Jim walked quickly down the street; the fog had now partly lifted, and
a very faint breeze came and fanned his cheeks as, with great strides,
he went in the direction of Bishopsgate Street. He had lodgings in
Bishopsgate Without--a tiny room at the top of a house, which he called
his own, and which he kept beautifully neat, full of books and other
possessions. Hanging over his mantelpiece was a photograph of Alison.
It did not do her justice, failing to reproduce her expression, giving
no color to the charming, petulant face, and merely reproducing the
fairly good features without putting any life into them. When Hardy
got home and turned on the gas in his little attic, he took the
photograph down from its place and looked at it hungrily and greedily.
He was a young giant in his way, strong and muscular and good-looking.
His dark eyes seemed to gather fire as he looked at Alison's picture;
his lips, always strong and determined, became obstinate in their
outline; he clenched one of his strong hands, then put the photograph
slowly and carefully back in its place.
"I have made a vow," he said to himself. "I don't remember ever making
a vow before; I'll keep this vow, so help me Heaven!--I have got to
clear my girl; yes, when all is said and done, she is my girl. I'll
set this thing right before a week is out. Now let me put on my
considering cap--let me try to think of this matter as if I were a
detective. By the way, there's that friend of mine, Sampson, who is in
the detective force; I've a good mind to run round to him and ask his
advice. There's treachery somewhere, and he might give me a wrinkle or
two."
Jim put on his cap, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and went
out once more. As he was running downstairs he met his landlady--he
was a favorite with her. She accosted him with a civil word, and an
inquiry if he did not want some supper.
"No, thanks," he replied, "I will sup out to-night--good-night, Mrs.
Higgins."
She nodded and smiled.
"I wonder what's up with him," she sad to herself--"how white he do
look! and his eyes sorter dazed--he's a right good fellow, and I wish I
had more like him in the house."
Jim meanwhile was marching quickly in the direction of Sampson's
lodgings. He had been brought up in the country, and had never seen
London until he was seventeen years of age. His great frame and
athletic limbs were all country-bred; he could never lose that
knowledge which had come to him in his boyhood--the knowledge of
climbing and rowing, of fishing and swimming--the power to use all his
limbs. This power had made him big and strong, and London ways and
London life could not greatly affect him. He was very clever and very
steady, and was rising to a good position in the shop. His thoughts
were far away now from his own affairs; they were absorbed with
Alison--with that dreadful shame which surrounded her, and with the vow
he had made to set his dear love straight.
"If there's treachery, Sampson and me will find it out between us," he
said to himself.
He was fortunate in finding Sampson in, and very soon unfolded his
errand.
Sampson was as London-bred as Jim was the reverse. He was a little
fellow, with a face like a ferret; he had sharp-peaked features, a pale
skin with many freckles, very small, keen blue eyes, rather closely set
together, red hair, which he wore short and stuck up straight all over
his small head. His face was clean-shaven, and he had a very alert
look. Sampson did not live in an attic--he had a neat, well-furnished
room, on the third floor. His room did not show the taste Jim's
did--it was largely garnished with colored photographs of handsome
young women, and some of the most celebrated cricketers and boxers of
the day. His mantelpiece was covered with pipes and one or two
policemen's whistles. He was indulging in a pipe when Jim was
announced. He welcomed his friend cordially, asked him to be seated,
listened to his tale, and then sat silent, thinking very carefully over
the mystery.
"Well," said Jim, "why don't you speak? I have got to clear this thing
in a couple of days. My girl will have nothing to do with me until she
is cleared of this shame, so you see how things stand, Sampson. I have
got a bit of money put by, and I'll spend it clearing her if you think
you can help me."
"No, no, 'taint my line," said Sampson, "and, besides, I wouldn't take
your money, old chap; you are welcome to my advice, but I should only
rouse suspicion if I were to appear in the matter--still, we can talk
the thing well over. It seems to me the point is this, who was the
person who got to the till while Miss Reed's back was turned?"
"They swear that no one could get to it," replied Jim. "The till is,
of course, in the master's desk, and Alison was close to it--she
scarcely left that part of the shop--at any rate, only to move a foot
or two away, before the customer arrived whom she was to serve. She
served her customer, and went to ask Mr. Shaw for change. He told her
that the key was in the till, and that she might help herself. She
took the change out and then locked the till. Alison is anxious enough
to be cleared, you may be quite sure, but she can't see herself how it
was possible that anyone else could have got to the till from the
moment the five-pound note was put into it until she herself took
change out and then locked it."
"Yes, of course," said Sampson, "so she thinks. Now, one of three
things is plain. You'll forgive me if I speak right out quite plainly,
my boy?"
"Of course," answered Hardy, with a faint smile. "You were always
famous for telling your mind when you liked, Sampson."
"And for keeping it back when I liked," retorted Sampson. "I wouldn't
be much of a detective if I didn't do that--still, this is my view of
the case in a nutshell. One of three things must have happened--that
is, granted that Mr. Shaw did put the five-pound note into the till."
"Why, of course he did," said Jim, in surprise.
"We must grant that," interrupted Sampson, "or we have nothing to go
upon. Granted that he put the money into the till, one of three things
happened. Miss Reed was tempted and helped herself to the five-pound
note----"
Jim sprang to his feet, he clenched his big fist, and made a step
toward Sampson, who sat, slight, small, and unprovoked, in his chair.
"Sit down, won't you?" he said.
"Only I want to strangle you and kick you out of the room," said Jim.
"Well, I beg of you to refrain. I told you that I was a blunt body. I
don't think for a moment that Miss Reed took the money. In that case,
one of my remaining two suppositions must have happened; either the
note is still in the drawer, pushed out of sight, or under some loose
change--hidden, the Lord knows where--or somebody did get to the till
without Miss Reed seeing that person. My belief, and my knowledge of
human nature, induce me to think that the third idea is the right one."
"But no one could," began Jim.
"You can't say that no one could. Lor' bless you, the artful devices
of some folks is past counting. Now tell me, what sort are the other
girls in the shop?"
"Oh, well enough--a very respectable lot."
"You don't think any of them have a spite against your young woman?"
"Well, no, I don't suppose they have--that is----"
"Ah, you hesitate--that means that one of them has. Now speak out,
Jim. All depends on your being candid."
"Oh, yes! I'll be candid enough," said Jim; "I never saw anything
wrong with the young women in the shop. Of course, except Alison, I
have not had much to do with any of them, but Ally once said to me that
a girl called Louisa Clay had, she thought, a spite agen her. I can't
imagine why, I'm sure."
"This is interesting," said Sampson. "Mark my words, Louisa Clay is at
the bottom of the business. Now tell me, what sort is she?"
"A handsome, well-mannered girl," replied Jim. "She's about twenty
years of age, I should say, with a dash of the gypsy in her, for she
has coal-black hair and flashing eyes."
"Oh, you seem to have studied her face a bit."
"Well, she is not the sort that you could pass," said Jim, coloring;
"besides, she wouldn't stand it."
"A jealous sort, would you say?"
"How can I tell?"
"Yes you can, Jim Hardy. I see the end of this trouble, blest ef I
don't. How long has Alison been in the shop?"
"Six months."
"How long have you been there?"
"Oh, several years! I was apprentice first, and then I rose step by
step. I have been with Shaw a matter of six years."
"And how long has Louisa Clay been there?"
"I can't exactly remember, but I should say a year and a half."
Sampson now rose to his feet.
"There we are," he said. "You are a good-looking chap, Jim; you are
taller than us London fellows, and you've got a pleasing way with you;
you were civil to Louisa before Alison came. Come now, the truth."
"Well, she talked to me now and then," answered the young fellow,
coloring again.
"Ah, I guess she did, and you talked to her; in fact, you kept company
with her, or as good."
"No, that I didn't."
"Well, she thought you did, or hoped you would; so it all comes to the
same. Then Alison arrived, and you gave Louisa up. Isn't that so?"
"I never thought about Louisa one way or the other, I assure you,
Sampson. Ally and I were friends from the first. I hadn't known her a
fortnight before I loved her more than all the rest of the world. I
have been courting her ever since. I never gave a thought to another
woman."
"Bless me! what an innocent young giant you are; but another woman gave
you a thought, my hearty, and of course she was jealous of Miss Reed,
and if she didn't want the money for reasons of her own, she was very
glad to put a spoke in her wheel."
"Oh, come now, it isn't right to charge a girl like that," said Hardy.
"Right or wrong, I believe I've hit the nail on the head. Anyhow,
that's the track for us to work. Where does this girl Clay live?"
"With her father and mother in Shoreditch. He's a pawnbroker, and by
no means badly off."
"You seem to have gone to their house."
"A few times on Sunday evenings. Louisa asked me."
"Have you gone lately?"
"Not to say very lately."
"Well, what do you say to you and me strolling round there this
evening?"
"This evening!" cried Jim. "Oh, come now," he added, "I haven't the
heart; that I haven't."
"You have no spunk in you. I thought you wanted to clear your girl."
"Oh, if you put it in that way, Sampson, of course I'll do anything;
but I can't see your meaning. I do want, God knows, to clear Alison,
but I don't wish to drag another girl into it."
"You shan't; that will be my business. After all, I see I must take
this thing up; you are not the fellow for it. The detective line, Jim,
means walking on eggs without breaking 'em. You'd smash every egg in
the farmyard. The detective line means guile; it means a dash of the
knowing at every step. You are as innocent as a babe, and you haven't
the guile of an unfledged chicken. You leave this matter with me. I
begin to think I'd like to see Miss Clay. I admire that handsome,
dashing sort of girl--yes, that I do. All I want you to do, Jim, is to
introduce me to the young lady. If her father is a pawnbroker he must
have a bit of money to give her, and a gel with a fat purse is just my
style. You come along to the Clays and give me a footing in the house,
and that's all I ask."
Jim hesitated.
"I don't like it," he said.
"Don't like it," repeated Sampson, mimicking his manner. "I wouldn't
give much for that vow of yours, young man. Why, you are a soft Sawny.
You want to clear your own girl?"
"That I do, God knows."
"Then introduce me to Miss Clay."
"Oh, Sampson, I hope I'm doing right."
"Fiddlesticks with your right. I tell you this is my affair. Come
along now, or it will be too late."
Sampson took down his hat from the wall, and Jim, somewhat unwillingly,
followed him out of the room and downstairs. He did not like the job,
and began to wish he had never consulted Sampson. But the detective's
cheery and pleasant talk very soon raised his spirits, and by the time
the two young men had reached the sign of the Three Balls, Jim had
persuaded himself that he was acting in a very manly manner, and that
dear little Alison would soon be his promised wife.
Compared to Jim Hardy and George Sampson the Clays were quite wealthy
folk. Louisa need not have gone into a shop at all unless she so
pleased, but she was a vivacious young person, who preferred having a
purse of her own to being dependent on her father. She liked to show
herself off, and had the sense to see that she looked better in her
neat black alpaca with its simple trimmings than in any of her
beflowered and bespangled home dresses. The Clays were having friends
to supper this special evening, and the mirth was fast and hilarious
when Hardy and Sampson entered the room. Hardy had never seen Louisa
before in her evening dress. It gave her a blooming and buxom
appearance. The dress was of a flaming red color, slightly open at the
neck, and with elbow sleeves. Louisa started and colored when she saw
Jim. Her big eyes seemed to flash, and Sampson noticed that she gave
him a bold, admiring glance.
"She is at the bottom of this, if ever gel was," muttered the detective
to himself.
He asked Hardy to introduce him; and presently, using that tact for
which he was famous, induced Louisa to accompany him to a sofa at a
little distance, where they sat together laughing and chatting, and
Hardy was relieved to find that he need not pay this bold-looking girl
any attention.
The supper was over before the young men arrived, but the atmosphere of
the room was close with a mixture of tobacco and spirits. Several very
fat and loudly dressed old ladies were talking to a still fatter and
more loudly dressed old lady at the head of the room. This was the
hostess. Clay, the pawnbroker, a little man with a deeply wrinkled
face and shrewd, beadlike, black eyes, was darting in and out amongst
his friends, laughing loudly, cracking jokes, and making himself
generally facetious and agreeable. He clapped Jim on the shoulders,
assured him that he was delighted to see him, and dragged him up to the
sofa, where Louisa and Sampson were having a very open flirtation.
"My gel will be right glad to see yer," he said to Jim, with a broad
wink. "Eh, Louisa, who have I brought, eh? You are sure to give Hardy
a welcome, aint you, lass?"
"If he'll take it, of course," she replied.
She jumped up and gave Jim a second glance of unequivocal admiration.
"It was good of you to come," she said, in a low tone. "I thought that
you were a bit troubled to-day; but maybe that is why you have come, to
be cheered up."
Jim flushed and felt uncomfortable; he could not tell Louisa his real
motive; he felt ashamed of himself, and longed to be out of this noisy
scene.
"And it isn't that I don't pity you," she continued. "Of course I can
see that you are cut up; who would have thought that a gel like
Alison----"
Jim put up his big hand.
"Not a word," he said; "I won't discuss it--I can't!"
"You are awful cut up, old fellow, aint you?" said Louisa, moving a
step or two out of the crowd and motioning him to a corner. "Look
here," she continued, "there's a quiet nook here, just under the
stairs; let us stand here for a minute, I want to talk to yer. I know
you are cut up, and I am sorry--yes, that I am."
"I can't discuss it with you, Miss Clay," said Jim.
"Oh, aint it stiff of you to call me Miss Clay!" she retorted; "when
you know me so well."
"Perhaps it is," he answered, too good-natured to be rude to her. "I
will call you Louisa if you like; but Louisa or Miss Clay, whichever
you are, I can't talk of this matter."
Louisa's great black eyes seemed to blaze like living fires. She gave
Jim a long glance.
"Just you tell me one thing," she said, almost in a whisper.
"What is that?" he asked, surprised at her change of tone.
"Are you going to marry Alison Reed, Jim Hardy?"
"You have no right to ask me the question," he replied, "but as you
have, I will for once answer you frankly. If I don't marry Alison
Reed, no other girl shall be my wife."
"Is that a vow?" she asked.
"You can take it as such, if you like," he said.
"I wouldn't make it," she replied. "No man can tell how he will
change."
"I'll never change," he replied. "I think I'll say 'good-night' now."
"Oh, dear! you aint going? Well, you shan't go until I have had my
say. I just wanted to know the truth; now I know it. Look here, Jim;
I am your friend, and I am Alison Reed's friend. There is nothing I
wouldn't do for either of you. Alison must be cleared of the shameful
thing she was accused of in the shop to-day."
"She will be cleared," said Jim; "that is my business. Good-night,
Louisa; I must go home."
"One minute first. I'll help you to clear Miss Reed. Will you sit
next me at dinner to-morrow?"
"That is as you like," replied Jim.
"Please do," she added; "I'll have made a plan by then. Yes, Alison
must be cleared. It seems to me that it is more a woman's work than a
man's."
"No, it is my work," said Jim. "But I'll sit next to you with
pleasure; it is nothing to me one way or other."
Louisa's eyes drooped; an angry color flooded her face.
Jim held out his hand; she gave hers: the next minute the two young men
were again in the street.
"Well," said Sampson, "we have done good business, have we not?"
"I can't see it," replied Jim. "Louisa is innocent. I don't like her,
but she has had no more to do with that affair than I have had; so
there."
"Louisa Clay is guilty," replied Sampson. "I may not be able to prove
it either to-day or to-morrow, but I will prove it before long. You
leave this matter in my hands, Jim."
"I hate the whole thing," said Jim; "it seems awfully hard to drag
another girl into it."
"Well, I don't believe in your sort of love," sneered Sampson; "but
mark my words: Louisa is the one what took that money. I have got a
footing in the house now, and I can work the thing and prove that I am
right in my own way."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Jim. "Don't drag me into it any
further, Sampson, whatever you do."