GATHERING CLOUDS.
"There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." This was the
dominant thought in Dick's mind as he emerged from the court.
Reporters, hurriedly gathering their sheets of notes and sketches,
were hastening to their respective offices, and persons who had been
unable to obtain admission were eagerly asking for news of what had
taken place. The jurymen filed out, with a judicial weight on their
brows, and the man who had put and prompted so many questions gave
Dick a searching look as he passed. "I beg your pardon, Mr.
Remington," said a cheery interviewer, "I belong to 'The Hourly
Inquirer,' and if you would give me a few minutes----" "No time for
interviewing--nothing to say," interrupted Dick, and hurried on. Of
which the interviewer made a quarter of a column. Dick was not in the
mood to impart information or impressions; he had more serious matters
to think of. It seemed to him as though sinister forces were at work
inimical to Florence and Reginald. "I wonder," he thought, "what kind
of evidence Lady Wharton has to give--she seems terribly in earnest."
Clear of the crowd he felt a light touch upon his arm; looking down he
saw it was Florence.
"Reginald sent me," she said; "he is very anxious. Is it over?"
"Not by a long way," he replied. "People are staring at us. Let us
walk on."
"What has been done, Dick?"
"Evidence of identification has been taken, and a lot of stupid and
unnecessary questions asked. You will read all about it in the papers,
one part true, and three parts fiction." He spoke with a light air to
relieve her mind. "Reporters make the most of everything; it is their
business to lay on colour pretty thickly. There is one rather
vexatious thing--your visit to Catchpole Square on the night of the
fog."
"Has my name been mentioned?" asked Florence, in alarm.
"No, but it may be, and we must consider what we ought to do. Don't
look distressed; a straightforward explanation will set it right. Does
Uncle Rob know you went there?"
"No."
"Aunt Rob?"
"No. There was no harm in my going----"
"None whatever, dear."
"And none in my not speaking of it. There has been so much else to
think of."
"Indeed there has, and you have done everything for the best; but in
this unfortunate matter Uncle Rob is very delicately and peculiarly
placed; he is not only privately but officially connected with it. You
see that, don't you?"
"Yes, Dick."
"People are so uncharitable that a false step, though taken quite
innocently, may lead to trouble. I am afraid you will read many
unpleasant thing in the papers, and I want you to be prepared for
them." She gave him a startled look. "You must have courage,
Florence."
"I will."
"That's right. Now go home and tell them about your visit to Catchpole
Square, and why you went. I will be there in an hour or so. And don't
for one moment lose heart. There are some unhappy days before us, but
before long the clouds will clear, and all will be well."
She left him at the entrance to Deadman's Court, and he gave her a
bright smile to cheer her; but when she was out of sight he murmured
again, "There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." He feared he
knew not what; every hidden danger seemed to grow, and the dark clouds
to deepen. How to ward this danger from Florence? This was his aim and
hope, and to this end he was continually nerving himself.
Up to the present nothing but perplexity and mystery had attended his
search in the house of the murdered man. There were the bottles of
wine. On the first occasion he had mechanically counted seventy-six
bottles, on the second occasion seventy-five, and now there were but
seventy-four. "Either I am out of my senses," he thought, "or some
person has been twice in the house since I forced an entrance into
it." Wildly improbable as was the suggestion he found it impossible to
reject it. True, he was not the only person who had been there these
last two days. Scotland Yard was astir, and had sent detectives and
policemen, to whom free access was granted by Dick. These officials
made themselves very busy, but for the most part kept a still tongue.
Plans of the room were drawn, and every inch of the walls and floors
and staircases was examined. When it was proposed to photograph the
blood-stained footprints made by Dick, he looked on calmly, and
assisted in the preparations.
On this Monday afternoon the undertaker's men were waiting for Dick in
the Square, and they followed him upstairs with the coffin. It had
been a gruesome task, and he felt as if he could not breathe freely
till the body was taken to its last resting place.
Then there was the safe, of which he had found the key. During his
service with Samuel Boyd this safe had been the receptacle of all the
documents of value and of all the record books belonging to the dead
man--bank book, bill book, ledger, mortgage deeds, undue bills, etc.;
he expected to see these articles in the safe, but to his astonishment
it contained only a few unimportant papers.
At five o'clock the undertaker's men had departed, and Dick with a
last look around also took his departure. As he pulled the street door
behind him he heard a familiar cough, and a little hand was slid into
his. Gracie's hand.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Dick," she said, clinging to him. "I've
been everywhere to find you."
"Has your father come back?" he asked, in sudden expectation that she
brought him news of the missing man.
"No such luck. You didn't come to see us yesterday."
"I was too busy, Gracie. Are you any better?"
"Ever so much." Her pallid face and the sunken rims round her large
black eyes did not confirm the statement. "I can't rest, Dick, I can't
rest. Is he caught?"
"Who, Gracie?"
"The man that murdered Mr. Boyd?"
"No; and God knows when he will be."
"If God don't catch him," said Gracie, slowly, "and you don't, _I_
will. You just see if I don't. I've got to, because of what they're
saying of father. Dick, if I was a man I'd tear 'em to pieces. Poor
father! It's too bad, ain't it?"
"Altogether too bad."
"There's mother fretting herself to skin and bone. She gets up in the
night, and goes down to the Mews, and when she thinks nobody sees her
she cries and cries fit to break her heart; but _I_ see her, and I
feel like killing somebody!"
Not a trace of emotion in her dark little face; no kindling light in
her eyes; no tremor in her voice. The passion which agitated her was
expressed only in the clinging of her fingers to the hand of the
friend in whom she trusted and believed.
"I dreamt of father last night, Dick," she continued. "He was running
as hard as he could, and there was a mob of people after him. I kept
'em back. 'If you dare,' I cried, 'if you dare!' So we got away
together, and where do you think we got to?"
"Couldn't say for my life, Gracie, dreams are such funny things."
"Yes, they are, ain't they? We got into Mr. Boyd's house in Catchpole
Square, and we went all over it, into every room, creeping up and down
the stairs, looking for the murderer. 'You didn't do it, father?' I
said. He swore a big oath that he was innocent, and he cried to me to
save him and catch the murderer. I'm going to. I promised I would, and
I'm going to."
"It was only a dream, Gracie."
"It was real. I can hear him now, I can see him now. I've promised to
catch the murderer, and I'm going to."
They had reached Aunt Rob's house, and Dick stopped.
"I must leave you now, Gracie. My friends live here."
"You won't throw us over, will you? You'll come and see us?"
"Yes, I will come."
She raised her face; he stooped and kissed her and she went away with
a lighter heart.