THE GIPSY AMD MRS. BOURNE――THE SURPRISE.
Rawton deemed it best not to venture paying a visit to Mrs. Bourne
without first of all making sure that the doctor was from home.
How this was to be ascertained, he could not at first determine, but
after some consideration had been spent in reflection, he elected to
send Cooney with a note addressed to Mrs. Bourne, with strict
injunctions that it was to be delivered into her hands, and if this
could not be conveniently done, Cooney was to return with the letter
and wait a more favourable opportunity.
It took him some time to indite the brief epistle, which was couched
in very guarded, albeit not in very elegant, language but it sufficed
for the purpose.
Cooney was as hang-dog a looking rascal as it was well possible to
conceive, but the gipsy had no other person to send upon whom he could
rely――his messenger was by no means a fool――although of a common
coarse type and as ignorant as a “hack horse;” but he was artful and
was not easily “cornered,” to make use of an American phrase, so away
he went upon his mission. The maid servant opened the door and Cooney
asked if her mistress was disengaged.
“Suppose she is. What do you want with her?” inquired the girl,
looking at the speaker with evident mistrust and suspicion.
“I don’t want anything with her, my dear,” returned Cooney, in
oleaginous accents.
“Don’t dear me, man,” cried the girl. “What’s your business?”
“Is the doctor in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is your mistress alone?”
“If she is I’m sure she won’t see you.”
“Well, you’re a nice-looking girl, but a little sharp, but that don’t
matter. Now listen.”
“I am listening. Go on, and be as quick as possible.”
“I’ve got a letter for your mistress,” said Cooney, in a strange
whisper, “which must be delivered into her own hands.”
“A begging letter I suppose.”
“No, it aint no begging letter, nuffin of the sort. You were never
more mistaken in your life, but it’s a letter from a friend, and is of
the greatest importance.”
The girl laughed derisively.
“You’re on the wrong tack, my lady,” observed Cooney, reprovingly.
“Don’t be so cheeky, because it aint becoming in young females to be
cheeky.”
“Get out with your impudence. Give me the letter at once, and I will
take it up to Mrs. Bourne.”
“All right, my lass, there it is; but don’t you be agivin’ it to
anybody else. Do yer hear?”
“Yes, I hear,” cried the maid, tripping lightly upstairs with the
missive in question.
“She is a pretty creature,” murmured Cooney, as he was waiting in the
passage. “A jolly nice gal, but a little pert; but I like her all the
better for that. Don’t care a bit about your smooth-tongued wenches.”
In a minute or so the maid returned and handed an envelope with no
name or address upon it to Rawton’s messenger.
“You are to give that to him,” said the maid, in a more subdued tone
of voice.
“Thank you kindly,” returned Cooney. “Oh, but you are a darling, and
no mistake.”
“Get along with your impudence. I never met with such a rude man in
all my life.”
“Oh――don’t say that.”
“Go away at once. You’ve got your answer――so now be off.”
Cooney sallied forth, and the door was slammed to the moment he had
passed out of the house.
He took the answer he had received to his pal, Bill Rawton, who tore
open the envelope, and drew forth a slip of paper, on which was
written these words――
“If you desire to see me, call to-morrow evening at about half-past
seven.”
“That’s all right,” cried the gipsy. “I’ll be there.”
“She aint altogether the most amiable girl I’ve met with,” observed
Cooney.
“Who aint?”
“Why the maid-servant. But she’s jolly good-looking, and I ’xpect she
knows it.”
“You haven’t been fool enough to chaff the doctor’s servant? Why,
she’s a most respectable, well-behaved young woman.”
“Aint no manner of doubt about that ere,” returned Cooney.
“I am sorry I sent you.”
“Why, it’s all right enough――aint it?”
“Yes; but it strikes me you’ve been too forward with the girl.”
“Nuffin of the sort. Is it likely?”
“Well, if I must say what I think, I feel certain that there’s nothing
more likely. You ought to know better.”
“Well, I’m blest! Do you expect a bloke to stand like a mute at the
door of a gentleman’s house?”
“There, shut up! Enough of this,” observed Rawton, who made a shrewd
guess of what had taken place. “He never could keep his tongue still,”
murmured Rawton, “and I suppose never will. However, it doesn’t much
matter I suppose.”
On the following evening, at a little before the appointed time, Bill
Rawton left the lodging-house, and made direct for the doctor’s house.
As he came within sight of this he observed the boy in the street with
a basket of medicine bottles on his arm.
“Hallo, young gallipot!――just one moment, my lad,” cried Rawton.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is your master in?”
“No.”
“Oh, then, I’ll just call and leave my card. When do you expect him to
return?”
“He didn’t say when he would be back.”
“All right. I may as well call. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Oh, he’s not in; so much the better for my purpose,” said the gipsy,
as he gave a gentle knock at the door, which was opened by the girl
Amy.
“Do you want to see missus?” said she.
“Yes, if she’s disengaged and alone.”
“She’s quite disengaged, and told me to show you upstairs.”
Bill was conducted into the front room, first floor, where he found
Mrs. Bourne, pale and anxious, awaiting his appearance.
“So,” said she, “you are here again. I concluded you had something to
communicate, and am glad you have come at the specified time. My
husband is not in the way, and we can converse without fear of
interruption. Be seated, and proceed to business at once.”
The gipsy dropped into the nearest chair.
“It would be a sore trouble to me if I thought my presence here and my
interview with the doctor, and the words I have spoken, might cause
you trouble or anxiety.”
“They have caused me great trouble and anxiety, but let that pass. I
do not blame you. What you have done――the information you have
given――places me in the utmost peril: but, as I before observed, it is
no fault of yours. Pray tell me what you purpose doing? It appears to
me, if you have any consideration for me, that you had better avoid
this house, and not present yourself here again. You will thereby
avoid being cross-questioned by my husband, who, from what I can
gather, wishes to extract all he can get from you.”
“He will get nothing more from me――remember, not a smell. Of that I
will be as silent as the grave. If I do open my mouth at all it will
be to deny all I have said. You say I have placed you in a situation
of extreme peril?”
“I believe you have. And you would agree with me if you knew all.
Doctor Bourne will not rest, night or day, till he has found out the
church where we were married. This done, he will have proof which will
be fatal to me.”
“He will find no proof, madam,” said Bill Rawton. “I have taken good
care of that.”
“How can you talk in such an inconsistent and unreasonable way? How is
it possible for you to remove a record so indisputable? The books in
the church contain a register of this unfortunate and fatal marriage.”
“I told you, when last here, that I would repair the evil I had done.
I have kept my word. There is no record of our union――none whatever.
And no living man can procure it――except myself,” cried Rawton, in a
solemn tone of voice.
“You are speaking more like a madman than a sane person.”
“Am I?”
“I should imagine so.”
“You are mistaken. Listen to me for one moment. I say there is no
record. The leaf in the book containing the certificate of the
marriage between William Rawton and Hester Teige is no longer in the
books of the church. I have it here.”
As he said this Bill Rawton drew forth the page he had abstracted from
the breast pocket of his coat. He handed it to his companion, who was
bewildered and awe-struck.
“In Heaven’s mercy what have you done?” she ejaculated.
“Read and judge for yourself,” he returned.
She did read, and her face became as pale as death.
She was so overwhelmed with astonishment and fear that she could not
find words to express herself.
“I have kept my word,” he said slowly, and with something like
melancholy and remorse in his tone. “I have at all risks contrived to
make you a free woman――free, as far as I am concerned, and free also
from the danger which threatened you. Bear witness, Mrs. Bourne, for
you alone can do so, that I have been mindful of your interest, that I
have shown a desire to shelter and shield you. The tie which bound us
was cancelled years and years ago. Now it no longer has existence. It
has passed away, and will never rise up in judgment against either of
us――never.”
He took the paper in his hand, thrust it into the fire, where in a few
moments it was consumed.
Mrs. Bourne looked at him in a state of stupefaction, but he was calm
and quite unmoved.
“William Rawton,” she presently exclaimed, “I never would have
believed this of you, certainly not, unless I had been witness of it
and seen it with my own eyes. I have found a champion and friend where
I least expected to meet with one. I know not how to express myself. I
never dreamed you had so much magnanimity in your nature. How can I
possibly recompense you?”
“I don’t want any recompense,” observed the gipsy. “What I have done
has been done for your sake. Perhaps you will find it hard to believe
this, but it is a fact nevertheless. I aint of much good in this
world, and nobody has a good word for Bill Rawton the gipsy. Nobody
cares about him, who is at best an outcast and a blot upon the face of
the earth; but it may be in the years that are to come that one person
will think well of him, and remember he was not altogether the selfish
and abandoned wretch people suppose him to be. If that one thinks well
of him――remembers him with something like gratitude――he will be amply
rewarded for the favour he has conferred upon her.”
Mrs. Bourne was touched, her eyes were moist with tears, and she
stretched forth her hand which the gipsy clasped fervently, and
respectfully raised to his lips.
“I am glad to have been of service to you,” he cried. “This is the
brightest hour I have known for many a day, and the remembrance of it
will last my life.”
“Oh! Rawton, how much I have reason to be thankful for what you have
done. I tremble when I reflect upon the act you have committed.
Suppose it should be discovered, what then? What a risk you have run!”
“It will not be discovered――rest assured of that. I am in no fear of
the consequences.”
“But it’s a dreadful alternative, and a most discreditable proceeding.
It’s direct robbery.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Oh, yes, it is――there’s no denying it.”
“Well, suppose it is, what does it matter. You are not bound to know
anything about it――nobody is bound to do so. Don’t you be concerned
about the matter; it’s right enough.”
“Right! I think it’s very wrong, sinful, and wicked.”
“Ah, that all depends upon the way you look at these things. I see no
harm in it――not a morsel of harm. However, it’s done, and done to save
you.”
“I know that, and am, of course, duly grateful; but it is a terrible
alternative.”
“There was no other left, as I could see, and it was the wisest
course. Any way, it makes you safe, and that’s all I care about.”
The conversation was cut short by the sudden and unexpected entrance
of Dr. Bourne into the room in which his wife and the gipsy were
seated.
They were both astonished, and not a little alarmed at his appearance.
“You here, eh!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anger, addressing himself
to Rawton.
“Right you be, doctor,” returned the gipsy. “I’m here, as you see.”
“And pray, sir, if it is not an impudent question,” observed the
doctor, with bitter irony, “may I inquire how it is that I find you
holding a secret conference with my wife? But I need not ask. I can
make a pretty shrewd guess.”
“If you can guess, I wouldn’t trouble myself to inquire, if I were
you,” said Rawton, nothing moved.
“You are an impudent, low-bred fellow,” cried Bourne, in a towering
passion. “How dare you have the impertinence to address this lady, and
what can you be thinking of to encourage the visits of such a low
ruffian, madam?”
This last observation was made to his wife, who was too distressed and
overcome to make any reply.
“You were out,” said Bill, “and I asked to see your lady. ’spose
there’s no great harm in that?”
“Harm!” cried Bourne. “Don’t imagine you can deceive me. I ask you
again, what brought you hither?”
“Why my legs, of course; I ain’t got a carriage, and so had to walk.”
“Hark ye, my man, let me have no more of your impudence, or I shall
find means to punish you. I say, again, what business have you here
holding a conference with Mrs. Bourne, who ought to be ashamed of
herself to be seen conversing with such a ruffian. Answer my question
without any more ado.”
“You’re so sharp upon a cove that you don’t give a chap time to
answer. Well, if you must know, I wanted to leave a message with the
lady.”
“It’s a lie――an impudent lie; you wanted to do nothing of the sort.
You think I cannot see through you, I suppose, you shameless woman.”
“Hold hard, guv’nor――one at a time, if you please,” cried Bill.
“You will be pleased to address me in a more respectful manner, my
man. Do you hear?”
“Yes, I hear.”
“Now, madam,” said Bourne, turning to his wife, “will you kindly
enlighten me on this subject? What is the reason for this man being
here?”
“He is your acquaintance, not mine,” said Mrs. Bourne.
“Thank you for the compliment. He’s a robber, a thief, and a disgrace
to a civilised community; and this is the man you choose to encourage
here, is it?”
“I do not encourage him――I have told him to go away.”
“Yes, that’s quite true; she has told me to go away and not come here
any more, and I have promised to do so.”
“You are not going away just yet, my man,” cried the doctor. “I have a
goodish bit to say to you.”
“Ah, that being the case, it’s lucky I am here.”
“You are very well acquainted with this lady it would appear――eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” returned Bill.
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“I know what I mean――look at her.”
“Well, I am looking at the lady.”
“You’ve seen her before years ago――haven’t you?”
“Me, no; not as I know of.”
“You can’t deceive me, you scoundrel――she is your wife.”
At this, Bill Rawton burst out into a loud laugh, which a little
disconcerted the doctor.
“My wife,” cried Bill. “Why, doctor, you’re a little touched in the
upper story, I’m thinking.”
“I say she is your wife.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And I say she’s not.”
“And never was?”
“And never was.”
“Well, my man, you have any amount of audacity――that I frankly admit;
but it won’t be of much service to you in this case. You have already
acknowledged your name to be William Rawton.”
“I have passed as William Rawton.”
The doctor started.
“You haven’t got the right sow by the ear as yet, doctor,” observed
the gipsy, with the most admirable self-possession. “Him as you call
Will Rawton was drowned years agone in Harcott’s millstream.”
“Audacious liar!” exclaimed Bourne, in a fury; “think not to disprove
your identity.”
“I don’t intend to do so; but, as I observed before, you’ve got the
wrong pig by the ear.”
“Then you are not William Rawton?”
“I have passed as him――that’s all.”
The doctor made no answer to this. He quietly walked into an adjoining
room, without even so much as uttering a word. Presently he returned
with something in his hand.
It was a miniature.
“Look at this,” he said, holding it before the gipsy.
“Yes, I see it; it’s a picture, and a very pretty one, too――a likeness
of somebody, I ’spose?”
“A likeness of yourself, my man,” said Bourne, in high glee.
“Of me?”
“Most certainly, and an admirable one it is, or was, for it was taken
about twenty years ago. It must have been wonderfully like at that
time――I should say most remarkably like the original.”
“Not having seen the original I can’t say,” said Bill, perfectly
unmoved.
“The original is yourself, my man.”
Bill shook his head.
“That won’t do; look at the nose, it’s a mile too long, and the
picture is not in any way like me――leastways as far as I can see――but
if you say it is, of course I give in to your superior judgment.”
“I say it is a portrait of William Rawton, and that you are he.”
“Very good――have it your own way. It does not make much difference to
me. I don’t quite see what you are driving at, but that is of no great
consequence, I suppose?”
“It is of very great consequence to me though.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, and so, my very excellent friend, you may as well confess all.
You will have to do so, you know, sooner or later. You are the lawful
husband of this lady.”
“Get out――me her husband!――it’s false,” exclaimed Bill. “You must
think me a fool to believe what you say.”
“I shall find means to prove the truth of what I’m saying,” said
Bourne, in a confident tone.
“I am sure you won’t. What’s your little game? Do you want to get rid
of your wife――eh?”
“Your wife.”
“No; yours, if you please. Of all the capers I ever heard of this is
about the rummest. Why, you must have been swallowing some of your own
medicine, doctor, and it has flown to your head, and driven you
silly.”
“Don’t you give me any more of your impudence, fellow,” cried Bourne,
in a fury. “I am in no mood to stand it. Your audacity is exceeding
all bounds; but I know very well how to deal with a man of your type.
You will find it difficult, or, indeed, I may say impossible, to
deceive me. This miniature which I hold in my hand is in itself quite
sufficient to prove your identity. You are William Rawton, the
gipsy――the same William Rawton who was wedded some twenty years ago to
Hester Teige――the beauteous and fascinating Hester Teige, as she was
afterwards called,” continued the doctor, in a sarcastic tone.
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are; and I think you will find it difficult to disprove my
statement.”
“All right, governor; have it your own way,” cried Bill, with an
aggravating laugh. “All right. Have it your own way. It does so
happen, however, that Rawton was drowned in a mill-stream, and that,
for special reasons, best known to myself, I chose to call myself by
his name.”
“Then you told me a false and wicked lie on the evening when we first
met, but I know which story to believe.
“Pray, sir, how is it I find you here in company with this lady?
Answer me that. Shall I tell you?”
“If you like.”
“It is just this: you are here plotting together for the purpose of
determining how you can best deeeive me. But do not think you will
succeed in your nefarious plans. Still at the same time I have to
apologize for disturbing a tête-à-tête between husband and wife,”
observed the doctor, with aggravating sarcasm.
Mrs. Bourne, who had purposely abstained from saying anything more
than the occasion absolutely required, now observed in a deprecatory
tone――
“I do hope and trust, Mr. Bourne, that this conversation will be
brought to a close as speedily as possible, if it be only for my
sake.”
“For your sake, madam!” exclaimed her husband with a sneer. “Upon my
word that is really a good joke. It is really amusing. I think, madam,
I shall have no very great difficulty in dissolving the galling and
odious tie which binds me to so amiable a partner. A prior marriage
[Sidenote: No. 51.] with a gentleman who is still alive will suffice
for the purpose. Mr. William Rawton, who is here present――――”
[Illustration: “YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT,” CRIED BOURNE, STRIKING THE
GIPSY WITH HIS WALKING STICK.]
“I am not William Rawton,” interrupted the gipsy.
“Then who are you?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“No matter; I do want to know――let that suffice.”
“Then I don’t choose to tell you; let that suffice; but even if you
could prove me to be Rawton, which you never can, what would it
matter?”
“Then this lady would be the wife of two husbands,” cried the doctor,
bowing with mock gravity; “don’t you see that?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Ah! but I do.”
“Oh, so you think; but you are mistaken,” observed the gipsy,
perfectly unmoved; “never were more mistaken in your life.”
“Am I?”
“Yes; you are most miserably mistaken. Shall I tell you why?”
“I am always glad to receive information, especially in this case, as
it is a subject which concerns myself.”
“Right you are, doctor; I s’pose it does concern yourself. Well, then,
the young girl named Hester Teige was married to a gipsy; there’s no
denying that; but what sort of marriage was it?”
“What sort?”
“Aye, what sort, indeed! She was married in the gipsy’s camp――after
the manner of gipsies――married by the father of the tribe, with the
sun for a witness, and the greensward for her couch. As far as the
legal part of the business is concerned, it wasn’t any marriage at
all. So you may take your change out of that.”
As he brought this brief speech to a conclusion, he burst out into a
mocking laugh.
“You lying scoundrel!” exclaimed Bourne, in a paroxysm of rage. “You
contemptible, deceptive hound――it is false――and I will prove you to be
a liar as well as a thief――you unmitigated ruffian!”
“Go on, governor, lay it on thick. Your hard words won’t hurt me;
cause why? I’m too much used to them.”
“You shameless abandoned woman,” cried Bourne, turning towards his
wife. “I have disgraced myself by my connection with you. What have
you to say to this fellow’s declaration?”
“I don’t choose to say anything. You have heard all he has said, and
can judge for yourself. You have brought this scandal upon yourself;
but it was not done without a cause. I decline to argue the question
with you.”
“Insolent strumpet!” exclaimed the doctor, striking his wife on the
side of the head. “Hence――get out of this house at once.”
“Hold hard!” cried Bill, stepping between the enraged husband and his
ill-used wife. “Hit a woman! You are a coward and a bully. If you want
to hit anyone pitch into me.”
“Stand out of my way――you dirty lying thief,” cried Bourne.
“Look here, if you give me any more of your cheek,” said the gipsy,
“or attempt to lay hands on this lady I’ll smash you――that’s what I’ll
do with you, and no flies.”
“You audacious miscreant!” cried Bourne, almost beside himself with
rage, and striking the gipsy over the head with his walking stick.
Bill at once let out with his right and left in rapid succession,
hitting the doctor some terrible blows in the face, which were
delivered direct from the shoulder. Bourne was so taken aback by the
suddenness and vigour of the attack that he had not time to recover
himself.
“I’ll make you smart for this,” he said, presently. “You can’t escape
me, you scoundrel. I’ve two officers below.” And as he uttered these
words he rushed towards the door, calling out for assistance at the
same time.
The gipsy intercepted his passage, and levelled him to the floor with
one powerful blow from his clenched fist.
In falling the doctor’s head came in contact with the fender, and he
lay on the hearthrug, speechless and senseless.
At this crisis the sound of a low whistle fell upon the ears of
Bandy-legged Bill, who judged rightly enough that danger was at hand.
He went at once to the door of the apartment, closed and locked it,
then he bethought him of what to do.
“Oh merciful heaven, save and succour me,” ejaculated Mrs. Bourne,
wringing her hands. “What have you done?” She glanced at the prostrate
form of her husband. “Perhaps murder.”
The noise of ascending footsteps on the stairs was now heard, and
another whistle was given by somebody outside the house.
“This is indeed terrible. You will be captured; ruin and disgrace will
fall upon me. Oh, unhappy and fatal was the hour you set foot in this
house.”
“I’ll leave it for good and for all,” returned Bill, “and never of my
own free will enter it again.”
“Leave――but how?” inquired Mrs. Bourne. “Hark, they are knocking at
the door and endeavouring to break it open.”
Bill Rawton felt that not a moment was to be lost; he flew to the back
window of the apartment and threw it open.
Then he thrust his head forth and took a rapid survey of the
surrounding yards. Abutting out from the window was the roof of a
washhouse. To drop on this was no very difficult task, but even when
this had been done, the gipsy did not see any way of getting clear of
the yards in the rear, and the sides of the doctor’s residence were
surrounded by walls and houses, and he did not see any place for
concealment. Nevertheless, he felt that to remain where he was would
most assuredly end in his capture. There were one or two little
matters against him which rendered an interview with police officers
in no way desirable. Rawton had risked much for the sake of Mrs.
Bourne. He had acted towards her with a spirit of magnanimity, which
was the one bright spot in his shadowy character, and it is but fair
that he should have full credit for the better impulse of his nature,
which prompted him to save the woman whom he had once loved.
The officers were beating violently against the door of the apartment,
and demanding immediate admittance.
“Fly!” cried Mrs. Bourne. “Get clear off while there is yet time.”
“It is evident you have done something wrong, and the police are on
your track. Doubtless my husband has brought them hither. Fly! for
mercy’s sake hesitate no longer!”
“Hammer away, my sweet pets,” cried Bill, as he heard the thumps at
the door. “My name’s Walker.”
He crept through the window, hung by his hands for a moment from the
sill, and dropped safely on the roof of the outhouse. From here he
slid down into the yard. Then he looked about him for a moment or two,
not knowing very well what next to be at. He felt pretty certain that
some of the neighbours would soon observe his movements from the backs
of the surrounding houses, and therefore prompt action was required in
his present emergency, for he did not intend to be taken if he could
help it.
He jumped over the wall and reached another yard, which was paved. He
soon discovered he was in close proximity to a stable.
A man was cleaning some harness in the yard, where he now found
himself, and while thus occupied he looked at the gipsy in an
inquiring and, it might be, a suspicious manner.
“All right, mate,” said Bill. “You’ve no call to be afeard. I’ve just
given a bloke a prop in the eye, and another on the sneezer. We’ve had
a bit of a scrimmge, and the bobbies are after me.”
“Who have you been mugging, then?” said the ostler, with a laugh.
“Why, a doctor.”
“What name?”
“Bourne.”
“Oh, scissors! What, that varmint!”
“Ah, you’re right, he is a varmint. But, I say, just let me come
inside――there’s a good fellow.”
“Inside where?”
“The stable. Anywhere to get out of sight.”
“I’d step it, if I were you.”
“That’s just what I want to do.”
“Come in, mate, I won’t turn my back upon a man whose in a bit of a
mess, which I ’xpect you are.”
“In a jolly mess, and no flies.”
The gipsy crept into the stable, and his newly-formed friend went on
cleaning the harness as if nothing had happened.
Both remained for some time inside the stable without saying a word.
Presently his friend, the ostler, said, in a low whisper――
“I say, old fellow, there’s some blokes a looking out of the window of
the doctor’s house.”
“The devil,” murmured Bill, “I wish I was out of this. They’ll be in
the yard presently I expect. Tell me when they draw in their ugly
heads.”
“Hush, stow magging,” cried the man in a whisper. “Hold your row, you
fool.”
The gipsy did not venture to speak after this timely admonition, but
awaited the issue in breathless suspense.
In a few moments after this the harness cleaner entered the stable.
“You’d better step it,” he observed.
“Yes, that’s all very well, but how? Show me the way, and I’ll be off
in the twinkling of a bedpost.”
“I don’t know who you are,” said the ostler. “You may have committed
murder, for aught I know; but I don’t like to give a cove up, unless
he’s a downright bad un.”
“Oh, get out――murder, indeed! I tell you, all I’ve done is to floor
the doctor; but he’s got his knife into me for other reasons. I can’t
explain all to you now, but show me the way to escape. Could you take
me through the house?”
“I can, of course, but you may be seen, and then there will be the
devil to pay!”
“Well, I’m sure you’re a good sort. Take pity on a poor chap. Come,
now, just think it over. A man is never the worse for doing another a
good turn.”
“Who and what are you?”
“Well, if you must know, I was a jockey. Now, I’m in the
horse-training line.”
“I guessed as much by your looks. Wait a bit; I’ll just have a squint,
and see if the blokes are there or not.”
The speaker went out into the yard again, and glanced at the back
window of the doctor’s residence, then he returned to the stable.
“They’ve hooked it,” he ejaculated. “Now’s your time. Follow me.”
Bill Rawton did not need a second bidding. He passed quickly out, went
up a narrow passage by the side of the stable, and then entered the
back door of the house to which it was attached. Passing quickly along
this until he reached the end of the hall, he came to the front door
of the establishment.
The ostler opened this, placed his finger on his lips to enjoin
silence, and Bill emerged into the street.
It is needless to say perhaps that he walked as fast as his legs would
carry him.
He had succeeded, thanks to the ostler, in getting clear off.
Leaving him for awhile, we will return to the room from which he had
escaped.
The hammering at the door continued for some time after Bill had
dropped on to the outhouse. Mrs. Bourne did not know what to do.
On the floor lay her husband in an insensible condition. Who the men
were outside the room she could not very well determine, but she
judged rightly enough that they were officers of the law.
She was, however, in no way disposed to admit them till Rawton had
sufficient time afforded him to effect his escape.
The poor woman was in a terrible state of fright and trepidation, and
she stood, pale and irresolute, wringing her hands, in the centre of
the apartment.
“If you don’t unlock the door, we will break it open,” cried a voice
from the outside.
“For mercy’s sake, what’s the matter? Do say what you want!” cried
Mrs. Bourne.
“We want to see the doctor. Open the door without further ado.”
“But I am afraid. Doctor Bourne has had a desperate struggle with some
man, and is lying senseless on the floor. Are you friends or enemies?”
“Friends. We are detective officers.”
Mrs. Bourne unlocked the door, and our old friend, Mr. Wrench,
entered, in hot haste. He was accompanied by another person, who was a
detective from New York.
“What is the meaning of all this, madam?” said Wrench. “Your husband
lying senseless, and you alone with him! Please to account for this as
best you can.”
Mrs. Bourne briefly explained the conflict that had taken place, and
said that the man who had struck her husband threatened to take her
life if she opened the door. She wound up by declaring that he had
made his escape through the window.
“Foiled!” ejaculated Wrench. “Our man has given us the slip. But no
matter, I shall be able to find him.”
“What has he been doing, gentlemen?” inquired Mrs. Bourne.
“We have to arrest him upon the charge of horse-stealing――that’s all,”
observed Wrench.
“But my poor husband? Pray see to him at once.”
The two officers lifted up the doctor and placed him on the sofa.
The movement seemed to revive him, for he slowly opened his eyes and
exclaimed, in an anxious tone――
“Where is he?”
“Who, sir?” inquired Wrench.
“That infamous wretch, the gipsy.”
“He has escaped, but don’t trouble yourself about that, we shall catch
him. How do you feel now?”
“Very bad――my head swims――I――――”
He ceased speaking, having swooned.
A doctor in the immediate neighbourhood was sent for, who at once
proceeded to make an examination of the injuries received.
He said there was nothing to be alarmed at; there was a contused wound
at the base of the skull. This had, in all probability, been caused by
the head coming in contact with the fender, but in addition to this
there were two or three abrasures and contusions on the face.
The patient was weak from shock to the system and loss of blood, but
there was no danger to be apprehended.
The injuries were strapped up, and the doctor ordered him to keep his
bed till his medical adviser’s next visit.
“I care not for myself,” said he to Wrench; “all I am anxious about is
that miscreant. Lose no time in hunting him down. Don’t let him escape
if you can possibly help.”
“I dare say we shall be able to find him, sir. Leave that matter to me
and my friend Shearman.”
“Ah, just so, you have not introduced me to the gentleman.”
“I beg pardon, I have not. Mr. Shearman, of the New York detectives;
Shearman, Doctor Bourne.”
“I should have liked to make the doctor’s acquaintance under more
favourable circumstances,” observed Shearman, dryly. “But, let us hope
he will be himself again in a day or two.”
“There is not the least doubt of that,” said Bourne; “but, meanwhile,
do your best to capture that ruffian.”
“Wrench and Shearman drew aside and had a long conversation, which was
carried on in whispers.
“Not at present; there will be time enough for that,” cried Wrench, in
a louder tone――“plenty of time.”
“Good; so be it, then,” ejaculated the Yankee.
“I tell you no time is to be lost,” exclaimed the doctor, who was
under the impression that they were discussing the mode of proceeding
to be adopted in reference to Rawton.
“We will do our best, rest assured of that, sir,” observed Wrench,
quietly. “In the meantime, keep as quiet as possible. Good evening. We
both wish you a speedy recovery.”
“Thank you. Good evening, gentlemen.”
The two detectives then left the patient to himself. Doctor Bourne’s
head and temples were throbbing, and he was in great pain, but
consciousness had returned, and he was already much better than anyone
would have supposed.
“I wonder who that fellow is Wrench brought with him? A detective from
New York, he said. Strange! What made him bring him here, I wonder.
Our constabulary is sufficiently effective without enlisting the
services of officers belonging to America. It seems a strange thing to
me that Wrench should be in such close companionship with a mysterious
man like that. From New York, eh?”
He tossed about in an uneasy manner, and kept harping upon the subject
for some time; presently the medicine he had swallowed took effect,
and he sank into a sound slumber.