A CHASE AND A BRAWL.
It would be impossible to describe the suspense in which Tom Dimsdale
lived during these weeks. In vain he tried in every manner to find some
way of tracing the fugitives. He wandered aimlessly about London from
one inquiry office to another, telling his story and appealing for
assistance. He advertised in papers and cross-questioned every one who
might know anything of the matter. There were none, however, who could
help him or throw any light upon the mystery.
No one at the office knew anything of the movements of the senior
partner. To all inquiries Ezra replied that he had been ordered by the
doctors to seek complete repose in the country. Dimsdale dogged Ezra's
footsteps night after night in the hope of gaining some clue, but in
vain. On the Saturday he followed him to the railway station, but Ezra,
as we have seen, succeeded in giving him the slip.
His father became seriously anxious about the young fellow's health.
He ate nothing and his sleep was much broken. Both the old people tried
to inculcate patience and moderation.
"That fellow, Ezra Girdlestone, knows where they are," Tom would cry,
striding wildly up and down the room with unkempt hair and clenched
hands. "I will have his secret, if I have to tear it out of him."
"Steady, lad, steady!" the doctor replied to one of these outbursts.
"There is nothing to be gained by violence. They are on the right side
of the law at present, and you will be on the wrong if you do anything
rash. The girl could have written if she were uncomfortable."
"Ah, so she could. She must have forgotten us. How could she, after
all that has passed!"
"Let us hope for the best, let us hope for the best," the doctor would
say soothingly. Yet it must be confessed that he was considerably
staggered by the turn which things had taken. He had seen so much of
the world in his professional capacity that he had become a very
reliable judge of character. All his instincts told him that Kate
Harston was a true-hearted and well-principled girl. It was not in her
nature to leave London and never to send a single line to her friends to
tell them where or why she had gone. There must, he was sure, be some
good reason for her silence, and this reason resolved itself into one or
two things--either she was ill and unable to hold a pen, or she had lost
her freedom and was restrained from writing to them. The last
supposition seemed to the doctor to be the more serious of the two.
Had he known the instability of the Girdlestone firm, and the necessity
they were under of getting ready money, he would at once have held the
key to the enigma. He had no idea of that, but in spite of his
ignorance he was deeply distrustful of both father and son. He knew and
had often deplored the clause in John Harston's will by which the ward's
money reverted to the guardian. Forty thousand pounds were a bait which
might tempt even a wealthy man into crooked paths.
It was Saturday--the third Saturday since Girdlestone and his ward had
disappeared. Dimsdale had fully made up his mind that, go where he
would, Ezra should not escape him this time. On two consecutive
Saturdays the young merchant had managed to get away from him, and had
been absent each time until the Monday morning. Tom knew, and the
thought was a bitter one, that these days were spent in some unknown
retreat in the company of Kate and of her guardian. This time at least
he should not get away without revealing his destination.
The two young men remained in the office until two o'clock. Then Ezra
put on his hat and overcoat, buttoning it up close, for the weather was
bitterly cold. Tom at once picked up his wide-awake and followed him
out into Fenchurch Street, so close to his heels that the swinging door
had not shut on the one before the other passed through. Ezra glanced
round at him when he heard the footsteps, and gave a snarl like an angry
dog. There was no longer any pretence of civility between the two, and
whenever their eyes met it was only to exchange glances of hatred and
defiance.
A hansom was passing down the street, and Ezra, with a few muttered
words to the driver, sprang in. Fortunately another had just discharged
its fare, and was still waiting by the curb. Tom ran up to it.
"Keep that red cab in sight," he said. "Whatever you do, don't let it
get away from you." The driver, who was a man of few words, nodded and
whipped up his horse.
It chanced that this same horse was either a faster or a fresher one
than that which bore the young merchant. The red cab rattled down Fleet
Street, then doubled on its tracks, and coming back by St. Paul's
plunged into a labyrinth of side streets, from which it eventually
emerged upon the Thames Embankment. In spite of all its efforts,
however, it was unable to shake off its pursuer. The red cab journeyed
on down the Embankment and across one of the bridges, Tom's able
charioteer still keeping only a few yards behind it. Among the narrow
streets on the Surrey side Ezra's vehicle pulled up at a low beer-shop.
Tom's drove on a hundred yards or so, and then stopped where he could
have a good view of whatever occurred. Ezra had jumped out and entered
the public-house. Tom waited patiently outside until he should
reappear. His movements hitherto had puzzled him completely. For a
moment the wild hope came into his head that Kate might be concealed in
this strange hiding-place, but a little reflection showed him the
absurdity and impossibility of the idea.
He had not long to wait. In a very few minutes young Girdlestone came
out again, accompanied by a tall, burly man, with a bushy red beard, who
was miserably dressed, and appeared to be somewhat the worse for drink.
He was helped into the cab by Ezra, and the pair drove off together.
Tom was more bewildered than ever. Who was this fellow, and what
connexion had he with the matter on hand? Like a sleuth-hound the
pursuing hansom threaded its way through the torrent of vehicles which
pour down the London streets, never for one moment losing sight of its
quarry. Presently they wheeled into the Waterloo Road, close to the
Waterloo Station. The red cab turned sharp round and rattled up the
incline which leads to the main line. Tom sprang out, tossed a
sovereign to the driver, and followed on foot at the top of his speed.
As he ran into the station Ezra Girdlestone and the red-bearded stranger
were immediately in front of him. There was a great swarm of people all
around, for, as it was Saturday, there were special trains to the
country. Tom was afraid of losing sight of the two men in the crowd, so
he elbowed his way through as quickly as he could, and got immediately
behind them--so close that he could have touched them with his hand.
They were approaching the booking-office, when Ezra glanced round and
saw his rival standing behind him. He gave a bitter curse, and
whispered something to his half-drunken companion. The latter turned,
and with an inarticulate cry, like a wild beast, rushed at the young man
and seized him by the throat with his brawny hands.
It is one thing, however, to catch a man by the throat, and another to
retain that grip, especially when your antagonist happens to be an
International football player. To Tom this red-bearded rough, who
charged him so furiously, was nothing more than the thousands of
bull-headed forwards who had come upon him like thunder-bolts in the
days of old. With the ease begotten by practice he circled his
assailant with his long muscular arms, and gave a quick convulsive jerk
in which every sinew of his body participated. The red-bearded man's
stumpy legs described a half-circle in the air, and he came down on the
stone pavement with a sounding crash which shook every particle of
breath from his enormous body.
Tom's fighting blood was all aflame now, and his grey eyes glittered
with a Berserk joy as he made at Ezra. All the cautions of his father
and the exhortations of his mother were cast to the winds as he saw his
enemy standing before him. To do him justice, Ezra was nothing loth,
but sprang forward to meet him, hitting with both hands. They were well
matched, for both were trained boxers and exceptionally powerful men.
Ezra was perhaps the stronger, but Tom was in better condition.
There was a short eager rally--blow and guard and counter so quick and
hard that the eye could hardly follow it. Then a rush of railway
servants and bystanders tore them asunder. Tom had a red flush on his
forehead where a blow had fallen, Ezra was spitting out the fragments of
a broken tooth, and bleeding profusely. Each struggled furiously to get
at the other, with the result that they were dragged farther apart.
Eventually a burly policeman seized Tom by the collar, and held him as
in a vice.
"Where is he?" Tom cried, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of his
enemy. "He'll get away after all."
"Can't 'elp that," said the guardian of the peace phlegmatically.
"A gen'elman like you ought to be ashamed. Keep quiet now! Would yer,
then!" This last at some specially energetic effort on the part of the
prisoner to recover his freedom.
"They'll get away! I know they will!" Tom cried in despair, for both
Ezra and his companion, who was none other than Burt, of African
notoriety, had disappeared from his sight. His fears proved to be only
too well founded, for when at last he succeeded in wresting himself from
the constable's clutches he could find no trace of his enemies. A dozen
bystanders gave a dozen different accounts of their movements.
He rushed from one platform to another over all the great station.
He could have torn his hair at the thought of the way in which he had
allowed them to slip through his fingers. It was fully an hour before
he finally abandoned the search, and acknowledged to himself that he had
been hoodwinked for the third time, and that a long week would elapse
before he could have another chance of solving the mystery.
He turned at last sadly and reluctantly away from the station, and
walked across to Waterloo Bridge, brooding over all that had occurred,
and cursing himself for his stupidity in allowing himself to be drawn
into a vulgar brawl, when he might have attained his end so much better
by quiet observation. It was some consolation, however, that he had had
one fair crack at Ezra Girdlestone. He glanced down at his knuckles,
which were raw and bleeding, with a mixture of satisfaction and disgust.
With half a smile he put his injured hand in his pocket, and looking up
once more became aware that a red-faced gentleman was approaching him in
a highly excited manner.
It could not be said that the red-faced gentleman walked, neither could
it be said that the red-faced gentleman ran. His mode of progression
might best be described as a succession of short and unwieldy jumps,
which, as he was a rather stout gentleman, appeared to indicate some
very urgent and pressing need for hurry. His face was bathed in
perspiration, and his collar had become flaccid and shapeless from the
same cause. It appeared to Tom, as he gazed at those rubicund, though
anxious, features, that they should be well known to him. That glossy
hat, those speckless gaiters, and the long frock-coat, surely they could
belong to none other than the gallant Major Tobias Clutterbuck, late of
her Majesty's 119th of the Line?
As the old soldier approached Tom, he quickened his pace, so that when
he eventually came up with him he could only puff and pant and hold out
a soiled letter.
"Read!" he managed to ejaculate.
Tom opened the letter and glanced his eye over the contents, with a face
which had turned as pale as the major's was red. When he finished it he
turned without a word, and began to run in the direction from which he
had come, the major following as quickly as his breath would permit.