Wilson and the mate returned to the ship laden with their spoils, and
pitching them on board first, descended themselves by a slower but
pleasanter method.
“I expect our chaps are all ashore still,” said the mate, looking
round. “Pretty state they’ll be in for a start. I suppose the boy’s
down with the cap’n.”
“Just go down and send him up,” said the skipper; “it’s rather a
delicate thing to do to give a man a suit of clothes. I don’t want
anybody standing round.”
“There’s no light,” said the mate, looking towards the skylight. He
went below and felt his way into the cabin.
“All in the dark?” he said cheerfully.
There was no reply. He fumbled about in the darkness for the matches,
and having obtained them, struck a light and looked round. The cabin
was empty. He opened the door of the state-room and peered in; that too
was empty.
“He must have gone for a walk with the boy,” said the skipper uneasily
when he returned with the news.
He took up the parcel again and went below, followed by the mate, and
for some time sat silently smoking.
“Nine o’clock,” said the mate at last in consternation as the little
clock tinkled the hour. “That confounded boy’s not up to any mischief,
I s’pose? He’s been in a devil of a temper the last day or two.”
“I don’t see what mischief he could do,” pondered the other, knitting
his brows.
“Look’s to me as if he’s spirited him away,” continued the mate. “I’ll
go ashore and have a look round and see whether I can see anything of
them.”
He took his cap from the locker and went. An hour elapsed, and the
skipper, a prey to great anxiety, went up on deck.
The shops had closed, and with the exception of the street lamps, the
town was in darkness and the streets silent, except for a chance
wayfarer. Two or three seamen came up the quay and went aboard the
steamer in the next berth. A woman came slowly along, peering in an
uncertain fashion at the various craft, and shrinking back as a seaman
passed her. Abreast of the _Seamew_ she stopped, and in the same
doubtful manner looked down on the deck. The skipper crossed to the
side, and straining his eyes through the gloom, looked up at her.
“Is this the _Seamew?_” inquired a fresh girlish voice.
“Annis!” shouted the astounded skipper. “Annis!”
He ran up the rigging, and stepping on to the quay seized her hand.
Then he drew her unresistingly towards him and was in the act of
passing his arm round her waist when he remembered his position and
drew back awkwardly.
“Come on board,” he said gently.
He straddled from the quay to the rigging, and extending his hand in
the midst of a perfect silence, helped her to the deck.
“Where is my father?” she said eagerly.
Wilson made no reply.
“Where is he?” she repeated.
Wilson shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said gloomily, “I don’t know.
He was here an hour or two ago. He was here yesterday.”
She caught his arm breathlessly.
“Where is he now? What have you done with him?”
Wilson told her all he knew and having finished, watched her anxiously
as she drew back a little and tapped on the deck with her foot.
A badly-blended chorus, making up in strength what it lacked in
harmony, sounded on the quay, and gradually coming nearer, stopped at
the _Seamew_ for a final shout. The finale was rendered by the cook and
Dick with much vehemence, while Sam, excited by his potations, danced
madly before them.
“Silence up there!” shouted the skipper sternly, as Annis shrank away.
“A’ right, sir,” hiccupped Dick solemnly. “I’m lookin’ after them. Mind
how you break your neck, Sam.”
Thus adjured, Sam balanced himself on the edge of the quay, and
executing a double shuffle on the very brink of it by way of showing
his complete mastery over his feet, fell into the rigging and
descended. He was followed by Dick and the cook, both drunk, and both
preternaturally solemn.
“Get below,” said the skipper sharply.
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Dick, with a lurch. “Come on, Sam, we—ain’t
wanted—here.”
“It’s all your damned dancing, Sam!” said the cook—who had ever an eye
for beauty—plaintively.
“Will you get below?” roared the maddened skipper, giving him a push.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, turning to Annis as they disappeared;
“everything seems to be going wrong to-night.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said coldly. “Goodnight.”
“Where are you going?” asked Wilson.
“Going to find a hotel,” said Annis; “there’s no train back to-night.”
“Take the cabin,” he said entreatingly, “I and the mate’ll sleep
for’ard.”
“No, thank you,” said Annis.
She stepped to the side, and, assisted by the skipper, clambered up on
to the quay again. The mate came up at the moment and stood eyeing her
curiously.
“This is Miss Gething,” said the skipper slowly. “Any news?”
“None,” said the mate solemnly; “they’ve vanished like smoke.”
“Is it certain,” asked Annis, addressing, him, “that it was my father?”
The mate looked at the skipper and pushed his cap back. “We had no
reason to think otherwise,” he said shortly. “It’s a mystery to me
altogether. He can’t have gone home by train because he had no money.”
“It couldn’t have been my father,” said Annis slowly. “Somebody has
been deceiving you. Good-night. I will come round in the morning; it is
getting late.”
“Where are you going?” inquired the mate.
“She’s going to look for a hotel,” said the skipper, answering for her.
“It’s late,” said the mate dubiously, “and this isn’t much of a place
for hotels. Why not take her to the woman where her father has been
staying? You said she seemed a decent sort.”
“It’s a poor place,” began the other.
“That’ll do,” said Annis decidedly; “if it was good enough for my
father it is good enough for me. If it wasn’t my father I may learn
something about him. Is it far?”
“Two miles,” said the mate.
“We’d better start at once, then,” said the skipper, moving a step or
two by way of example.
“And perhaps you’ll walk down too,” said Annis to the mate.
It went to the mate’s heart to do it, but he was a staunch friend. “No,
I think I’ll turn in,” he said, blushing at his rudeness; “I’m tired.”
He lifted his cap awkwardly and descended. Annis, with her head at an
uncomfortable altitude, set off with the skipper.
“I’m sorry the mate wouldn’t come,” said the latter stiffly.
After this they went on in silence along the quiet road, Miss Gething
realizing instinctively that the man by her side had got a temper equal
to at least a dozen of her own. This made her walk a little closer to
him, and once, ever so lightly, her hand brushed against his. The
skipper put his hands in his jacket pockets.
They reached the late habitation of the mysterious Captain Gething
without another word having been spoken on the journey. The mews was
uninviting enough by daylight, by night it was worse. The body of a
defunct four-wheeler blocked up half the entrance, and a retriever came
out of his kennel at the other end and barked savagely.
“That’s the house,” said Wilson, indicating it—“number five. What’s the
matter?”
For Miss Gething, after making little dabs with her handkerchief at
lips which did not require the attention, was furtively applying it to
eyes which did.
“I’m tired,” she said softly—“tired and disappointed.”
She hesitated a moment, and then before Wilson had quite made up his
mind what to do, moved proudly away and knocked at the door of number
five. It was opened after some delay by an untidy woman in crackers and
a few other things, who having listened to the skipper’s explanation,
admitted Miss Gething to her father’s room. She then saw the skipper to
the door again, and having wished him a somewhat grim good-night,
closed the door.
He walked back as sharply as he could to the schooner, his mind in a
whirl with the events of the evening, and as he neared the quay broke
into a run, in awkward imitation of a small figure approaching from the
opposite direction.
“You little vagabond!” he panted, seizing him by the collar as they
reached the schooner together.
“A’right,” said Henry; “’ave it your own way then.”
“Drop him overboard,” said the mate, who was standing on the deck.
Henry indulged in a glance of contempt—made safe by the darkness—at
this partisan, and with the air of one who knows that he has an
interesting yarn to spin, began at the beginning and worked slowly up
for his effects. The expediency of brevity and point was then tersely
pointed out to him by both listeners, the highly feminine trait of
desiring the last page first being strongly manifested.
“I can’t make head or tail of it,” said the skipper, after the artist
had spoilt his tale to suit his public. “He’s taken fright at something
or other. Well, we’ll go after him.”
“They’re getting away at about one,” said the mate; “and suppose he
won’t come, what are you going to do then? After all, it mightn’t be
her father. Damned unsatisfactory I call it!”
“I don’t know what to do,” said the bewildered skipper; “I don’t know
what’s best.”
“Well, it ain’t my business,” said Henry, who had been standing by
silently; “but I know what I should do.”
Both men leaned forward eagerly.
“I may be a young vagabond,” said Henry, enjoying to the full this
tribute to his powers—“p’raps I am. I may be put to bed by a set of
grinning idiots; I may—”
“What would you do, Henry?” asked the skipper very quietly.
“Go back an’ fetch Miss Gething, o’ course,” said the boy, “an’ take
her down to the ship. That’ll settle it.”
“By Jove! the boy’s right,” said the mate—“if there’s time.”
But the skipper had already started.
“You’re a very good boy, Henry,” said the mate approvingly. “Now go
down and watch the _Frolic_ again, and as soon as she starts getting
under way run back and let us know. If she passes before he comes back
I’ll hail her and try and find out what it all means.”
Meantime the skipper, half walking, half running, went on his way to
Overcourt, arriving at Stagg’s Gardens in a breathless condition.
Number five was fast asleep when he reached it and began a violent
thumping upon the door.
“Who’s there? What do you want?” demanded a shrill voice as the window
was thrown up and a female head protruded.
“I want to see that young lady I brought here a little while ago,” said
the skipper—“quick.”
“What, at this time o’ night!” said the lady. “Be reasonable, young
man, if you _are_ sweethearting.”
“Something important,” said the skipper impatiently.
“Can’t you tell me what it is?” said the lady, who felt that she was in
a position to have her curiosity satisfied.
“Tell her I’ve got news of her father,” said the skipper, restraining
himself with difficulty.
The head disappeared and the window was closed. After what seemed an
hour to the impatient man, he heard a step in the passage, the door
opened, and Annis stood before him.
With a very few words they were walking together again down the road,
Annis listening to his story as they went. It was a long way, and she
was already tired, but she refused the offer of her companion’s arm
with a spirit which showed that she had not forgotten the previous
journey. As they neared the _Seamew_ the skipper’s spirits sank, for
the mate, who was watching, ran out to meet them.
“It’s no use,” he said sympathetically; “she’s under way. Shall we hail
her as she goes by?”
The skipper, leaving Annis unceremoniously on the quay, sprang aboard
and peered anxiously down the river. The night was starlit, and he
could just discern a craft coming slowly towards them.
“Hoist a couple of lanterns, Jack, and call the crew up quickly,” he
cried to the mate.
“What for?” said the other in astonishment.
“You light ’em,” cried the skipper excitedly. “Henry, help me off with
these hatches.”
He was down on his knees with the boy unfastening them, while the mate,
having lit a lantern, ran forward to rouse the men. The _Frolic_ was
now but twenty yards astern.
“Ahoy! schooner, ahoy!” bawled Wilson, running suddenly to the side.
“Halloa!” came a hoarse voice.
“Are you full up?” shouted the master of the _Seamew_.
“No,” came the roar again.
“Drop your anchor and come alongside,” shouted the skipper, “I’ve got
to stay here another week, and I’ve got a dozen barrels o’ herring must
be in London before then.”
The _Frolic_ was abreast of them, and he held his breath with suspense.
“It won’t take you half an hour,” he shouted anxiously.
The grating of the cable was music in his ears as it ran out, and
hardly able to believe in the success of his scheme he saw the crew
taking in the sail they had just begun to set. Ten minutes later the
_Frolic_ was rubbing against his side.
The hatches were off the _Seamew_, and a lantern swinging in her hold
shed a sickly light upon the sleepy faces of her crew. The mate was at
the foc’sle whispering instructions to Annis.
“Look alive,” said the master of the _Frolic_, “I’ll just take ’em on
deck for the present.”
He came fussily to the side to superintend, gazing curiously at Annis,
who was standing watching the operations.
“What a nice ship!” she said. “May I come on board?”
“You’re quite welcome if you don’t get in the way,” was the reply.
Accepting this qualified permission, Annis stepped on board and walked
quietly round the deck. At the companion she paused and looked round.
Everybody was busy; and trembling with nervousness, she hesitated a
moment and then descended into the dark cabin.
“That you, captain?” said a voice. “What are we stopping for?”
Annis made no reply.
“Who is it?” said the voice again.
“Hush!” said Annis.
“Oh, all right,” said Mr. Tillotson shortly. “What’s wrong?”
Annis hesitated, waiting to hear another voice, but in vain. She
fancied that she heard another person breathing, but that was all.
“Father!” she cried, suddenly. “It’s me! Annis! Where are you?”
There was a great shout from the other side of the cabin, and in the
gloom she saw something spring up and come towards her. Something which
caught her in a mighty grasp and crushed her soft face against a long,
stiff beard. Laughing and crying together she put her arms about its
neck and clung to it convulsively.
“There, there, my lass!” said Captain Gething at last.
“We only stopped you by a miracle,” said Annis hysterically. “The
_Seamew_ is alongside, and why you wanted to run away again I don’t
know.”
“I don’t understand,” said Captain Gething wearily.
“You can understand that _I_ wouldn’t take you into danger,” said Annis
tenderly. “Put your coat on and come with me.”
Without another word Captain Gething did as he was bid. He stopped, as
though to speak to Tillotson, and then thinking better of it, followed
his daughter on deck.
“I’m not coming with you, cap’n,” he said as that ardent mariner passed
them rolling a barrel along the deck.
“A’ right,” said the other briefly; “you won’t get your money back.”
In a shamefaced fashion Captain Gething, still holding his daughter’s
arm, stepped on board the _Seamew_ and shook hands with its master. By
the time he was half through his story there was a burning desire on
the part of the skipper to go down and have a look at Tillotson—a
desire peremptorily checked by Annis, who had an erroneous opinion
concerning that gentleman’s identity, and the _Frolic_ having taken in
its herrings, sheered off with a friendly good-night. The crew of the
_Seamew_ watched her until she had her anchor up, and then, at the
impatient suggestion of Henry, who was stage managing, went below.
“Are you satisfied now?” inquired Wilson in a low voice, as Captain
Gething, with a wisdom born of years, went slowly below.
“Quite,” breathed Annis softly.
“I’m not,” said Wilson, in tones full of meaning.
Miss Gething smiled, and leaning against the side surveyed, with some
interest, the dark water and the sleeping town. She did not move when
Wilson came and stood by her, and when he took her hand, made no
protest.
“I’m not satisfied—yet,” said Wilson, raising her hand to his lips.
His eye caught the two lanterns which were burning somewhat garishly,
and crossing over, he took them down and blew them out. He turned
suddenly at the sound of a smothered laugh, a moment too late. Annis
Gething had gone below.
THE BROWN MAN’S SERVANT
CHAPTER I
The shop of Solomon Hyams stood in a small thoroughfare branching off
the Commercial Road. In its windows unredeemed pledges of all kinds,
from old-time watches to seamen’s boots, appealed to all tastes and
requirements. Bundles of cigars, candidly described as “wonderful,”
were marked at absurdly low figures, while silver watches endeavored to
excuse the clumsiness of their make by describing themselves as “strong
workmen’s.” The side entrance, up a narrow alley, was surmounted by the
usual three brass balls, and here Mr. Hyams’ clients were wont to call.
They entered as optimists, smiled confidently upon Mr. Hyams, argued,
protested shrilly, and left the establishment pessimists of a most
pronounced and virulent type.
None of these things, however, disturbed the pawnbroker. The drunken
client who endeavored to bail out his Sunday clothes with a tram ticket
was accommodated with a chair, while the assistant went to hunt up his
friends and contract for a speedy removal; the old woman who, with a
view of obtaining a higher advance than usual, poured a tale of
grievous woe into the hardened ears of Mr. Hyams, found herself left to
the same invaluable assistant, and, realizing her failure, would at
once become cheerful and take what was offered. Mr. Hyams’ methods of
business were quiet and unostentatious, and rumor had it that he might
retire at any time and live in luxury.
It was a cold, cheerless afternoon in November as Mr. Hyams, who had
occasional hazy ideas of hygiene, stood at his door taking the air. It
was an atmosphere laden with soot and redolent of many blended odors,
but after the fusty smell of the shop it was almost health-giving. In
the large public-house opposite, with its dirty windows and faded
signboards, the gas was already being lit, which should change it from
its daylight dreariness to a resort of light and life.
Mr. Hyams, who was never in a hurry to light up his own premises, many
of his clients preferring the romantic light which comes between day
and night for their visits, was about to leave the chilly air for the
warmth inside, when his attention was attracted by a seaman of sturdy
aspect stopping and looking in at his window. Mr. Hyams rubbed his
hands softly. There was an air of comfort and prosperity about this
seaman, and the pawnbroker had many small articles in his window,
utterly useless to the man, which he would have liked to have sold him.
The man came from the window, made as though to pass, and then paused
irresolute before the pawn-broker.
“You want a watch?” said the latter genially. “Come inside.”
Mr. Hyams went behind his counter and waited.
“I don’t want to buy nothing, and I don’t want to pawn nothing,” said
the sailor. “What do you think o’ that?”
Mr. Hyams, who objected to riddles, especially those which seemed to be
against business, eyed him unfavorably from beneath his shaggy
eyebrows.
“We might have a little quiet talk together,” said the seaman, “you an’
me; we might do a little bit o’ business together, you an’ me. In the
parler, shall we say, over a glass o’ something hot?”
Mr. Hyams hesitated. He was not averse to a little business of an
illicit nature, but there rose up vividly before him the picture of
another sailor who had made much the same sort of proposal, and, after
four glasses of rum, had merely suggested to him that he should lend
him twenty pounds on the security of an I.O.U. It was long since, but
the memory of it still rankled.
“What sort of business is it?” he inquired.
“Business that’s too big for you, p’raps,” said the sailor with a
lordly air. “I’ll try a bigger place. What’s that lantern-faced swab
shoving his ugly mug into the daylight for?”
“Get off,” said the pawnbroker to the assistant, who was quietly and
unobtrusively making a third.
“Mind the shop. This gentleman and I have business in the parlor. Come
this way, sir.”
He raised the flap of the counter, and led the way to a small, untidy
room at the back of the shop. A copper kettle was boiling on the fire,
and the table was already laid for tea. The pawnbroker, motioning his
visitor to a dingy leather armchair, went to a cupboard and produced a
bottle of rum, three parts full, and a couple of glasses.
“Tea for me,” said the seaman, eyeing the bottle wistfully.
The pawnbroker pricked up his ears. “Nonsense,” he said, with an
attempt at heartiness, “a jolly fellow like you don’t want tea. Have
some o’ this.”
“Tea, confound yer!” said the other. “When I say tea, I mean tea.”
The pawnbroker, repressing his choler, replaced the bottle, and,
seating himself at the table, reached over for the kettle, and made the
tea. It was really a pleasing picture of domestic life, and would have
looked well in a lantern slide at a temperance lecture, the long, gaunt
Jew and the burly seaman hobnobbing over the blameless teapot. But Mr.
Hyams grew restless. He was intent upon business; but the other, so far
as his inroads on the teapot and the eatables gave any indication,
seemed to be bent only upon pleasure. Once again the picture of the
former sailor rose before Mr. Hyams’ eyes, and he scowled fiercely as
the seaman pushed his cup up for the fourth time.
“And now for a smoke,” said his visitor, as he settled back in his
chair. “A good ’un, mind. Lord, this is comfort! It’s the first bit o’
comfort I’ve ’ad since I come ashore five days ago.”
The pawnbroker grunted, and producing a couple of black, greasy-looking
cigars, gave one to his guest. They both fell to smoking, the former
ill at ease, the latter with his feet spread out on the small fender,
making the very utmost of his bit of comfort.
“Are you a man as is fond of asking questions?” he said at length.
“No,” said the pawnbroker, shutting his lips illustratively.
“Suppose,” said the sailor, leaning forward intently—“suppose a man
came to you an’ ses— there’s that confounded assistant of yours peeping
through the door.”
The pawnbroker got up almost as exasperated as the seaman, and, after
rating his assistant through the half-open door, closed it with a bang,
and pulled down a small blind over the glass.
“Suppose a man came to you,” resumed the sailor, after the pawnbroker
had seated himself again, “and asked you for five hundred pounds for
something. Have you got it?”
“Not here,” said the pawnbroker suspiciously. “I don’t keep any money
on the premises.”
“You could get it, though?” suggested the other.
“We’ll see,” said the pawnbroker; “five hundred pounds is a
fortune—five hundred pounds, why it takes years of work—five hundred
pounds—”
“I don’t want no blessed psalms,” said the seaman abruptly; “but, look
here, suppose I wanted five hundred pounds for something, and you
wouldn’t give it. How am I to know you wouldn’t give information to the
police if I didn’t take what you offered me for it?”
The pawnbroker threw up his huge palms in virtuous horror.
“I’d mark you for it if you did,” said the seaman menacingly, through
his teeth. “It ’ud be the worst day’s work you ever did. Will you take
it or leave it at my price, an’ if you won’t give it, leave me to go as
I came?”
“I will,” said the pawnbroker solemnly.
The seaman laid his cigar in the tray, where it expired in a little
puddle of tea, and, undoing his coat, cautiously took from his waist a
canvas belt In a hesitating fashion he dangled the belt in his hands,
looking from the Jew to the door, and from the door back to the Jew
again. Then from a pocket in the belt he took something wrapped in a
small piece of dirty flannel, and, unrolling it, deposited on the table
a huge diamond, whose smouldering fires flashed back in many colors the
light from the gas.
The Jew, with an exclamation, reached forward to handle it, but the
sailor thrust him back.
“Hands off,” he said grimly. “None of your ringing the changes on me.”
He tipped it over with his finger-nail on the table from side to side,
the other, with his head bent down, closely inspecting it. Then, as a
great indulgence, he laid it on the Jew’s open palm for a few seconds.
“Five hundred pounds,” he said, taking it in his own hands again.
The pawnbroker laughed. It was a laugh which he kept for business
purposes, and would have formed a valuable addition to the goodwill of
the shop.
“I’ll give you fifty,” he said, after he had regained his composure.
The seaman replaced the gem in its wrapper again.
“Well, I’ll give you seventy, and risk whether I lose over it,”
continued the pawnbroker.
“Five hundred’s my price,” said the seaman calmly, as he placed the
belt about his waist and began to buckle it up.
“Seventy-five,” said the pawnbroker persuasively.
“Look here,” said the seaman, regarding him sternly, “you drop it. I’m
not going to haggle with you. I’m not going to haggle with any man. I
ain’t no judge o’ diamonds, but I’ve ’ad cause to know as this is
something special. See here.”
He rolled back the coat sleeve from his brawny arm, and revealed a
long, newly healed scar.
“I risked my life for that stone,” he said slowly. “I value my life at
five hundred pounds. It’s likely worth more than as many thousands, and
you know it. However, good-night to you, mate. How much for the tea?”
He put his hand contemptuously in his trouser pocket, and pulled out
some small change.
“There’s the risk of getting rid of the stone,” said the pawnbroker,
pushing aside the proffered coin. “Where did it come from? Has it got a
history?”
“Not in Europe it ain’t,” said the seaman. “So far as I know, you an’
me an’ one other are the only white men as know of it. That’s all I’m
going to tell you.”
“Do you mind waiting while I go and fetch a friend of mine to see it?”
inquired the pawnbroker. “You needn’t be afraid,” he added hastily.
“He’s a respectable man and as close as the grave.”
“I’m not afraid,” said the seaman quietly. “But no larks, mind. I’m not
a nice man to play them on. I’m pretty strong, an’ I’ve got something
else besides.”
He settled himself in the armchair again, and accepting another cigar,
watched his host as he took his hat from the sideboard.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” said the latter somewhat anxiously.
“You won’t go before I come?”
“Not me,” said the seaman bluntly. “When I say a thing I stick to it. I
don’t haggle, and haggle, and—” he paused a moment for a word, “and
haggle,” he concluded.
Left to himself, he smoked on contentedly, blandly undisturbed by the
fact that the assistant looked in at the door occasionally, to see that
things were all right. It was quite a new departure for Mr. Hyams to
leave his parlor to a stranger, and the assistant felt a sense of
responsibility so great that it was a positive relief to him when his
master returned, accompanied by another man.
“This is my friend,” said Mr. Hyams, as they entered the parlor and
closed the door. “You might let him see the stone.”
The seaman took off his belt again, and placing the diamond in his hand
held it before the stranger who, making no attempt to take it, turned
it over with his finger and examined it critically.
“Are you going to sea again just yet?” he inquired softly.
“Thursday night,” said the seaman, “Five hundred is my price; p’raps he
told you. I’m not going to haggle.”
“Just so, just so,” said the other quietly. “It’s worth five hundred.”
“Spoke like a man,” said the seaman warmly.
“I like to deal with a man who knows his own mind,” said the stranger,
“it saves trouble. But if we buy it for that amount you must do one
thing for us. Keep quiet and don’t touch a drop of liquor until you
sail, and not a word to anybody.”
“You needn’t be afraid o’ the licker,” said the sailor grimly. “I
shan’t touch that for my own sake.”
“He’s a teetotaler,” explained the pawnbroker.
“He’s not,” said the seaman indignantly.
“Why won’t you drink, then?” asked the other man.
“Fancy,” said the seaman dryly, and closed his mouth.
Without another word the stranger turned to the pawnbroker, who, taking
a pocket-book from his coat, counted out the amount in notes. These,
after the sailor had examined them in every possible manner, he rolled
up and put in his pocket, then without a word he took out the diamond
again and laid it silently on the table. Mr. Hyams, his fingers
trembling with eagerness, took it up and examined it delightedly.
“You’ve got it a bargain,” said the seaman. “Good-night, gentlemen. I
hope, for your sakes, nobody’ll know I’ve parted with it. Keep your
eyes open, and trust nobody. When you see black, smell mischief. I’m
glad to get rid of it.”
He threw his head back, and, expanding his chest as though he already
breathed more freely, nodded to both men, and, walking through the
shop, passed out into the street and disappeared.
Long after he had gone, the pawnbroker and his friend, Levi, sat with
the door locked and the diamond before them, eagerly inspecting it.
“It’s a great risk,” said the pawnbroker. “A stone like that generally
makes some noise.”
“Anything good is risky,” said the other somewhat contemptuously. “You
don’t expect to get a windfall like that without any drawback, do you?”
He took the stone in his hand again, and eyed it lovingly. “It’s from
the East somewhere,” he said quietly. “It’s badly cut, but it’s a
diamond of diamonds, a king of gems.”
“I don’t want any trouble with the police,” said the pawnbroker, as he
took it from him.
“You are talking now as though you have just made a small advance on a
stolen overcoat,” said his friend impatiently. “A risk like that—and
you have done it before now—is a foolish one to run; the game is not
worth the candle. But this—why it warms one’s blood to look at it.”
“Well, I’ll leave it with you,” said the pawnbroker. “If you do well
with it I ought not to want to work any more.”
The other placed it in an inside pocket, while the owner watched him
anxiously.
“Don’t let any accident happen to you to-night, Levi,” he said
nervously.
“Thanks for your concern,” said Levi grimacing. “I shall probably be
careful for my own sake.”
He buttoned up his coat, and, drinking a glass of hot whisky, went out
whistling. He had just reached the door when the pawnbroker called him
back.
“If you like to take a cab, Levi,” he said, in a low voice so that the
assistant should not hear, “I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll take an omnibus,” said Levi, smiling quietly. “You’re getting
extravagant, Hyams. Besides, fancy the humor of sitting next to a
pickpocket with this on me.”
He waved a cheery farewell, and the pawnbroker, watching him from the
door, scowled angrily as he saw his light-hearted friend hail an
omnibus at the corner and board it. Then he went back to the shop, and
his everyday business of making advances on flat-irons and other
realizable assets of the neighborhood.
At ten o’clock he closed for the night, the assistant hurriedly pulling
down the shutters that his time for recreation might not be unduly
curtailed. He slept off the premises, and the pawnbroker, after his
departure, made a slight supper, and sat revolving the affairs of the
day over another of his black cigars until nearly midnight. Then, well
contented with himself, he went up the bare, dirty stairs to his room
and went to bed, and, despite the excitement of the evening, was soon
in a loud slumber, from which he was aroused by a distant and sustained
knocking.
CHAPTER II
At first the noise mingled with his dreams, and helped to form them. He
was down a mine, and grimy workers with strong picks were knocking
diamonds from the walls, diamonds so large that he became despondent at
the comparative smallness of his own. Then he awoke suddenly and sat up
with a start, rubbing his eyes. The din was infernal to a man who liked
to do a quiet business in an unobtrusive way. It was a knocking which
he usually associated with the police, and it came from his side door.
With a sense of evil strong upon him, the Jew sprang from his bed, and,
slipping the catch, noiselessly opened the window and thrust his head
out. In the light of a lamp which projected from the brick wall at the
other end of the alley he saw a figure below.
“Hulloa!” said the Jew harshly.
His voice was drowned in the noise.
“What do you want?” he yelled. “Hulloa, there! What do you want, I
say?”
The knocking ceased, and the figure, stepping back a little, looked up
at the window.
“Come down and open the door,” said a voice which the pawnbroker
recognized as the sailor’s.
“Go away,” he said, in a low, stern voice. “Do you want to rouse the
neighborhood?”
“Come down and let me in,” said the other. “It’s for your own good.
You’re a dead man if you don’t.”
Impressed by his manner the Jew, after bidding him shortly not to make
any more noise, lit his candle, and, dressing hurriedly, took the light
in his hand and went grumbling downstairs into the shop.
“Now, what do you want?” he said through the door.
“Let me in and I’ll tell you,” said the other, “or I’ll bawl it through
the keyhole, if you like.”
The Jew, placing the candle on the counter, drew back the heavy bolts
and cautiously opened the door. The seaman stepped in, and, as the
other closed the door, vaulted on to the counter and sat there with his
legs dangling.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding approvingly in the direction of the
Jew’s right hand. “I hope you know how to use it.”
“What do you want?” demanded the other irritably, putting his hand
behind him. “What time o’ night do you call this for turning
respectable men out of their beds?”
“I didn’t come for the pleasure o’ seeing your pretty face again, you
can bet,” said the seaman carelessly. “It’s good nature what’s brought
me here. What have you done with that diamond?”
“That’s my business,” said the other. “What do you want?”
“I told you I sailed in five days,” said the seaman. “Well, I got
another ship this evening instead, and I sail at 6 a.m. Things are
getting just a bit too thick for me, an’ I thought out o’ pure good
nature I’d step round and put you on your guard.”
“Why didn’t you do so at first?” said the Jew, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Well, I didn’t want to spoil a bargain,” said the seaman carelessly.
“Maybe, you wouldn’t have bought the stone if I had told you. Mind that
thing don’t go off; I don’t want to rob you. Point it the other way.”
“There was four of us in that deal,” he continued, after the other had
complied with his request. “Me an’ Jack Ball and Nosey Wheeler and a
Burmese chap; the last I see o’ Jack Ball he was quiet and peaceful,
with a knife sticking in his chest. If I hadn’t been a very careful man
I’d have had one sticking in mine. If you ain’t a very careful man, and
do what I tell you, you’ll have one sticking in yours.”
“Speak a little more plainly,” said the Jew. “Come into the parlor, I
don’t want the police to see a light in the shop.”
“We stole it,” said the seaman, as he followed the other into the
little back parlor, “the four of us, from—”
“I don’t want to know anything about that,” interrupted the other
hastily.
The sailor grinned approvingly, and continued: “Then me an’ Jack being
stronger than them, we took it from them two, but they got level with
poor Jack. I shipped before the mast on a barque, and they came over by
steamer an’ waited for me.”
“Well, you’re not afraid of them?” said the Jew interrogatively.
“Besides, a word to the police—”
“Telling ’em all about the diamond,” said the seaman. “Oh, yes. Well,
you can do that now if you feel so inclined. They know all about
_that_, bless you, and, if they were had, they’d blab about the
diamond.”
“Have they been dogging you?” inquired the pawnbroker.
“Dogging me!” said the seaman. “Dogging’s no word for it. Wherever I’ve
been they’ve been my shadders. They want to hurt me, but they’re
careful about being hurt themselves. That’s where I have the pull of
them. They want the stone back first, and revenge afterwards, so I
thought I’d put you on your guard, for they pretty well guess who’s got
the thing now. You’ll know Wheeler by his nose, which is broken.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” said the Jew, “but thank you for telling me.
Did they follow you here?”
“They’re outside, I’ve no doubt,” said the other; “but they come along
like human cats—leastways, the Burmah chap does. You want eyes in the
back of your head for them almost. The Burmese is an old man and soft
as velvet, and Jack Ball just afore he died was going to tell me
something about him. I don’t know what it was; but, pore Jack, he was a
superstitious sort o’ chap, and I know it was something horrible. He
was as brave as a lion, was Jack, but he was afraid o’ that little
shrivelled-up Burmese. They’ll follow me to the ship to-night. If
they’ll only come close enough, and there’s nobody nigh, I’ll do Jack a
good turn.”
“Stay here till the morning,” said the Jew.
The seaman shook his head. “I don’t want to miss my ship,” said he;
“but remember what I’ve told you, and mind, they’re villains, both of
them, and if you are not very careful, they’ll have you, sooner or
later. Good-night!”
He buttoned up his coat, and leading the way to the door, followed by
the Jew with the candle, opened it noiselessly, and peered carefully
out right and left. The alley was empty.
“Take this,” said the Jew, proffering his pistol.
“I’ve got one,” said the seaman. “Good-night!”
He strode boldly up the alley, his footsteps sounding loudly in the
silence of the night. The Jew watched him to the corner, and then,
closing the door, secured it with extra care, and went back to his
bedroom, where he lay meditating upon the warning which had just been
given to him until he fell asleep.
Before going downstairs next morning he placed the revolver in his
pocket, not necessarily for use, but as a demonstration of the lengths
to which he was prepared to go. His manner with two or three
inoffensive gentlemen of color was also somewhat strained. Especially
was this the case with a worthy Lascar, who, knowing no English,
gesticulated cheerfully in front of him with a long dagger which he
wanted to pawn.
The morning passed without anything happening, and it was nearly
dinner-time before anything occurred to justify the sailor’s warning.
Then, happening to glance at the window, he saw between the articles
which were hanging there a villainous face, the principal feature of
which being strangely bent at once recalled the warning of the sailor.
As he looked the face disappeared, and a moment later its owner, after
furtively looking in at the side door, entered quietly.
“Morning, boss,” said he.
The pawnbroker nodded and waited.
“I want to have a little talk with you, boss,” said the man, after
waiting for him to speak.
“All right, go on,” said the other.
“What about ’im?” said the man, indicating the assistant with a nod.
“Well, what about him?” inquired the Jew.
“What I’ve got to say is private,” said the man.
The Jew raised his eyebrows.
“You can go in and get your dinner, Bob,” he said. “Now, what do you
want?” he continued. “Hurry up, because I’m busy.”
“I come from a pal o’ mine,” said the man, speaking in a low voice,
“him what was ’ere last night. He couldn’t come himself, so he sent me.
He wants it back.”
“Wants what back?” asked the Jew.
“The diamond,” said the other.
“Diamond? What on earth are you talking about?” demanded the
pawnbroker.
“You needn’t try to come it on me,” said the other fiercely. “We want
that diamond back, and, mind you, we’ll have it.”
“You clear out,” said the Jew. “I don’t allow people to come
threatening me. Out you go.”
“We’ll do more than threaten you,” said the man, the veins in his
forehead swelling with rage. “You’ve got that diamond. You got it for
five ’undred pound. We’ll give you that back for it, and you may think
yourself lucky to get it.”
“You’ve been drinking,” said the Jew, “or somebody’s been fooling you.”
“Look here,” said the man with a snarl, “drop it. I’m dealing fair an’
square by you. I don’t want to hurt a hair of your head. I’m a
peaceable man, but I want my own, and, what’s more, I can get it. I got
the shell, and I can get the kernel. Do you know what I mean by that?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said the Jew. He moved off a little
way, and, taking some tarnished spoons from a box, began to rub them
with a piece of leather.
“I daresay you can take a hint as well as anybody else,” said the
other. “Have you seen that before?”
He threw something on the counter, and the Jew started, despite
himself, as he glanced up. _It was the sailor’s belt_.
“That’s a hint,” said the man with a leer, “and a very fair one.”
The Jew looked at him steadily, and saw that he was white and nervous;
his whole aspect that of a man who was running a great risk for a great
stake.
“I suppose,” he said at length, speaking very slowly, “that you want me
to understand that you have murdered the owner of this.”
“Understand what you like,” said the other with sullen ferocity. “Will
you let us have that back again?”
“No,” said the Jew explosively. “I have no fear of a dog like you; if
it was worth the trouble I’d send for the police and hand you over to
them.”
“Call them,” said the other; “do; I’ll wait. But mark my words, if you
don’t give us the stone back you’re a dead man. I’ve got a pal what
half that diamond belongs to. He’s from the East, and a bad man to
cross. He has only got to wish it, and you’re a dead man without his
raising a finger at you. I’ve come here to do you a good turn; if he
comes here it’s all up with you.”
“Well, you go back to him,” jeered the Jew; “a clever man like that can
get the diamond without going near it seemingly. You’re wasting your
time here, and it’s a pity; you must have got a lot of friends.”
“Well, I’ve warned you,” said the other, “you’ll have one more warning.
If you won’t be wise you must keep the diamond, but it won’t be much
good to you. It’s a good stone, but, speaking for myself I’d sooner be
alive without it than dead with it.”
He gave the Jew a menacing glance and departed, and the assistant
having by this time finished his dinner, the pawnbroker went to his own
with an appetite by no means improved by his late interview.
CHAPTER III
The cat, with its fore-paws tucked beneath it, was dozing on the
counter. Business had been slack that morning, and it had only been
pushed off three times. It had staked out a claim on that counter some
five years before, and if anything was required to convince it of the
value of the possession it was the fact that it was being constantly
pushed off. To a firm-minded cat this alone gave the counter a value
difficult to overestimate, and sometimes an obsequious customer fell
into raptures over its beauty. This was soothing, and the animal
allowed customers of this type to scratch it gently behind the ear.
The cat was for the time the only occupant of the shop. The assistant
was out, and the pawnbroker sat in the small room beyond, with the door
half open, reading a newspaper. He had read the financial columns,
glanced at the foreign intelligence, and was just about to turn to the
leader when his eye was caught by the headline, “Murder in
White-chapel.”
He folded the paper back, and, with a chilly feeling creeping over him,
perused the account. In the usual thrilling style it recorded the
finding of the body of a man, evidently a sailor, behind a hoarding
placed in front of some shops in course of erection. There was no clue
to the victim, who had evidently been stabbed from behind in the
street, and then dragged or carried to the place in which the body had
been discovered.
The pockets had been emptied, and the police who regarded the crime as
an ordinary one of murder and robbery, entertained the usual hopes of
shortly arresting the assassins.
The pawnbroker put the paper down, and drummed on the table with his
fingers. The description of the body left no room for doubt that the
victim of the tragedy and the man who had sold him the diamond were
identical. He began to realize the responsibilities of the bargain, and
the daring of his visitor of the day before, in venturing before him
almost red-handed, gave him an unpleasant idea of the lengths to which
he was prepared to go. In a pleasanter direction it gave him another
idea; it was strong confirmation of Levi’s valuation of the stone.
“I shall see my friend again,” said the Jew to himself, as he looked up
from the paper. “Let him make an attempt on me and we’ll see.”
He threw the paper down, and, settling back in his chair, fell into a
pleasing reverie. He saw his release from sordid toil close at hand. He
would travel and enjoy his life. Pity the diamond hadn’t come twenty
years before. As for the sailor, well, poor fellow, why didn’t he stay
when he was asked?
The cat, still dozing, became aware of a strong strange odor. In a lazy
fashion it opened one eye, and discovered that an old, shrivelled up
little man, with a brown face, was standing by the counter. It watched
him lazily, but warily, out of a half-closed eye, and then, finding
that he appeared to be quite harmless, closed it again.
The intruder was not an impatient type of customer. He stood for some
time gazing round him; then a thought struck him, and he approached the
cat and stroked it with a masterly hand. Never, in the course of its
life, had the animal met such a born stroker. Every touch was a caress,
and a gentle thrum, thrum rose from its interior in response.
Something went wrong with the stroker. He hurt. The cat started up
suddenly and jumped behind the counter. The dark gentleman smiled an
evil smile, and, after waiting a little longer, tapped on the counter.
The pawnbroker came from the little room beyond, with the newspaper in
his hand, and his brow darkened as he saw the customer. He was of a
harsh and dominant nature, and he foresaw more distasteful threats.
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded abruptly.
“Morning, sir,” said the brown man in perfect English; “fine day.”
“The day’s well enough,” said the Jew.
“I want a little talk with you,” said the other suavely, “a little,
quiet, reasonable talk.”
“You’d better make it short,” said the Jew. “My time is valuable.”
The brown man smiled, and raised his hand with a deprecatory gesture.
“Many things are valuable,” said he, “but time is the most valuable of
all. And time to us means life.”
The Jew saw the covert threat, and grew more irritable still.
“Get to your business,” he said sharply.
The brown man leant on the counter, and regarded him with a pair of
fierce, brown eyes, which age had not dimmed.
“You are a reasonable man,” he said slowly, “a good merchant. I can see
it. But sometimes a good merchant makes a bad bargain. In that case
what does the good merchant do?”
“Get out of here,” said the Jew angrily.
“He makes the best of it,” continued the other calmly, “and he is a
lucky man if he is not too late to repair the mischief. _You are not
too late_.”
The Jew laughed boisterously.
“There was a sailor once made a bad bargain,” said the brown man, still
in the same even tones, “and he died—of grief.”
He grinned at this pleasantry until his face looked like a cracked
mask.
“I read in this paper of a sailor being killed,” said the Jew, holding
it up. “Have you ever heard of the police, of prison, and of the
hangman?”
“All of them,” said the other softly.
“I might be able to put the hangman on the track of the sailor’s
murderer,” continued the Jew grimly.
The brown man smiled and shook his head. “You are too good a merchant,”
he said; “besides, it would be very difficult.”
“It would be a pleasure to me,” said the Jew.
“Let us talk business like men, not nonsense like children,” said the
brown man suddenly. “You talk of hangmen. I talk of death. Well,
listen. Two nights ago you bought a diamond from a sailor for five
hundred pounds. Unless you give me that diamond back for the same money
I will kill you.”
“What?” snarled the Jew, drawing his gaunt figure to its full height.
“You, you miserable mummy?”
“I will kill you,” repeated the brown man calmly. “I will send death to
you—death in a horrible shape. I will send a devil, a little artful,
teasing devil, to worry you and kill you. In the darkness he will come
and spring out on you. You had better give back the diamond, and live.
If you give it back I promise you your life.”
He paused, and the Jew noticed that his face had changed, and in place
of the sardonic good-humor which had before possessed it, was now
distorted by a devilish malice. His eyes gleamed coldly, and he snapped
them quickly as he spoke.
“Well, what do you say?” he demanded.
“This,” said the Jew.
He leant over the counter, and, taking the brown man’s skinny throat in
his great hand, flung him reeling back to the partition, which shook
with his weight. Then he burst into a laugh as the being who had just
been threatening him with a terrible and mysterious death changed into
a little weak old man, coughing and spitting as he clutched at his
throat and fought for breath.
“What about your servant, the devil?” asked the Jew maliciously.
“He serves when I am absent,” said the brown man faintly. “Even now I
give you one more chance. I will let you see the young fellow in your
shop die first. But no, he has not offended. I will kill—”
He paused, and his eye fell on the cat, which at that moment sprang up
and took its old place on the counter. “I will kill your cat,” said the
brown man. “I will send the devil to worry it. Watch the cat, and as
its death is so shall yours be—unless—”
“Unless?” said the Jew, regarding him mockingly.
“Unless to-night before ten o’clock you mark on your door-post two
crosses in chalk,” said the other. “Do that and live. Watch your cat.”
He pointed his lean, brown finger at the animal, and, still feeling at
his throat, stepped softly to the door and passed out.
With the entrance of other customers, the pawnbroker forgot the
annoyance to which he had been subjected, and attended to their wants
in a spirit made liberal by the near prospect of fortune. It was
certain that the stone must be of great value. With that and the money
he had made by his business, he would give up work and settle down to a
life of pleasant ease. So liberal was he that an elderly Irishwoman
forgot their slight differences in creeds and blessed him fervently
with all the saints in the calendar.
His assistant being back in his place in the shop, the pawnbroker
returned to the little sitting-room, and once more carefully looked
through the account of the sailor’s murder. Then he sat still trying to
work out a problem; to hand the murderers over to the police without
his connection with the stolen diamond being made public, and after
considerable deliberation, convinced himself that the feat was
impossible. He was interrupted by a slight scuffling noise in the shop,
and the cat came bolting into the room, and, after running round the
table, went out at the door and fled upstairs. The assistant came into
the room.
“What are you worrying the thing for?” demanded his master.
“I’m not worrying it,” said the assistant in an aggrieved voice. “It’s
been moving about up and down the shop, and then it suddenly started
like that. It’s got a fit, I suppose.”
He went back to the shop, and the Jew sat in his chair half ashamed of
his nervous credulity, listening to the animal, which was rushing about
in the rooms upstairs.
“Go and see what’s the matter with the thing, Bob,” he cried.
The assistant obeyed, returning hastily in a minute or two, and closing
the door behind him.
“Well, what’s the matter?” demanded his master.
“The brute’s gone mad,” said the assistant, whose face was white. “It’s
flying about upstairs like a wild thing. Mind it don’t get in, it’s as
bad as a mad dog.”
“Oh, rubbish,” said the Jew. “Cats are often like that.”
“Well, I’ve never seen one like it before,” said the other, “and,
what’s more, I’m not going to see that again.”
The animal came downstairs, scuffling along the passage, hit the door
with its head, and then dashed upstairs again.
“It must have been poisoned, or else it’s mad,” said the assistant.
“What’s it been eating, I wonder?”
The pawnbroker made no reply. The suggestion of poisoning was a welcome
one. It was preferable to the sinister hintings of the brown man. But
even if it had been poisoned it was a very singular coincidence, unless
indeed the Burmese had himself poisoned it He tried to think whether it
could have been possible for his visitor to have administered poison
undetected.
“It’s quiet now,” said the assistant, and he opened the door a little
way.
“It’s all right,” said the pawnbroker, half ashamed of his fears, “get
back to the shop.”
The assistant complied, and the Jew, after sitting down a little while
to persuade himself that he really had no particular interest in the
matter, rose and went slowly upstairs. The staircase was badly lighted,
and half way up he stumbled on something soft.
He gave a hasty exclamation and, stooping down, saw that he had trodden
on the dead cat.
CHAPTER IV
At ten o’clock that night the pawnbroker sat with his friend Levi
discussing a bottle of champagne, which the open-eyed assistant had
procured from the public-house opposite.
“You’re a lucky man, Hyams,” said his friend, as he raised his glass to
his lips. “Thirty thousand pounds! It’s a fortune, a small fortune,” he
added correctively.
“I shall give this place up,” said the pawnbroker, “and go away for a
time. I’m not safe here.”
“Safe?” queried Levi, raising his eyebrows.
The pawnbroker related his adventures with his visitors.
“I can’t understand that cat business,” said Levi when he had finished.
“It’s quite farcical; he must have poisoned it.”
“He wasn’t near it,” said the pawnbroker, “it was at the other end of
the counter.”
“Oh, hang it,” said Levi, the more irritably because he could not think
of any solution to the mystery. “You don’t believe in occult powers and
all that sort of thing. This is the neighborhood of the Commercial
Road; time, nineteenth century. The thing’s got on your nerves. Keep
your eyes open, and stay indoors; they can’t hurt you here. Why not
tell the police?”
“I don’t want any questions,” said the pawnbroker.
“I mean, just tell them that one or two suspicious characters have been
hanging round lately,” said the other. “If this precious couple see
that they are watched they’ll probably bolt. There’s nothing like a
uniform to scare that sort.”
“I won’t have anything to do with the police,” said the pawnbroker
firmly.
“Well, let Bob sleep on the premises,” suggested his friend.
“I think I will to-morrow,” said the other. “I’ll have a bed fixed up
for him.”
“Why not to-night?” asked Levi.
“He’s gone,” said the pawnbroker briefly. “Didn’t you hear him shut
up?”
“He was in the shop five minutes ago,” said Levi.
“He left at ten,” said the pawnbroker.
“I’ll swear I heard somebody only a minute or two back,” said Levi,
staring.
“Nerves, as you remarked a little while ago,” said his friend, with a
grin.
“Well, I thought I heard him,” said Levi. “You might just secure the
door anyway.”
The pawnbroker went to the door and made it fast, giving a careless
glance round the dimly lighted shop as he did so.
“Perhaps you could stay to-night yourself,” he said, as he returned to
the sitting-room.
“I can’t possibly, to-night,” said the other. “By the way, you might
lend me a pistol of some kind. With all these cut-throats hanging
round, visiting you is a somewhat perilous pleasure. They might take it
into their heads to kill me to see whether I have got the stone.”
“Take your pick,” said the pawnbroker, going to the shop and returning
with two or three secondhand revolvers and some cartridges.
“I never fired one in my life,” said Levi dubiously, “but I believe the
chief thing is to make a bang. Which’ll make the loudest?”
On his friend’s recommendation he selected a revolver of the service
pattern, and, after one or two suggestions from the pawnbroker,
expressed himself as qualified to shoot anything between a chimney-pot
and a paving-stone.
“Make your room-door fast to-night, and tomorrow let Bob have a bed
there,” he said earnestly, as he rose to go. “By the way, why not make
those chalk marks on the door just for the night? You can laugh at them
to-morrow. Sort of suggestion of the Passover about it, isn’t there?”
“I’m not going to mark my door for all the assassins that ever
breathed,” said the Jew fiercely, as he rose to see the other out.
“Well, I think you’re safe enough in the house,” said Levi. “Beastly
dreary the shop looks. To a man of imagination like myself it’s quite
easy to fancy that there is one of your brown friend’s pet devils
crouching under the counter ready to spring.”
The pawnbroker grunted and opened the door.
“Poof, fog,” said Levi, as a cloud streamed in. “Bad night for pistol
practice. I shan’t be able to hit anything.”
The two men stood in the doorway for a minute, trying to peer through
the fog. A heavy, measured tread sounded in the alley; a huge figure
loomed up, and, to the relief of Levi, a constable halted before them.
“Thick night, sir,” said he to the pawnbroker.
“Very,” was the reply. “Just keep your eye on my place to-night,
constable. There have been one or two suspicious-looking characters
hanging about here lately.”
“I will, sir,” said the constable, and moved off in company with Levi.
The pawnbroker closed the door hastily behind them and bolted it
securely. His friend’s jest about the devil under the counter occurred
to him as he eyed it, and for the first time in his life, the lonely
silence of the shop became oppressive. He half thought of opening the
door again and calling them back, but by this time they were out of
earshot, and he had a very strong idea that there might be somebody
lurking in the fog outside.
“Bah!” said he aloud, “thirty thousand pounds.”
He turned the gas-jet on full—a man that had just made that sum could
afford to burn a little gas—and, first satisfying himself by looking
under the counter and round the shop, re-entered the sitting room.
Despite his efforts, he could not get rid of the sense of loneliness
and danger which possessed him. The clock had stopped, and the only
sound audible was the snapping of the extinguished coals in the grate.
He crossed over to the mantelpiece, and, taking out his watch, wound
the clock up. Then he heard something else.
With great care he laid the key softly on the mantelpiece and listened
intently. The clock was now aggressively audible, so that he opened the
case again, and putting his finger against the pendulum, stopped it.
Then he drew his revolver and cocked it, and, with his set face turned
towards the door, and his lips parted, waited.
At first—nothing. Then all the noises which a lonely man hears in a
house at night. The stairs creaked, something moved in the walls. He
crossed noiselessly to the door and opened it. At the head of the
staircase he fancied the darkness moved.
“Who’s there?” he cried in a strong voice.
Then he stepped back into the room and lit his lamp. “I’ll get to bed,”
he said grimly; “I’ve got the horrors.”
He left the gas burning, and with the lamp in his left hand and the
pistol in his right slowly ascended the stairs. The first landing was
clear. He opened the doors of each room, and, holding the lamp aloft,
peered in. Then he mounted higher, and looked in the rooms, crammed
from floor to ceiling with pledges, ticketed and placed on shelves. In
one room he thought he saw something crouching in a corner. He entered
boldly, and as he passed along one side of a row of shelves could have
sworn that he heard a stealthy footfall on the other. He rushed back to
the door, and hung listening over the shaky balusters. Nothing stirred,
and, satisfied that he must have been mistaken, he gave up the search
and went to his bedroom. He set the lamp down on the drawers, and
turned to close the door, when he distinctly heard a noise in the shop
below. He snatched up the lamp again and ran hastily downstairs,
pausing halfway on the lowest flight as he saw a dark figure
spreadeagled against the side door, standing on tiptoe to draw back the
bolt.
At the noise of his approach, it turned its head hastily, and revealed
the face of the brown man; the bolt shot back, and at the same moment
the Jew raised his pistol and fired twice.
From beneath the little cloud of smoke, as it rose, he saw that the
door stood open and that the figure had vanished. He ran hastily down
to the door, and, with the pistol raised, stood listening, trying to
peer through the fog.
An unearthly stillness followed the deafening noise of the shots. The
fog poured in at the doorway as he stood there hoping that the noise
had reached the ears of some chance passer-by. He stood so for a few
minutes, and then, closing the door again, resolutely turned back and
went upstairs.
His first proceeding upon entering his room was to carefully look
beneath and behind the heavy, dusty pieces of furniture, and, satisfied
that no foe lurked there, he closed the door and locked it. Then he
opened the window gently, and listened. The court below was perfectly
still. He closed the window, and, taking off his coat, barricaded the
door with all the heaviest furniture in the room. With a feeling of
perfect security, he complacently regarded his handiwork, and then,
sitting on the edge of the bed, began to undress. He turned the lamp
down a little, and reloading the empty chambers of his revolver, placed
it by the side of the lamp on the drawers. Then, as he turned back the
clothes, he fancied that something moved beneath them. As he paused, it
dropped lightly from the other side of the bed to the floor.
At first he sat, with knitted brows, trying to see what it was. He had
only had a glimpse of it, but he certainly had an idea that it was
alive. A rat perhaps. He got off the bed again with an oath, and,
taking the lamp in his hand, peered cautiously about the floor. Twice
he walked round the room in this fashion. Then he stooped down, and,
raising the dirty bed hangings, peered beneath.
He almost touched the wicked little head of the brown man’s devil, and
with a stifled cry, sprang hastily backward. The lamp shattered against
the corner of the drawers, and, falling in a shower of broken glass and
oil about his stockinged feet, left him in darkness. He threw the
fragment of glass stand which remained in his hand from him, and, quick
as thought, gained the bed again, and crouched there, breathing
heavily.
He tried to think where he had put the matches, and remembered there
were some on the widow-sill. The room was so dark that he could not see
the foot of the bed, and in his fatuity he had barricaded himself in
the room with the loathsome reptile which was to work the brown man’s
vengeance.
For some time he lay listening intently. Once or twice he fancied that
he heard the rustle of the snake over the dingy carpet, and he wondered
whether it would attempt to climb on to the bed. He stood up, and tried
to get his revolver from the drawers. It was out of reach, and as the
bed creaked beneath his weight, a faint hiss sounded from the floor,
and he sat still again, hardly daring to breathe.
The cold rawness of the room chilled him. He cautiously drew the
bed-clothes towards him, and rolled himself up in them, leaving only
his head and arms exposed. In this position he began to feel more
secure, until the thought struck him that the snake might be inside
them. He fought against this idea, and tried to force his nerves into
steadiness. Then his fears suggested that two might have been placed in
the bed. At this his fears got the upper hand, and it seemed to him
that something stirred in the clothes. He drew his body from them
slowly and stealthily, and taking them in his arms, flung them
violently to the other end of the room. On his hands and knees he now
travelled over the bare bed, feeling. There was nothing there.
In this state of suspense and dread time seemed to stop. Several times
he thought that the thing had got on the bed, and to stay there in
suspense in the darkness was impossible. He felt it over again and
again. At last, unable to endure it any longer, he resolved to obtain
the matches, and stepped cautiously off the bed; but no sooner had his
feet touched the floor than his courage forsook him, and he sprang
hurriedly back to his refuge again.
After that, in a spirit of dogged fatalism, he sat still and waited. To
his disordered mind it seemed that footsteps were moving about the
house, but they had no terrors for him. To grapple with a man for life
and death would be play; to kill him, joy unspeakable. He sat still,
listening. He heard rats in the walls and a babel of jeering voices on
the stair-case. The whole blackness of the room with the devilish,
writhing thing on the floor became invested with supernatural
significance. Then, dimly at first, and hardly comprehending the joy of
it, he saw the window. A little later he saw the outlines of the things
in the room. The night had passed and he was alive!
He raised his half-frozen body to its full height, and, expanding his
chest, planted his feet firmly on the bed, stretching his long body to
the utmost. He clenched his fist, and felt strong. The bed was
unoccupied except by himself. He bent down and scrutinized the floor
for his enemy, and set his teeth as he thought how he would tear it and
mangle it. It was light enough, but first he would put on his boots. He
leant over cautiously, and lifting one on to the bed, put it on. Then
he bent down and took up the other, and, swift as lightning, something
issued from it, and, coiling round his wrist, ran up the sleeve of his
shirt.
With starting eyeballs the Jew held his breath, and, stiffened into
stone, waited helplessly. The tightness round his arm relaxed as the
snake drew the whole of its body under the sleeve and wound round his
arm. He felt its head moving. It came wriggling across his chest, and
with a mad cry, the wretched man clutched at the front of his shirt
with both hands and strove to tear it off. He felt the snake in his
hands, and for a moment hoped. Then the creature got its head free, and
struck him smartly in the throat.
The Jew’s hold relaxed, and the snake fell at his feet. He bent down
and seized it, careless now that it bit his hand, and, with bloodshot
eyes, dashed it repeatedly on the rail of the bed. Then he flung it to
the floor, and, raising his heel, smashed its head to pulp.
His fury passed, he strove to think, but his brain was in a whirl. He
had heard of sucking the wound, but one puncture was in his throat, and
he laughed discordantly. He had heard that death had been prevented by
drinking heavily of spirits. He would do that first, and then obtain
medical assistance.
He ran to the door, and began to drag the furniture away. In his haste
the revolver fell from the drawers to the floor. He looked at it
steadily for a moment and then, taking it up, handled it wistfully. He
began to think more clearly, although a numbing sensation was already
stealing over him.
“Thirty thousands pounds!” he said slowly, and tapped his cheek lightly
with the cold barrel.
Then he slipped it in his mouth, and, pulling the trigger, crashed
heavily to the floor.
THE END.