Up the Spouts and down the Drains.
Turning his face towards the railway station after quitting the Maze,
with the view of making some enquiries, as to what passengers had
alighted there the previous day and had gone back again--not that he
believed one syllable of the tale told him--Mr. Strange encountered
the gig of Dr. Cavendish bowling down. The physician recognised him
and pulled up.
"What's this I hear, sir, about my patient's having gone off again?"
cried the doctor in a sharp tone.
"I have heard the same," replied Mr. Strange. "But I don't believe
it."
"Oh then--you are not privy to it? You did not send him?"
"Not I, Dr. Cavendish. I went to the Maze betimes this morning to--to
pay him a visit; and I was met with a tale that the bird had flown."
"I can tell you, sir, that he was in a _most unfit_ state to travel,"
said the doctor with angry emphasis. "I don't know what the
consequences will be."
"Ay, if he had gone. But it's all moonshine."
"What do you mean by 'moonshine?' Has he gone, or has he not?"
"They say at the Maze he has; but I am sure he has not," was the
answer. "There was a motive for his being denied to me, Dr. Cavendish;
and so--and so--when I went in this morning they concocted an
impromptu tale of his departure. That's what I think."
"They must have concocted it last night then," said the doctor. "The
letter, informing me of the circumstance, was posted last night at
Foxwood--and therefore must have been written last night."
"Did they write to tell you he had gone?" asked the detective, after a
slight pause.
"Mrs. Grey wrote. I got it by the post this morning. She would not
trouble me to come over again, she said, as Illy patient had found
himself obliged to leave last night. But I _have_ troubled myself to
come," added the doctor, wrathfully, "and to see about it; for, of all
mad acts, that man's getting up from his bed yesterday, and starting
off by a shaking railway train was the maddest. Drive on, James."
The groom touched the horse at the short command, and the animal
sprang forward. Mr. Strange thought he would let the station alone for
a bit, and loiter about where he was. This letter, written last night,
to tell of the departure, somewhat complicated matters.
A very short while, and the doctor came out again. Mr. Strange
accosted him as he was about to step into his gig.
"Well, Dr. Cavendish, have you seen your patient?"
"No, I have not seen him," was the reply. "It is quite true that he is
gone. I find he is embarking on a sea voyage, going off somewhere to
the other end of the world, and he had to go up, or forfeit his
passage-money."
"They told you, then, what they told me. As, of course, they _would_,"
he added inwardly.
"But there's something in it I don't altogether understand," resumed
the doctor. "Not a syllable was spoken by the patient yesterday to
denote that he was on the move, or that he had been on the move, even
only to journey down from London. On the contrary, I gathered, or
fancied I gathered, from the tenor of his remarks that he had been for
some time stationary, and would be stationary for an indefinite period
to come. It was when I spoke to him about the necessity of keeping
himself quiet and free from exertion. What I don't understand is why
he should not candidly have told me that he had this voyage before
him."
Mr. Strange did not answer. Various doubts were crowding upon him.
_Had_ the man got away? in disguise, say? But no, he did not think it.
"By the way, you did not tell me your name," said the doctor, as he
took his seat in the gig.
"My name! oh, did I not? My name is Tatton."
Dr. Cavendish bent down his head and spoke in a low tone. His groom
was adjusting the apron.
"You hinted last night at some great trouble that this gentleman was
in, Mr. Tatton. I have been wondering whether that has to do with this
sudden departure--whether he had reasons for being afraid to stay?"
"Just the question that has occurred to me, Dr. Cavendish," confessed
the detective. "If he has gone away, it is fear that has driven him."
The gig bowled onwards. Mr. Strange stood still as he looked after it:
and had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Philip Smith smoking his long pipe
at his own window, and regarding the landscape with equanimity. He
went on the other way.
"Good morning, Mr. Tatton."
Mr. Tatton turned on his heel and saluted Sir Karl Andinnian, who had
followed him up. There was a degree of suppressed indignation in
Karl's face rarely seen.
"Is this true that I have just heard, Mr. Tatton," he began, calling
the man by his true name--"that you have been again searching the
Maze? My butler informs me that he saw you and two policemen quit it
but now."
"It is true enough, Sir Karl. Salter is there. At least, he was there
yesterday. There cannot be the slightest doubt that the sick man to
whom Dr. Cavendish was called was Salter. I obtained a description of
him from the doctor, and should have recognized it anywhere."
What was Karl to say? He could not attempt to deny that a sick man had
been there. It was an unfortunate circumstance that Sir Adam, in
regard to height and colour of hair, somewhat answered to the
description of Philip Salter.
"Sir Karl, you must yourself see that there's a mystery somewhere,"
resumed the detective, who (having taken his clue from Superintendent
Game) honestly believed that the baronet of Foxwood Court cared not a
rap for Salter, and had no covert interest in the matter, beyond that
of protecting his tenant at the Maze. "Some one, who is never seen by
the public, is living at the Maze, that's certain; or, at any rate,
dodging us there. Remember the gentleman in evening attire seen by the
surgeon and nurse; and now there's this gentleman sick abed yesterday.
These men could not be myths, Sir Karl. Who, then, are they?"
From sheer inability to advance any theory upon the point, lest he
should do mischief, Karl was silent. These repeated trials, these
shocks of renewed dread, were getting more than he knew how to bear.
Had they come upon Adam this morning? He did not dare to ask.
"As to the tale told me by the woman servant and Mrs. Grey--that the
sick gentleman was a relative who had come down by train and left
again, it will not hold water," contemptuously resumed the detective.
"Men don't go out for a day's journey when they are as ill as he
is--no, nor take long sea voyages. Why, if what Dr. Cavendish fears is
correct, there cannot be many weeks of life left in the man he saw
yesterday; neither, if it be so, can the man himself be unconscious of
it."
Karl's heart stood still with its shock of pain.
"Did Dr. Cavendish tell you that, Mr. Tatton?"
"Yes. Well, now, Sir Karl, that man is at the Maze still--I am
convinced of it; and that man is Salter."
"What did you find this morning?"
"Nothing. Nothing more than I found before. When I spoke of the sick
man, and asked where he was, this cock-and-bull tale was told me,
which, of course, they had got up among themselves."
"As I said before, Mr. Tatton, I feel certain--I am certain--that you
will never find Salter at the Maze; from the simple fact that he is
not there to find--I am sure of it. I must most earnestly protest
against these repeated annoyances to my tenant, Mrs. Grey; and if you
do not leave her alone for the future, I shall see whether the law
will not compel you. I do not--pray understand--I do not speak this in
enmity to you, but simply to protect her."
"Of course I understand that, Sir Karl," was the ready answer.
"There's no offence meant, and none taken. But if you could put
yourself in my place, you'd see my difficulty. Upon my word, I never
was so mystified before. _There Salter is_. Other people can see him,
and have seen him; and yet, when I search I find no traces of him. A
thought actually crossed my mind just now, whether there could be a
subterranean passage from the Maze to Clematis Cottage, and that
Salter makes his escape there to his cousin on occasion. I should like
to search it."
"Come and do so at once," said Karl, half laughing. "Nothing convinces
like ocular demonstration. I give you full permission, as owner of the
cottage; I doubt not Smith will, as its tenant. Come and ask him."
The detective was in earnest, and they crossed over. Seeing them
making for the gate, Mr. Smith came out of his house, pipe in hand. It
was one of those long churchwardens. Karl spoke a few words of
explanation. Mr. Detective Tatton suspected there might be secret
rooms, or doors, or fugitives hidden in Clematis Cottage, and would
like to search it. After the first momentary look of surprise, the
agent remained unruffled.
"Pass on, sir," said he, extending the thin end of his pipe to
indicate the way. "You are welcome. Go where you please: search into
every nook and corner; up the spouts and down the drains. If you
surprise old Betty, tell her you're the plumber."
Mr. Strange took him at his word. Karl and the agent waited in the
sitting-room together.
"Is it after Sir Adam, sir?" breathed the agent.
"No. No suspicion of him. It's after the other I told you of. Hush!
Better be silent."
The agent put his pipe away. Karl stood at the open window. Old Betty,
the ancient servant, came in with a scared face. She was a little
deaf, but not with a deafness like Hopley's over the way.
"It's all right, Betty," called out her master. "Only looking to the
drains and spouts."
Satisfied in one sense of the word--for in truth it was readily seen
by the most unprofessional eye that there were no means afforded for
concealment in the shallow-built cottage--the officer soon joined them
again. He had not had really a suspicion of the cottage, he said by
way of apology: it was merely a thought that crossed him. Mr. Smith,
however, did not seem inclined to take the matter quite indifferently
now, and accosted him.
"Now that you are satisfied, sir, perhaps you will have no objection
to tell me who the individual may be, that you have fancied I would
harbour in my house. I heard before from Sir Karl that you were after
some one."
From the tone he spoke in, a very civil tone, tinged with mockery, the
detective caught up the notion that Smith already knew; that Sir Karl
must have told him: therefore he saw no occasion for observing any
reticence.
"When you know that we are looking for Philip Salter, you need not be
so much surprised that we have cast a thought to this house as
Salter's possible occasional refuge, Mr. Smith."
The very genuine astonishment that seized hold of Smith, pervading his
every look, and word, and gesture, was enough to convince those who
saw it that he was unprepared for the news.
"Philip Salter!" he exclaimed, gazing from one to the other, as if
unable to believe. "_Philip Salter!_ Why, is he here? Have you news
that he is back in England?"
"We have news that he _is_ here," said the detective blandly. "We
suspect that he is concealed at the Maze. Did you not know it, Mr.
Smith?"
Mr. Smith sat down in the chair that was behind him as if sitting came
easier than standing, in his veritable astonishment.
"As Heaven is my judge, it is a mistake," he declared. "Salter is not
at the Maze; never has been. We have never heard that he is back in
England."
"Did you know that he left England?"
"Yes. At least, we had good reason to believe that he got away shortly
after that dangerous escape of his. It's true it was never confirmed;
but the confirmation to his family lies in the fact that we have never
since heard of him, or from him."
"Never?"
"Never. Were he in England we should have been sure to have had some
communication from him, had it only been an application for aid--for
he could not live upon air; and outlets of earning are here closed to
him. One thing you and ourselves may alike rest assured of, Mr.
Detective--that, once he got safely away from the country he would not
venture into it again."
What with one disappointment and another, the detective almost
questioned whether it were not as Smith said; and that Salter, so far
as Foxwood was concerned, would turn out to be indeed a myth. But
then--who was this mysterious man at the Maze? He was passing out with
a good day when Mr. Smith resumed.
"Have you any objection to tell me what gave rise to your suspicion
that Salter was at Foxwood? Or in England at all?"
But the officer had tact; plenty of it; or he would not have done for
his post; and he turned the question off without any definite answer.
For the true originator of the report, he who had caused it to reach
the ears of Great Scotland Yard, was Sir Karl Andinnian.
Very conscious of the fact was Karl himself. He raised his hat from
his brow as he went home, to wipe away the fever-damp gathered there.
He remembered to have read somewhere of one of the tortures devised by
inquisitionists in the barbarous days gone by. An unhappy prisoner
would be shut in a spacious room; and, day by day, watched the walls
contracting by some mysterious agency, and closing around him. It
seemed to Karl that the walls of the world were closing around him
now. Or, rather, round one who had become dearer to him in his dread
position than himself--his most ill-fated brother.
At home or abroad there was not a single ray of light to illumine or
cheer the gloom. Abroad lay apprehension; at home only unhappiness, an
atmosphere of estrangement that seemed to have nothing homelike or
true in it. Karl went in, expecting to see the pony-chaise waiting. He
had been about to drive his wife out; but, alarmed by the report
whispered to him by Hewitt, and unable to rest in tranquillity, he had
gone forth to see about what it meant. But the chaise was not there.
Maclean was at work on the lawn.
"Has Lady Andinnian gone!" he enquired, rather surprised--for Lucy had
not learned to drive yet.
"My leddy is somewhere about the garden I think, Sir Karl," was the
gardener's answer. "She sent the chay away again."
He found his wife sitting in a retired walk, a book in her hand,
apparently reading it. Lucy was fading. Her face, worn and thin, had
that indescribable air of pitiful sadness in it that tells of some
deep-seated, ever-present sorrow. Karl was all too conscious of it. He
blamed her for her course of conduct; but he did not attempt to
conceal from himself that the trouble had originated with him.
"I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, Lucy," he began. "I had to
go to Smith's on a little matter of business. You have sent the chaise
away."
"I sent it away. The pony was tired of waiting. I don't care to go out
at all to-day."
She spoke in an indifferent, almost a contemptuous tone. We must not
blame her. Her naturally-sweet temper was being sorely tried: day by
day her husband seemed to act so as to afford less promise of any
reconciliation.
"I could not help it," was all he answered.
She glanced up at the weary accent. If ever a voice spoke of
unresisted despair, his did then. Her resentment vanished: her
sympathy was aroused.
"You look unusually ill," she said.
"I am ill," he replied. "So ill that I should be almost glad to die."
Lucy paused. Somehow she never liked these semi-explanations. They
invariably imbued her with a sense of self-reproach, an idea that she
was acting harshly.
"Do you mean ill because of our estrangement?"
"Yes, for one thing. That makes all other trouble so much worse for me
that at times I find it rather difficult to put up with."
Lucy played with her book. She wished she knew where her true duty
lay. Oh how gladly, but for that dreadful wrong ever being enacted
upon herself, would she fall upon his arm and whisper out her
beseeching prayer: "Take me to you again, Karl!"
"Should the estranged terms we are living on, end in a total and
visible separation, you will have the satisfaction of remembering in
your after life, Lucy, that you have behaved cruelly to me. I repeat
it: cruelly."
"I do not wish to separate," murmured Lucy.
"The time may soon come when you will be called upon to decide, one
way or the other; when there will be nothing left to wait for; when
all will be known to the world as it is known to us."
"I cannot understand you," said Lucy.
"Let it pass," he answered, declining as usual to speak openly upon
the dreaded subject; for, to him, every word, so spoken, seemed
fraught with danger. "You can guess what I mean, I daresay: and the
less said the better."
"You seem always to blame me, Karl," she rejoined, her voice softening
almost to tears.
"Your own heart should tell you that I have cause."
"It has been very hard for me to bear."
"Yes; no doubt. It has hurt your pride."
"And something besides my pride," rejoined Lucy, with a faint flush of
resentment.
"What has the bearing and the pain for you been, in comparison with
what I have had to bear and suffer!" he asked with emotion. "I, at
least, have not tried to make it worse for you, Lucy, though you have
for me. In my judgment, we ought to have _shared_ the burden; and so
made it lighter, if possible, for one another."
Ay, sometimes she had thought that herself. But then her womanly sense
of insult, her justifiable resentment, would step in and scatter the
thought to the winds. It was too bad of Karl to reflect on her
"pride."
"Is it to last for ever?" she asked, after a pause.
"Heaven knows!" he answered. "Heaven knows that I have striven to do
my best. I have committed no sin against you, Lucy, save that of
having married you when--when I ought not. I have most bitterly
expiated it."
He spoke like one from whom all hope in life has gone; his haggard and
utterly spiritless face was bent downwards. Lucy, her love all in
force, her conscience aroused, touched his hand.
"If I have been more harshly judging than I ought, Karl, I pray you
and heaven alike to forgive me."
He gave no answer: but he turned his hand upwards so that hers lay in
it. Thus they sat for some time, saying nothing. A singing bird was
perched on a tree in front of them; a light cloud passed over the face
of the blue sky.
"But--you know, Karl," she began again in a half whisper, "it has not
been right, or well, for--for those to have been at the Maze who have
been there."
"I do know it. I have repeatedly told you I knew it. I would almost
have given my life to get them out. It will not be long now; I fear,
one way or the other, the climax I have been dreading seems to be
approaching."
"What climax?"
"Discovery. Bringing with it disgrace and pain and shame. It is when I
fear that, Lucy, that I feel most bitterly how wrong it was of me to
marry. But I did not know all the complication; I never anticipated
the evils that would ensue. You must forgive me, for I did it
three-parts in ignorance."
He clasped her hand as he spoke. Her tears were gathering fast. Karl
rose to depart, but she kept his fingers in hers, her tears dropping
as she looked up at him.
"I ask, Karl, if we are to live this kind of life for ever?"
"As you shall will, Lucy. The life is of your choosing, not of mine."
One long look of doubt, of compassion, of love, into each other's
eyes; and then the hand-clasp that so thrilled through each of them
was loosed; the fingers fell apart. Karl went off to the house, and
Lucy burst into a storm of sobs so violent as to startle the little
bird, and stop its song.