HIDE AND SEEK
When Lionel Dering found himself safe inside Alder Cottage, with his
wife’s arms around his neck, the door locked behind him, and no sounds
of pursuit in the distance, he broke down utterly, and, big, strong man
though he was, he cried like a child.
For days afterwards he asked nothing more than to lie on the sofa in
his wife’s dressing-room, holding her hand in his, letting his eyes
rest on her face, and feeling her soothing presence over and around him
like rain on a desert land.
The bow that had been bent so long was now unstrung; the terrible
ordeal was at an end. The rebound was so immense, the change so sudden
and wonderful, from the imminent prospect of a disgraceful and horrible
death to comparative safety and the loving shelter of his wife’s arms,
that mind and body were alike shaken for a little while: and, for the
first forty-eight hours after his escape, Lionel Dering was like a man
just beginning to recover from some lingering and painful illness, and
had to be waited upon and tended as though he were a veritable invalid.
But joy rarely kills; and basking in the warmth and sunlight of his
wife’s love, Lionel breathed an atmosphere of happiness beyond what
words could tell, which, like ozone to a sick man, gave him back by
degrees his health both of mind and body, and endowed him with strength
and vigour to fight the stern battle still before him.
Every precaution against a surprise was taken by the inmates of Alder
Cottage. All the lower windows had been fitted with screws, so as to
render it impossible for them to be opened from the outside, and strong
chains had been fixed to all the doors, so that they could be partially
opened, and yet no one be able to gain admission without leave. Night
and day the chains were kept fastened, and were only let down for a
moment at a time to allow of the egress or ingress of the inmates, or
of their sole visitor, Tom Bristow. The blinds were kept lowered as
much as possible; and at nightfall, when the lamps were lighted,
shutters and thick curtains effectually precluded any spying from the
outside.
The wardrobe brought by Tom from London, as already stated, was fixed
in a recess in Edith’s dressing-room, and it was this room which Lionel
chiefly occupied. Here Tom used to come and see him, and many were the
long talks they had together over Lionel’s future plans and prospects.
The first step was to get Lionel safely out of England. By the end of
the first week after his escape, he began to chafe under the restraints
imposed upon him by the necessities of the case. He became possessed by
a longing, almost irresistible in its force, to go out of doors—to
breathe the free air of heaven beyond the close walls of the cottage,
if only for one short hour; and only by the earnest entreaties of his
wife and Tom was he persuaded to keep within.
Mr. Drayton’s spies had not been set to watch the cottage
four-and-twenty hours before Tom knew of it, and it only made him all
the more anxious to get Lionel away. But the question of whither he
should go was beset with many difficulties. Many plans had been
discussed by the two friends, but nothing had been decided upon when
Mr. Drayton and his merry men set out for Alder Cottage, one windy
afternoon, armed with the search-warrant issued by Colonel Chumley.
The superintendent’s imperative summons at the front door echoed
through the little house, blanching the cheeks of the two ladies, and
causing Martha Vince to drop the plate she was carrying as though it
were red hot. Edith sprang to the window and peered out between the
venetians. “They are come—the police!” she said with a gasp. “Don’t let
them in, Martha, till I tell you that I’m ready.”
Then she flew upstairs. Lionel had been dozing over a novel on the
sofa; but the summons had aroused him, and Edith found him standing
against the door, waiting to hear her news. “What is it?” he asked.
“Oh, darling—the police!” And then her arms went round him as if in
their white shelter he could find a protection from every danger.
“Let them come,” said Lionel, as he stooped and kissed the upturned
yearning face on his shoulder. “It is better so. When once they have
searched and found nothing, we shall be left in peace—our suspense will
be at an end. Let them come.”
“But if——?” The terror in her eyes said the rest.
“Fear nothing, dearest. I have no fear myself. They will not find me.
Be you but calm and resolute, and all will go well.”
Again the superintendent’s imperative summons sounded through the
house.
Husband and wife kissed each other hurriedly; then Lionel disappeared
into his hiding-place, and Edith, having made sure that no traces of
his presence were visible in the room, glided downstairs, and motioned
with her hand for Martha Vince to open the door.
Martha undid the bolts and chains, and flung open the door. Mr. Drayton
entered brusquely, followed by two of his men. The remaining two were
instructed to wait outside and see that no one quitted the premises
without leave.
“Do you always keep your visitors waiting as long as you have kept me?”
asked Mr. Drayton roughly, as he advanced into the passage.
Edith came forward out of the parlour, her embroidery in her hands
“Before answering your question, sir,” she said, “you will perhaps
allow me to ask what your business here may be, or by what right you
walk into my house without first obtaining permission to do so?”
“By the right, ma’am, which the law has placed in my hands.” He spoke
with more politeness this time, raising his hat as he did so. This was
no servant whom he could bully and frighten at will, but a lady, as any
one could see at the first glance, and one beneath whose calmly cold
and slightly contemptuous scrutiny his own eyes fell abashed and
self-confused.
“I fail to apprehend your meaning, sir.”
“I am the unfortunate bearer of a warrant authorizing me to search the
premises known as Alder Cottage.”
“A warrant to search my house! Do you suspect us of being smugglers?—or
what?”
“It is considered by those in authority that there is just a faint
possibility that Mr. Lionel Dering, who lately escaped from prison, may
be hidden somewhere about the place.”
Edith’s little musical burst of laughter was delicious. “Do you hear
that, aunty?” she called out to Mrs. Garside, who was sitting at work
in the parlour. “They positively suspect poor you and me of being two
conspirators, and of having Mr. Dering hidden somewhere about us—in
your work-basket, aunty, or up the chimney, or under the sofa. Is it
not a charming idea?”
“My dear, I always told you that you were too much of a madcap,”
responded Mrs. Garside as she quietly proceeded to re-thread her
needle. “You must remember that, although this is supposed to be a free
country, you are not allowed to laugh at the police.”
“But I do so enjoy being thought a conspirator. I wish we had poor Mr.
Dering under our roof, don’t you, aunty? I would give very much to know
what has become of him.” Then, turning to Martha, she added, “Martha,
you will please conduct these gentlemen all over the house, from garret
to cellar—there must be no room held sacred from them—not even our
bedrooms. And be careful that you treat them with respect.”
“With the deepest respect,” chimed in Mrs. Garside, “or you may find
yourself a prisoner before you are aware of it.”
“And now, sir,” said Edith, turning to Drayton, to whom this style of
treatment was altogether new and puzzling, “you will perhaps oblige me
by beginning your perquisition with this room,” indicating the little
parlour; “after which my servant will accompany you over the rest of
the house.”
“No perquisites allowed in the police, ma’am,” said Drayton, with the
air of a man whose moral sense was shocked by the bare mention of the
word.
“You misunderstand me,” said Edith, with a smile. “What I meant was,
that I wish you to search this room first of all, as I should not like
my aunt to be disturbed more than is absolutely necessary.”
“Don’t trouble about me, my dear,” said Mrs. Garside. “This good
gentleman’s visit is quite a godsend. We see so little company, and get
so very mopey sometimes, that the incident of this afternoon comes
quite as a pleasant change, and will serve us to talk about for many a
day to come.”
So Mr. Drayton, coughing deferentially behind his hand, did just take a
cursory glance round the little chintz-furnished room. “Not such a fool
as to expect to find him there,” he said to himself as he bowed himself
out again.
Then Edith made him a haughty little curtsey, and politely shut him
out, as though she had done with him for ever and a day.
“I don’t like that man’s look,” whispered Mrs. Garside as soon as the
door was closed.
“Nor I,” answered Edith. “I know by his eyes that he is brimful of
suspicion; and yet I cannot believe that he is acting on any positive
information.” Her assumption of indifference had vanished utterly. She
was the loving, anxious, heart-wrung wife again.
She sank on her knees and rested her head for a moment on Mrs.
Garside’s knee. The killing anxiety of the last few weeks was beginning
to tell upon her in despite of herself. But next moment she was on her
feet again, and, gliding across the floor, she crouched down and glued
her ear to the keyhole.
“They are in the breakfast-room,” she whispered. And then in a little
while: “Now they are in the kitchen.” A few minutes later came the
ominous words: “And now they are going upstairs!”
Pale and terror-stricken the two ladies waited, every minute seeming an
hour, while the heavy footsteps overhead went tramping with slow,
methodical precision from room to room. So long as they kept out of the
fatal dressing-room it did not matter, but that was the very place, or
so it seemed to Edith, where they lingered longest of all. “Will they
never come out of that room?” she kept on asking herself with agonized
earnestness. And then her very heart would seem to stand still with the
intensity of her listening. The slow seconds measured themselves
accurately by the clock on the chimney-piece, but still no sound
reached her to indicate that any discovery had been made; and at
length, with intense relief and thankfulness, she heard the heavy
footsteps come tramping downstairs.
The footsteps passed slowly into the dining-room, and then Edith could
hear the low muttering of two or three voices, as though the
superintendent and his men were deep in consultation.
“Surely the worst is over,” said Mrs. Garside. “A few minutes more, and
they will be gone.”
But suddenly Edith started to her feet with an exclamation. “There were
three men: went upstairs,” she cried, “but only two of them have come
down! Why has not the third man come down with the others?”
“Are you quite sure that you are not mistaken?” asked Mrs. Garside,
anxiously.
“Quite sure, aunt—only too sure. I cannot bear to be shut up here any
longer. Better to know the worst at once. I will go and see for
myself.”
And before Mrs. Garside had time to interpose, Edith had opened the
door almost without a sound, had passed out of the room, and was
gliding noiselessly upstairs, so as not to be heard by the men in the
dining-room.
Edith was right. Three men had gone upstairs and only two had come
down. The laggard was Mr. Drayton’s second in command—Sergeant Tilley.
Mr. Tilley was a tall, lanky, weak-kneed man, with watery eyes, and a
slow, hesitating way of speaking, rather uncommon among gentlemen of
his profession. He had been on duty for the last twelve hours, and,
feeling thoroughly worn out, had sat down to rest for a moment on a
corner of the sofa in Edith’s dressing-room, and there he was left by
Mr. Drayton and the other constable when they followed Martha Vince
downstairs. He sat down to rest for a minute, and his thoughts flew
home to Mrs. Tilley and the five little Tilleys, who had to be fed,
clothed, and lodged—after a fashion—out of his scanty wage. “Ah!” he
sighed to himself, “if I could but spot this Mr. Dering, and get the
reward, what a happy man I should be! But there’s no such luck. Bill
and Kitty will have to go without their shoes for another week or two;
and as for the old woman’s new gown, why——”
Sergeant Tilley never finished his sentence. Deceived by the silence in
the room, believing all danger to be at an end, and cramped in every
limb from standing so long in one position without moving, Lionel
Dering touched the spring, pushed open the false back of the wardrobe,
and prepared to emerge from his hiding-place. The first object that met
his startled gaze was the terror-stricken face of Sergeant Tilley, who,
seated on the extreme edge of the sofa, was gazing at him as though he
were some unsubstantial ghost come to revisit the pale glimpses of the
moon.
Lionel changed colour, and his heart sank within him. To go back was
useless—impossible. Instead of retreating, he advanced a step or two
into the room, and then stood still.
The sergeant rose to his feet. His presence of mind was coming back to
him. Visions of four hundred golden sovereigns floated before his
dazzled eyes. He too advanced a step or two. “You are my prisoner,” he
said, and he stretched forth his hand as if to arrest Lionel. But that
very instant his hand was seized, and Edith was before him—her white,
pleading face, tearful and agonized, uplifted to his, her white and
slender fingers clasped tightly round his bony wrist.
“No—no—no!” she cried, in low, hurried accents. “You must not—you shall
not arrest him! You are a man, a husband, a Christian! He is my
husband, and he is innocent. I swear before Heaven that he is innocent!
Arrest him, and his blood will lie at your door, and be a curse upon
you and yours for ever.”
“I—I must do my duty, ma’am,” stammered Tilley. “This gentleman is my
prisoner, and he must come along with me.”
“Four hundred pounds are offered for his capture,” said Edith. “No one
but you knows that he is here. Keep that knowledge to yourself—lock it
up as a secret in your own breast, and six hundred pounds shall be put
into your hands this very night.”
“Six hundred pounds!” murmured Tilley. He was staggered by the amount.
“Yes, two hundred pounds more than the reward shall be yours, and your
hands will be free from the stain of innocent blood. Look at him—look
at that man,” she cried, “and tell me, is that the face of a murderer?”
Lionel came a step or two nearer. “My wife has but spoken the truth,”
he said. “As there is a Heaven above us, I am as innocent of the murder
of Mr. Osmond as you are!”
“You are a good man—you are a kind-hearted man,” pleaded Edith. “I can
see it in your face—I can read it in your eyes. You have a wife and
children. Think what you can buy for them—think with what comforts you
can surround them, out of six hundred pounds. But stain your hands with
that vile blood-money, and you will be a marked man among your
fellow-men to the last hour of your miserable life!”
“Tilley, Tilley, where are you? Why don’t you come down?” called Mr.
Drayton from below.
“Coming, sir—coming,” cried Tilley.
For a moment he hesitated. But Edith was still before him. His rough
hands were still clasped by her delicate fingers. Her lovely
face—pallid, despairful—was gazing up at him with tearful and
beseeching eyes. Sergeant Tilley was but a man, and a softhearted one.
Here was a beautiful woman begging and praying of him to accept six
hundred pounds. “I never could stand out against a woman’s tears,” he
said to himself; and being no more than mortal, he succumbed.
“Have the money ready by nine o’clock to-night,” he said in a hoarse
whisper. “I’ll come for it myself, and give three taps at the
kitchen-door. One of you can just open the door a few inches, and put
the money out, and I’ll take it—and you needn’t see me and I needn’t
see you.”
Edith pressed the sergeant’s rough hand to her lips, in a passion of
gratitude, and then fell back in a dead faint. With a warning finger
held up to Lionel, Mr. Tilley quitted the room, and joined the
superintendent downstairs. Five minutes later Martha Vince shut the
door behind the three men. Mr. Drayton was quite satisfied that Lionel
Dering was hidden nowhere about Alder Cottage. “But for the life of
me,” he said to his companions as they walked down the garden, “I can’t
understand why the doors and windows are fastened up with so many
chains, and bolts, and screws, unless they’ve got something hidden
somewhere that they are precious sweet on, and want to keep all to
themselves.”
“Ah,” responded Tilley with a knowing shake of the head, “women are but
timorous creatures when they live by themselves, and Alder Cottage is a
lonely place at the best of times.”
At five minutes past nine that same evening three low, distinct raps
sounded on the back door of Alder Cottage. The door was opened a little
way, and a hand, holding a bag full of gold and notes, was thrust out
into the darkness. Another hand in the darkness took the bag. There was
a sound of retreating footsteps; the door was shut and bolted, and all
was dark and silent as before.
All these things were duly told to Tom Bristow when he next visited
Alder Cottage. Lionel was disposed to think that, now the search had
proved unsuccessful, all danger, at least for a little while to come,
was at an end. But Tom was by no means so satisfied on that point, and
what had just happened only made him all the more anxious to get his
friend away to some safer and more distant hiding-place. After many
conversations and much discussion pro and con., a plan was at length
agreed upon which Tom, with characteristic energy, at once began to put
into execution. A few days were necessary for the preparation of
certain details. But, before those few days were over, quite a new and
unexpected turn was given to the course of events at Alder Cottage.