Brettison leaped from his chair, and Stratton literally staggered back
against a glass case so violently that a figure upon it toppled over and
fell with a crash, as if emblematic of another downfall of all hope.
For it seemed incredible. Little more than an hour before they had left
this man apparently a helpless imbecile, unable to concentrate his
mental faculties save upon one point, and only at certain times upon
that, at all others hopelessly blank. While now the vacuity had
apparently departed, his face looked eager and animated, and the
helpless log had turned into a dangerous enemy, whose fresh coming upon
the scene completely upset all calculations, and the question staring
them in the face was how to act next.
For it was quite plain; so long as the man had gone on in his quiet,
regular track, with his nurse in attendance, and his invalid-chair
waiting to take him a short distance every morning, his mind had
remained blank; but though he had made no sign--though he had apparently
not been in any way impressed by Stratton's company--beneath the calm,
dreamy surface the old man had been evoked, the thoughts lying dormant
had suddenly been awakened; and with the last scene of which he was
conscious, before the shot had prostrated body and mind at one blow,
once more vividly before his mind, he had risen from his seat during his
nurse's absence, and made straight for the chambers, bent upon finishing
the task upon which he had set his mind.
As he mounted the stairs, nearly everything was as clear as on the day
when he had presented himself. Only one matter was confused, and,
strangely enough, that was the point upon which, during his imbecile
condition, he had been able to dwell--to wit, his wound. One set of
ideas swept away the other, and he could only go back to the moment when
he had presented that revolver at Stratton.
And now, as he entered the room and spoke, it was to him the same day
and the continuation of his interview with Stratton. It puzzled him a
little that he should have had to come through the streets to continue
that scene, but not much, for his mind had been gradually opening out
from the time he left Queen Charlotte Road, and it was only when he
reached Stratton's door that he had gained its full expansion. He was a
little surprised, too, at seeing Brettison there. The latter had come
in suddenly like one in a dream, but he did not let it trouble him. If
Stratton was willing to let a third person share the secret, that was
his lookout. Brettison was evidently not connected with the police, and
he felt that the power he held made him more than a match for both.
He smiled as he saw the effect his arrival had produced on the occupants
of the chambers, and looked sharply from one to the other before
turning, and turning the bolt of the inner door into its socket. Then
his hand went suspiciously to his pocket and then to his breast. Not
finding what he sought, he looked at the table and the floor in search
of it.
He shook his head then as if to clear his mind, and turned to Brettison.
"Who are you?" he said sharply. "Friend of his--a friend of the lady?
Why have you come? Don't matter. If he doesn't mind, it's nothing to
me. Get the old man and the aunt, and my wife too, if you like, for she
is my wife, mind. You can't get out of that--my wife, Mrs James
Barron. Do you hear, Stratton?--Mrs James Barron."
Stratton uttered a peculiar sound, between a groan and a cry of rage,
and he took a step toward the man, who drew himself up threateningly.
"No nonsense," he said, with a fierce snarl.
"No games, or you'll repent it. I'm playing high, and I'll stand no
humbug. Look here, old man," he continued, turning to Brettison, "you
sit down there, whoever you are. I don't want to hurt you. I warn you,
for I may turn rusty. What you've got to do is to take a sensible view
of the case, and advise him to do the same. Sit down."
He spoke as fiercely as if it were to an obstinate dog, and Brettison
sank back in an easy-chair, looking stunned.
"That's right. Now you, Stratton, you'd better squat down, too. I've
come on particular business. I expected you to turn nasty, and I'm
quite prepared."
He tapped his breast where he had felt for the revolver, and a look of
low cunning crossed his heavy face.
Stratton also sank into a chair--not so much in obedience to the man's
words as to gain time and settle upon some plan of action.
"Come, that's sensible," said the man, smiling. "I see we shall come to
good terms suitable to all parties. I hate quarrelling, specially when
all the good cards are in my hand. It's like being forced to take a
cowardly advantage of the other side."
Brettison turned a hopeless look upon Stratton, and the man saw it and
said sharply:
"Never mind him. I'll tell you, as you were not here. I propose a
handsome sum down. Hallo! he has pocketed those notes that were on the
table. But it doesn't matter, they're easily brought out. A handsome
sum down, and a regular quarterly payment. He has only to agree to
that, and James Barron goes about in the dark and he never sees him.
It'll be just as if James Barron was shot and drowned, as the papers
said, in an attempt to escape off The Foreland one dark night about a
year ago. Ugh! it was rough work," he added, with a shudder, "and I
deserve a little extra for leaving the lady alone for so long. Now,
then, isn't that a fair offer?"
Brettison's lips moved as he sat there perfectly prostrated, wishing
that in his zeal he had not interfered; for had he not, the man before
them would have been dead and powerless to work all this evil--unless
discovery had made him a more deadly enemy still.
"I say, isn't that a fair offer?" he repeated. "Silence gives consent.
There we are, then. Come, Stratton. They must be ready to start for
the church by this time, so look alive and let's get the business done.
Just a few strokes of the pen, the handing over of some filthy lucre in
the shape of notes--Bank of England, mind," he said with a peculiar
laugh, "none of your Russian roubles. By jingo, what notes those were,
though. They didn't find 'em out for years. Well?"
He looked from one to the other as they sat watching him in helpless
dismay.
"Come; don't fool. You are keeping the lady waiting, and old Jerrold is
a regular Tartar, I can tell you. He will not stand any nonsense. I
know him of old. Come, what is it to be?"
He looked fixedly at Stratton, as if urging him to speak, but no words
came.
"I say, what is it to be?" cried the man fiercely. "No shilly-shally!
Don't put me out, or I shall be more nasty than you like. There, there,
don't let's quarrel, gentlemen," he cried, changing his tone. "We're
all men of the world, and we've got to deal with an ugly difficulty.
Let's settle it sensibly. I'm sorry for you, Stratton. It's
disappointing for you to have a dead man come to life and claim his wife
just as you are going to take the pretty widow to the church; but these
accidents will occur, and when they do let's repair damages the best way
we can. Well; why don't you speak; don't let me do all the talking."
Stratton drew a deep breath.
"Oh, it's of no use to sigh over it, sir, not a bit. Nothing to sigh
for. Come, hang it all, Myra Barron's worth a few hundreds down, and a
little income for her lawful lord. I don't want her, but I can't afford
to sell her too cheaply--hang the thing!"
He gave his head an uneasy jerk, and his hand played about his neck and
the back of his right ear for a few moments, as if something troubled
him. But it passed off directly, and he looked from one to the other
again as he took a chair, turned it, and supported himself by propping
himself with the back.
"Now then: the parson's waiting, and the carriages and the people.
Drink my health after its all over, and think to yourself I've behaved
like a trump. Write out a cheque, and send the old man here to cash it,
only look here, old fellow, no games, no tricks. You'll play fair--or I
shall make it pretty unpleasant for all concerned, I can tell you. All
right, you'll be square. You can't afford to play tricks. Now, then,
we are agreed, eh? That's right. Better than having a furious row
about nothing. What do you say?"
"I was about to speak to my friend, sir," said Stratton quietly. Then
turning to Brettison--"Now what do you think; we must completely alter
our plans."
"Yes," said Brettison, with a sigh.
"Make your plans, gentlemen, when you've settled with me," said the man
sternly, and he jerked one hand up to his neck again, and withdrew it
with a gesture of annoyance. "Come, Stratton, it's only a few lines
written with a pen, and you win all you want. Where do you keep your
cheque-book? In your table-drawer."
"There is only one way out of the difficulty, Brettison," said Stratton
with a sigh.
"Only one," said the old man sadly.
"Bravo, that's common-sense," cried the man. "Sound wisdom. I told you
so. Out with that cheque-book at once."
"I'm afraid, sir," said Stratton sternly, "that we are at cross
purposes."
"What do you mean?"
"That no money would ever buy your silence, even if I were disposed to
play the part of scoundrel. You will get no hush money from me."
"What?"
"There is only one way out of this difficulty."
"Oh, indeed!" said the man sarcastically; "and that is--"
"To hand you over to the police."
"What?"
"You heard my words, sir! I need not repeat them. The prison is the
only place for such as you, where the power of doing mischief is beyond
you. Brettison, go down and fetch a policeman--two--at once."
"Let him stir, and I'll send a bullet through his skull," cried the man
fiercely, as his hand was thrust behind him beneath his coat.
"Go at once, Brettison, I'll take care he does not harm you."
"Don't listen to him, you, sir," cried the scoundrel. "I warn you; you
stir from that chair and you're a dead man!"
"My dear Stratton," said Brettison, rising from his sea.
"Go at once! Never mind his threats," said Stratton fiercely.
"All right, I've warned you," said the man, drawing back his lips from
his teeth like some wild animal about to bite, and, stepping quickly to
the door, he stood near it with his hand behind him still, as if about
to draw a revolver from his hip pocket.
Brettison did not stir.
"He has a pistol there," he whispered.
"Of course. Suppose I was coming on a job like this, to make my
gentleman there disgorge, and not have a mate to back me? Now, then,
both of you; it's of no use to get into a passion. You threaten police.
I checkmate you with the little tool I have here--my reserve force.
There, you had better take it quietly, Stratton. What are a few
hundreds to you? I give up the girl and her fortune; what more do you
want? As for myself, I only wish for enough to live comfortably and in
peace without troubling anybody. There, let's talk again like men of
the world. You put my back up when you begin talking all that nonsense
about the police. Be sensible, Mr Stratton. I've had one dose of over
yonder that was not pleasant. I don't want to get on trial for shooting
you--if caught."
He said the last words with a forced laugh, and took a step or two
forward in a jaunty fashion, in wonderful contrast with his manner an
hour or so before.
"Now, then, Mr Stratton, we'll forget all that, please. Sit down, as I
said before, and write that cheque."
Stratton stood motionless in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed
upon his visitor; and his strength of mind and determination seemed to
grow rapidly. The old nervous horror was gone, and, quite equal to his
task, he never for a moment removed his eyes from his adversary.
"Come, we're wasting time, Mr Stratton. You're wanted yonder. No more
shilly-shallying, please; that cheque."
"Fetch the police, Brettison," said Stratton sternly; and, in obedience
to the order, Brettison took a step forward, while the savage aspect
came again into the ex-convict's countenance as he took a step back and
covered the door.
"No, you don't," he said, making a gesture as if tugging a pistol from
his pocket. "I warn you both, I'm a desperate man. I've been skulking
about for over a twelvemonth now, waiting for my chance, and it's come.
I'll have that money before I go. Write out that cheque, and get it
cashed. Send him, I say again, to get the money; and as for you," he
snarled, as he turned his eyes on Brettison, "you play any games, you so
much as look at a policeman while you are out, and I warn you he'll
suffer for it before you can break in here with any of your cursed
hounds."
"It's of no use," said Brettison hoarsely. "Let him say how much he
wants, and I'll write a cheque and get the money."
"Hah! That's talking sense," said the man exultantly, but never for a
moment relaxing his watchfulness--keeping his eyes upon Stratton, but
noting as well Brettison's actions as he took out his pocketbook and
drew a blank cheque from one of the folds.
"How much must I draw this for, Mr Cousin?" he said hurriedly.
"Cousin? Who's Mr Cousin? Draw it to James Barron, Esquire. No.
What for? Draw it to yourself. Five hundred pounds, now."
Brettison shrugged his shoulders, and moved toward the table.
"Stop!" cried Stratton firmly. "What are you going to do?"
"Give him the money," said Brettison. "You see; we must."
"Fetch the police," repeated Stratton. "I cannot leave you and go
myself."
"But the man is armed," said Brettison. "My dear boy, he is desperate."
"I tell you, I will protect you, man. Now, come on."
He took a step forward, and the ex-convict gave a fierce tug to draw his
weapon, but stopped, for Brettison seized his friend, and held him back.
"The pistol! Mind!" he cried.
"He has no pistol," roared Stratton, dragging himself free; and, seizing
the man by the collar with both hands, he flung him aside. "Now, then,
the police at once."
Brettison rushed to the door; but stopped short to gaze in wonder at the
group before him.
For as if Stratton's touch had discharged all power from the man he had
seized, the fierce look faded from his face, which grew heavy, vacuous,
and dull; his legs trembled beneath him, and he lurched forward, and was
only saved from falling by a rapid movement on Stratton's part as he
swung him into an easy-chair, where his enemy sank back with his head
lying over on one shoulder, and his leaden eyes staring heavily at the
floor.
The strength which had animated him with the flush of memory which had
come back, had passed away, and he was once more the feeble imbecile,
slowly raising his hand to his neck, where his fingers wandered about
the scar of his wound; while at that moment there was faintly heard on
the staircase the cheery humming-over of a scrap from an opera, followed
by voices and steps on the stone landing, which halted at the door.
Then came a long, rolling knock, followed by a merry laugh, and
Stratton, with a quick movement, raised his hand and whispered:
"Hush!"