sure that the child would not be forthcoming till the reward satisfied
the cupidity of the child-stealers. He had reason to believe that the
present reward did satisfy the cupidity of the child-stealers; and
after a thoughtful glance at the Biggleswades, he turned to Tinker.
Tinker could be of help to him.
He turned to him and said:
"Do you remember my telling you of a little girl, Elizabeth Kernaby,
who was stolen a week or two ago?"
"Elizabeth Kernaby, aged seven, blue eyes, long flaxen hair, speaks
with a lisp, and answers to the name of Bessie," said Tinker glibly, in
the manner of one reciting a lesson.
"Quite right," said Sir Tancred approvingly; "you'll be another
Sherlock Holmes some day. Well, I have reason to believe that the
little girl with the Biggleswades is Elizabeth Kernaby."
Tinker's face brightened. "Her eyes are blue, but her hair is black,
and it's not very long."
"Hair can be dyed."
"Yes; and it doesn't match her face."
"It doesn't, doesn't it? Well, I want to know if she lisps, and if she
answers to the name of Bessie. You will find out?"
"Yes, I'll find out. But Mrs. Biggleswade never lets her speak to
anyone. I must think it out."
With that Tinker sat down; set his elbows on his knees, his chin on his
hands; and plunged into deep thought. His father sat equally
thoughtful; and their similar employment brought out extraordinarily
their strong likeness, for all that Tinker was a fair, angel child, and
his father's face as dark and proud and stern as Lucifer's.
For a long while neither said a word, nor moved. Sir Tancred was
trying to see how to work the affair on seven shillings, and debating
whether to call in the help of the police. Instinct assured him that
he had no time to lose, no time to walk to Beachley and pawn his watch,
that he must not lose sight of them, and in delicate matters he relied
chiefly on instinct. Mr. Biggleswade would not have looked so
triumphant, had not the 4000 pound reward satisfied him; it seemed
likely that he would leave for town that very day. On the other hand,
Sir Tancred was averse to going to the police; he knew what the
provincial police were. What was excellent evidence to him would seem
no evidence at all to them; and they would move too late, or, if they
moved in time, would muddle the whole business, and let the
Biggleswades know they were suspected. Besides, it hurt his self-love
to seek aid from anyone. No, the proper game was to rob the robbers,
and he had seven shillings to play it with.
Suddenly Tinker stirred. "I'm going to try now," he said.
Sir Tancred looked at the Biggleswades. Mr. Biggleswade lay sprawled
on his back, a handkerchief spread over his face; and mellowed by the
distance, the music of a long-drawn snore murmured over the sands.
Mrs. Biggleswade was nodding over a book.
Tinker rose, bade Blazer stay where he was; and walked off towards the
hotel. Sir Tancred twisted round his chair, tore a hole in his _Daily
Telegraph_, and watched him. Tinker fetched a circuit to within a
hundred yards of the backs of the Biggleswades, threw his straw hat on
the sand, dropped on to his stomach, and began to squirm along towards
them, taking advantage of every ridge and hollow. It was a long
business, but at last he lay in a hollow thirty yards away. He raised
his head cautiously, and in a low, clear voice said, "Bessie."
The little girl sprang to her feet, and stared about her wildly.
Tinker dropped his head and lay still. Mrs. Biggleswade, roused from
her napping, caught the child by the arm, and shaking her, said
savagely, "Sit down, you little brat! Keep quiet!"
The child sank down, and began to cry.
Tinker lay still for a while, and then began, to squirm away. When he
reached his hat, he rose to his feet, knocked the sand off his clothes,
and walked slowly back to his father.
"She answers to the name of Bessie, sir," he said quietly.
"Good!" said Sir Tancred, and he rose.
They walked down to the railway station; and on the way Sir Tancred
informed Tinker that he was to take Elizabeth Kernaby up to London, to
11a Cadogan Square, and, at a cost of six out of his seven shillings,
bought two half third-class tickets. On their way back he learned, no
less to his surprise than his joy, that Tinker was the possessor of
eighteenpence. To make assurance surer, therefore, he bought a basket
of strawberries, and when the Biggleswades returned to the hotel for
lunch, they found the Beauleighs in the porch, eating them.
"Would you like some strawberries, little girl?" said Tinker as they
passed, and he held out the basket to the child.
"Yeth, pleath," she said, and stepped forward to take one.
"No, no, Keziah," broke in Mrs. Biggleswade. "You know they don't
agree with you!" And she caught her away, and hurried her into the
hotel.
"Children like sweet things; but they sometimes don't agree with them,"
said Mr. Biggleswade sapiently, his loose and flabby bulk swelling yet
bigger at the thought that he was speaking to a member of the
aristocracy.
"That is very true," said Sir Tancred pleasantly.
Surprised by this affability, but swift to seize on a conversational
opening with a baronet, Mr. Biggleswade stayed talking with him in the
porch; he talked to him all lunch-time: and he talked to him on the
sands after lunch. His unbridled appetite for the society of the
aristocracy proved his undoing. For at a few minutes to three Sir
Tancred proposed a stroll along the shore. They went slowly, Mr.
Biggleswade rising to the great social occasion for which he had so
long hankered, and proving himself, in his talk, a thorough man of the
world.
As they passed round the promontory at the end of the little bay, and
Sir Tancred took out his handkerchief, Tinker was awaiting the signal,
impatient, but cool; and as they passed out of sight, he began to steal
up behind the drowsy Mrs. Biggleswade and presently, touching the child
on the shoulder, beckoned her to come with him.
She looked timidly at Mrs. Biggleswade whose eyes were closed, and
rose. Tinker drew her quietly away. They had not gone twenty yards
when a jerking nod awoke Mrs. Biggleswade, and she missed the child.
She scrambled up, turned and saw her, and cried, "Come here, you
naughty girl. Come here at once!"
"Are you Bessie Kernaby?" said Tinker to the child.
"Yeth, yeth," she said, turning to go to her tyrant.
Tinker gripped her arm, and cried, "Pstt! Pstt! Hold her, Blazer!
Hold her!" and waved him at Mrs. Biggleswade.
Blazer darted forward, growling with a fine show of teeth.
Mrs. Biggleswade, like a wise woman, stood stock-still, and sent a
shrill scream ringing down the shore, and another, and another, and
another.
Tinker caught Elizabeth's hand and cried, "Come on! Come on! We've
only just time to catch the train!" And the two children set off
running to the station.
On the edge of the sands Tinker stopped for a moment, whistled shrilly,
brought Blazer racing after them, and ran on again. He could hear the
far-away rattle of the express.
Mr. Biggleswade was too deeply engrossed in his talk with Sir Tancred
to notice the first half-dozen screams from his wife; and they came
faintly round the promontory. Then he heard them, said, "By Jove!
that's Maria!" and started to run back. Sir Tancred ran by his side.
When they came round the promontory they saw Mrs. Biggleswade waving
frantically towards the station, and half-way to it two little figures
running. Mr. Biggleswade showed himself a man of action. He swung
round, and, with the swiftness of an accomplished boxer, dealt Sir
Tancred an unexpected blow on the side of the head which knocked him
over half-stunned, and almost in the same moment started to run after
the children. He was half a mile from them, and they were less than a
quarter of a mile from the station, but naturally he ran much faster.
As the children reached the platform the express steamed in. Tinker
hurried his prize into an empty third-class carriage, in the forepart
of the train, and pushed the ticketless Blazer under the seat. Then he
put his head out of the window, and saw to his disgust Mr. Biggleswade,
his coat-tails flying, two hundred yards from the station, yelling
lustily, but making a very good pace indeed for his flabby bulk. The
doors were shutting, and Tinker watched the guard breathlessly. When
he whistled, Mr. Biggleswade had yet fifty yards to go. At the sound
he yelled louder than ever, and made a tremendous spurt. The train was
well on the move when he rushed into the station; but he dashed at a
compartment in the last carriage, wrenched the door open, scrambled on
to the footboard, and tumbled in, amidst the shouts of the indignant
porters.
Tinker drew in his head with a blank face. It had been no part of his
father's plan that Mr. Biggleswade should travel by the same train to
London, and his heart sank a little. But remembering Blazer, his
spirits rose, and he turned to the little girl with a cheerful face.
She was panting, crying, and wringing her hands in a paroxysm of
nervous excitement. He sat down beside her, thumped her on the back--a
way he had with tearful females--wiped away her tears with his
handkerchief, and poured comforting assurances of safety into her ears.
[Illustration: He poured comforting assurances of safety into her ears.]
When at last he had soothed her he began to question her, and drew from
her the story of her captivity. She had driven miles and miles with
the gentleman who had fetched her from Kensington Gardens, to a little
house in a long street. There she had found the Biggleswades. Mrs.
Biggleswade had taken away her nice clothes, and dressed her in these
common things. Then she had cut off her hair.
"I was wondering about your hair," interrupted Tinker.
For answer the little girl lifted up her black locks, hat and all;
displayed a fuzzy little fair poll underneath them, and let them drop
on it again.
"I see," said Tinker, and he went on with his questioning.
She had stayed with the Biggleswades, shut up in a room upstairs, she
did not know how many days; and then they had come down to Solesgate.
All the while Mrs. Biggleswade had been very unkind to her, and slapped
her whenever she cried for her mother.
The remembrance of her misfortunes set her crying again, and again,
with quiet patience, he consoled her. Presently she was babbling
cheerfully of her home, her mother, and her dolls, and asking many
questions. He made the replies politeness demanded, but he lent an
abstracted ear to her talk, for he was considering different plans for
escaping Mr. Biggleswade, most of them useless by reason of the
slowness of Elizabeth. He could only make up his mind that they must
dash for a cab as quickly as they could, and trust to Blazer for
protection.
It seemed to him a very long journey; and even when he had made his
plan, he found it no little task to take his part in the conversation.
As the train ran into London, he told her that Mr. Biggleswade was in
the train, and they must bolt for the cab. At once she was all panic
and tears, and he had much ado to brace her for effort before the train
slowed down at the terminus. Before it had stopped he was out of the
carriage, helping her down. They ran towards the barrier; but the
platform was long, and Elizabeth was slow. While they were yet thirty
yards from it, Mr. Biggleswade was on them. With a savage blow he sent
Tinker flying, caught up the screaming Elizabeth, and dashed on, crying
loudly, "The nearest hospital! The nearest hospital! My little girl!
My little girl!"
Everyone made way for him; but Tinker picked himself up, bolted after
him, hissing on Blazer, took a flying leap on to his back, and locked
his arms round his neck in a strangling grip, as the prompt and nimble
Blazer buried his teeth in his calf. Mr. Biggleswade dropped Elizabeth
and tore viciously at Tinker's hands. The passengers and porters came
crowding round, and the moment the throng was thick enough, Tinker
dropped to his feet and gripped Elizabeth by the arm, shouting,
"Police! Police!"
Mr. Biggleswade struggled to choke Blazer off his leg. A police
inspector pushed through the crowd, and cried, "What's all this?"
"The young rascal has enticed away my little girl, and brought her up
to London!" cried Mr. Biggleswade, who had divested himself of Blazer,
and was holding him off by the collar; and with the other hand he
grabbed at Elizabeth.
"It's a lie!" cried Tinker, as the inspector grasped his shoulder.
"This is Elizabeth Kernaby! He stole her!" And on the words he jerked
off her hat and wig.
At the sight of the fuzzy little bare poll light slowly dawned on the
inspector; but even more quickly Mr. Biggleswade had seen that the game
was up, flung Blazer away from him, and bolted through the barrier.
The Inspector rushed after him; but Blazer, who apparently had not had
enough of Mr. Biggleswade's calf, outstripped him, and pinned the
fugitive on the very step of a hansom.
When Tinker and Elizabeth, escorted by an excited and applauding crowd,
came out of the station they found Mr. Biggleswade, the inspector, two
constables, and Blazer in a tangled, battling group. Tinker saw his
chance of escaping any further aid from the police, thrust Elizabeth
into a hansom, gave the cabman the address, whistled Blazer out of the
fight, jumped in after her, and drove off amid the cheers of the crowd.
By the time the dishevelled police had Mr. Biggleswade secured, and
could turn their attention to them, the children were half a mile away.
Tinker's hands had been torn by the savage rascal, and on the way to
Cadogan Square he was busy staunching their bleeding. By tearing his
handkerchief in two he managed with Elizabeth's aid to bandage both;
but he was vexed that they must make such an unpleasant appearance
before her relatives. When they reached Cadogan Square he paid the
cabman, and rang the bell; but when the door opened, Elizabeth assumed
the leadership. She caught Tinker's hand, dragged him past the
astonished footman, hurried him up the stairs, and burst with him into
a drawing room, where half a score of mournful people were discussing
over their tea the further measures for her recovery.
"I've come back, mamma! And this is Hildebrand Anne Beauleigh, but his
real name is Tinker!" cried Elizabeth.
In a breath Mrs. Kernaby had her in her arms; there were screams and
pantings, and a bandying to and fro of smelling salts. Everyone was
hugging Elizabeth, or shaking hands with Mr. Kernaby, or slapping one
another on the back and assuring one another that they had always said
so. Tinker watched their exuberance with some distaste, which
redoubled when Elizabeth's tangled and incoherent tale drew upon him
the embraces of half a dozen animated and highly scented ladies of the
kind who haunt the houses of unprotected millionaires. When at last
quiet was restored, he told his story, omitting as many of his own
doings as were not absolutely necessary to make it clear, in a fear
lest they should provoke another outburst of embraces.
When he had clearly grasped the fact that Tinker was the son of Sir
Tancred Beauleigh, all the warm-heartedness of his native Drumtochty
bubbled up in Mr. Joseph Kernaby; he shook him warmly by the hand, and
cried:
"Mah mannie; eh, but you're a braw sonsie laddie; an' aiblins ye need
it, nor yoursel' nor any o' your noble an' deesteengueeshed family
shall ne'er ask the twice a wee bit bite or soop unner this humble
roof."
Tinker, not having the Gaelic, was somewhat taken aback by the cryptic
utterance; but an anxious-looking younger son of an embarrassed peer,
who for a considerable consideration was bear-leading the millionaire
through the social labyrinth, hurriedly interpreted it to him as a
standing invitation to dinner. He thanked Mr. Kernaby, and begged that
a telegram might at once be sent to his father, informing him of his
success and safety.
"They tallygrams they yanners the saxpences, mah mannie," said the
millionaire with a falling face. "A poostcaird is a verra----"
But the anxious-looking younger son cut him short, said that it should
be sent at once, and bade the footman charged with its despatch bring
also a doctor to dress Tinker's wounded hands.
Meanwhile Sir Tancred, as soon as he learnt that Mr. Biggleswade had
caught the express, had hurried hot-foot in a devouring anxiety to
Beachley, where dwelt a pawnbroker, raised money, and caught there a
train to town. When he reached Cadogan Square he found Tinker making
an excellent tea after his exhausting labours, and giving an account of
the Biggleswades to a detective from Scotland Yard. When he had heard
Sir Tancred's story, too, the detective said that Mr. Biggleswade would
get five years; and the event proved him right.
There was no getting away from the grateful Kernabys, but after the
cooking of the Royal Victoria hotel Sir Tancred was more than ready for
a good dinner. He found in his host and hostess a strong disposition
to adopt Tinker forthwith; and before the end of dinner he found them
no less inclined to adopt him, too. But it could not be.
After dinner, disregarding the faint expostulations of the
anxious-looking younger son, the millionaire rose to his feet and
pronounced a glowing, fervid, but, save for the couplet,
"The rank is but the guinea stamp
The maan's the maan for a' that"
unintelligible eulogy on the family of Beauleigh.
As he drove away with Tinker to the Hotel Cecil, Sir Tancred crinkled
the millionaire's cheque in his waistcoat pocket, and said, "Four
thousand pounds is a good day's work--two thousand for you--and two
thousand for me. We'll move to Brighton. But I spent some of the most
horrible hours of my life wondering if that beast had got into the same
compartment with you. None of the fools at the station could tell me."
"I was afraid you'd be anxious, sir," said Tinker, patting his arm.
"But I think that Blazer and I could have dealt with him."
Then he gave Blazer--who, distended by the fat of the land, was snoring
heavily through happy dreams of the human calf, at the bottom of the
cab--a gentle kick, and said with sad severity, "I shall never make a
real bloodhound of Blazer. Bloodhounds leap at a man's throat; they
don't collar him by the leg."
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE STOLEN FLYING-MACHINE
"You vas a vonder-child!" said Herr Schlugst. "You know dat machine as
good as me!" And his goggle eyes stared out of his round, good-natured
face at Hildebrand Anne in a wondering admiration.
"Yes; I think I have got the hang of her," said Hildebrand Anne with
some pride, looking up at the great cigar-shaped balloon which hung
motionless in the still air.
"Vat for do dey call thee Tinkar? You vas not look like a tinkar; and
you vas not haf--do not haf de tinkar brain."
"Well, I've been called Tinker ever since I can remember; and one
name's as good as another," said Hildebrand Anne indifferently. "But
you'll let me cross over to Paris with you to-morrow, won't you?"
"I vill not! I vill not! Dere is de danger! De great danger! We
must vant de calm dat ees dead! I take no von vith me but mine own
self! And I vas not vould go, not for nodings; but I vas vant de
tousand pounds. Dere is my leetle girl to be lived and educate."
"But I do so want to be one of the first to cross the Channel in a
flying-machine," said Tinker plaintively.
"Ach, to be vurst! to be vurst! Dat is you English top and toe! Do I
vas hunt de orchid to be vurst discoverer? Not mooch. I hunt him for
money. Do I cross de Channel in my machine to be vurst? Nein, nein.
I cross him for de tousand pounds. And you I vould not take, no, not
for de oder tousand pound. Bah! You vas not at all von vonder-child;
you vas von foolish! Good-night, mine young friend, good-night." And
Herr Schlugst went into the galvanised iron hut where for the time
being he lived, watching over his precious machine.
The Tinker came out of the palisade which surrounded it, and walked
down the cliff into Brighton quite disconsolate; he could not see how
to get his way. He came into the Paragon Hotel and dressed for dinner
as sulky as a naturally cheerful soul could be. He showed no readiness
to talk, and his father presently condoled with him on his lowness of
spirits. Tinker said briefly that he had had a disappointment.
"Ah, they are terrible things, disappointments, when one is eleven
years old," said Sir Tancred. "Later in life they lose their edge."
On his words there came into the dining room a rotund, middle-aged
Jewish gentleman, coated with dust and wearing a harassed air.
"Look," said Sir Tancred, "that's Blumenruth, the Jungle millionaire."
The financier gazed gloomily round the room, looking for a table. At
the sight of Sir Tancred, an idea seemed to strike him, his face
brightened a little, and he came to them.
"How do you do, Sir Tancred Beauleigh?" he said, shaking hands warmly.
"May I dine at your table? I want a word with you, a word which may be
profitable to both of us."
"By all means," said Sir Tancred in the manner he always adopted
towards profitable financiers of Hamburg extraction, a manner extremely
condescending, without being offensive.
The financier sat down; smudged the dust across his face with a
coloured silk handkerchief; and breathed heavily. Then he looked at
Tinker as though he would like him sent away.
"Anything you may say before him will go no further," said Sir Tancred,
quick to mark the meaning of the look. "Let me introduce you. Mr.
Blumenruth, my son Hildebrand."
The financier bowed, but he still looked unhappy at Tinker's presence.
A waiter brought him some soup, and he began upon it hurriedly. Sir
Tancred went on with his dinner in a tranquil indifference. The
financier finished his soup: looked again at Tinker, and burst out:
"Well, it can't make any difference! I want your help, Sir Tancred,
and you're the one man in England who can help me; you're used to these
things." And he smudged the dust on his face a little more.
Sir Tancred murmured politely, "Only too pleased."
"I must be in Paris either to-night or to-morrow morning for an hour's
talk with Meyer before the Bourse opens. And I must leave England
without anyone knowing I've left it. It may make a difference to me
of--of a hundred thousand pounds."
"Pardon me," said Sir Tancred suavely. "I like my clients to be open
with me. It will make a difference of ruin. The Cohens have you in a
hole."
The millionaire gasped, "My goodness! how did you know? It means
ruin--or--or I make a hundred thousand."
"I see," said Sir Tancred. "Well?"
"I left London quietly in a motor-car. Before I'd gone twenty miles, a
racing Panhard, stuffed with private detectives--men I've sometimes
employed myself"--he almost sobbed at the thought--"passed me; and
another came up, and dropped back to a mile behind. They're here in
Brighton. I'd given it up; I was going to dine here, sleep the night,
and go back to London to fight it out--not that it's of any use unless
I can see Meyer--when I saw you. I'll give--I'll give five thousand
pounds to anyone who can get me across to Paris secretly. It's
here--in my pocket." And he tapped his breast.
Sir Tancred thought earnestly for fully five minutes; then he said, "It
can't be done."
"Don't say so! now don't," said the financier, "The money's here!
Here!" and he again slapped his breast pocket.
"It's no use," said Sir Tancred. "I might smuggle you out of the
hotel; but there isn't any sort of vessel, steamer, steam yacht, or
launch to take you across."
"Let's go to Dover in my car!"
"What's the use? The detectives would follow in theirs."
The financier groaned, and some large tears ran down his face. He bent
his head to hide them; and for all that he was not pleasant to look
upon, Tinker felt sorry for him.
"Cheer up, man," said Sir Tancred. "You can always begin again!"