"Come further into the garden," invited the Duke with his most winning
smile, "that's right, Bill. Now just take that gun out of your pocket
and drop it into the grass. If the muzzle comes this way poor Mrs.
Slewer will be a widow. Thank you. You heard what I said about Mrs.
Slewer?" he asked.
Bill, unabashed, made no reply, but looked up at the smiling face of the
man he hated, with passionless calm.
The girl, fascinated by the deadly play, watched.
"How long have you been married?" asked the Duke. "Can these things be
arranged in State's prison?"
"Say," said the unperturbed Mr. Slewer, "you're fresh ain't ye,--what's
the use of gay talk anyways--I'm layin' for you, Jukey."
"And I ran away, did I?" said the other, ignoring Mr. Slewer's speech,
and dropping his voice, "scared of Bill Slewer of Four Ways?"
"Seems like it," said the man coolly.
"Are you the only cattle thief I ever jailed?" asked the Duke; then of a
sudden he let go the mask of languor and the words came like the
passionless click of machinery.
"Get out of England, you Bill!" he breathed, "because I'm going to kill
you else! What! you threaten me? Why, man, I'd have given a thousand
dollars to know you were shoot-at-able! Do you think we've forgotten
Ed. Carter----"
He stopped short looking at the girl. Her eyes had not left his face.
Astonishment, interest and fear were written plainly, and these checked
the bitter stream of words that sprang to his lips. For her part she
marvelled at the intensity of this insolent young man, who could so
suddenly drop the pretence of badinage, into whose face had come the
pallor of wrath and whose laughing eyes had grown of a sudden so stern
and remorseless. He recovered himself quickly and laughed.
"Hey, Bill," he said, "it is no use your coming to Brockley, S.E. with
any fool bad-man tricks. You're out of the picture here. Just wait
till we're both back again in the land of Freedom and Firearms. Is it a
bet?"
"Sure," said Bill and stooped leisurely to pick up his revolver.
He stood for a moment toying with it, looking at the Duke with sidelong
glances. The Duke's pistol had disappeared into his pocket.
"Jukey," drawled Bill, polishing the slim barrel of his weapon on the
sleeve of his coat, "you'se has lost your dash."
"Think so?"
"Yes, sir," said the confident Bill, "because why? It stands for sense
I didn't come all the way from God's country to do cross talk--don't
it?"
The Duke nodded and ostentatiously examined his empty hands.
"Say," said Bill, "them's nice pretty hands of your'n, Jukey, you just
keep 'em right there where we--all can admire 'em--see? I've gotten a
few words to say to you'se, an' there's plenty of time to say 'em."
Alicia saw the snaky glitter in the man's cruel eyes, and took an
involuntary step forward. Slewer did not look at her, but his left hand
shot out and arrested her progress.
"You'se ain't in this, Cissy," he said gruffly, "it's me and Jukey." He
pushed her backward with such force that she nearly fell. When she
looked at the Duke again his face was grey and old-looking, but he made
no comment.
"I guess I've not been thinkin' of this particular occasion for some
years, no, _sir_!" said Bill carefully, "not been sitting in me stripes,
thinkin' out what I'd say to Mr. Jukey when me an' him hit the same
lot."
The man on the wall chuckled, but his face was still pale. Bill
observed this fact.
"You'se can be the laughin' coon all right," he sneered, "but I guess
two inches o' looking glass'd put you wise to yourself."
"Am I pale?" drawled the man on the wall; "it's this fear of you Bill,
the fear of you that made me sick. Oh, please don't wag your gun. You
don't suppose I'd have trusted you with it, unless I was absolutely sure
of you."
Bill scowled suspiciously and thumbed back the hammer of the revolver.
"Sure?" he grated. "By God, Jukey----"
The Duke turned his head never so slightly. Bill followed the direction
of his eyes, then he dropped his pistol like a hot coal and threw up his
hands. At an upper window of the Duke's house stood the watchful Hank.
In the corner of the American's mouth was a cigar, in his hands was a
Winchester rifle and its business-like muzzle covered Bill unwaveringly,
as it had for the past ten minutes.
V
All this happened in Brockley, S.E. on one bright autumn morning whilst
Kymott Crescent (exclusive of numbers 64 and 66) pursued its placid
course. Whilst milkmen yelled in the streets and neat butcher's carts
stood waiting at servants' entrances, whilst Mrs. Coyter practised most
assiduously the pianoforte solo that was against her name in the
programme of the evening, and Mr. Roderick Nape paced the concrete floor
of his study delivering to an imaginary audience a monologue (specially
written by a friend not unconnected with _The Lewisham Borough News_)
entitled "The Murder of Fairleigh Grange."
That rehearsal will ever be remembered by Mr. Roderick Nape, because it
was whilst he was in the middle of it that there came to him his First
Case.
In this monologue, the character, a detective of supernatural
perception, is engaged in hounding down a clever and ruthless criminal.
Mr. Roderick Nape had got to the part where an "agony" in the _Morning
Post_ had aroused the suspicion of the detective genius. Perhaps it
would be best to give the extract.
"Can it be Hubert Wallingford? No, perish the thought!
Yet--come let me read the paper again (_takes newspaper cutting
from his pocket and reads_)--
'To whom it may concern: information regarding P.L. is anxiously
awaited by H.W.'
Can it be Hubert! (_sombrely_)--It would seem a voice from the
grave that says----"
"The gent from 66 wants to see you, sir."
Mr. Nape stopped short and faced the diminutive maid of all work.
"Is it a case? he asked severely.
"I shouldn't wonder, sir," replied the cheerful little girl.
It was the invariable question and answer, as invariable as Philip of
Spain's morning inquiry in relation to Gibraltar--"Is it taken?"
"Show him in."
The greenhouse which an indulgent parent had converted into a study for
the scientific investigations of crime, admitted of no extravagant
furnishing. A big basket chair in which the detective might meditate, a
genuine Persian rug where he might squat and smoke shag (it was
birds-eye, really), a short bench littered with test tubes and Bunsen
burners, these were the main features of Mr. Nape's laboratory.
Mr. Hal Tanneur was visibly impressed by the test tubes, and accepted
the one chair the apartment boasted with the comforting thought that Mr.
Nape might not be the silly young fool that people thought him. Happily
Mr. Nape was no thought-reader.