THE FUGITIVES DISGUISED IN LONDON
Hurrying along a narrow street, are three men, two abreast, and one
following apparently unconcerned, but closely watching each movement.
Turning into a dark alley, the pair disappear down a rickety stairway.
Their "shadow" passes across to a small one-story cabin, with
single-light window, commanding a view of that cellar entrance.
Pierre and Paul Lanier, newly disguised, again are in London. Since
their departure from Calcutta, these villains had wandered, making brief
stays at various points, always disguised, never without haunting fears.
Different aliases had been assumed, each new departure having been most
adroitly maneuvered. It seems impossible that such crafty covering of
their doubling trails can baffle pursuit, yet each shrewd move sharpens
apprehension by suggestions of new dangers. This growing bewilderment
and stress of fear had kept them moving in uncertain rounds, varied by
occasional abrupt tangents, until within zone of most heinous crimes,
when drawn by that gravity existent between the criminal and the venue
of his offense, both had landed in London, fearful for the future,
without any decisive purposes or settled convictions as to their lines
of action.
Sir Donald and Esther were absent from England, but Pierre learned that
they had sailed from Calcutta months before. William Dodge had been
released from prison, going somewhere unknown to either Lanier. That
this formerly subservient assistant in crime is now a foe, they cannot
doubt. The desperate, treacherous assault upon husband and wife in
Calcutta ended all hope of further cooeperation between them and their
would-be murderers. Just what line of investigation is being pressed
they only can conjecture. Further scheming to silence any of their
pursuers would not do.
It is sure that there has been no discovery of either Thames victim.
This tragedy is only a reminiscence in London, but that horrible Bombay
tableau and the mysterious disappearance of Agnes Randall can neither be
forgotten nor explained.
Both Laniers are most intensely superstitious and fearful of intangible
attack. However, there is a more or less fixed resolve to abate no
strictness of disguises, while keeping advised of London happenings,
prepared for any desperate emergency.
Pierre never leaves the city, but Paul, thoroughly disguised, makes
occasional visits in the vicinity of Northfield.
Neither Sir Donald nor Esther has returned. By guarded questions Paul
learns nothing as to their present whereabouts.
That lake exerts a strange fascination upon Paul's fancy. Extended
strolls along the Thames are frequent. Hours are spent near that rustic
seat. Often bending over the bank, Paul peers up and down and across the
river. Sometimes he rows for miles, carefully examining each projecting
branch or shrub, furtively watching all intruders upon his strange
search. This occupation grows more absorbing. Moonlight strolls and
boat-rides are frequent. Paul insists on night shifts, and that his
father then shall remain at their room.
Pierre knows nothing of this growing infatuation. While noticing Paul's
reticence and abstraction, Pierre attributes these to the perplexities
of their situation. To his father's questions about night happenings
Paul becomes irresponsive, and when pressed, fiercely petulant. Pierre
is much suprised at this, but is gravely patient, hoping for tractable,
less capricious moods. There are occasional bursts of penitence,
followed by more irresponsive, resentful silences and replies.
Pierre becomes alarmed, fearing that Paul will bring on some crisis,
through these strained tempers. Refraining from further questioning, the
father humors his son's strange moods, determined to keep him under
careful watch. Pierre will follow Paul and note any indiscreet habits,
that there may be no serious mistakes at this stage. It will not do to
chide this now perverse boy, who has been so habitually and fearfully
filial in the past.
Pierre begins to feel a presentiment of some ominous crisis, wherein
Paul may fail him.
In degree and perverted sense Pierre Lanier loved his only son. Many
dark schemes had been suggested and pressed to success, prompted by
mixed motives of personal acquisition and fatherly providence. This man
is not a villain from mere criminal impulse. His tastes have an elegant
bent. Relentless tenacity, overpowering avarice, and dissembling craft
are his cardinal traits. To these all aesthetic impulses and higher
sentiments must minister.
While cruelly conscienceless in pursuit of desired ends, Pierre Lanier,
unlike Paul, never permitted passion to interfere with matured or
maturing plans.
Having much of his father's fastidious taste, persistent tenacity, and
crafty avarice, Paul is deficient in this cold-tempered power of
self-control.
Pierre is aware of this weakness. Many fatherly precepts to correct such
passionate tendency had been uttered. However, this deliberate,
cold-blooded man had found his son's hasty temper of service, and in
emergency did not hesitate to fan its slumbering fires.
During recent years many crafty lessons had been taught and learned.
From the time when Paul began to press his attentions upon Alice
Webster, to present disguised straits in London suburb, this teacher and
pupil had been seldom long apart. Practical demonstrations had convinced
Pierre that his son was very apt.
Paul has been more reticent and absorbed; he eats little; trifles annoy
him; his father's presence is offense; at Pierre's curious look or
speech Paul frowns or is pertly insolent. Suddenly starting, aimlessly
pausing, fiercely scowling, vacantly staring, he is again seated.
Passing hatless and partially disguised up the rickety cellar stairs, he
turns upon his father, resentment gleaming from those glowing black
eyes, then weak and nerveless submits to restraint, abjectly penitent,
mutely concurring in paternal rebuke.
Pierre finds it necessary to remain indoors when Paul is at their room.
That his son is averse to this the father plainly sees. Yet such
displeasure is strangely vague. There is no spoken protest.
Paul twitches uneasily, glancing suddenly and often at his watch. Asked
as to the time, he looks into vacancy, again consults his watch, starts
up, moves about, sits down, makes no reply, the neck relaxes, and the
whole body droops in apparent collapse.
Pierre resolves that during this strange indisposition Paul must not go
out alone. Such conduct would attract notice. Paul might bring on
notoriety by some fierce, resentful act. It is certain that such
suggestion will anger him, but there is no remedy.
After humoring Paul's every whim and doing many little positive
kindnesses, Pierre, in most persuasive tones, begs as a special favor
that they change shifts for once.
"I will watch to-night, while you get some sleep."
The young man springs up, glowers at his father, scowls, and then smiles
consent.
From now until the hour for Pierre's new shift Paul is most dutifully
considerate, frequently gratefully commenting upon his father's
kindnesses. He insists upon preparing their evening meal, and cooks some
savory dishes, which he smilingly serves. With filial solicitude, Paul
counsels his father to avoid river fogs and malarial vapors.
"At this damp season it is better to stay away from the Thames."
Pierre is much pleased at this changed temper, and smiles his great
appreciation. Promising to return before it is late, Pierre leaves, both
uttering soft-toned good-bys.