THE SELLER OF THE SECRET
“WHY, Miss Bristowe!” I cried. “Perhaps you don’t recollect me?”
She started quickly, and drew back for a moment, her countenance
blanching; then looking into my face, she said, with a timid laugh:
“Why, of course, doctor! But have you forgiven me for taking you on that
fool’s errand?”
“Yes, long ago,” I laughed. “But our meeting this evening is certainly
unexpected. Have you friends in this neighbourhood?”
She replied in the affirmative, but without giving me any explanation.
“And your brother?” I asked, recollecting Whitworth’s declaration that
he had never heard of her. “Is he any better?”
“Oh, a great deal, thanks,” was her reply. “He took a turn for the
better that night I came to you, and has improved ever since.”
She looked, I think, prettier than on that night when we had driven
together to Blackheath. But she had deceived me in regard to her
statement concerning Dr. Whitworth, so I supposed she was deceiving me
now.
She was in a hurry to get home, she told me, and my first impulse was to
follow her secretly, but when I recollected that the man for whom I had
been so long in wait was actually inside No. 7, I decided to keep watch
upon him rather than upon her.
The fact that she had come from that house was in itself curious, and
made me suspect that her visit to me on that night in Walworth had some
secret connection with the scheme of this man Purvis.
The manner in which she was hurrying when I stopped her made it plain
that she was late for some appointment.
There were two courses open to me, namely: to follow her, or else to
remain and await Purvis. The discovery that she was friendly with some
person at No. 7 had suddenly aroused within me a desire to know her
place of abode in order to make secret inquiries concerning her. Yet,
after all, my chief business was with Purvis, so I decided to remain on
watch for him.
With her consent, therefore, I saw her into an omnibus for Ludgate Hill,
whence she told me she would take train home, and when I parted from her
I expressed a fervent hope that we might meet again before very long.
“Good-night,” she said, as we shook hands. “Yes, I hope we shall meet
again—in more fortunate circumstances than to-night.” And she mounted
into the omnibus and left me.
What could she mean by more fortunate circumstances? I was puzzled at
her words, but at last their truth became apparent.
Through many hours, till far into the night, I waited in that vicinity
for the man who was my rival. But he never came out, neither that day
nor the next.
The reason, I afterwards found, was simple enough. The servant had
played me false and told him everything; therefore he had waited until
darkness set in, and then climbed over several garden walls into Wells
Street, a short thoroughfare running parallel at the back, and quietly
emerged into Gray’s Inn Road.
So while I had waited patiently in front he had ingeniously escaped at
the back, aided most probably by the mysterious Miss Bristowe and Mrs.
Graham, whose character, of course, I had no means of ascertaining.
According, however, to my friend the constable, some shifty individuals
lived in that neighbourhood.
In any case I had the dissatisfaction of knowing that all my vigilance
had been naught, and that the man Purvis would never again run the
gauntlet of Calthorpe Street. He would no doubt arrange for another
address, and if so I might obtain it by means of the Kenways, providing,
of course, that they had not yet told him the house was let.
I took counsel with Mr. Staffurth, as I did very frequently nowadays.
I blamed myself that on that night I was alone. Had I an assistant with
me he might have followed the young lady home. Staffurth being of the
same opinion, suggested that I should accept the services of his nephew,
a young bank clerk who had been compelled to leave his occupation in the
City temporarily on account of ill-health. This young fellow, whom I had
met once or twice at Clapham, was named Philip Reilly. Smart, well
dressed, and well educated, he had been an athlete before his illness,
and had carried off many prizes at Lillie Bridge and other places.
He was just the sort of young man to be useful, and when that evening he
sat in his uncle’s study and the full facts of the case were related to
him in confidence, he became highly excited over it, and announced his
eagerness to act under my directions.
“We have a formidable enemy to contend with, Philip,” the old gentleman
pointed out. “And recollect that whatever may happen you must act with
due caution so as not to play into the hands of our rivals.”
“Trust me for that,” he said. “The affair sounds exciting, at all
events.”
“Yes,” I remarked, “and matters will grow more exciting before long, I
anticipate.”
“But this Miss Bristowe,” he exclaimed. “Have we no means of
rediscovering her?”
“At present, I am sorry to say, we haven’t,” I responded. “We may
possibly get hold of Purvis’s new postal address, and if we do so it may
lead us back to Miss Bristowe, who seems to me somehow associated with
him. How, of course, I can’t tell.”
Reilly sat with folded arms, his clean-shaven face bearing a deep,
thoughtful look as he puffed his pipe. It is not given to every one to
be engaged on a treasure hunt, and from the first moment when he was
told about it its interest overwhelmed him and he was eager to make a
commencement.
After a long consultation it was arranged that we should both go down to
Caldecott and endeavour to find out Purvis’s new address. It was also
agreed that before we took another step we ought to be acquainted with
the personal appearance of our rival.
To work in the dark any longer might, we foresaw, prove fatal to our
object; therefore, on the following day, I introduced Reilly to the
Kenways as the new tenant of the Manor House.
Fortunately they had not communicated with Purvis. Hence I took them
somewhat into my confidence, and induced Mr. Kenway to write a letter to
Calthorpe Street, asking whether he intended to take the house, and
requesting the favour of a reply.
This he did at my dictation, and I had the satisfaction of putting the
letter in the post-box at Rockingham. By that ruse I hoped to gain
knowledge of Purvis’s new address. As had already been proved, he was
what is vulgarly known as “a slippery customer,” but both Reilly and
myself determined that if we once knew his postal address we would very
quickly come up with him.
We had taken up our quarters at the Sonde Arms, at Rockingham, and very
comfortable and rustic they were after the dust and heat of London. My
long and unavailing vigil in that stifling side street had rather pulled
me down. Day after day I had waited there, often hungry and thirsty, and
at all times dusty and uncomfortable, compelled to eat as I could, and
to hobnob with all and sundry, until my very heart seemed stifled by the
dust of the throbbing city.
But in old-world Rockingham, even on the most sultry day, were soft
zephyrs that fanned our cheeks. We ate in a room at the back, and to us,
through the open window, came the sweet scent of the climbing roses and
honeysuckle, and the mingled perfume of the old-fashioned cottage garden
behind. The fare was plain and wholesome, the ale home-brewed and of the
best, and we also had an opportunity to gossip with the drink-sodden old
simpleton Ben Knutton.
The Kenways were looking for other quarters, therefore we could not yet
take possession of the Manor House. Reilly had given forth that he was a
student, a man of means, and something of an invalid, therefore he had
hired the house for the purposes of being quiet and able to study
without such distractions as there were in London.
He was full of ingenuity, which I quickly recognized after he had
associated himself with me. He made a minute inspection of the house I
had taken for him, and afterwards became possessed of the fixed idea
that the treasure was secreted behind the panelling of the centre
upstairs room. Why, I know not. But no argument of mine would remove the
idea, and he was frantically anxious to obtain possession of the
premises in order to secure the old Italian’s hoard.
We were, however, compelled to exercise considerable patience. We could
not hurry the outgoing tenants, neither dare we betray any undue anxiety
regarding the place. We could only await a response from Purvis.
It came at last after nearly a week of idle waiting. Mr. Kenway handed
it to me, saying:—
“It seems as though he wants to take the place after all.”
“He’s too late,” I laughed, and eagerly read the letter, which was to
the effect that he had not yet decided, but would write giving a
definite answer in a couple of days. The letter was headed, “14,
Sterndale Road, Hammersmith, London,” and to that address Mr. Kenway was
asked to write.
Our ruse had worked satisfactorily. We were again cognizant of the
address—the postal address—of our mysterious rival.
Reilly was eager to return to London in search of him, but we remained
at Rockingham yet another day, making inquiries and getting on good
terms with most of the people with whom we came into contact.
Ben Knutton was, of course, closely questioned, and in reply to my
inquiry whether he had since met the gentleman who purchased the bit of
parchment from him, he said:—
“Yes. ’E came about a fortni’t ago and asked me if I had anything else
to sell, and I told him that I hadn’t.”
“He called on you at your cottage?”
“Yes. One night after I came ’ome from work. He made me let him look
through all the things I had. I told him that I’d heard that the
parchment I sold him was worth a lot o’ money, and he asked who told me.
I explained that a gentleman from London had been asking about it after
he had bought it, and he laughed, saying: ‘I know the man; ’e’s a fool,
’e is.’”
“Meaning me, eh?”
“I suppose so, sir, of course, beggin’ your pardon.”
“Well, Mr. Knutton, I don’t think I’m much of a fool,” I laughed. “That
man swindled you, that’s all.”
“Then do you really think, sir, that the parchment had something to do
with our property?” he asked in surprise.
“Possibly it may have,” was my response. “Of course I’ve never seen it,
so can’t say.”
“Well, sir,” the old labourer burst forth, “I don’t like that man at
all. ’E ain’t no gentleman, that I’m sure.”
He had, I supposed, failed to “stand” the necessary quantity of beer
which, in Knutton’s eyes, stamped the gentleman.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“Because he made a lot of unkind remarks about you, sir,” was his
answer. “He told me that you were trying to swindle me out of the money
we ought to have, and a long yarn showing you up to be one of the worst
o’ blackguards.”
“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” I laughed. “One day, however, we shall see
who’s the scoundrel and adventurer. In the meantime, Knutton, just
beware of any future dealings with him.”
“I will, sir,” was the man’s reply. “I’m very sorry I ever sold that
parchment. I only wish I’d showed it to you. You’re a gentleman as would
perhaps have been able to read it.”
“Ah, Knutton, I only wish you had kept it for me,” I responded, with a
heartfelt sigh. “But it’s useless to cry over spilt milk, you know. We
must make the best of it. All you have to do, however, is to keep a
still tongue in your head and beware of any other gentleman from
London.”
“Oh, I will, sir, now. You can rely on me—that you can.” And the old
fellow raised his great mug of beer and emptied it at a single gulp.
His capacity for ale, like that of many farm labourers, was simply
astounding.