A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.
It was one o’clock in the morning when Egerton and Marston reached
Heckett’s house.
During the journey neither had spoken. Each was busy with his own
thoughts.
Gurth knocked a certain number of times, and Heckett, lying tossing on
the little bed in the back room, knew who was there, for he did not
have his door opened at all hours to every one.
Lately Egerton had been a constant visitor, for Heckett—too ill now to
move—had confided his schemes to him, and entrusted him with the
disposal of his secrets, and his effects when he should be dead.
Heckett was very ill to-night, and Bess was still sitting up with him.
She had been out on business, and had not come back till late.
George had watched by the old man all day, and had gone to bed tired
out.
‘It’s Egerton,’ said the old dog-fancier, lifting his quick ears from
the pillow; ‘that’s his knock. What’s in the wind now?
‘Go and let him in, missus—there’s a dear!’
Bess went to the door and started back. There were two men outside.
‘It’s all right,’ said Egerton. ‘This is a friend. Come in.’
Gurth led the way iuto Heckett’s room, and Marston followed him.
Bess, fancying she should be _de trop_, went on upstairs to the little
room which she and her husband occupied, and where he had been
unsuspected and secure ever since that eventful night in Hyde Park.
Their troubles were soon to be over now, and they were patient, for
George had, through Heckett, acquired, sufficient evidence to prove how
the whole scheme was concocted.
Heckett, who knew how near his end was, had agreed to confess
everything, and to leave the proof of what he stated with George, so
that he might use them. He had ascertained through the police that an
accomplice giving evidence which would secure the capture of the gold
robbers would be pardoned, and on the morrow justice was to have the
whole plot laid in her hands.
‘To-morrow,’ said George, as Bess came into the room. ‘Tomorrow is
here, Bess, already. In twelve hours the first step will have been
taken to prove my innocence and take this horrible shame from my name.
Once free from this odious stigma, I can work, my darling, and make a
home for you, where, with God’s help, we shall be happier than had we
had the lands and the fortune my poor father willed away to the
stranger—to come into the hands of the very man who was the ruin of his
son. But to-morrow we shall strike the first blow for freedom. Nay,
today. What time is it?’
‘Past one,’ answered Bess; ‘and there’s Mr. Egerton come with a strange
gentleman to see Heckett.’
‘It’s about this business, I expect,’ answered George. ‘Heigho! I’m
tired. Let’s go to sleep, and wake to find the new day dawned—the day
that is to do so much for us.’
While the escaped convict was conversing so hopefully above, the
astonished Heckett found Marston by his side below.
Weak as he was, he rapped out an oath as he saw his would-be assassin
enter the room.
It was a stormy interview at first, but gradually Heckett calmed down.
In his confidence he had told Egerton everything, and now Egerton urged
him to accept Marston’s proposition, and hold his peace. What good
would Heckett do himself? He would have his revenge, that was true—but
what use was revenge to a dying man?
Heckett listened calmly at last, and when Egerton had finished and
Marston had added his argument, letting Heckett see pretty plainly that
he could not injure him without injuring Egerton also, and dropping
something more than a hint that the old story of Ralph Egerton’s death
in Heckett’s gambling-house might have to be gone into too, if he were
forced into a corner—when all this had been said, Heckett closed his
eyes, and lay back on his pillow thinking.
‘I can’t promise,’ he said. ‘There’s others besides myself as ‘as got
accounts to reckon with you. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a
week—a dear week—to put daylight between yourself and the tecs.’
‘I’ll accept that offer,’ said Marston, quietly.
He saw there was nothing better to be got from Heckett that night. In a
week much might be done. In the mean time he knew he should hold
Egerton safe. Delay was all he wanted now. Given a week, he might yet
surmount every obstacle.
He rose from the chair by Heckett’s side, and prepared to go.
As he did so Heckett beckoned to him.
‘There’s one thing you can do for me,’ he said. ‘I believe as you know
what’s become o’ my gal. I ain’t got long to be here now, and I’d like
to see my poor Gertie’s gal afore I go. There’s some things o’ her poor
mother’s as I’ve kept for many a year as I’d like her to have. If you
know where she’s been all these years, maybe you’ll tell her her old
grandfather’s dyin’, and he’d die easier if he could see her again, and
ask her to forgive him.’
‘You shall see Gertie if I can find her,’ said Marston eagerly.
A new idea had come to him. Gertie might induce the old man to hold his
peace for ever. He had almost forgotten that Ruth’s _protégée_ was
Heckett’s child.
Gurth and Marston bade the old man ‘Good-night,’ and went out into the
deserted street.
‘He’s sinking fast,’ said Gurth. ‘Birnie saw him the other day, and
says he can’t live a month. Now I’ve kept my promise—keep yours.’
They had walked to the corner of the street.
‘Oh—ah—yes,’ answered Marston, quietly; ‘that confession. I promised it
to you when you had silenced Heckett You have only silenced him for a
week, and he will live a month. But, my dear fellow, I always like to
treat an old friend well. See here——’
He pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Gurth.
‘There you are, you see—there is your confession. The original is in
the hands of the police. You’re fond of trips to America—I should try
another at once if I were you. Good-bye.’
Marston turned on his heel, and walked rapidly away, leaving Gurth
Egerton glued to the spot with horror. He read and reread the paragraph
by the flickering light of the lamp. At any moment he might be
arrested. The clue had been found by Marston. Why should it not be
found by others? and then—He dared not think of it. He felt a choking
sensation at his throat.
He would go back home at once and see Birnie, confide all to him, and
take his advice. Birnie was the only friend he had in the world. He
would go away again. There was nothing else for it. It seemed as though
his wandering feet were to find no rest in this world. He was to be
pursued everywhere by the shadow of the rash crime committed in his
youth, and buried, as he fondly hoped, for ever.
And now the sea had borne witness against him. How had the confession
he had made to the clergyman in the hour of imminent death been so
miraculously preserved?
He could not think.
He only knew that a voice had cried out against him from the far-off
seas, and that at the present moment his confession of the murder of
his cousin was in the hands of the police.