PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.
"A letter is the way," Granger said, as they continued their
discourse; "a little letter. Only, who is to write it? Your Anne--your
wife," he added, observing Bufton wince, "knows your handwriting. You
used to pen some charming _billets-doux_ to 'A. T.,' you remember.
Unfortunately it was the wrong 'A. T.' But then we did not know that."
As he spoke, his eyes, which now missed nothing, saw Bufton's hands
close on the knife and fork which were in each, as though he would
commit murder with them--on one person, at least!--and he knew that
the poison of madness which he was distilling was sinking into the
rogue's soul. Sinking in, and doing its work!
"And," he continued, "although neither of our 'A's '--neither the true
heiress, whom Barry has gotten; nor the false, whom you possess--know
my handwriting, Barry himself does so, and he might find the precious
thing when the women are gone. Yet, somehow, a letter--a lure--must be
written."
"But how? How? Who is to write it, then?" and Bufton's voice seemed
hoarse, raucous with emotion, as he spoke. "You have a clerk. Is
he----"
"Bah! And let him know our secret! To sell it to Barry, and--and--land
us at Execution Dock! No, let me think." Whereon he thought, or
appeared to think, and to be sunk in meditation. Yet, if he were only
now working out a further strain of his revenge, it was somewhat
remarkable! Then, presently, he spoke again--
"There is," he said, "hard by here a man who keeps a small shop and
sells necessaries to the sailors. And, because they are ignorant
creatures--not one in fifty can read or write--he indites letters for
them to their wives and mothers ere they sail; sends their fond love
to their Mollys and Pollys. Since he knows me, I scarce can ask him
to----"
"Write a letter for you," Bufton interrupted. "And can I, with a coat
like this?" and he touched his sleeve. "With my appearance? He would
suspect."
"I will prevent him from suspecting," Granger replied, his eyes upon
the other. "You have finished your breakfast, I see. Therefore a
little walk will refresh you. You shall go and ask him to write you a
letter." Saying which, Granger rose from the table and, going to a
sea-chest in the corner of the room, took out a large roll of linen
for bandages, such as he sold amongst other things to skippers of
ships and surgeons' mates. This he twisted into the usual shape of a
sling for a wounded arm and bade Bufton bend his elbow, while the
latter muttered, "I do not understand this tomfoolery."
"You will," said Granger, while, as he spoke, he enveloped the other's
right hand in a swathing of the stuff.
"Now," he said, with an easily assumed smile, "away with you. The
fellow's name is Gibbs, the place he lives in is Orange Row. And you
are a gentleman who has arrived from Harwich, whose arm is injured.
You have a sprained wrist--a whitlow on your thumb--anything will do.
And you must have a letter written at once, since you cannot write it
yourself. At once. You understand."
"My God, Granger!" the other exclaimed, "you are too clever." And
there was such a look in the man's face as he spoke--a look almost of
consternation at the other's scheming mind--that Granger began to fear
Bufton would become alarmed at his astuteness, especially as the
latter added, "What trick can you not devise?"
"Nay. Nay," cried Granger, with heartiness, "'tis for a friend, an
injured friend--misjudge me not. Remember, too, the money that is to
be repaid me at your mother's death. I work for that--friendship
apart. Now be off to Gibbs."
"But what can I say? What to have written?
"Ha! I protest, almost had I forgotten. I am but a sorry schemer after
all. Let me think." And again he pretended to be immersed in thought.
"Say," he went on, a moment or so later, "say--only mention no
names--not one--my clerk shall address the letter; say that--that the
captain's ship is aground near the Creek. That, also, he is injured
sorely--an arm broken--a fracture--therefore that he cannot come nor
write, but wishes--to--see--his wife. Tell her the road is through
Plaistow Marshes; that if she follows it--the road that runs by the
river bank--'twill bring her to where the ship is aground. That will
be sufficient. She will take Anne with her for a surety; thus we nab
both."
"But will she not know that Barry cannot yet be back?"
"Nay! We do not send it to-day. He will not be back until Tuesday or
Wednesday, though to appease her qualms, he has told her he comes on
Sunday. Dos't see? On Sunday afternoon she will get that letter. On
Sunday night by dark--it still gets dark early, Bufton--she will be in
the Marshes. We can easily silence their jarvey, and--and--by Monday
morning, if the wind is good, they will be out to sea. While, if
it is not, they will still be on their way. The tide--which I have
studied--will take them."
"You forget nothing."
"I never forget anything. Now, since your wounds are dressed," and
again Granger laughed, "and since you are equipped, as well go on to
Gibbs. You know what to say. Can you remember?"
"Every word. Fear not my memory. And--no name mentioned."
"No. No. Gibbs. Orange Row. That's the man. And tell him to sign the
letter in the name of Bertram Norris."
"Bertram Norris. Who is he?"
"The first lieutenant. The officer who would write in such a case."
Whereupon, having received his last instructions, Bufton departed.
When he was gone, Granger threw himself into a deep chair by the
fireside, and, to his astonishment, found that he was in a slight
tremor, that there was a palpitation going on within his frame.
"So!" he thought to himself, as he sat there, "this will not do. I, am
a long, long way off success yet; a long, long way from the end of
what I have set myself to do, and already my nerves are ajar. I must
quiet them. In the old way, the old cursed way that grows on me day by
day."
Whereupon, as he had done so frequently, he did again, and finding his
bottle, drank a dram. "If I could do without it," he whispered to
himself. "If I could do without it! Yet, why should I? It brings
oblivion, forgetfulness. It shuts out the picture of my mother's
grave, of Sophy's face."
It was now the time of day when few people visited his place of
business--for in this region all the world dined at midday--and he sat
on and on waiting for Bufton to return with the letter. Sat on
meditating, thinking always.
"I did not like the look he gave me as I disclosed my ruse for getting
that letter written," he reflected; "almost I feared I had scared him,
alarmed him with my astuteness. I must not do that! No. No. For if he
once takes fright I lose him and--the chance is gone forever. I must
not do that."
He looked at the bottle eagerly--wistfully--then, strong in his
determination, rose from his seat and thrust it almost violently away
from him into the place where he kept it.
"Later, when all is accomplished," he muttered, "when there is no more
to be done, I can drink myself to death. And--with satisfaction.
"Pity, pity," he continued now, still musing, "that it could not take
place to-night or to-morrow night. Yet that must not be. Barry must be
back, as he will be on Sunday night. It must be Barry whom he attacks
in the Marshes, or, at least, thinks he will attack. That will make
assurance double sure. Double sure. Oh! my God," he cried, "let me
make no mistake now. None!" While as the unhappy man uttered this cry
he sprang from the chair on which he sat, and commenced to pace up and
down the room.
"If Anne aids me," he whispered, "if she is staunch, we have got him
in the net. He is ours. She will be free, and I--no--no--not I!--but
those two women whom I loved better than my life, avenged."
Later that evening, when Bufton had returned to his end of London,
leaving in Granger's hands the letter which the writer, Gibbs, had
penned at the former's request and for the sum of a shilling; and
leaving also the entire management of the whole of their scheme to the
other, Granger set out to walk towards the place where Ariadne and
Anne were installed in their lodgings. He had not, however, let his
confederate, or, for such he was--his victim--depart without a few
words of impressive counsel to him.
"If," he said, "you fail to be back here again on Saturday night, and
ready for your part in Sunday night's work, namely, to assist the
Dutchman's sailors in carrying the women off in their boat--and also
to assist in identifying them to his men--your last chance is gone.
You will never get rid of Anne, and you will have had no revenge on
Sir Geoffrey Barry. I shall be unable to help you farther."
"Never fear. I shall not fail if I am alive: Yet one thing troubles
me."
"What is it?"
"This. Even though that wanton, Anne, goes to the colonies, it does
not free me. She may live for years there if she falls into good
hands--she might even live to return."
"Might she?" said Granger, in a low voice, while as he spoke he
directed a glance into the other's eyes that spoke as plainly as a
thousand words would have done. Then, sinking that voice lower, he
said, "I know the master of the _Nederland_. I have had transactions
with him before. You understand?"
"Yes," whispered Bufton, fascinated, as the eyes of the other seemed
to pierce him with the fire they emitted. "Yes--my God!--I
understand." Then, a moment later, after a pause, and while still held
by that glance, "Yes--I understand. _How much?_"
"Bring," Granger said hoarsely, "a bag of fifty guineas; he shall
know that you will hand it to the coxswain in command of the boat,
and--and--and you will be a wid----"
"Soon?"
"The first dark night at sea. She will throw herself overboard in
despair."
"Throw herself overboard! Throw herself over---- Ah! Yes. Yes. I
comprehend. Throw herself overboard!" And, laughing and chuckling,
Bufton departed, though not without muttering once more, "Throw
herself overboard."
And now, rejoicing over the dust he had cast in the man's eyes--while
wondering, too, how he could ever himself have been tricked and ruined
by so easy a knave and fool as Bufton was, Granger went on towards
Blackwall steps, and, when there, stood listening for eight o'clock to
sound from Stepney Church. Then, as he heard the hour strike, he
walked swiftly towards a woman dressed in black who was approaching
him.
"Well!" she exclaimed, coming close up to him and letting her veil
fall away from her face. "Well? Does he take? Is the trap set?"
"Ay, with his own bait, Anne. See here," and he took a paper from his
pocket and held it out to her; "'tis his own ratsbane with which he
has set his own springe. And he paid a shilling for it."
The girl took the paper and read it beneath the light of an oil lamp
shining hard by, while laughing a little in that soft, musical voice
of hers as she did so; then she gave it back to him, whereon he tore
the letter into shreds and, walking to the quay-side, dropped it into
the water. "It was a shilling wasted," she said, as he came back to
her.
"Nay, a shilling well spent. While deluding him with the idea that he
has set a snare for you and Lady Barry, it induces him to walk into it
himself."
"And," she asked, her bright, wicked-looking eyes glistening beneath
the sickly rays of the lamp, "what is to do next? What will happen?"
"Terrible things. Amongst others, you will be so overwhelmed with your
horrid fate that you will fling yourself overboard one dark night at
sea. Lady Barry, too, will become the prey of a licentious Southern
planter. Sir Geoffrey will perhaps go mad with despair. Is it not
terrifying?"
"Nay, do not bite," she answered, while still she laughed softly. "But
tell me what is to be done--with him?"
"He will await you in the Marshes with the Dutch skipper's men.
Only--you will not come. Instead, Sir Geoffrey will do so. At least, I
hope he will do so. And our good friend, who will learn that by some
ill fate you cannot meet him, must be content with having Barry set
upon and transported to the colonies."
"A likely tale!" Anne said. "Can you make him believe that?"
"I think so. I can induce him to lead Sir Geoffrey to his doom. All
depends, however, on Barry getting back. If he returns not by Sunday
afternoon we may fail."
"He will return," Anne said. "A Redriff lugger which he met outside at
sea has come in with a letter from him, saying that he has distributed
almost all his men amongst the ships of war at the Nore and Chatham;
that soon he will be back. Perhaps before Sunday."
"So! That is well. There is, however, one other thing to do. Namely,
to get Barry to the Marshes, so that thereby we may secure the other.
Or rather _keep_ him in them. For if you and your lady came not he
might take alarm and thus depart himself."
"But will he not go there expecting us, and, waiting, be seized upon?
Cannot that be done?"
"It is impossible. At once he would suspect. No, he must go with me to
the Marshes; then, but not before, he must know that you are not
coming, but that Barry is. And he must make sure of Barry before he
will approach anywhere near where the boat's crew is. Anne, we must
get your master there somehow. Remember, we have a coward to deal
with; a man who, if he is half a fool, is also wholly knave. We know
that."
"God knows we do," sighed Anne, laughing no more as she thought of her
dead sister. "Well! how is it to be done? Neither Ariadne nor Sir
Geoffrey would join in any further plot. She regrets the other
one--the plot of the marriage."
"Somehow," said Granger, "it must be done. This is our chance. If we
miss it now it will never come again. And we have three clear days
still to meditate upon it. Meet me here again in forty-eight hours; by
then I will have devised some means."