I KNOW THE WAY AT LAST
For a moment, after that astounding statement by Murray Olivant, we
stood transfixed, staring at him as he spread his arms across the door
and faced us defiantly. I do not think that he had imagined his words
would have such an effect; our amazed silence showed him in a moment
that the game was with him. In a limp fashion I was clinging to young
Millard, whose fury, as it seemed, had suddenly relaxed, leaving him
helpless.
"Here?" gasped the boy, in a sort of horrified whisper.
"Yes!" cried Olivant loudly. "Here--by her own choice, and of her own
free will. I suppose the girl can choose for herself--and in this case,
she has chosen wisely. Like every one else in this world, she knows on
which side her bread is buttered. Now, get out of my place," he added,
advancing towards us: "open the door there, you; show these people out."
Young Arnold Millard seemed suddenly to recover himself and his strength
at the same time; I felt his muscles hardening under my grip. Then, with
an inarticulate shout, he hurled himself straight at Olivant; and in a
moment was fighting madly with Dawkins and myself to get at him. I
remember noticing even then that Fanshawe stood aside, wringing his
hands helplessly, and moistening his dry lips with his tongue.
"Let me go! It's a lie--I know it's a lie! Let me go!" shouted the boy,
battling like a madman with us.
The frightened manservant had run out of the room, crying something as
he went; it seemed an incredibly short space of time before he came
hurrying in again, followed by a policeman. In a dexterous fashion this
latter contrived to get between the boy and his enemy; interposed his
solid official bulk between them.
"Now then--now then, gentlemen!" he said quietly. "What's the trouble
here?"
Murray Olivant was the first to speak. "This man has forced his way into
my rooms, and has threatened me," he said quickly. "I want him removed."
The constable glanced from one to the other; his face was impassive. "Do
you know the man, sir?"
"He is a relative of mine--a ne'er-do-well, who has given considerable
trouble to his friends," said Olivant. "He has been waiting outside in
the street for some hours, on the chance of getting hold of me. The
present dispute is about a lady."
"Constable, I demand to have these rooms searched; I mean to prove that
this man is lying!" cried the boy excitedly. "He says--says the lady's
here--and it is a lie!"
"You'll understand, sir, that I've no power to search this gentleman's
rooms," said the constable; "and I've no right to inquire into any
dispute about a lady or anything else. For your own sake, sir"--he was
talking in an easy argumentative fashion to young Millard--"for your own
sake, you'll go away. If you stop here there'll only be a breach of the
peace committed, and you'll get yourself into my hands. If this don't
blow over by the morning, I'm much mistaken; in any case, you can't
create a disturbance here. Much better go away."
"I tell you I----" He made a sudden leap to pass the constable, and to
reach the door of that inner room; but the man was too quick for him: he
caught him by the arm, and deftly turned him towards the door; hustled
him out of the room into the little hall. I was close at hand, and I
heard what the man said.
"Now, sir, you're behaving very foolish. Go away, and go home and think
about it; then see if you don't thank me in the morning. Come on now."
I put in my plea also, and presently the boy went away in a moody
silence. The constable walked quietly after him, and as I ran down too I
saw the man standing at the outer door leading into the street, looking
after the boy as he strode away.
"A bit hot-headed, your friend," he said. "Lor' bless you, I've seen 'em
like that a few times, and then ready to laugh about it next morning."
I went back to the rooms; there I found the startled manservant peering
out at the door of the flat. He drew me inside, and carefully closed the
door: seemed disposed, indeed, to question me.
"I give you my word I don't understand it," said the man. "Because, you
see, there's never been any lady 'ere at all; an' nobody couldn't have
got in without passing me. Now, what I argue is----"
I thrust him aside, and walked into the room. There I found Murray
Olivant lying back in a chair, shaking with laughter, while Dawkins and
Jervis Fanshawe stared at him wonderingly. Seeing me, he sat up, and
shook his head at me whimsically, and went off into another shout of
laughter.
"It's beautiful!" he cried--"it's wonderful! It only came to me on the
spur of the moment to say that she was here; I wanted to see if that
young fool would rise to the bait. And now he's gone off--and he's a
marked man; that constable's not likely to let him come near me again in
a hurry. Gone out like a whipped cur, with his tail between his legs. It
was beautiful!"
"And he's left you with the girl," said Dawkins, with his smile.
Murray Olivant sat up, and stared at him. "What--haven't you tumbled to
it yet?" he demanded. "There's no girl here--and there never has been.
She'll come here sooner or later, no doubt; but she's not here now."
"Oh, come, my dear Olivant, you can't bluff me, you know," exclaimed
Dawkins, beginning to show a little temper over the business. "The
girl's here right enough."
"Open the door and look for yourself," said Olivant composedly.
"Personally, I wish I could say that she had been here; but she hasn't."
Dawkins, after a glance at him, strode across the room, and flung open
the door; turned up the light, and went poking and prying about.
Fanshawe stood at the door of that inner room, and peered in also.
Dawkins came out, and closed the door again.
"There are no other rooms," said Olivant, still laughing--"except my
servant's room across the hall. You can go and look in there, if you
like."
"No, thank you," replied Dawkins. "But hang me if I thought it was a
bluff to begin with--and neither did the boy. More than that, I don't
quite see the object of it."
"Then I'll tell you," said Olivant, with a note of bitterness in his
voice. "He's gone away now, eating his heart out--mad with jealousy. If
he meets her to-morrow, and she holds out her arms to him, he'll most
likely turn away, and refuse to speak to her. Love's a frail thing, and
wants carefully nourishing. Now get out, and leave me in peace," he
added--"I'm tired."
Dawkins went at once; I think he saw the futility of attempting to speak
to his patron about the matter further at that time. Fanshawe and I were
just going also, when Murray Olivant, on a sudden impulse, as it seemed,
called us back.
"Just one moment; I want to speak to you," he said. I noticed that a
sudden seriousness had come over him; even the cigar he had picked up,
and from which he had savagely wrenched the end with his teeth, remained
unlighted. "Which of you knows anything about this young lady?"
"I don't," I replied at once, and looked at Fanshawe. For in my mind I
was certain then that Fanshawe had in some way or other, after
overhearing the conversation between Moggs and myself, contrived to get
Barbara away. Nothing would persuade me to trust the man.
"And you, Fanshawe?"
"What should I know about her?" was the nervous reply. "What is she to
do with me? You've got to manage this business for yourself, Mr.
Olivant; it seems to me that your policy is to make other people work
for you, and give them nothing but kicks in return. For my part, I wash
my hands of it."
I felt sure that he was lying; I was certain in my own mind that he knew
more than he would say. But, of course, I could say nothing then.
"You're very silent, Tinman," said Murray Olivant after a pause, during
which we had stood helplessly watching him. "What's your opinion of this
night's work?"
"My opinion is that Mr. Millard means to carry out his first threat," I
replied slowly. I saw him look up at me, and the match he had lighted
burned down to his fingers, so that he dropped it hurriedly. He made no
attempt to light another.
"To kill me?"
I nodded. "I've seen him, as you haven't seen him; and I know that his
life is wrapped up in this girl," I said earnestly. "He fears neither
God nor man in such a business as this--and he's gone away to-night,
believing that you have harmed her as you threatened--believing that she
is lost to him. He's gone out to-night with murder in his heart. Don't I
know that look--haven't I seen it?"
He threw away that second match, and laid down the cigar. After an
uneasy pause he said slowly: "Well--I know that--and I know you're
right. He's desperate, and perhaps with him I've gone a bit too far."
"Ah!" My relief at hearing him say that must have sounded in my voice,
for he turned upon me quickly, with a sudden new fierceness.
"Don't misunderstand me. I've taken a wrong move to-night, but I mean to
take another and a safer one. I'll not go back on what I mean to do;
I'll not knuckle under to a young cub like that. It shall be as if the
girl had really been here--only I'll work in a more secret fashion. I
have a love for plotting and mystery; I'll leave that young fool staring
up at these windows for a few days, and eating his heart out, and
thirsting for my blood; and I'll be comfortably slipping away elsewhere.
You shall help me, Tinman--and you too, Fanshawe--and I'll promise you
some sport."
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"In the first place, I don't quite like the idea of being kept prisoner
here, under the fear of what may happen if I venture outside. The boy's
mad--but it's a sort of madness from which he may only wake when he has
stuck a knife into me, or has done something else that may bring him to
the gallows. That's too much of a risk for me; at the same time, I mean
to get the whip hand of him. You and Fanshawe shall help me."
"Willingly--very willingly," said Fanshawe, speaking mechanically, and
not raising his eyes. "You may trust us, Mr. Olivant; Tinman and I have
no life that is not concerned with you and your affairs. But for you we
must starve."
I looked at the despicable creature; I remembered what he had said to
me, and what he had promised that very night; I was glad to think that I
had not trusted him. I thought he looked at me strangely, when for a
moment he raised his eyes to me; there was a look in them I did not
understand.
"Well, I'm glad you recognize that fact," said Murray Olivant, with a
laugh. "That's been my way always: to pay people to do things for me I
don't care to do myself. You can listen, then, to my plans."
He was so exuberant about it, and chuckled so much to himself at the
thought of it, that it was some time before he began to set it forth;
and even then he prefaced the business with a sudden generous bringing
out of bottles and glasses for our entertainment. Fanshawe drank
greedily, with many slavish expressions of gratitude; I refused to take
anything. At last Murray Olivant, standing with his back to the fire,
and with a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, began to say what was
in his mind.
"Suppose that a certain man is threatened by another--goes, in fact, in
fear of his life from a madman; and suppose that it is not convenient
for him to have that other arrested, or cautioned, or withheld from what
he means to do by the law. In other words, he does not wish a certain
fair lady's name to be dragged into the light of day, and things said
about her. I have always been mighty sensitive on such matters," he
added complacently.
"You have indeed!" broke in Fanshawe, with a grin.
"Suppose I suddenly say that I am tired of the whole business, and that
I have made up my mind to go abroad, and to leave these people in peace
and security," went on Olivant. "Suppose I decide to take the faithful
Tinman with me; suppose I even go so far as to take tickets on a certain
steamer for the faithful Tinman and myself, and to publish the fact
abroad that I'm going. And then suppose, after that, that I never go at
all."
"But why not?" I asked helplessly; for I did not see his drift.
"Dolt! Everybody is expecting that I have gone; everybody knows that I
have gone; and our young friend Millard, who hasn't money enough to
follow me, and who has no reason for following me as I've left the coast
clear, is thrown off the scent. I slip away quietly from this place,
after sending a mountain of luggage--or no luggage at all, if it pleases
me; and I go to an obscure lodging where no one thinks of looking for
me. And in due course, after the vessel has sailed on which I am
supposed to be, our dear Fanshawe here--or our faithful Tinman--making
careful inquiries, discovers the lady, and brings her to me. I'm abroad,
and all suspicions are lulled; I am at home, and am playing out to a
finish the game I started upon."
I saw the fiendish ingenuity of the thing at once. This man would
publicly start off upon a voyage; his name would be entered upon the
list of passengers; and he would quietly lie in hiding in London. The
boy would feel that his vengeance had been snatched away from him; he
would give up the battle in despair--only to learn too late the trick
that had been played upon him. For my own part, I could do nothing;
because to warn Arnold Millard of that trick would be but to put him
more strongly and eagerly on the track of his enemy. I was powerless;
Olivant and Fanshawe would play the game out to the end, and I should
have to look on, a helpless spectator. There might be a faint chance
that the girl would not be found by either of them; on the other hand, I
had a shrewd suspicion that Fanshawe already knew where she was. I was
certain in my own mind that he had smuggled her away from the house in
which he lodged that very night; that explained his presence in Murray
Olivant's rooms at the time I reached them with the boy.
"You'll come here to-morrow, Tinman," said Olivant, with a yawn, "and
I'll give you money to get the tickets, and full instructions. Then I'll
tell you where to engage a lodging for me, and under what name. I mean
to play the game thoroughly, I assure you; not a living soul shall
suspect who I am; no one shall know till long afterwards that I have not
sailed for another country. It's a beautiful scheme; we'll work it out
to-morrow."
It was getting well into the small hours when I came down the stairs at
last, with Jervis Fanshawe at my heels. I could not trust myself then to
speak to him; I held him in such loathing that I was afraid of what I
might do. He spoke to me once as I walked away, but I paid no attention
to him. I walked on and on doggedly, wondering bitterly what I should
do, and realizing more every moment how helpless I was; seeing only that
I was beating feeble hands against a wall that I could not break down.
Suddenly he plucked me by the sleeve in a quiet street through which we
were passing; I turned suddenly, and faced him. As he shrank away from
me, my rage overmastered me, and I caught him by the throat and forced
him to his knees.
"Where are you driving me?" I demanded hoarsely. "Is not once enough, in
a lifetime such as yours, to strive to ruin a woman; is there no mercy
in your black heart at all?"
"You don't understand," he faltered.
"I understand only too well," I retorted savagely. "Was it for this you
met me when I came from prison; was it for this that you have drawn me
on and on, until I am as desperately involved in this business as
yourself? What of your lying promises--your pleadings that I would trust
you?"
"Indeed--indeed I only mean well--indeed I want to help her!" he
exclaimed, staggering to his feet, and trying to pull my hands away from
his collar. "I can't tell you; I can't explain."
"The dead woman you have seen--whose eyes have looked into yours--did
she teach you nothing?" I demanded.
He suddenly covered his face with his hands, and shuddered. "She taught
me something I shall not forget," he whispered. "Only I must go on and
on; I dare not look back. I have set my hand to something, and I will
not stop now!" He raised his haggard face to the sky, and if I had not
had that desperate hatred of him in my heart, I must have been moved by
the strange look upon it.
"No, you will not turn back, until you have brought this child to ruin
and disgrace," I said. "But it may be given to me to spoil your game
yet; this new move on the part of Olivant may lead to something he has
not reckoned upon--or you either."
"Yes, it may," he said; and he seemed to shudder again.
A clock near at hand in a church tower struck three over the sleeping
city. I told Fanshawe I would not go back with him then; I would walk
the streets until daylight. He tried to dissuade me from that, but
seeing that I had made up my mind he presently turned away, and set off
towards his lodging. I tramped the streets until dawn--staring now and
then into the faces of poor wanderers that flitted past me, in the vain
hope of seeing the girl; but there was no face like hers.
I got some breakfast at a coffee stall, and felt refreshed and less
hopeless. As I turned to go away, I heard a voice beside me giving an
order for some coffee; I turned quickly, and saw that it was young
Arnold Millard. He looked forlorn and tired and haggard; I was doubtful
at first whether to speak to him. I decided, however, that I might do
some good, if I persuaded him that Murray Olivant was about to leave the
country; it might at least drive out of his mind the murderous thought
that obsessed it then. I ventured to touch his sleeve; he looked round
quickly, and recognized me.
"Well, what do you want?" he asked.
"I wanted to say something about last night, sir," I replied in a
whisper. "Surely it was better I should prevent you from doing what was
in your mind."
He took the cup of coffee from the man, and began to drink it, without
replying to me. I went on speaking after a moment or two in an eager
whisper.
"He lied to you, the young lady was not there at all," I said. "More
than that, he's failed to get hold of her, and he's giving up the game.
He goes abroad to-morrow. And I don't know where the young lady is."
He looked at me over the cup he held, and spoke sternly. "It's a
lie--and you know it," he said slowly. "Look me in my eyes now--fair and
square--and tell me that he's going away."
I suppose I was never a good hand at that business of deceit; I tried
now to raise my eyes to his; tried to get some words out that should
bravely defend the statement I had made. But the words would not come,
and my eyes fell. I turned away hurriedly, and I heard his derisive
laughter echoing after me as I went. I knew that I had only made matters
worse.
I had gone but a few yards when he overtook me; seized me roughly by the
shoulder, and swung me round, so that I faced him. "You are his servant
and his slave," he said contemptuously, "and so I suppose you must lie
for the sake of your bread and butter. But tell him that his lies won't
serve him; tell him that my mind is as firmly made up about him as it
ever will be about anything. I know he's hiding from me--but that shan't
serve him. Tell him from me that I mean to kill him, just as I said I
would. It's his body for her soul: a fair exchange!"
I would have protested further, but he waved me aside impatiently, and
strode off into the darkness. I wondered then if there was any man in
London that morning quite so miserable as I was: any man who had failed
in everything he had undertaken as I had failed. I had started out so
well, with such high hopes and such high ideals--and, lo! they had all
come to nothing, and it was written that I was to fail again.
I carried that thought with me through all the long day. It was with me
when presently I went to Murray Olivant's flat, and stood with apparent
humility before him, while he looked through his letters and toyed with
his breakfast; it was with me when he put the money into my hands that
was to pay, in part, for his trick--that money with which I was to
purchase the steamer tickets. He had decided to go by a comparatively
small vessel to the Mediterranean; or, at all events, to let it be
thought that he was going by that vessel. I remember that it was called
the _Eaglet_; and he kept up that mad trick so that he was even careful
as to the choosing of his cabin. I was supposed to accompany him, and a
berth was engaged for me.
I went back to him later in the day, carrying the tickets with me. I
found the place in disorder, and the manservant covering everything up,
and locking drawers and cupboards; Olivant himself was destroying a
great mass of letters. So thorough was the business that I observed with
some surprise some new clothing, of a cheaper and commoner pattern than
that usually worn by him; it was only after the manservant had left the
room that he told me what this clothing was intended for.
"I do everything thoroughly, Tinman," he said, with a chuckle.
"Everything here is packed up and left; Murray Olivant walks out of the
place, and disappears from that moment. The world believes he goes on
board the _Eaglet_, to start for a pleasure cruise. As a matter of fact
he goes in those clothes"--he pointed to the new garments I had before
noticed--"and he turns up in another place, and under another name. You
will know that other place, because you will be there with me; and
Jervis Fanshawe will know it also; but that's all. I shall not have a
scrap of paper about me, nor a mark on my clothes by which any one can
point to me and say, 'That's Murray Olivant!' I'm going to begin a new
life with that sweet child Barbara (she's bound to be found; she'll be
glad enough to come back to me)--and I shall keep that life up for just
as long as I wish. I'm taking money enough to last me, in a modest way,
until I resurrect Murray Olivant, and bring him back again."
I was busied all that day on various errands for him; it was late in the
evening when he suddenly put a newspaper before me, and pointed to an
advertisement. "That's the place for me," he said; "top rooms, and quiet
and secluded. Do you know Lincoln's Inn Fields?"
I stared at the paper; it shook and rustled in my fingers. "I wouldn't
go there," I said, while a great trembling seized upon me. "I wouldn't
go there if I were you."
"Why, what's the matter with the man?" He snatched the paper from me,
and laughed. "Do you think the place will be too dreary, or too quiet?
Or do you think I might see ghosts there?"
"I think you might see ghosts there," I replied.
"Well, I'm not afraid of that," he retorted. "Go at once and see the
people; if the rooms are all right, take them. Here's money; pay a
quarter in advance. You need not give any names, or anything of that
sort; it's a small place, and the money ought to be sufficient."
It was at that moment that there came a knock at the outer door;
immediately afterwards Jervis Fanshawe was announced. Murray Olivant,
who seemed elated at the prospect of his new adventure, pointed to the
advertisement, and showed it to Fanshawe.
"Tinman here doesn't seem to like the idea of Lincoln's Inn Fields,"
said Olivant with a laugh. "What's your opinion, Fanshawe?"
Jervis Fanshawe stared at the newspaper for a moment or two; then he
raised his eyes to mine. It seemed in that moment, as he looked at me,
that there was a frightened look in his face; I wondered if he read my
own thoughts. "Yes," he said, turning to Olivant, and handing back the
newspaper, "I should think Lincoln's Inn Fields is the very spot."
I secured the rooms within an hour. It was strange to me to walk again
in that place, over whose pavements my uneasy feet had trod twenty years
before, that time I waited for Gavin Hockley. I was glad to find that
the rooms were not in that building; but they were too close at hand to
be pleasant. I walked away, with the old thoughts beginning to surge up
again in my brain; and once again I was desperately afraid. I knew that
some grim Fate was driving me on; I could only set my weak shoulders
against the storm that pressed me forward; but I was powerless to stay
the force of it.
I came away from the flat, leaving Jervis Fanshawe and the manservant
still there. I understood that the manservant was to be sent away that
night, and the flat locked up. I walked to the lodging that the elder
Barbara had taken; I felt that I owed it to her to tell her at least
that her child was gone, but was safe from Murray Olivant. The decent
woman who opened the door to me told me that "Mrs. Avaline" was at home;
it had only occurred to me at the last moment to ask for her in that
name she had given herself.
Barbara met me at the door of the room; she held out her hands to me,
and seemed, I thought, strangely excited. Nor would she for a moment let
me into the room; she stood there looking at me, and I felt her hands
tremble in mine.
"Guess--guess what has happened!" she whispered; and at the look in her
eyes I suddenly felt myself trembling too. I thrust her aside, and went
quickly into the little shabby room. A lamp was burning on the table,
and some needlework lay beside it. And on a couch under the window lay
that younger Barbara--peacefully sleeping.
I stood there, looking down at her like a man in a dream; I could not
understand what had happened. It was only when the mother began to speak
to me in her quiet voice that I understood how she had found the child.
"I wanted to see you--to be near you; I went to that address you had
told me, where you were living with Fanshawe," she said softly. "I
waited about, afraid to go in; and while I waited there I saw you come
out with the man I suppose must have been Murray Olivant--the man I had
seen down at Hammerstone Market. I could not speak to you then; I waited
in the hope that you would return. And while I waited I saw this dear
girl come stealing out of the place like a frightened ghost; I knew, of
course, who she was, because I had seen her down at the old house, and
because she is so like what I was so long ago. She did not know me, of
course; she never will know me; but when I spoke to her she seemed to
turn in her distress and fear to me instinctively. She came here with me
willingly; she will be safe here for the present."
"Thank God!" I whispered, as I looked down at the sleeping girl. "This
is all as it should be; now we can decide what is best to be done."
"I mean to take her back to her father," she said quietly. Then, as I
started and looked at her, she shook her head quietly, and smiled.
"Don't be afraid, Charlie; I'm not going back to him myself. I could not
do that now. But the girl is different; the girl must go back to the
home that is hers--and to her father."
"There to be found by Murray Olivant whenever he likes," I reminded her.
"You have forgotten that. You--an unknown woman; I--a felon and an
outcast; what can we do to protect her against him?" I stood there
looking down at the sleeping girl; my heart was beating fast. "But I
think I know the way," I said slowly.
"You know the way?" She was looking at me keenly.
"Yes, the way I took before," I whispered, without looking at her. "God
is good; he has given my enemy into my hands at last!"