privately, during the period that had elapsed
between the death and the inquest. Hearing that there were formalities
to be complied with, which would probably cause some delay, he had at
once announced his determination to employ the interval in attempting
the pursuit of Jervy. The lawyer--after vainly pointing out the serious
objections to the course proposed--so far yielded to the irresistible
earnestness and good faith of Amelius as to recommend him to a competent
man, who could be trusted not to deceive him. The same day the man had
received a written statement of the case; and he had now arrived to
report the result of his first proceedings to his employer.
“One thing I want to know, before you tell me anything else,” Amelius
resumed. “Is my written description of Jervy plain enough to help you to
find him?”
“It’s so plain, sir, that some of the older men in our office have
recognized him by it--under another name than the name you give him.”
“Does that add to the difficulty of tracing him?”
“He has been a long time away from England, sir; and it’s by no means
easy to trace him, on that account. I have been to the young woman,
named Phoebe in your statement, to find out what she can tell me about
him. She’s ready enough, in the intervals of crying, to help us to
lay our hands on the man who has deserted her. It’s the old story of a
fellow getting at a girl’s secrets and a girl’s money, under pretence of
marrying her. At one time, she’s furious with him, and at another she’s
ready to cry her eyes out. I got some information from her; it’s not
much, but it may help us. The name of the old woman, who has been the
go-between in the business, is Mrs. Sowler--known to the police as
an inveterate drunkard, and worse. I don’t think there will be much
difficulty in tracing Mrs. Sowler. As to Jervy, if the young woman is
to be believed, and I think she is, there’s little doubt that he has got
the money from the lady mentioned in my instructions here, and that he
has bolted with the sum about him. Wait a bit, sir, I haven’t done with
my discoveries yet. I asked the young woman, of course, if she had his
photograph. He’s a sharp fellow; she had it, but he got it away from
her, on pretence of giving her a better one, before he took himself off.
Having missed this chance, I asked next if she knew where he lived last.
She directed me to the place; and I have had a talk with the landlord.
He tells me of a squint-eyed man, who was a good deal about the house,
doing Jervy’s dirty work for him. If I am not misled by the description,
I think I know the man. I have my own notion of what he’s capable of
doing, if he gets the chance--and I propose to begin by finding our way
to him, and using him as a means of tracing Jervy. It’s only right to
tell you that it may take some time to do this--for which reason I have
to propose, in the mean while, trying a shorter way to the end in view.
Do you object, sir, to the expense of sending a copy of your description
of Jervy to every police-station in London?”
“I object to nothing which may help to find him. Do you think the police
have got him anywhere?”
“You forget, sir, that the police have no orders to take him. What I’m
speculating on is the chance that he has got the money about him--say in
small banknotes, for convenience of changing them, you know.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, the people he lives among--the squint-eyed man, for
instance!--don’t stick at trifles. If any of them have found out that
Jervy’s purse is worth having--”
“You mean they would rob him?”
“And murder him too, sir, if he tried to resist.”
Amelius started to his feet. “Send round to the police-stations without
losing another minute,” he said. “And let me hear what the answer is,
the instant you receive it.”
“Suppose I get the answer late at night, sir?”
“I don’t care when you get it, night or day. Dead or living, I will
undertake to identify him. Here’s a duplicate key of the garden gate.
Come this way, and I’ll show you where my bedroom is. If we are all
in bed, tap at the window--and I will be ready for you at a moment’s
notice.”
On that understanding Morcross left the cottage.
The day when the mortal remains of Mrs. Farnaby were laid at rest was a
day of heavy rain. Mr. Melton, and two or three other old friends, were
the attendants at the funeral. When the coffin was borne into the
damp and reeking burial ground, a young man and a woman were the only
persons, beside the sexton and his assistants, who stood by the open
grave. Mr. Melton, recognizing Amelius, was at a loss to understand
who his companion could be. It was impossible to suppose that he would
profane that solemn ceremony by bringing to it the lost woman at the
cottage. The thick black veil of the person with him hid her face from
view. No visible expressions of grief escaped her. When the last sublime
words of the burial service had been read, those two mourners were left,
after the others had all departed, still standing together by the grave.
Mr. Melton decided on mentioning the circumstance confidentially when
he wrote to his friend in Paris. Telegrams from Regina, in reply to his
telegrams from London, had informed him that Mr. Farnaby had felt the
benefit of the remedies employed, and was slowly on the way to recovery.
It seemed likely that he would, in no long time, take the right course
for the protection of his niece. For the enlightenment which might, or
might not, come with that time, Mr. Melton was resigned to wait, with
the disciplined patience to which he had been mainly indebted for his
success in life.
“Always remember your mother tenderly, my child,” said Amelius, as they
left the burial ground. “She was sorely tried, poor thing, in her life
time, and she loved you very dearly.”
“Do you know anything of my father?” Sally asked timidly. “Is he still
living?”
“My dear, you will never see your father. I must be all that the kindest
father and mother could have been to you, now. Oh, my poor little girl!”
She pressed his arm to her as she held it. “Why should you pity me?” she
said. “Haven’t I got You?”
They passed the day together quietly at the cottage. Amelius took down
some of his books, and pleased Sally by giving her his first lessons.
Soon after ten o’clock she withdrew, at the usual early hour, to her
room. In her absence, he sent for Toff, intending to warn him not to be
alarmed if he heard footsteps in the garden, after they had all gone to
bed. The old servant had barely entered the library, when he was called
away by the bell at the outer gate. Amelius, looking into the hall,
discovered Morcross, and signed to him eagerly to come in. The
police-officer closed the door cautiously behind him. He had arrived
with news that Jervy was found.