A LATE VISITOR FOR MR. EGERTON.
Squire Heritage, or Edward Marston, as we may now again call him, leapt
into a cab when he left Preene, and bade the man drive to Birnie’s
address.
It was then close on midnight.
He was playing a desperate game in venturing thus into the lion’s den,
but it was the last chance left him.
If he could silence Egerton he might purchase a respite from Heckett
even now. Heckett was evidently dying, and had no longer fear or
trouble for himself. He had escaped from the Serpentine that night, and
had made Egerton the instrument of his vengeance. But the blow had not
actually fallen, and he might yet stay the uplifted hand. If he could,
there might be some peace in store for him. He did not care for
himself. He was sick and tired of it all. His punishment was heavier
than he could bear; but for Ruth’s sake he would strive and struggle
yet to fight against fate. Let the shame be spared to her of being a
felon’s wife.
‘Poor Ruth! Noble Ruth!’ he thought. ‘She knows me now in all my
hideous impurity, and yet she forgives me. Oh, how different things
might have been!’
Ah, me! that ‘might have been!’ It is the anthem of the lost soul, the
despairing cry of the sinner caught in the toils of his sin.
It was a little past midnight when Marston rang the doctor’s bell, but
the lights were still burning in the house.
‘I want to see Mr. Egerton, if he is in, on important business.’
‘He is not in yet, sir,’ said the servant. ‘He and the doctor are at
the theatre, and have not returned yet.’
‘I will wait,’ said Marston, brushing past the man into the hall. ‘My
business with him is of the utmost importance.’
‘Will you step into the library, sir?’ said the servant, overawed by
the manner of this imperious visitor.
Marston followed the Servant, who turned up the lights and left him.
The evening papers, unfolded, were lying on the table.
Marston picked up one casually, and glanced along the columns.
Suddenly his eye was arrested by a name, and he read the paragraph
carefully. It was headed, ‘A Message from the Sea,’ and ran as follows:
‘This morning, as some fishermen were off the coast of————, one of them
picked up a bottle which was floating past them and brought it ashore.
On opening it it was found to contain a piece of paper, on which was
something written in pencil, of which the following words only are
decipherable, the salt water having soaked through a faulty cork and
obliterated the remainder:
‘“_On board the ‘“The ship is sinking rapidly. I, Gurt am about to die,
do solemnly declare tha of September, 18—, I stabbed my cousin, Ra
house, kept by a man named Heck I freely make this confession, an_
‘The bottle with its contents has been handed to the police, though it
is doubtful if any clue will ever be obtained to the meaning of this
extraordinary message from the sea.’
Yes, to one man there was a clue.
Edward Marston read each word, and it seemed as though Providence had
sent the message to him. His pale facc glowed; his sunken eyes gleamed.
He had Gurth Egerton’s life in his hand.
Let him. come now—he was ready.
He saw it all.
When the _Bon Espoir_ was sinking, Egerton, with the terrors of death
upon him, had hurled this into the sea; it had floated about for years,
to be cast ashore now—now, when such a revelation placed the murderer
at the mercy of the man he would injure.
Marston’s suspicions were confirmed. He had always suspected that Ralph
Egerton had met with foul play.
He could hardly believe that the paper he held in his hand was
real—that he was not the victim of some nightmare, from which he would
presently awake.
While he sat staring at the paper, and reading it again and again,
there came a ring at the bell.
Marston folded the paper and threw it back in its place.
The next moment Gurth Egerton came into the room.
The servant had told him a gentleman wanted to see him.
He started violently when he saw Marston.
‘You here?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes’, Mr. Egerton,’ said Marston calmly. ‘I’ve just come to pay you a
little friendly visit before I leave the country.’
Egerton wondered what he should do. On the morrow he was prepared to
denounce this man to justice—not openly, but through George
Heritage—and here was the man sitting quietly and calmly in his house.
Egerton could not at once conceal his agitation at being thus
confronted by his intended victim.
‘You don’t seem pleased to see me,’ said Marston.
‘Well, to tell you the truth, my dear fellow,’ answered Gurth, ‘I’m
not. What have you come for?’
‘On the old business. Just to have a chat. When are you going to split
on your old pal?’
Egerton’s face flushed crimson, and he stammered out, ‘I—I—don’t
understand you!’
‘Tut, tut, man! Let’s play cards on the table. We’re not the raw lads
we were in the old days when you were plucking your cousin Ralph.’
‘It’s a lie!’ said Egerton fiercely. ‘I never plucked Ralph, as you
call it.’
‘My dear fellow, what a fuss you make about such a paltry accusation.
Why, if I had said you murdered him you couldn’t look more indignant.’
‘Enough!’ exclaimed Egerton with an oath. ‘You have not come here to
talk about Ralph Egerton.’
‘Indeed I have!’ said Marston. ‘And be civil, if you can, for I’ve come
to do you a service. You’re a careless fellow, to leave a confession of
murder kicking about on the sea.’
Egerton leapt to his feet and seized Marston by the arm. His face was a
deathly white, and his lips trembled, while great beads of perspiration
stood upon his brow.
‘Hush!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Not so loud. What do you mean?’
‘Lord, man! what’s the matter? You don’t think I’m going to round on
you, do you? I only want you to do me a favour, and I’ll do you one in
return. I have in my possession your written confession of the murder
of your cousin, signed by you. You wrote it when the _Bon Espoir_ was
sinking—and I have it.’
‘The sea has given up her dead!’ cried Egerton, starting back, his face
distorted with terror.
‘It has,’ said Marston quietly. ‘Your life is in my hands. Come, you
were going to play me a scurvy trick. I’ll return good for evil. This
confession is in my hands. Do what I ask you, and you shall have it and
tear it up.’
‘Name your terms,’ groaned Egerton, sinking into a chair and burying
his face in his hands. ‘I am at your mercy.’
‘My terms are simple. Come with me now to Heckett’s and make him swear
not to betray me. I know the plot between you. I am not so easily
fooled as you think. Come and do this, and I will place the confession
in your hands.’
‘You swear it?’
‘I swear it. But you don’t want an oath from an old friend like me, I
should think.’
‘I will do it,’ said Egerton eagerly. ‘Come—come at once. Not a word to
Birnie—not a word to any living soul. Come!’
Egerton went out first into the hall. Marston followed, quietly
slipping the evening paper into his pocket as he went out. The servant
was in the hall.
‘Tell the doctor I’m gone out with my friend,’ said Egerton to the
servant; ‘and don’t sit up for me. I’ll let myself in with the key.’
The two men went out, and the servant closed the door after them.
‘What’s up, I wonder?’ said that worthy to himself. ‘Here’s a gent, as
don’t give a name, comes in as white as a ghost, and Mister Egerton
comes in afterwards as jolly as a sandboy, and presently they goes out,
and then it’s the gent as looks as jolly as a sandboy, and Mister
Egerton as is as white as a ghost. It’s rum—very rum!’
With which criticism on passing events, the aforesaid observer of
countenances went downstairs to the kitchen to finish his disturbed
supper and enjoy a quiet half-hour over _Bell’s Life_ before retiring
for the night.