As Harry Vine left his father's house, and hurried down the slope, he
gazed wildly out to sea. There were no thoughts of old Huguenot
estates, or ancient titles, but France lay yonder over that glistening
sea, and as he watched a cinnamon-sailed lugger gliding rapidly south
and east, he longed to be aboard.
Why should he not do as Pradelle had done--escape from the dangers which
surrounded and hemmed him in? It was the easiest way out of his
difficulties.
There were several reasons.
To go would stamp him with the crime, and so invite pursuit. To do this
was to disgrace father and sister, and perhaps be taken and dragged
back.
When he reached the harbour, instead of turning down to the left, by the
estuary, he made his way at once on to the shore, and after a little
hesitation, picked out the spot where on the previous night he had
thrown himself down, half mad with the course he had been called upon to
take.
The engraved gold locket, with which his nervous fingers had often
played, would be lying somewhere among the stones; perhaps caught and
wedged in a crevice. It was so easy when lying prone to catch such an
ornament and snap it off without knowing. He looked carefully over the
heap of stones, and then around in every direction; but the locket was
not there.
"It must be somewhere about," he said angrily, as if he willed that it
should; but there was no sign of the glittering piece of well-polished
gold, and a suspicion that had for a long time been growing, increased
rapidly in force, till he could bear it no longer, and once more
something seemed to urge him to fly.
He had clung so to that hope, shutting his eyes to the truth, and going
down to the beach to search for the locket. Even when he had not found
it, he said that perhaps some child had picked it up; but there was the
truth now refusing to be smothered longer, and he walked on hastily to
reach Van Heldre's office, so as to search for the locket there. For it
was the truth he had felt that sudden snatch, that tug when the old
merchant dashed at him, and then fell. The locket was torn off then.
He might not be too late. In the hurry and confusion it might not have
been seen.
The ordinary door of entrance to the offices was closed, and at the
house the blinds were half drawn down. He felt that he could not go to
the front door. So after a little hesitation, he went round into the
back lane, and with a strange sensation of dread, passed through the
gateway and down the steps into the neatly-kept garden yard.
Everything was very still; and Harry Vine, with an attempt to look as if
entirely bent upon his ordinary task, went up to the door, entered the
glass corridor, as he had entered it the night before, and by a
tremendous effort of will walked quickly into the outer office.
The inner door was open, and after a hasty glance round, he was in the
act of crossing to it when he found himself face to face with the old
clerk. For some moments neither spoke--the old man gazing straight at
Harry with a peculiar, stony glare, and the latter, so thrown off his
balance that no words would come.
"Good morning," he said at last.
The old man continued to stare as if looking him through and through.
"What do you want?" he said at last.
"Want? It is past nine o'clock, and--"
"Go back. The office is closed."
"Go back?" said Harry, troubled by the old man's manner more than by the
announcement; for it seemed natural that the office should be closed.
"Yes, young man; you can go back."
"But--"
"I said, go back, sir--go back! The office is closed," said the old man
fiercely; and there was something menacing in the manner of his
approach, as he backed his junior to the closed door, and unlocked it
and pointed to the street.
"Mr Crampton--" began Harry.
The old man looked at him as if he could have struck him down, waved him
aside, and closed and locked the door.
Harry stood for a few moments thinking. What could he do to gain an
entrance there, and have a quiet search of the place? The only plan
open seemed to be to wait until Crampton had gone away.
He had just come to this conclusion, after walking a short distance
along the street and returning, when a fresh shock awaited him. Van
Heldre's front door was open, and Duncan Leslie came out, walking
quickly towards him, but not noticing whom he approached till they were
face to face.
"Ah, Mr Vine," he said, holding out his hand; "I had some thought of
coming up to you."
"What for?"
"What for? Surely at a time like this there ought not to be a gap
between friends. I am afraid you misunderstood me the other night. I
am very sorry. There is my hand."
But trembling with that other anxiety, Harry Vine had still the old
sting of jealousy festering in his breast. Leslie had just come from
Van Heldre's; perhaps he had been talking with Madelaine even there;
and, ignoring the proffer, Harry bowed coldly and was passing on, but
Leslie laid his hand upon his arm.
"If I have been more in the wrong than I think, pray tell me," said
Leslie. "Come, Vine, you and I ought not to be ill friends."
For a moment the desire was upon him to grasp the extended hand. It was
a time when he was ready to cling to any one for help and support, and
the look in his eyes changed.
"Ah, that's better!" said Leslie frankly. "I want to talk to you."
Why not go with him? Why not tell Leslie all, and ask his help and
advice? He needed both sorely. It was but a moment's fancy, which he
cast aside as mad. What would Leslie say to such a one as he? And how
could he take the hand of a man who was taking the place which should be
his?
Leslie stood still in the narrow seaport street for a few moments,
looking after Harry, who had turned off suddenly and walked away.
Volume 2, Chapter VI.