A PROMISE TO THE DEAD.
Guided by Silly Charlie, Alan Warburton finds himself hurrying through
crooked streets and dismal alleys, for what seems to him an interminable
distance. Now they run forward swiftly; now halt suddenly, while Charlie
creeps ahead to reconnoiter the ground over which they must go. At last
they have passed the Rubicon, and halting at the corner of a wider
street than any they have as yet traversed, Alan's strange guide says,
"You are tolerably safe now, Mr. Warburton; at least you are not likely
to be overtaken by Vernet or his men. You are still a long distance from
home, however, and possibly the way is unfamiliar. I would pilot you
further, but must hurry back to see how Vernet is coming out."
[Illustration: "Vernet's foot has pressed the yielding carpet; he
clutches the air wildly, and disappears."--page 137.]
For the first time Alan Warburton, the self-possessed, polished man of
society, is at a loss for words. Society has given him no training,
taught him no lessons applicable to such emergencies as this.
"Of one thing you must be warned," continues the guide. "Van Vernet is a
sleuth-hound on a criminal secret, and he considers you a criminal. He
has seen you standing above that dead man with a bar of iron in your
hand--did you know that bar of iron was smeared with blood, and that
wisps of human hair clung to its surface? Never mind; _I_ do not accuse
you. I do not ask you to explain your presence there. You have escaped
from Van Vernet, and he will never forgive you for it. He will hunt you
down, if possible. You know the man?"
"I never saw his face until to-night."
"What! and yet, two hours ago, he was at your brother's house, a guest!"
"True. My dear sir, I am deeply indebted to you, but just now my
gratitude is swallowed up in amazement. In Heaven's name, who are you,
that you know so much?"
"'Silly Charlie' is what they call me in these alleys, and I pass for an
idiot."
"But you are anything but what you 'pass for.' You have puzzled me, and
outwitted Van Vernet. Tell me who you are. Tell me how I can reward your
services."
"In serving you to-night, Mr. Warburton, I have also served myself. As
to who I am, it cannot matter to you."
"That must be as you will,"--Alan is beginning to recover his
conventional courtesy--"but at least tell me how I may discharge my
obligations to you. _That_ does concern me."
Alan's companion ponders a moment, and then says:
"Perhaps we had better be frank, Mr. Warburton. You are a gentleman,
and, I trust, so am I. If you owe me anything, you can discharge your
debt by answering a single question."
"Ask it."
"Van Vernet was a guest at your masquerade--why was he there?"
The question startles Alan Warburton, but he answers after a moment's
reflection:
"He came at my invitation, and on a matter of business."
"And yet you say that you never saw his face before?"
"True; our business was arranged through third parties, and by
correspondence. He came into my presence, for the first time, masked.
Until I saw his face in that hovel yonder, I had never seen it."
"And you?"
"A kind fortune has favored me. This dress I wore as a masquerade
costume; over it I threw a black and scarlet domino. Van Vernet saw me
in that domino, and with a mask before my face."
"You may thank your stars for that, and for your silence at the hovel.
If you had opened your lips then, your voice might have betrayed you."
"It would have betrayed the fact that I was no seaman, at the least, and
that is why I had resolved upon silence as the safest course."
"You have come out of this night's business most fortunately. But you
still have reason to fear Vernet. Your very silence may cause him to
suspect you of playing a part. Your features are photographed upon his
memory; alter the cut of your whiskers or, better still, give your face
a clean shave; crop your hair, and above all leave the city until this
affair blows over."
"Thank you," Alan replies; "I feel that your advice is good." Then,
after a struggle with his pride, he adds:
"I could easily clear myself of so monstrous a charge as that which
Vernet would prefer against me, but, for certain reasons, I would prefer
not to make a statement of the case."
"I comprehend."
Again Alan is startled out of his dignity. "You were the first to arrive
in response to that cry for help to-night?" he begins.
"The first, after you."
"You saw those who fled?"
"I saw only one fugitive. Mr. Warburton, I know what you would ask. I
saw and recognized your brother's wife. I understood your actions; you
were guarding her retreat at the risk of your own life or honor. You are
a brave man!"
Alan's tone is a trifle haughty as he answers:
"In knowing Mrs. Warburton and myself, you have us at a disadvantage. In
having seen us as you saw us to-night, we are absolutely in your power,
should you choose to be unscrupulous. Under these circumstances, I have
a right to demand the name of a man who knows _me_ so intimately. I have
a right to know why you followed us, or me, to that house to-night?"
His companion laughs good-naturedly.
"In spite of your airs, Mr. Warburton," he says candidly, "you would be
a fine fellow if you were not--such a prig. So you demand an
explanation. Well, here it is, at least as much as you will need to
enlighten you. Who am I? I am a friend to all honest men. Why did I
follow you? Neither Vernet nor myself followed you or the lady. Vernet
was there as the leader of an organized Raid. I was there--ahem! as a
pilot for Vernet. _You_ were there as a spy upon the lady. Mrs.
Warburton's presence remains to be accounted for. And now, Mr.
Warburton, adieu. You are out of present danger; if I find that Mrs.
Warburton has not fared so well, you will hear from me again. If
otherwise, you look your last upon Silly Charlie."
With a mocking laugh he turns, and pausing at the corner to wave his
hand in farewell, he darts away in the direction whence he came.
Puzzled, chagrined, his brain teeming with strange thoughts, Alan
Warburton turns homeward.
What is it that has come upon him this night? Less than two hours ago,
an aristocrat, proud to a fault, with an unblemished name, and with
nothing to fear or to conceal. Now, stealing through the dark streets
like an outcast, his pride humbled to the dust, his breast burdened with
a double secret, accused of murder, creeping from the police, a hunted
man! To-morrow the town will be flooded with descriptions of this
escaped sailor. To-morrow he must change his appearance, must flee the
city.
And all because of his zeal for the family honor; all because of his
brother's wife, and her horrible secret! To-night charity hath no place
in Alan Warburton's heart.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Van Vernet, covered with rags and dust, sickened by the foul
smell of the vault into which he has been precipitated, and boiling over
with wrath, is being rescued from his absurd and uncomfortable position
by three policemen, who, being sent forward to ascertain if possible the
cause of their leader's prolonged absence, have stumbled upon him in
the very nick of time.
As he emerges from the trap, by the aid of the same rope with which not
long before he had secured Alan Warburton's feet, he presents a most
ludicrous appearance. His hat has been lost in the darkness of the
cellar, and his head is plentifully decorated with rags and feathers,
which have adhered tenaciously to his disarranged locks. He is smeared
with dirt, pallid from the stench, nauseated, chagrined, wrathful.
Instinctively he comprehends the situation. The simpleton has played him
false, the prisoner has escaped.
On the floor lie the handcuffs which Alan Warburton has shaken off as he
fled. He picks them up and examines them eagerly. Then an imprecation
breaks from his lips. They have been _unlocked_! And by whom? Not by the
man who wore them; that was impossible.
Suddenly, flinging down the handcuffs, he turns to the policemen.
"Two men have escaped from this house, after throwing me into that
cellar," he says rapidly. "They must be overtaken--a sailor and a
pretended simpleton tricked out in rags and tinsel. After them, boys;
out by that door. They can't be far away. Capture them _alive or dead_!"
The door by which Alan and his rescuer made their exit stands invitingly
open, and the three officers, promptly obeying their leader, set off in
pursuit of the sailor and the simpleton.
Left alone, Van Vernet plucks the extempore adornments from his head and
person, and meditates ruefully, almost forgetting the original Raid in
the chagrin of his present failure.
He goes to the side of the murdered man, who still lies as he had
fallen, and looks down upon him.
"Ah, my fine fellow," he mutters, "you give me a chance to redeem
myself. If I have been outwitted to-night by a sailor and a fool, you
and I will have fine revenge. A sailor! Ah, it was no common sailor, if
I may trust my eyes and my senses. The hands were too white and soft;
the feet too small and daintily clad; the face, in spite of the
low-drawn cap and the tattooing, was too aristocratic and too _clean_.
And the fool! Ah, it is no common fool who carries keys that unlock our
new patent handcuffs, and who managed this rescue so cleverly. For once,
Van Vernet has found his match! But the scales shall turn. The man who
killed _you_, my lad, and the man who outwitted _me_, shall be found and
punished, or Van Vernet will have lost his skill!"