SETTING A TRAP.
Gualtier was true to his word. On the evening of the day when he had
that interview with Hilda he left the hotel, and Lausanne also, and
set out for England. On the way he had much to think of, and his
thoughts were not at all pleasant. This frenzy of Hilda's had taken
him by complete surprise, and her utter recklessness of life, or all
the things most desirable in life, were things on which he had never
counted. Her dark resolve also which she had announced to him, the
coolness with which she listened to his menaces, and the stern way in
which she turned on him with menaces of her own, showed him plainly
that, for the present at least, she was beyond his reach, and nothing
which he might do could in any way affect her. Only one thing gave
him hope, and that was the utter madness and impossibility of her
design. He did not know what might have passed between her and Lord
Chetwynde before, but he conjectured that she had been treated with
insult great enough to inspire her with a thirst for vengeance. He
now hoped that Lord Chetwynde, if he did recover, would regard her as
before. He was not a man to change; his mind had been deeply
imbittered against the woman whom he believed his wife, and recovery
of sense would not lessen that bitterness. So Gualtier thought, and
tried to believe, yet in his thoughts he also considered the
possibility of a reconciliation. And, if such a thing could take
place, then his mind was fully made up what to do. He would trample
out all feelings of tenderness, and sacrifice love to full and
complete vengeance. That reconciliation should be made short-lived,
and should end in utter ruin to Hilda, even if he himself descended
into the same abyss with her.
Thoughts like these occupied his mind until he reached London. Then
he drove to the Strand Hotel, and took two front-rooms on the second
story looking out upon the street, commanding a view of the dense
crowd that always went thronging by.
Here, on the evening of his arrival, his thoughts turned to his old
lodging-house, and to those numerous articles of value which he had
left there. He had once made up his mind to let them go, and never
seek to regain possession of them. He was conscious that to do so
would be to endanger his safety, and perhaps to put a watchful
pursuer once more on his track. Yet there was something in the
thought which was attractive. Those articles were of great intrinsic
value, and some of them were precious souvenirs, of little worth to
any one else, yet to him beyond Would it not be worth while to make
an effort at least to regain possession of them? If it could be done,
it would represent so much money at the least, and that was a thing
which it was needful for him to consider. And, in any case, those
mementoes of the past were sufficiently valuable to call for some
effort and some risk. The more he thought of this, the more
resistless became the temptation to make this effort and run this
risk.
And what danger was there? What was the risk, and what was there to
fear? Only one person was in existence from whom any danger could
possibly be apprehended. That one was Black Bill, who had tracked him
to London, and afterward watched at his lodgings, and whom he had
feared so much that for his sake, and for his alone, he had given up
every thing. And now the question that arose was this, did Black Bill
really require so much precaution, and so great a sacrifice? It was
not likely that Black Bill could have given any information to the
police; that would have been too dangerous to himself. Besides, if
the police had heard of such a story, they would have given some
sign. In England every thing is known, and the police are forced to
work openly. Their detective system is a clumsy one compared with the
vast system of secrecy carried on on the Continent. Had they found
out any thing whatever about so important a case as this, some kind
of notice or other would have appeared in the papers. Gualtier had
never ceased to watch for some such notice, but had never found one.
So, with such opinions about the English police, he naturally
concluded that they knew nothing about him.
It was therefore Black Bill, and Black Bill only, against whom he had
to guard. As for him it was indeed possible, he thought, that he was
still watching, but hardly probable. He was not in a position to
spend so many months in idle watching, nor was he able to employ a
confederate. Still less was it possible for such a man to win the
landlord over to his side, and thus get his assistance. The more he
thought of these things the more useless did it seem to entertain any
further fear, and the more irresistible did his desire become to
regain possession of those articles, which to him were of so much
value. Under such circumstances, he finally resolved to make an
effort.
Yet, so cautious was he by nature, so wary and vigilant, and so
accustomed to be on his guard, that in this case he determined to run
no risk by any exposure of his person to observation. He therefore
deliberated carefully about various modes by which he could apply to
the landlord. At first he thought of a disguise; but finally rejected
this idea, thinking that, if Black Bill were really watching, he
would expect some kind of a disguise. At last he decided that it
would be safest to find some kind of a messenger, and send him, after
instructing him what to ask for and what to say.
With this resolve he took a walk out on the Strand on the following
morning, looking carefully at the faces of the great multitude which
thronged the street, and trying to find some one who might be suited
to his purpose. In that crowd there were many who would have gladly
undertaken his business if he had asked them, but Gualtier had made
up his mind as to the kind of messenger which would be best suited to
him, and was unwilling to take any other.
Among the multitude which London holds almost any type of man can be
found, if one looks long enough. The one which Gualtier wished is a
common kind there, and he did not have a long search. A street boy,
sharp, quick-witted, nimble, cunning--hat was what he wanted, and
that was what he found, after regarding many different specimens of
that tribe and rejecting them. The boy whom he selected was somewhat
less ragged than his companions, with a demure face, which, however,
to his scrutinizing eyes, did not conceal the precocious maturity of
mind and fertility of resource which lay beneath. A few words
sufficed to explain his wish, and the boy eagerly accepted the task.
Gualtier then took him to a cheap clothing store, and had him dressed
in clothes which gave him the appearance of being the son of some
small tradesman. After this he took him to his room in the hotel, and
carefully instructed him in the part that he was to perform. The
boy's wits were quickened by London life; the promise of a handsome
reward quickened them still more, and at length, after a final
questioning, in which he did his part to satisfaction, Gualtier gave
him the address of the lodging-house.
"I am going west," said he; "I will be back before eight o'clock. You
must come at eight exactly."
"Yes'r," said the boy.
"Very well. Now go."
And the boy, with a bob of his head, took his departure. The boy went
off, and at length reached the place which Gualtier had indicated. He
rang at the door.
A servant came.
"Is this Mr. Gillis's?"
"Yes."
"Is he in?"
"Do you want to see him?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Particular business."
"Come in," said the servant; and the boy entered the hall and waited.
In a few moments Mr. Gillis made his appearance. He regarded the boy
carefully from head to foot.
"Come into the parlor," said he, leading the way into a room on the
right. The boy followed, and Mr. Gillis shut the door.
"Well," said he, seating himself, "what is it that you want of me?"
"My father," said the boy, "is a grocer in Blackwall. He got a letter
this morning from a friend of his who stopped here some time back. He
had to go to America of a sudden and left his things, and wants to
get 'em."
"Ah!" said Mr. Gillis. "What is the name of the lodger?"
"Mr. Brown," said the boy.
"Brown?" said Mr. Gillis. "Yes, there was such a lodger, I think; but
I don't know about his things. You wait here a moment till I go and
ask Mrs. Gillis."
Saying this Mr. Gillis left the room. After about fifteen or twenty
minutes he returned.
"Well, my boy," said he, "there are some things of Mr. Brown's here
yet, I believe; and you have come for them? Have you a wagon?"
[Illustration: "He Carefully Instructed Him In The Part He Was To
Perform."]
"No. I only come to see if they were here, and to get your bill."
"And your father is Mr. Brown's friend?"
"Yes'r."
"And Mr. Brown wrote to him?"
"Yes'r."
"Well, you know I wouldn't like to give up the things on an
uncertainty. They are very valuable. I would require some order from
your father."
"Yes'r."
Mr. Gillis asked a number of questions of the boy, to which he
responded without hesitation, and then left the room again, saying
that he would go and make out Mr. Brown's bill.
He was gone a long time. The boy amused himself by staring at the
things in the room, at the ornaments, and pictures, and began to
think that Mr. Gillis was never coming back, when at last footsteps
were heard in the hall, the door opened, and Mr. Gillis entered,
followed by two other men. One of these men had the face of a
prizefighter, or a ticket-of-leave man, with abundance of black hair
and beard; his eyes were black and piercing, and his face was the
same which has already been described as the face of Black Bill. But
he was respectably dressed in black, he wore a beaver hat, and had
lost something of his desperate air. The fact is, the police had
taken Black Bill into their employ, and he was doing very well in his
new occupation. The other was a sharp, wiry man, with a cunning face
and a restless, fidgety manner. Both he and Black Bill looked
carefully at the boy, and at length the sharp man spoke:
"You young rascal, do you know who I am?"
The boy started and looked aghast, terrified by such an address.
"No, Sir," he whimpered.
"Well, I'm Thomas S. Davis, detective. Do you understand what that
means?"
"Yes'r," said the boy, whose self-possession completely vanished at
so formidable an announcement.
"Come now, young fellow," said Davis, "you've got to own up. Who are
you?"
"I'm the son of Mr. B. F. Baker, grocer, Blackwall," said the boy, in
a quick monotone.
"What street?"
"Queen Street, No. 17," said the boy.
"There ain't no such street."
"There is, 'cos he lives there."
"You young rascal, don't you suppose I know?"
"Well, I oughter know the place where I was bred and bornd," said the
boy.
"You're a young scamp. You needn't try to come it over me, you know.
Why, I know Blackwall by heart. There isn't such a street there. Who
sent you here?"
"Father."
"What for?"
"He got a letter from a man as used to stop here, askin' of him to
get his things away."
"What is the name of the man?"
"Mr. Brown."
"Brown?"
"Yes'r."
"Where is this Mr. Brown now?"
"In Liverpool."
"How did he get there?"
"He's just come back from America."
"See here, boy, you've got to own up," said Davis, suddenly. "I'm a
detective. We belong to the police. So make a clean breast of it."
"Oh, Sir!" said the boy, in terror.
"Never mind 'Oh, Sir!' but own up," said Davis. "You've got to do
it."
"I ain't got nothin' to own up. I'm sure I don't see why you're so
hard on a poor cove as never did you no harm, nor nobody else."
And saying this the boy sniveled violently.
"I s'pose your dear mamma dressed you up in your Sunday clothes to
come here?" said the detective, sneeringly.
"No, Sir," said the boy, "she didn't, 'cos she's dead, she is."
"Why didn't your father come himself?"
"'Cos he's too busy in his shop."
"Did you ever hear the name of this Brown before to-day?"
"No, Sir, never as I knows on."
"But you said he is a friend of your father's."
"So he is, Sir."
"And you never heard his name before?"
"Never, Sir, in my life, Sir--not this Brown."
"Is your father a religious man?"
"A what, Sir?"
"A religious man."
"I dunno, Sir."
"Does he go to church?"
"Oh, yes'r, to meetin' on Sundays."
"What meeting?"
"Methodist, Sir."
"Where?"
"At No. 13 King Street," said the boy, without a moment's hesitation.
"You young jackass," said Davis. "No. 13 King Street, and all the
numbers near it in Blackwall, are warehouses--what's the use of
trying to humbug me?"
"Who's a-tryin' to humbug you?" whimpered the boy. "I don't remember
the numbers. It's somewhere in King Street. I never go myself."
"You don't, don't you?"
"No, Sir."
"Now, see here, my boy," said Davis, sternly, "I know you. You can't
come it over me. You've got into a nice mess, you have. You've got
mixed in with a conspiracy, and the law's goin' to take hold of you
at once unless you make a clean breast of it."
"Oh Lord!" cried the boy. "Stop that. What am I a-doin' of?"
"Nonsense, you young rascal! Listen to me now, and answer me. Do you
know any thing about this Brown?"
"No, Sir. Father sent me."
"Well, then, let me tell you the police are after him. He's afraid to
come here, and sent you. Don't you go and get mixed up with him. If
you do, it'll be worse for you. This Brown is the biggest villain in
the kingdom, and any man that catches him'll make his blessed
fortune. We're on his tracks, and we're bound to follow him up. So
tell me the truth--where is he now?"
"In Liverpool, Sir."
"You lie, you young devil! But, if you don't own up, it'll be worse
for you."
"How's a poor cove like me to know?" cried the boy. "I'm the son of a
honest, man, and I don't know any thing about your police."
"You'll know a blessed sight more about it before you're two hours
older, if you go on hum-buggin' us this fashion," said Davis,
sternly.
"I ain't a-humbuggin'."
"You are--and I won't stand it. Come now. Brown is a _murderer_, do
you hear? There's a reward offered for him. He's got to be caught.
You've gone and mixed yourself up with this business, and you'll
never get out of the scrape till you make a clean breast of it.
That's all bosh about your father, you know."
"It ain't," said the boy, obstinately.
"Very well, then," said Davis, rising. "You've got to go with us.
We'll go first to Blackwall, and, by the Lord, if we can't find your
father, we'll take it out of you. You'll be put in the jug for ten
years, and you'll have to tell after all. Come along now."
Davis grasped the boy's hand tightly and took him out of the room. A
cab was at the door. Davis, Black Bill, and the boy got into it and
drove along through the streets. The boy was silent and meditative.
At last he spoke:
"It's no use goin' to Blackwall," said he, sulkily. "I ain't got no
father."
"Didn't I know that?" said Davis. "You were lying, you know. Are you
goin' to own up?"
"I s'pose I must."
"Of course you must."
"Well, will you let me go if I tell you all?"
"If you tell all we'll let you go sometime, but we will want you for
a while yet."
"Well," said the boy, "I can't help it. I s'pose I've got to tell."
"Of course you have. And now, first, who sent you here?"
"Mr. Brown."
"Ah! Mr. Brown himself. Where did you see him?"
"In the Strand."
"Did you ever see him before?"
"No. He picked me up, and sent me here."
"Do you know where he is lodging?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"At the Strand Hotel. He took me into his room and told me what I was
to do. I didn't know any thing about him or his business. I only went
on an errand."
"Of course you did," said Davis, encouragingly. "And, if you tell the
truth, you'll be all right; but if you try to humbug us," he added,
sternly, "it'll be the worse for you. Don't you go and mix yourself
up in a murder case. I don't want any thing more of you than for you
to take us to this man's room. You were to see him again to-day--of
course."
"Yes'r."
"At what time?"
"Eight o'clock."
"Well--it's now four. You take us to his room, and we'll wait there."
The boy assented, and the cab drove off for the Strand Hotel.
The crowd in front of the hotel was so dense that it was some time
before the cab could approach the entrance. At last they reached it
and got out, Black Bill first, and then Davis, who still held the
hand of the boy in a tight grasp, for fear that he might try to
escape. They then worked their way through the crowd and entered the
hotel. Davis said something to the clerk, and then they went up
stairs, guided by the boy to Gualtier's room.
On entering it no one was there. Davis went into the adjoining
bedroom, but found it empty. A carpet-bag was lying on the floor
open. On examining it Davis found only a shaving-case and some
changes of linen.
"We'll wait here," said Davis to Black Bill, as he re-entered the
sitting-room. "He's out now. He'll be back at eight to see the boy.
We've got him at last."
And then Black Bill spoke for the first time since the boy had seen
him. A grim smile spread over his hard features.
"Yes," said he, "_we've got him at last_!"