THE SILVER SCHOOL.
About a month after the events recorded in the last chapter, some men
who went by the name of the Silver School, or Mob, assembled for an
important meeting. The Silver School had existed now for several years,
doing its mysterious work effectually and quietly, and never exciting
suspicion, except in the minds of certain individuals in New Scotland
Yard. They had meeting places all over England, and not only in England,
but also in many parts of the world. They knew each other by a certain
code or cipher; they had their own peculiar way of shaking hands; their
own peculiar nod or smile; they were in short, a dangerous secret
society, their object being to upset morality and turn the system which
makes a man’s property his own topsy-turvy. Often they met at a lonely
public-house; often in the heart of the busy town; but their favourite
place of meeting was in the house of a private individual near the
Chelsea Embankment—the very place where Rowton had gone to see Long John
just before his mission to Spain.
To-night the members assembled themselves by a roaring fire, and taking
out their pipes awaited the appearance of their leader.
Adrian Rowton, who went by the name of Silver, was in many respects the
leader of the School. He was secretly admired by every other member; but
their real chief, the man whom they feared, respected, hated, thrilled
under, was Piper, or Long John, as they called him. Piper had none
of Rowton’s dare-devil and careless magnificence of manner. He often
appeared rather to slink than to walk into a room; but there was not a
member of the Silver Mob who did not tremble when he spoke to him, and
did not feel elated for a whole week if the chief gave him even a scant
word of praise.
To-night, as the men sat together, they looked anxiously at one another.
“Well, Scrivener, and how do you find the country?” said the landlord,
Simpkins, who was invariably present at these meetings. “What sort of
a place is Pitstow? You don’t look, to judge from your face, as if you
found the air so wonderfully bracing, after all.”
“The air is well enough, but there are other drawbacks—don’t you meddle,
Simpkins,” replied Scrivener.
“You’re as unsociable as usual, Scrivener,” exclaimed another man.
He uttered a whole jargon of mysterious epithets, and then continued
abruptly: “Well, out with the cat. Why did you come up to night? I don’t
believe Long John expected you.”
“Don’t you? I should not have come if he didn’t. I had a wire from him at
ten o’clock this morning. Don’t you know that Silver has come back?”
“Ah,” muttered one or two voices deeply and under the breath.
This exclamation had scarcely sounded through the room before the door
was opened and Long John, accompanied by Rowton, entered.
Long John’s eyes looked kind and pathetic; his lips intensely firm, a
smile now and then parting them and showing the white teeth. That smile,
innocent as it appeared, was the dread of every man in the room.
As Rowton now walked by his side up to the top of the room, he felt that
the chief was smiling, and augured ill from the circumstance.
“Welcome back, Silver,” said one or two voices as he passed them.
Simpkins in particular, a cadaverous-looking man for all his apparent
prosperity, clutched hold of Rowton’s coat to attract attention.
“It’s all right, old man,” said Rowton, nodding to him.
The man’s face instantly relaxed into a happier expression.
“Sit down near me, Rowton, and tell us all that you have done during your
absence,” said Long John. “We did not expect you for at least another
fortnight. Have you concluded the business?”
“Yes and no,” replied Rowton.
“That is very ambiguous—explain yourself.”
“I have concluded the greater part of it, but not all, Piper,” replied
Rowton.
“And why not all, my good fellow? You went away for a definite purpose.
It was understood, was it not, that you were on no account to show your
face in England again until that purpose was completed in its entirety?”
“I managed the diamonds and have brought them back with me,” answered
Rowton.
“Aye, aye, that’s right—that’s the main thing,” muttered several voices
at the other end of the room.
“Silence there,” said Long John. He did not speak loudly, but his eyes
flashed fire.
“Give us full particulars,” he said, flinging himself back in his chair,
and swinging round in such a way that his eyes could comfortably fix
themselves on Rowton’s face. Rowton looked haggard; there were a few
streaks of white in his black hair; he was unshaven, and had a somewhat
unkempt appearance. He told his story briefly, speaking with a certain
terseness which compelled every man in the room to listen to him, not
only with interest, but respect.
“I have brought a specimen of the diamonds with me,” he said after a
pause. He drew forth a small bag as he spoke—he had been holding it all
this time between his knees—opened the bag with a peculiarly-shaped key,
and taking out a harmless-looking brown paper parcel, laid it on Piper’s
knee.
“There they are,” he said; “in the rough, it is true. These are just
ordinary specimens of the pile. The whole thing is worth between eighty
and one hundred thousand pounds. I have the remainder at my hotel off the
Strand.”
Long John got up with a certain eagerness, which not all his efforts to
show no emotion could altogether conceal. He took the little parcel, laid
it on the table, opened it and called the other men to come round.
They were rewarded by nothing apparently remarkable—a few rough-looking
stones, uncut and dull, lay before them.
Long John fingered one or two, giving them a peculiar and intense glance
out of his melancholy eyes.
“And the rest are at the hotel?” he said.
“Yes, in a packet in a cupboard at the back of my bed.”
“Why did you not bring them?”
“I might have been watched. It was not safe. I will return for them later
on to-night, if one of you men will accompany me. Those diamonds had
just arrived from Kimberley and were waiting to be put into the Bank at
Madrid. I nabbed them in the nick of time.”
“Yes, yes; you did well—you told us all that story,” said Piper.
“You did very well. No one but Silver could have managed it,” said one
of the other men in a tone of deep elation. “This haul sets us straight,
don’t it, Piper?”
“The diamonds have to be realised,” said Piper; “and we have not got them
yet. How did you get on at Madrid in other respects?”
“As well as possible,” answered Rowton with a short laugh. “My
introductions got me into the best society in the place. I made some
friends and saw something of the life.”
“Well, so far so good,” said Piper; “but now for the other part of the
business. You sold that black diamond, did you not?”
“I got rid of it for fifteen hundred pounds. I have the money in my
breast pocket.”
“Too little,” said Piper, with a frown. “I said it was worth two
thousand—you sold it for five hundred pounds below its market value.”
“I could not help that.”
“You were right, Silver, of course you were right,” said Scrivener,
coming close up to Piper and Rowton as he spoke. “It would never have
done to have brought the black diamond home again—some of us might have
swung for it. Good to have it out of the land. You are certain it won’t
be traced, though, old chap—remember it has a history.”
“No, it is safe enough,” said Rowton with a grim smile.
“You did right to sell it for fifteen hundred,” repeated Scrivener.
“And I say he did wrong,” exclaimed Piper, stamping his foot as he spoke;
“the stone was worth two thousand pounds, and if Rowton had played his
cards well he’d have got it.”
“I could do no better,” said Rowton, with a frown between his brows.
“Stuff!” exclaimed Piper. “What is the good of having a man like you
attached to us—a man who may trip us up at any moment—if you cannot
do what you are commissioned to do? This loss of five hundred must be
accounted for when we divide the profits.”
“As you please,” said Rowton, slightly bowing his head. “The money part
of the business does not affect me in the least.”
“You have been feeding too well, my fighting cock,” said Piper with a
sneer. “You would sing another tune were I to take you at your word.”
Rowton said nothing. He leant back in his chair folding his arms. The
other men still lingered round the table where the specimen diamonds were
lying. Piper went up to the table, took the little parcel, folded it up
and placed it in his desk at the top of the room. He locked the desk and
put the key in his pocket.
“The rest of the diamonds have got to be fetched to-night,” he said,
looking at the men. “You, Scrivener, and you, Simpkins, had better
accompany Rowton when he leaves us—wait for him outside the hotel, take
the bag from him and bring it straight here. You can manage to do this
when the policeman is off his beat.”
“Rather,” said Scrivener, with a smile. “All the same it is a ticklish
business,” he added.
“But worth one hundred thousand pounds. We must realise that money and
soon. I have got my plans all marked out. You, Scrivener, are the man for
the job.”
“I?” said Scrivener, looking up with a startled and scared face.
“Yes, you are not going to funk it—we will make a man of you—you want to
marry, too, don’t you?”
“Oh, time enough,” said Scrivener with a smirk.
“Not at all. It is good for a man to have a wife, and your wedding bells
shall ring before long. You are a good fellow, one of the best of us.
What do you say to our starting you as a jeweller? A merchant who buys
rough diamonds in the ordinary market. I heard only to-day that a small
jeweller’s shop in Cheapside was going a-begging—you shall take it,
change your name and your coat, and do good business. We will fit you up
with capital, and you shall buy sufficient diamonds at the ordinary price
to lull suspicion. By degrees those which Rowton has brought back from
Spain can be sold at full market value.”
“That’s a prime notion,” said Simpkins, coming forward.
“Yes, we’ll talk of it later on—I have the whole thing neatly planned.
Scrivener shall take the shop to-morrow. Now, then, to turn to another
matter. Come here, Silver, let us hear the whole of your story. You did
part of our work, but not all. What about the bonds? How did that affair
prosper?”
“I have returned without executing that part of my order,” said Rowton in
a brief tone.
“You have!”
Long John sprang to his feet, so did Scrivener, so did Simpkins, so did
every other man in the room. Rowton alone remained seated. He raised his
head and stared from one to the other.
“Your reasons,” said Piper then; “your reasons, my noble leader.”
“I am not your leader, and you know it,” replied Rowton. “You lead us
all.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” interrupted Long John, with a sneer on
his lips. “You are our ostensible leader. Why did you not bring back the
bonds as well as the diamonds?”
“I was in the train,” said Rowton, speaking slowly, and raising his eyes
until their full insolent light was fixed intensely upon Long John’s
face; “I was in the train which ran from Madrid to Paris, and the bonds
were there; but the work given me to do was dirty, defiling, dangerous. I
thought I had done enough—in short, I did not execute my commission.”
“Your reason?” said Piper in a low voice.
“Quite simple, and I am not afraid to state it,” replied Rowton. “I saw
plainly that were I to pursue the business in connection with those
special bonds, although my confederate Spider might escape, my own life
would be the forfeit.”
“Spider—by the way, where is Spider?” asked Scrivener.
“I left him in Spain—he is all right.”
“And so you feared your life would be the forfeit?” snarled Piper.
“Yes.”
“Well, and what of it, you dog?”
“Everything—to myself,” replied Rowton. “I don’t choose to die. I—if you
like the word, I will use it—I _funked_ that part of my expedition.”
An incredulous and amazed look filled the eyes of every man in the room.
Even Long John’s eyes leapt for a moment with an expression almost of
compassion; then they fixed themselves in a stony stare on Rowton’s proud
face.
“It is not like you, Silver, to be a coward,” he said then; “the word
fits you badly. You were always our dare-devil; no danger was too hot for
you. Why do you come back to us with the story of a sneak? I repeat, it
is not like you.”
“I did not secure the bonds,” continued Rowton, speaking in a steady and
absolutely quiet voice, “for the simple reason that, had I done so, my
own life would have been the forfeit. I do not choose now to throw away
my life.”
“And why now, if I may venture to ask the question of your mightiness?”
snapped Piper.
“Because I have got a wife, and I do not intend her to become a widow.”
Something like a groan was heard throughout the room. It was more than
evident that no one present sympathised with Rowton.
After a pause he said abruptly, rising as he spoke:
“You must get another man for that part of the business. I distinctly
refuse to commit myself in the matter. My life is of moment to me.”
“Coward!” growled one or two.
“You may taunt me with that word if you like, my good fellows,” said
Rowton, looking down the room as he spoke. “Your taunts will not in the
least affect me, or turn me from my set purpose. I am willing to go into
danger for your cause, but into absolute and certain defeat I no longer
venture. My wife is much more valuable to me than the opinions of the
Silver Mob. Now, Piper, in bringing you the diamonds, I have, I think,
executed my orders as fully as I can execute them. Here is the money for
the black diamond. When I deliver over the packet which contains the
diamonds in the rough, to Scrivener and Simpkins, I shall feel that I
have earned a holiday. I am anxious to return to Rowton Heights early
to-morrow morning. Have you anything further to say?”
“Yes, a good deal,” said Piper; “sit down again and don’t be so
impatient. As to your conduct with regard to the bonds, I refuse to speak
further about it on the present occasion. I must consult with Scrivener
and one or two other members of the School, and shall probably summon you
here any day within the next week or fortnight. In the meantime there are
other matters to be talked over. We want fresh blood—the School won’t
prosper without. What sort of a boy is that lad of yours?”
“What lad?” asked Rowton, raising his head, but a startled expression all
the same crossing his face.
“You know the boy I mean—the son of the mad woman. Is he a plucky little
chap?”
“I refuse to say anything about him—he has nothing to do with you nor you
with him.”
“That’s as we may think best,” said Piper, with another sneer. “After
all, I can get information apart from you. Scrivener, come here.”
Scrivener, who had re-seated himself near the fire between Simpkins and
another man with a particularly evil cast of face, now stepped lightly
across the room.
“Scrivener,” said Long John, “have you made good use of your time at
Pitstow?”
“Excellent, Piper,” replied the man. “I have mapped out the entire
district. I know every room in every house, the amount of——”
“That will do,” said Piper, raising his hand; “we can go into that matter
at a less pressing moment than the present. What sort is Rowton’s boy?”
“A fine lad,” said Scrivener.
“You have seen him?”
“Often.”
“Describe him.”
“Slim, dark, tall,” answered Scrivener; “plucky, a little dare-devil like
his uncle there—in short, Silver himself in miniature.”
“Suitable, do you think?” said Long John, looking fixedly at Scrivener.
“Undoubtedly; the very lad for our purpose; heaps of go in him; don’t
know the meaning of funk; slippery and agile as an eel.”
“That will do, Scrivener,” said Long John.
Scrivener retired down the room and Long John turned to Rowton.
Rowton was standing perfectly upright with his back to the wall. He was
looking straight before him down the long vista of the room.
“Silver, you have disappointed me,” said Long John. “What I expected
would happen, when you took it into your head to marry a wife, has
happened. You are now half hearted, lukewarm. We don’t want lukewarm
people here. Get you gone to Rowton Heights if you want to—that is, after
you have delivered the swag to Scrivener and Simpkins. Yes, get you gone;
take your holiday; kiss your wife, and make the most of her. Embrace your
nephew, too, for if my plans are carried out, you won’t have him long.
Now go. Hark ye, though, one moment. That safe was sent down to the
Heights, was it not?”
“I ordered it, but cannot tell if it has arrived,” replied Rowton. “I
have been out of England for a month, and during that time I have had no
news.”
“The safe arrived weeks ago,” called out Scrivener from his seat by the
fire.
“That’s right,” said Long John. “We can open up business in that
neighbourhood next week. Go home, Silver. Your duty now is to entertain
the county. Cease to be Silver, the head of our School, and assume your
rightful name—Rowton, the heir to a fine old country estate, the owner of
an ideal country house. Wake up the county, entertain them. Be the good
old English squire; dispense hospitality right and left; use your wife
as a bribe to induce the neighbours to come to your house. Be a complete
blind yourself, and leave us to our work. We won’t trouble you for a
time. We will respect your scruples and your _fears_.”
Piper’s lips smiled grimly as he uttered the last words, but his eyes
looked gentle and refined.
“I have a word to say,” interrupted Rowton.
“What is that?”
“I return to Rowton Heights and I do exactly what you wish me to do, but
only on a condition.”
“There you are with your conditions again,” laughed Scrivener.
“Silence,” said Long John.
“I do what you want, Piper, on one condition.”
“Your position does not admit of conditions,” said Piper. “You are
completely under my thumb. You dare not move an inch except as I will
you—you know that.”
[Illustration: “Your position does not admit of conditions; you are
completely under my thumb.”—_Page 168._]
“I do not.”
“What does the fighting cock mean?” cried several voices.
“I owe submission to none of you,” repeated Rowton. “There is always, you
men understand, such a thing as throwing up the sponge. I am completely
sick of this life. If you put the screw on too tight I throw up the
sponge—_how_ I do it is my own affair.”
The man standing there gloomy, defiant, his head thrown back, his
bold eyes fixed on the pathetic and peculiar eyes of the chief, was a
spectacle to bring forth admiration in the breasts of such men as were
members of his School. There was absolute sincerity in Rowton’s tone. He
was driven into a corner—he could turn round and show fight. To such a
man suicide was more than possible. Suicide would be bad enough. Rowton
was an important member of the School—his presence, his individuality,
his life, were essential to the carrying on of the nefarious business. If
he really threw up the sponge, danger might quickly accrue.
“Your condition?” asked Long John.
“I do what you wish,” continued Rowton, tugging at his moustache as he
spoke; “I keep up this horrible farce, this tragedy of comedy, I put my
powers, my genius, at your command, I blind the county and you can do
your cursed will, provided you leave that lad of mine alone.”