_An Adventure._
Mr. Abingdon took his departure at an early hour; his excellent wife was
indisposed, and her age rendered him anxious.
Philip wrote a curt letter to Sharpe & Smith. He had given thought to
their statements, he said, and wished to hold no further communication
with either Sir Philip Morland or his representatives.
Then he ordered his private hansom, intending to visit the Universities'
Club.
It was a fine evening, one of those rare nights when _blasé_ London
abandons herself for an hour to the delights of spring. The tops of
omnibuses passing through Park Lane were enlivened by muslin dresses and
flower-covered hats. Men who passed in hansoms wore evening dress
without an overcoat. Old earth was growing again, and if weather-wise
folk predicted that such an unusually high temperature meant
thunderstorms and showers it would indeed be a poor heart that did not
rejoice in the influences of the moment.
Two powdered and noiseless footmen threw open the door as Philip
appeared in the hall. He stood for a little while in the entrance
buttoning his gloves. A strong electric light--he loved light--fell on
him and revealed his firm face and splendidly proportioned frame.
He cast a critical eye on a sleek horse in the shafts, and smiled
pleasantly at the driver.
"Good gracious, Wale," he said, "your cattle are becoming as fat as
yourself."
"All your fault, sir," was the cheerful reply. "You don't use 'em 'arf
enough."
"I can't pass my time in being driven about town to reduce the weight of
my coachman and horses. Wale, if you don't do something desperate, there
will be an 'h' after the 'w' in your name."
He sprang into the vehicle. With a lively "Kim up!" Wale got his stout
steed into a remarkably fast trot.
A tall man, who had been loitering and smoking beneath the trees across
the road for a long time, sauntered toward a tradesman's cart which was
standing near the area gate of the next house, while the man in charge
gossiped with a kitchenmaid.
"Beg pardon," he said to the couple, "is that Mr. Philip Anson's place?"
with an indicatory jerk of his thumb.
"Yes," said the man.
"An' was that Mr. Anson himself who drove away in a private cab?"
"Yes," said the girl.
"Thanks. It does one good to see a young chap like him so jolly and
comfortable, and provided with everything he can want in the world; eh?"
"I wish I 'ad a bit of 'is little lot," sighed the greengrocer's
assistant, with a side glance at the maid.
The stranger laughed harshly.
"It's hard to say when ye're well off," he growled. "Up one day and
down the other. You never know your luck."
Away he went, southward. His long vigil on the pavement near the
railings seemed to have ended. In Piccadilly he took an omnibus to the
Circus, and there changed to another for the Elephant and Castle.
He walked rapidly through the congeries of mean streets which lie to the
east of that bustling center, and paused at last before a house which
was occupied by respectable people, judging by the cleanly curtains and
general air of tidiness.
He knocked. A woman appeared. Did Mrs. Mason live there? No. She knew
nothing of her. Had only been in the place eighteen months.
The man evidently appreciated the migratory habits of the poor too well
to dream of prosecuting further inquiries among the neighbors. He
strolled about, reading the names over the small shops, the corner
public house, the dressmakers' semiprivate residences.
At last he paused before a somewhat grim establishment, an undertaker's
office. He entered. A youth was whistling the latest music hall song.
"Do you know anything of a Mrs. Mason, who used to live in this locality
about ten years ago?" he asked.
"Mrs. Mason? There may be forty Mrs. Masons. What was her Christian name
an' address?"
"Mrs. Hannah Mason, 14 Frederick Street."
The youth skillfully tilted back his stool until he reached a ledger
from a shelf behind him. He ran his eye down an index, found a number,
and pulled out another book.
"We buried her on the twentieth of November, nine years since," he
said, coolly, rattling both tomes back into their places.
"You did, eh? Is there anybody here who remembers her?"
Something in the husky voice of this stark, ill-favored man caused the
boy to become less pert.
"Father's in," he said. "I'll ring for him."
Father came. He had a vague memory of the woman, a widow with two
children--boys, he thought. Somebody helped her in her last days, and
paid for the funeral--paid cash, according to the ledger. He did not
know who the friend was, nor had he any knowledge of the children's
fate. Workhouse, most probably. What workhouse? Parish of Southwark.
Easy to find. Just turn so-and-so, and so-and-so.
With a grunt of acknowledgment the inquirer passed into the street. He
gave an eye to the public house, but resolutely quickened his pace. At
the workhouse he succeeded, with some difficulty, in interviewing the
master. It was after office hours, but as he had journeyed a long way an
exception would be made in his case.
Books were consulted to ascertain the fate of two boys, John and William
Mason, who would now be aged twenty and eighteen respectively. Youthful
Masons had certainly been in the schools--one was there at the moment,
in fact--but none of them answered to the descriptions supplied. The
workhouse master was sorry; the records gave no clew.
Again the man sought the dark seclusion of the street. He wandered
slowly toward a main thoroughfare, and entered the first public house he
encountered. He ordered six pennyworth of brandy, and drank it at a
gulp. Then he lit a pipe and went forth again.
"That was an ugly-lookin' customer," said an _habitué_ to the barman.
"'E 'ad a fice like a fifth act at the Surrey," agreed the other.
If they knew the toast that Jocky Mason had pledged so readily, they
would have better grasped the truth of this unfavorable diagnosis of his
character.
"Ten years' penal servitude, four years' police supervision, my wife
dead, and my children lost, all through a smack on the head given me by
Philip Anson," he communed. "Here's to getting even with him!"
It was a strange outcome of his long imprisonment that the man should
have acquired a fair degree of culture. He was compelled to learn in
jail, to a certain extent, and reading soon became a pleasure to him.
Moreover, he picked up an acquaintance with a smooth-spoken mate of the
swell mobsman and long firm order--a dandy who strove to be elegant even
in convict garb. Mason's great strength and indomitable courage appealed
to the more artistic if more effeminate rogue; once the big man saved
his comrade's life when they were at work in the quarries.
The influence was mutual. They vowed lasting friendship. Victor Grenier
was released six months before Mason, and the latter now crossed the
river again to go to an address where he would probably receive some
news of his professed ally's whereabouts.
Grenier's name was imparted under inviolable confidence as that which he
would adopt after his release. His real name, by which he was convicted,
was something far less aristocratic.
Philip's driver, being of the peculiar type of Londoner which seems to
be created to occupy the dicky of a hansom, did not take his master down
Park Lane, along Piccadilly, and so to Pall Mall. He loved corners. Give
him the remotest chance of following a zigzag course, and he would
follow it in preference to a route with all the directness of a Roman
road.
Thus it happened, as he spun round Carlos Place into Berkeley Square, he
nearly collided with another vehicle which dashed into the square from
Davies Street.
Both horses pulled up with a jerk, there was a sharp fusillade of what
cabmen call "langwidge," and the other hansom drove on, having the best
of the strategical position by a stolen yard.
Philip lifted the trapdoor.
"Has he a fare, Wale?"
"Yes, sir, a lydy."
"Oh. Leave him alone, then. Otherwise, I would have liked to see you
ride him off at the corner of Bruton Street."
Wale, who was choleric, replied with such force that Philip tried to
say, sternly:
"Stop that swearing, Wale."
"Beg pawdon, sir, I'm sure, but I wouldn't ha' minded if it wasn't my
own old keb. Didn't you spot it?"
"You don't tell me so. How odd!"
"And to think of a brewer's drayman like that gettin' 'old of it.
Well----"
Wale put the lid on in case his employer might hear any more of his
sentiments.
Philip, leaning back to laugh, for Wale's vocabulary was amusing, if
not fit for publication, suddenly realized the queer trick that even the
events in the life of an individual have of repeating themselves.
In one day, after an interval of many years, he had been suddenly
confronted by personages connected with the period of his sufferings,
with the very garments he wore at that time, with the cab in which he
drove from Clerkenwell to Hatton Garden. Abingdon had dined with him;
Isaacstein had sent him a message; his driver, even, was the cabman who
made him a present of two shillings, a most fortunate transaction for
Wale, as it led to his selection to look after Philip's London stable.
All who had befriended the forlorn boy in those early days had benefited
to an extraordinary degree. The coffee-stall keeper who gave him coffee
grounds and crusts, the old clothes man who cut down the price of his
first outfit, Mrs. Wrigley, going hopelessly to her toil in a Shepherd's
Bush laundry; Mr. Wilson, of Grant & Sons, the kindly jeweler of Ludgate
Hill, were each sought out, and either placed in a good business or
bounteously rewarded for the services they had rendered. O'Brien, of
course, was found a sinecure office at the Mary Anson Home.
As for the doctor, he owed his Harley Street practice to the
millionaire's help and patronage.
It is worthy of note that Philip never wore a watch other than that
presented to him by the police of the Whitechapel Division.
It was an ordinary English silver lever, and he carried it attached to a
knotted bootlace.
Did he but know how far the historical parallel had gone that day--how
Jocky Mason had waited for hours outside his residence in the hope of
seeing him and becoming acquainted with his appearance--he might have
been surprised, but he would never have guessed the evil that this man
would accomplish, and, in some measure, accomplish unconsciously.
He was not in his club five minutes when a friend tackled him for a
concert subscription.
"Anson, you are fond of music. Here is a new violinist, a Hungarian, who
wants a start. I heard him in Budapest last autumn. He is a good chap.
Take some stalls."
Philip glanced at the program.
"Eckstein at the piano. I see! He must be a star. Who is the soprano? I
have never heard her name before."
"Miss Evelyn Atherley," read his friend over his shoulder. "I don't know
her myself. Dine with me here to-morrow night. We will go and hear the
performance afterward."
"Can you distribute stalls among your acquaintances?"
"My dear fellow, I will be delighted. Sorry I can't help Jowkacsy a bit
myself."
"You are helping him very well. I will take a dozen; two for you and me;
ten elsewhere, for the claque."
"You _are_ a good chap. Hello! There's Jones. Jones is good for a
couple. Don't forget to-morrow night."
And the good-natured enthusiast, who was a terror to many of his
friends, ran off to secure another victim.
Philip had sent his hansom home. Shortly before eleven he quitted the
club, intending to walk to Park Lane by a circuitous route, long enough
to consume a big cigar.
He chanced to pass the hall in which the concert was to take place. A
few people were hurrying from the stage door. Evidently a rehearsal had
just taken place. A short man, with a huge cluster of flowing locks,
that offered abundant proof of his musical genius, ran out with a violin
case in his hand.
He was about to enter a hansom waiting near the curb, but the driver
said:
"Engaged, sir."
The man did not seem to understand, so the cabby barred his way with the
whip and shook his head. Then the stranger rushed to a neighboring cab
rank--evidently an excitable gentleman, with the high-strung temperament
of art.
A lady quitted the hall a few seconds later.
"Are you engaged?" Philip heard her ask the cabman.
"No, miss."
"Take me to No. 44, Maida Crescent, Regent's Park," she said. After
arranging her skirts daintily, she entered the vehicle.
"That is odd," thought Philip, who had witnessed both incidents in the
course of a six yards' walk. He glanced at the cabman, and fancied the
man gave a peculiar look of intelligence toward a couple of fashionably
dressed loungers who stood in the shadow of the closed public entrance.
The two men, without exchanging a word to Philip's hearing, went to a
brougham standing at some little distance. They entered. The coachman,
who received no instructions, drove off in the same direction as the
hansom, and, as if to make sure he was being followed, the cab driver
turned to look behind him.
Once, in Naples, Philip saw a man stealthily following a woman down an
unlighted alley. Without a moment's hesitation he went after the pair,
and was just in time to prevent the would-be assassin from plunging an
uplifted stiletto into the woman's back. The recollection of that little
drama flashed into his mind now; there was a suggestion of the
Neapolitan bravo's air in the manner in which these men stalked a girl
who was quite unaware of their movements.
He asked himself why a cabman should refuse one fare and pick up another
in the same spot. The affair was certainly odd. He would see further
into it before he dismissed it from his thoughts. The distance to Maida
Crescent was not great.
While thinking he was acting. He sprang into the nearest hansom.
"A brougham is following a hansom up Langham Place," he said to the
driver. "Keep behind them. If they separate, follow the brougham. When
it stops, pull up at the best place to avoid notice."
The man nodded. Nothing surprises a London cabman. Soon the three
vehicles were spinning along the Outer Circle.
It was not a very dark night, the sky being cloudless and starlit. Away
in front, at a point where the two lines of lamps curved sharply to the
right and vanished amidst the trees, a row of little, red lights showed
that the road was up.
The leading hansom drove steadily on. There was nothing remarkable in
this. When the driver reached the obstruction, he would turn out of the
park by the nearer gate--that was all.
But he did nothing of the kind. There was a sudden crash of wood, a
woman's scream, and the horse was struggling wildly amidst a pile of
loose, wooden blocks, while one wheel of the cab dropped heavily into a
shallow trench.
Simultaneously the brougham pulled up and its two occupants rushed to
the scene of the accident.
Philip's driver, of course, obeyed instructions, but he shouted to his
fare as he jumped into the road:
"That feller's either drunk or 'e did it a-puppuss."
Philip was of the same opinion. He reached the overthrown barricade
almost as soon as the two hurrying men in front, both of whom were in
evening dress.
One of them held the horse's head and steadied him; the other was just
in time to help the young lady to leave her dangerous conveyance.
"I hope you have received no injury, madam," he said, politely.
"Oh, not at all. I was frightened for an instant. How could it have
happened? I saw the lamps quite plainly. The man seemed to pull his
horse deliberately into the barrier."
The voice was singularly sweet and well modulated. A neighboring arc
lamp illuminated the girl's face with its white, unpitying radiance. It
revealed features beautifully modeled, and large, startled eyes that
looked wonderingly from the man who came so promptly to her rescue to
the driver who had caused the mishap. Philip, behind the hansom, was
unseen. He remained a critical observer.
"I fear he is intoxicated," was the reply. "Here, you! How came you to
make such a blunder?"
"Blind as an owl," came the gurgling answer. "I saw some red spots
dancin' abaht, but I thort it must be that larst gill o' beer."
Nevertheless the cabman extricated his horse and vehicle from their
predicament with singular ease for a half-drunken man.
"Goin' on, miss?" he grinned. "There's nothin' extry for the
steeplechise."
"No, no," cried the lady. "I will walk. I will pay you now."
"Take my advice and pay him not a cent," protested the man by her side.
"Leave him to me. My friend here will take his number. If you will
accept a seat in my brougham----"
The cabman began to swear and threaten them all with personal violence.
The lady, clearly unwilling to avail herself of the accommodating offer
made to her, tried to edge away. The driver of the hansom whipped his
horse on to the pavement. By this time he had turned his back to the
road-menders' barrier.
The girl, angered and alarmed, shrank toward the gentleman, who seemed
to give her some measure of protection from the infuriated cause of all
the trouble.
"Do step into my brougham," he said, civilly. "Victor, just grab the
gee-gee's head again, and keep that idiot quiet until we get away. Now,
madam, take my advice. You will be quite safe instantly."
Even yet she hesitated. There was, perchance, a timbre in the quiet,
cultured tone of the speaker that did not ring truly. The note of a bell
cannot be perfect if there is a flaw in the metal, and the human voice
often betrays a warped nature when to all outward seeming there is a
fair exterior.
The man who addressed her was youthful, not much older than herself. He
was evidently a gentleman, with the polish and easy repose of society.
His words, his attitude, were in the best of taste. Yet----
A loud altercation broke out between the cabman and "Victor." The latter
did not appear to be so ready to lay hands on the reins again, and the
whip fell viciously on the horse's flank, causing him to plunge forward
in dangerous proximity to the couple on the sidewalk. He came close, but
not too close. Philip was now quite certain that he was witnessing the
dexterous display of a skilled driver.
"Really, I am at a loss for words to persuade you that your only course
is to use my carriage. Otherwise there will be a confounded row."
The stranger's voice was a trifle petulant She was such an unreasonable
young lady. She turned to him irresolutely--to find Philip at her
side--thrusting himself in front of her would-be rescuer.
"You have been the victim of a plot, madam," he said. "Your driver is
not drunk. He caused the accident purposely. These two scoundrels are in
league with him. If----"
"What the devil----" cried the other, fiercely, but Philip swung him
bodily against the iron railings.
"If you care to take my cab, alone, it is at your service. I will look
after these cads."
His quick eyes caught a signal from Victor to the cabman. He was sorry
for the horse, but this comedy must be stopped. He instantly caught the
bridle, and backed the cab violently toward the excavation. The cabman
lashed at him in vain, and swore, too, with remarkable fluency for one
so drunk. Both wheels crunched on top of the stout barrier, and became
locked there.
Then Anson ran back toward the girl, whose arm was held by the owner of
the brougham.
"Take your hands off that lady, or I will hurt you," said Philip, and
there was that in his emphatic order which brooked no delay.
The stranger dropped his restraining hand, but shouted furiously:
"By what right do you interfere? I am only offering the lady some
assistance?"
Philip ignored him.
"What do you say, madam?" he inquired, somewhat sternly, for she seemed
loath to trust any of them. "Will you occupy my cab? It is there. Rest
assured that neither of these men shall follow you."
She stood her ground, came nearer to him.
"I believe you," she murmured. "I thank you from my heart. It is
inexplicable that such wretches can exist as these two seeming
gentlemen, who stooped to such artifice against a helpless woman."
"Most fortunately I saw you leaving the Regent's Hall," he replied.
"This cab was waiting for you, and you only. The man refused at least
one fare to my presence. The others followed in a brougham. Do you know
them?"
"No. I have never, to my knowledge, seen either of them before in my
life. How came you----"
"I happened to hear your address. I will write to you and explain. Go
now," he quickly interrupted, for Victor and his friend were
approaching them after a hasty conference.
"Leave you to deal with these assassins alone! Not I! I can defend
myself. I can help you. I will scream for assistance. There are too many
of them for you to resist them single-handed."
Philip vowed afterward that fire flashed in her eyes. There was a
splendid passion in the gesture with which she pointed to the enraged
hansom driver, who had climbed from his perch, and was running to join
his employers.
This was a new experience for Philip, and the blood leaped in his veins
at the girl's courageous words. But he laughed, in his pleasant, musical
way.
"Men who would attack a defenseless woman," he said, "are poor creatures
where a man's heart is needed. Now just watch me, and don't be alarmed."
He strode to meet the advancing trio. They halted.
"I give you a last warning," he cried. "Drive off in your carriage, and
you," to the cabman, "go back and help your horse. You must go now, this
instant, or take the consequences."
There was the silence of indecision. This strong-faced man, with the
figure of an athlete, meant what he said.
Victor caught his friend's arm.
"Come away," he whispered. "She does not know you. You have failed this
time."
Without another word the pair crossed the road to their waiting
brougham. The cabman, who became remarkably sober, began to whine:
"It's on'y a lark, guv'nor. The lydy would ha' took no 'arm. I didn't
mean----"
Philip was strongly tempted to kick him, but refrained. He grasped the
man's shoulder and lifted his badge to the light.
"I will spare you for the lady's sake," he said, grimly, "but I want
your number, in case you try any more such tricks."
"My Gawd, it's Mr. Anson!"
For the first time the driver saw Philip's face clearly.
"Ah, you know me then? Who were those blackguards who employed you?"
"S'elp me, sir, I on'y know one of 'em. 'E's a Mr. Victor Grenier. I
offen pick 'im up at the Gardenia. 'E said 'is pal was sweet on the
young lydy an' wanted a put-up job ter 'elp 'er. That's all, guv'nor, on
me life."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," was Philip's only comment.
He rejoined the girl, who was watching the retreating brougham.
"Now," he cried, pleasantly, "you can go home."
"Please drive me there. I will not deprive you of your cab."
So they drove away together, and the driver of the hansom, striving to
free his vehicle from the broken trestles, paused to scratch his head.
"'E fairly bested the crowd," he growled, "an' got the girl as well. My
eye, but she's a beauty."