“Along about the years sixty-seven and eight it got to be altogether

too common a thing on our line putting sleepers across the track and

tearing up rails, to throw the train off, so as to rob the express

car; and some of the villains who were caught got pretty severe

sentences.

“It so happened that in an especially noteworthy case it was my own

evidence chiefly that convicted two of the most precious rascals you

ever set eyes on, Tom Jackson and Clint Parker by name.

“They were sent to Joliet for fifteen years, and I was mighty glad to

serve as ‘humble instrument’ in the case, I tell you; though sometimes

I did feel kind of squeamish-like when I repeat to myself the last

words Parker said as they took him out of court:――

“‘As for you, Joe Townsend’ (and he shook his fist significantly in my

direction) ‘all this comes of the cowardly lies you’ve sworn to; and I

want you to understand that Tom Jackson and me, we aint the men to

stay down at Joliet for fifteen years breaking stone. We’re goin’ to

git out, we are, and you may depend upon it we’ll be keerful to pay

our first respec’s to you. We’ve invented a new kind of sleeper to

throw trains off with――eh, Tom?’ and he leered horribly to his crony

as they passed through the door.

“Those last words of Parker’s I turned over in my mind a good many

times during the next two years――somehow or other they stuck by

me:――‘We’ve invented a new kind of sleeper to throw a train off the

track.’

“I kind of felt as though he meant something unusual by that, although

I could not make out what. It seemed that I was to find out, though,

before many months.

“The house, where my wife and the babies lived was just about

three-quarters of a mile below the station, and quite near the track.

I generally got through at the depot at half-past eight, as soon as

the accommodation went down.

“The night express, which goes through at 9.55, doesn’t pull up at

R―――― at all, and the through freight, which meets it down the road a

piece, at W――――, of course I have nothing to do with. I might mention

here that the road is double-track the entire length; but there is a

long bridge at W――――, so that the freight always waits there for the

express.

“At half-past eight, then, as I say, I was at liberty for the night,

and it didn’t take me long to shut up the depot and start off down the

road for home; and a lonely enough tramp it is, I tell you, even on a

bright night, for the track runs all the way through woods and swamps,

and it’s mighty dark and uncomfortable at best.

“Well, the night I’m going to tell you about was black as the inside

of a two-mile tunnel. When I started down the track I almost wished

I’d gone around by the highway, for I had to feel my way half the

time.

“However, I knew the path tolerably well, and could tell where all the

culverts and dangerous places were, pretty nearly.

“So I held up my lantern like the head-light of a locomotive and

stumbled along, making pretty good time on the whole.

“I must have been just about half-way home, I guess, when all at once,

without the slightest idea on my part that any human being was within

half a mile of me, I felt a pair of arms clasped around my waist with

a strength it was impossible to overcome; then, suddenly, I was thrown

down, the light from a more powerful lantern than mine (which had

fallen from my hand and become extinguished) flashed about me, and by

its glare I saw three powerful fellows, who, in spite of my struggles,

and I am no baby, proceeded to tie my hands firmly behind me.

“I did not recognise them at all till, at length, as I lay there on my

back, entirely helpless, one of them snatched the lantern from his

companion and held it close down to me, while he brought his own face

close to mine.

“‘Wall, Joe Townsend,’ he said, ‘do you know me?’

“‘Yes, I know you, Clint Parker,’ I answered, as coolly as I could.

“‘I thought as how mebbe ye would. I didn’t mean to stay down there to

Joliet so long thet my dearest friend would forgit me. I’ve been

thinkin’ ’bout you, Joe, most all the time while I was down there

gittin’ up my muscle-breakin’ stone. And here’s anuther feller you may

remember――leastways, he aint forgot you, eh, Tom?’――and I now

recognised Tom Jackson, the other prisoner of two years before. The

third man I had never seen.

“‘This place’ll do as well as any, I ’spose,’ Parker went on,

presently. ‘What’s the time, Jem?’

“Jem consulted his watch, and pronounced it to be about nine.

“‘All right; he’ll have jest about fifty minutes to think things over

in and repent having lied about two such exemplary gentlemen as Tom

Jackson and myself――eh, Tom?’ and Tom chuckled, approvingly.

“‘Now git out all them ropes,’ still Parker went on. He seemed to be

the leading spirit and spokesman of the enterprise. ‘Do ye know what

we’re goin’ to do with yer, Joe? We aint goin’ to throw no trains off

the track. Oh, no! Tom and me, we wouldn’t do nothin’ of that

kind――eh, Tom? But we’re goin’ to let you throw one off. I told ye, ye

know, that Tom and me we’d diskivered a new kind of sleeper for

throwin’ trains with. We’re jest goin’ to tie you down here across the

track awhile, that’s all. We wouldn’t do nothin’ cruel――eh, Tom?’

“So their hellish purpose was revealed at last. They were going to tie

me to the track and let the train pass over me! I confess at that

moment my limbs actually shook with fear. It was not only death within

less than an hour that I was to suffer, but death in a most violent

and horrible form.

“Certainly a revenge worthy of two such monsters as stood there

gloating over my misery. For a moment I thought only of myself. Then I

groaned aloud as I remembered Jennie and the little ones.

“I don’t know why I should be ashamed to tell it――I doubt if there are

many men who would not have done the same in my place――but I just sank

down on my knees then and there, and begged those heartless villains

to forego their desperate purpose.

“I might as well have gone on my knees to the great iron monster that

would be along in so short a time to crush me.

“They only laughed merrily over my despair, and began their work.

“You’ll acknowledge yourselves, gentlemen, that it’s rather a dismal

look for a poor fellow to be gagged and bound, hand and foot, and then

be tied fast across a railroad track with his neck across one rail and

his feet over the other, and to know that in something like half an

hour’s time a fast express train is coming down that very track

without paying any attention to him whatever――and this in a dark,

drizzly night, and in a lonely spot where no human being is at all

likely to find him.

“And that’s the way those double-dyed scoundrels left me――they tied me

there fast and firm――they mockingly bade me good-night and pleasant

dreams――the leader, Parker, even stooped over me and kissed me with

pretended tenderness, and I felt his hot, liquor-freighted breath on

my cheek.

“And yet I could not cry out in my agony nor curse them in my

desperation as they moved off.

“No words of mine, gentlemen, can describe the horror and agony I felt

during the time I lay there.

“You can not half imagine it――I doubt if I can recall it now as it

really was myself. I go over it again and again in my sleep to this

day――fancy myself once more bound down to that fearful rack, powerless

to stir hand or foot, yet striving with almost superhuman force to

burst the ropes that bind me――till I finally seem to succeed and awake

shrieking from the horrid nightmare, with the sweat standing out in

great drops upon my brow.

“But I did not burst my bonds that night. The villains had taken good

care of that. There I was in a most painful position, bound by the

neck to one rail, and by the ankles to the other, my hands tied

beneath me, and my body fastened to a sleeper.

“Oh, God! how I did struggle to free myself; how I sought to wrench

away my legs; how I tugged at the cord which bound my wrists; and

then, since I could not get them free, as I thought of the fearful

death so soon to come upon me, how I strove to throttle myself with

the rope that held my head to the rail!

“How I prayed that I might suffocate there as I lay! I have heard that

men have died of terror, but I don’t believe it. If such a thing were

possible I think I should have perished in those dreadful moments. But

I did not. Oh, no! The murderers were to have their fullest revenge.

“And now, suddenly I grew strangely calm. I philosophised with myself.

I said resignedly, that a man could die but once; and after all, what

would it matter an hour hence?

“Besides, in reality, this was an instantaneous and almost painless

end. But my wife and children! Oh, I would like to live for them. And

could I not? I was not dead yet. If I could only move myself a few

feet. Oh, so very few feet! Yet I could not stir.

“Now, a thought struck me. Could I not signal the train in some way,

stop it one little yard, or foot, or inch before it passed over me?

Alas, how? They would never hear my cries.

“They would never see me in the darkness of the night. No one would

know until the morrow, and then I should be, alas! crushed, and

mangled, and dead.

“But my lantern――where was that? I turned my head, and could see it a

few feet away where I had dropped it. If I only had it on my breast I

could draw up my pocket with my teeth, I thought, and somehow get a

match from it, and so light the lantern.

“And in my insane terror I called out to it, and begged it to come

nearer, and save my wretched life. You may smile at that, gentlemen,

but human nature is weaker than you think, and I believe I am as good

a man ordinarily as the most.

“But all this time the minutes were flying by like lightning. Horrible

as that hour was to me, I could have wished it was all eternity.

“Every instant I dreaded to hear the train coming. I knew it must be

well-nigh time for it now, and I knew that it was on time, for we had

telegraphed it an hour before.

“I will not dwell longer on my sufferings. I did not free myself. I

could not if the salvation of the race had depended upon it. Nor did

anybody come to free me. No one would ever pass that spot on a night

like that, and at such an hour.

“Nor was the train behind time. No, I heard it at last; it was no

creation of my excited fancy this time. I heard it at last, first a

faint, rumbling sound, that seemed to come from deep down in the

earth, beneath me; then the ground seemed to thrill and tremble; then

the rails rattled a little, then more and more; then I heard the

whistle and bell, and then, oh, God! another instant and it would be

upon me. I could even see the reflected glare of the headlight.

“I tried once more to cry out; I struggled again for an instant, with

all the power of my being, then I knew that my time was come, and I

shut my eyes and lay quite still.

“And the great train came rushing on and on――it was close upon me――I

saw it not, yet I felt it to be directly above me. Great heavens! what

was this? Was it passing over me and I still living, and feeling it

not?

“I opened my eyes; I saw the cars flashing by above and within a few

feet of my head. Then the truth flashed upon me. _The train was upon

the other track!_ The reaction was too much for me, and I fainted dead

away.

“When I came to consciousness again, I found myself in my own room at

home.

“I had only a confused recollection of the events which had so lately

befallen me, but they told me gently all that I did not know of the

story.

“I had been very ill, they said, of brain fever. They had found me on

the morning of that terrible night, bound fast――not to the railroad

track, but to a tree, just a few rods away from it.

“I was very delirious, and was taken home raving continually.

“I had been sick for a fortnight. Then they asked how it was that I

came to be tied to the tree.

“But, alas, I knew as little of that part of the story as they did.

“I told them how I had been seized by Parker and his companions, and

tied to the track.

“My lantern, found near the spot, and distinct marks of a struggle,

confirmed the story.

“The question was, how did I escape the train, and how did I become

tied to the tree?

“My own theory is this: Parker and Jackson were not, after all, so bad

as I took them to be. Their revenge had been, not to murder me, but to

frighten me terribly; and they certainly had succeeded perfectly. I

could see nothing, tied as I was, could hardly turn my head, and they

had easily persuaded me into the idea that I was on the down

track――that of the passenger-express.

“After the train had passed, they had come to release me before the up

freight should be along. They had fastened me to the tree so as to get

fully away before I could give any alarm.

“That is the only way I can account for the facts. And though I

certainly don’t owe the rascals anything for what they did to me, I

never think of the affair to this day without feeling a kind of

gratitude towards them, and thanking God they were not as

black-hearted as I thought they were, after all.”

“Well, that’s a jolly good yarn,” said the captain; “it beats mine

into an almighty smash, and no mistake.”

“Oh, I don’t say that,” observed Whittock, “you are both good

story-tellers. Talk about the ‘Arabian Nights’ Entertainment,’ I

rather fancy we could knock up one ourselves if we had a mind.”

“I’m sure we could,” returned Peace.

“But the time is getting late, gentlemen,” said the captain. “The best

of friends must part. Time is on the wing, and all that sort of

thing.”

“Time was made for slaves,” cried one of the party. “Don’t go yet.”

“No――no; sit down, and make yourself as happy as possible,” said

Peace, who on this occasion, as on many others of a similar nature,

proved himself to be an excellent host and a most genial companion, so

that the small hours of the morning had arrived before the party broke

up.

There was the usual amount of leave-taking, shaking of hands, and

protestations of friendship.

Peace saw his guests to the outer gate, and then, when all had taken

their departure, he returned into the house with Bandy-legged Bill,

who took up his quarters at No. 4 for the remainder of the night.

CHAPTER CXXXIV.

LORD ETHALWOOD’S RETURN HOME――REGRETS FOR THE PAST――NEWS FROM ABROAD.

Lord Reginald Ethalwood returned to England a sadder and in some

respects a wiser man. He was no longer the gay and light-hearted

nobleman whose merry pranks and jovial manner caused his associates to

court his company.

A strange alteration in the mode of life and manner of the young earl

had taken place. He was grave and thoughtful, and at times melancholy.

A shadow seemed to have fallen upon him, and the recollection of the

events that had taken place during his sojourn on the Continent seemed

to cling to him with terrible tenacity.

There were a number of circumstances connected with his _liaison_ with

Theresa Trieste which could not fail to cause him great uneasiness,

but beyond and above all there was the fact that he had sent to his

account a young man, who, whatever his faults might have been, was

true, faithful, and self-sacrificing to the object of his love.

Indeed, Chanet had displayed an amount of chivalry and devotion which

could not fail to command the respect of Lord Ethalwood.

Upon returning to his ancestral home Reginald had ample time to

consider over past events. He could not but acknowledge to himself

that his share in the business did not in any way redound to his

credit, and now that he had time and leisure to reflect on the part he

had played in the sanguinary drama caused him to upbraid himself for

his rash and impetuous course of action.

Lord Reginald, upon his arrival in England, hastened at once to the

town residence of his mother, to whom he paid his respects.

Nothing was said about the tragedy of the Jura mountains.

“My dear Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, embracing her son with maternal

fondness, “it is indeed a source of happiness for me to see you again

in your native land, and I hope and trust you will not again leave the

country――certainly not for some time to come――for, oh, my darling boy,

you do not know how anxious I have been about you. Consider, Reginald,

the position you hold as the representative of an honoured line――the

only representative――and consider also how needful it is for you to

uphold the dignity of the house of which you are, I am sure, a worthy

representative.”

“I have duly considered that, mother,” returned Reginald.

“And, therefore, it behoves you to be mindful of yourself. Alas! my

son, there are many reasons for you to be especially guarded in your

conduct. Remember the untimely end of your predecessors――the earl’s

sons――and the end also of my poor mother. I tremble when I think of

the untoward events which have taken place; and it is, therefore, with

something like a melancholy foreboding that I charge you to take

special care of yourself.”

“You need not be any way concerned about me,” said Reginald, not very

well knowing what his mother was driving at. “I am in good health and

spirits. Why, therefore, should you be thus anxious?”

“Are you in good health and spirits? It has struck me that you do not

look so happy and contented as when you left for this――this hunting

expedition.”

Lord Ethalwood burst out into a loud laugh.

“Why, my dear mother,” said he, “to hear you speak thus one would

almost imagine you to be a fatalist.”

“Well, assuming you came to that conclusion, what then?”

“What! You would not have me come to any such rash conclusion, I

should imagine?”

“Have you reflected upon past events?” said Aveline. “Have you duly

considered the strange vicissitudes of the house of Ethalwood, of

which you are now the representative? Have you thought of the untimely

deaths of the younger members of that honourable line――of the sad end

of your grandmother, and all the events which have led to your being

the rightful and acknowledged heir? It behoves you, my son, to be duly

impressed with your position, to strive in every possible way to

support, to the best of your ability, the dignity of our house.”

“I am duly impressed with all this,” said the young earl, “and do not

need to be reminded of it.”

“Ah, Reginald,” exclaimed Aveline, “pardon me for being thus

plain-spoken. In you I behold the sole surviving link, from the

present to the past, of a great race.”

“I know that, mother. But why this concern and anxiety? I am well, and

am heedful of the trust which is imposed upon me.”

“Spoken like my own dear son,” said Aveline. “I am sure you will never

do aught to compromise or sully the honour of the Ethalwoods.”

“I hope not,” he added, with something like melancholy foreboding in

his tone, for he remembered at the time the sad events which had so

recently taken place.

It was evident enough from his mother’s manner that she had some

inkling of the part he had been playing in the dark drama on the

continent――albeit she wisely forbore from alluding directly to it.

She was concerned and troubled about something――what this was Lord

Ethalwood could only surmise.

After paying his respects to his father-in-law he returned to

Broxbridge Hall, which has been the stage upon which so many scenes of

our drama have been enacted.

At Broxbridge he was, in a great measure, secluded from a host of

acquaintances who, at that particular time, he was not anxious to

meet.

Mr. Jakyl, full of years and servitude, was still the majordomo of the

establishment; he appeared to be as devoted to his young master as he

was to the late earl.

Jakyl was at this time a very old man; he had the same soft,

respectful, unobtrusive manner as of yore; indeed, these qualities

were even more apparent in his declining years――if this were possible.

The slightest hint given by Lord Ethalwood was considered law by his

faithful and venerable servitor, and it afforded the old domestic a

considerable amount of pleasure and satisfaction at beholding the earl

return to his ancestral home.

Mr. Jakyl was not at all demonstrative――was never gushing, but those

who knew him best were at no loss to comprehend when he was pleased or

otherwise.

Lord Reginald, after his return to Broxbridge, remained for a

considerable time secluded.

He did not court the company of his quondam companions, and his

retainers could not fail to observe that he had come back a sadder and

more thoughtful man.

It is true he received a few visitors, with his accustomed good

fellowship and courtesy, but there was no longer that sportive mad-cap

merriment which had marked his course of life before leaving for the

Continent.

No one was quite able to account for the altered demeanour of the gay

and merry young earl.

Very shortly after his return he received a letter from abroad which

seemed to deepen the shadow which had so suddenly fallen upon him.

The epistle in question came from Theresa Trieste. It was couched in

the most affectionate language. In almost every passage the writer

gave expression to deep and unfailing love, but at the same time the

tone of it was melancholy and sorrowful to the last degree. In fact it

appeared that Theresa was plunged into the depths of despair.

Her mother had been suddenly and unexpectedly struck down with a fit

of apoplexy, and after lingering for a few hours, she expired. This

was a sad blow to the earl. Theresa was left with little or no

provision, and in addition to this she expected very shortly to become

a mother.

Lord Ethalwood was greatly concerned upon learning this. He naturally

enough upbraided himself for the part he had been playing, but it was

now not possible to retract. The death of Madame Trieste was an event

he had not counted on, and it, of course, added to the complication of

circumstances with which he had become surrounded by his own

imprudence.

But he was in an exalted position, was wealthy, and under all the

circumstances felt bound to make some provision for the woman whom he

had so deeply wronged.

This was an easy matter enough, but Theresa did not view the matter in

a mercenary light. She would have been content to share poverty with

her seducer so long as she was near him and was assured of his love.

Lord Reginald did not know what to do under the circumstances. He was

still greatly attached to Theresa, and he, therefore, wrote a most

affectionate letter to her in reply to the one he had received.

He enclosed a draft for a considerable sum with the letter, and bade

her consider him in the light of both a friend and a lover.

The position was both a difficult and a delicate one, and he was

therefore specially cautious in wording his letter, not that he had

the faintest notion that the unhappy Theresa would take any advantage

of any incautious expression, but still he deemed it just as well to

be on the safe side.

He also dispatched a missive to the Chevalier de Monpres, bidding him

wait upon Theresa and comfort her as he best could.

He also entrusted the arrangements of the funeral of Madame Trieste to

his friend, De Monpres.

He begged, as a special favour of the old Frenchman, his attention to

these matters, and wound up by an earnest request that he, De Monpres,

would pay a visit to Broxbridge.

In a week or two after this the earl was both surprised and delighted

when one of his servants announced that a gentleman――a stranger to

Broxbridge――was waiting in one of the reception rooms.

Upon looking at the card handed to him by the domestic, the earl saw

it was none other than his late second, who desired to speak with him.

The chevalier was at once conducted into the presence of the earl.

“My dear good friend!” exclaimed the latter, “this is, indeed, kind

and considerate of you. I know not how to thank you sufficiently for

your kindness and attention.”

“Well, the fact is, Ethalwood,” said De Monpres, “I could not remain

away any longer. I felt, naturally enough, that you needed advice and

consolation; besides, it was essential for me to communicate with you

personally.”

“I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and make this place your home,

for some time to come, at all events.”

“Ah, but I intend to do that,” cried the chevalier, with a shrug and a

grimace. “Eh, but you’ve got a fine old palatial mansion, a grand old

place, which I should imagine has stood for centuries――that is, if one

is to judge from appearances.”

“It is very old――almost as old as our genealogical tree.”

“I should suppose so. Well, my young friend, I intend to enjoy myself

while I am here, so you mustn’t think of assuming a serious or

dejected aspect, for I tell you frankly I will not permit it. You are

under my care now――do you understand?――and are to be as merry and

jocund as possible.”

“I will endeavour to be so,” returned Reginald. “That is as far as

circumstances will admit.”

“Bah! circumstances! What have you to complain of? Nothing――positively

nothing!”

“Very well, it shall be as you say. I will not repine.”

“I hope not, indeed. I am not an envious man, my dear Ethalwood. If I

were I should long to be in your position. You have youth, health,

wealth, and bear an honoured name second to none within these realms.

What more do you need?”

“A clear conscience,” returned the earl.

“_Mon dieu_, don’t be so weak and silly. You had better have some

champagne, and we can talk this matter over at our leisure.”

“I won’t say no. Let us have some sparkling then, if you have no

objection.”

“None in the least.”

“Ah, I see you are not so bad as I thought,” cried De Monpres, raising

the glass and pledging his friend with the same.

“Is that better?” said he.

“You received my note, of course,” observed Ethalwood, when the first

civilities were over.

The Frenchman nodded.

“And――ahem――the funeral, how did that pass over?”

“I carried out your instructions to the very letter.”

“I was sure you would do that. A thousand thanks. And poor Theresa?”

“Ah, _mon ami_, she was sadly borne down, poor girl. I thought she

would have gone into hysterics, but she is better now――much better.

Ah, she will be all right again in the due course of time. These

things are always sad, and in her case there was every reason for deep

and poignant sorrow. I am thankful for having been of service to her.”

“You did your best to cheer her up, I have no doubt.”

“My very best.”

“Umph, it is altogether a most unfortunate affair, De Monpres, and I

need not tell you that it has been a source of trouble to me, which,

despite all the philosophy I can bring to bear upon it, still hangs

heavily on my conscience.”

“Conscience――bah! You have nothing to charge yourself with――have acted

in every way as becomes an honourable gentleman.”

“Oh, no――no!” interrupted the earl, with sudden warmth.

“That is my view of the matter,” observed the Frenchman, “and I am a

much older man than you are, and ought to be a competent judge of what

is wrong and what is right. Why, my dear young friend, in my young

days these things were as common occurrences as possible. Nobody even

thought anything of them. You became enamoured of a young and

fascinating female, and she was attached to you; well, the end we both

know. What do you propose doing?”

“That is precisely why I have been so anxious to see you.”

“To seek my advice――eh?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot do otherwise than make a provision for her.”

“Of course not; but that will not satisfy her.”

“No, it will not,” said the old Frenchman, as he swallowed another

glass of wine. “She seems to me to be what one might call madly

infatuated; but, dear me, women are such strange creatures, that one

hardly knows what to say to them. She wants to come to this country.”

“Yes――so she gave me to understand.”

“To be near you――that is her only reason, I believe. Ah, she is

infatuated! But you mustn’t compromise yourself merely for the sake of

a love-sick woman.”

“What would you advise me to do, then?”

“Ah, that is a question one finds it difficult to answer upon the spur

of the moment.”

“But you have thought the matter over, I suppose.”

“I have certainly given it due consideration, but then I am not Lord

Ethalwood――I am only an old military officer. My view of the case and

yours may be diametrically opposite; don’t you see that?”

“Yes, I quite understand what you mean, but take another glass.”

“Thank you. It is unfortunate for us――and especially so for her――that

her mother died at this juncture, but it could not be helped, and it

is not, therefore, any use dwelling upon it.”

“It is very unfortunate.”

“And you know, Ethalwood, I am really sorry for the girl. Perhaps you

won’t believe me when I say so, but I am, indeed.”

“I have no reason to disbelieve you, monsieur――far from it.”

“Because, you see, she is placed in a false position.”

“Yes, that is quite true.”

“But you mustn’t compromise yourself. You mustn’t do that, come what

may.”

“I should be base, indeed, if I deserted her, after all that has

passed.”

“Oh, dear me, no one could think of advising you to do that. Certainly

no one who had any respect for you.”

“By the way, this is a splendid glass of wine. A little sweet,

perhaps, but it’s none the worse for that. It is of the finest

vintage.”

“I am glad it meets with your approval, as I know you are an excellent

judge.”

“Well, as I was about to observe,” said the chevalier, carelessly.

“Theresa thinks only of you. You are the father of the child, which is

soon to see the light, and I am in some doubt as to what course I

ought to advise you to take. I should not like to be instrumental in

bringing an encumbrance on you――still, at the same time, I cannot

conceal from myself that to leave her to take her chance in those

cursed mountains all alone, and without any other companion than her

maid, who, to say the truth, is a giddy, flirting little puss, is not

altogether desirable.”

“I am delighted to hear you say so,” cried the earl, “and for this

reason, that it coincides with my own view of the question. I am now

determined I will have her over here――take a villa for her in one of

the London suburbs.”

“Or apartments for her in the metropolis.”

“Yes, or apartments. Perhaps that would be better.”

“Much better. Villas are all very well in their way, but she would be

much more cheerful and contented with apartments.”

“I think you are right; but that is a question which we can determine

upon her arrival. I will write at once and tell her to come over to

this country without any delay. What say you?”

The chevalier answered with a shrug.

“I think I am in duty bound to do this――eh?”

“Well, perhaps you are. One thing has been made manifest to me plainly

enough.”

“What is that?”

“She won’t be contented where she is――that’s quite certain;

and――bah!――after all you can well afford to keep a mistress, or half a

dozen or so for the matter of that; and you are quite justified in

doing so. They are at times troublesome to a man, but one can’t have

any pleasure in this world without its alloy. Send for her. Let her

come over at once, Ethalwood, before I leave. Possibly I may be of

service to you.”

“My dear De Monpres, you are as good as a father to me. I don’t know

what I should have done without you.”

“Oh, you would have done well enough, I dare say,” observed the

chevalier.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, we won’t dispute upon that subject. I am here enjoying your

society and hospitality, and I don’t intend to leave you for the

present. Certainly not, till I see you out of this little difficulty.”

“And how about the mountaineers? Did you see or hear anything of them

after I took my departure?”

“I heard a good deal,” cried De Monpres, in a serious tone; “heard

enough to fully comprehend that they intended to polish you off if a

chance had been afforded them. _Sacre_, I shudder when I think of the

bloodthirsty miscreants.”

“Ah, they meant mischief then?”

“_Mon dieu_ yes.”

“But how did you know this?”

“From the young fellow who was Chanet’s second. He has behaved in a

way which meets with my unqualified approval.”

“Has he?”

“Yes, he is an honourable and upright young man and evinced the

greatest possible solicitude for your safety. He knew the danger of

the situation――knew that a band of mountaineers were in league

together to――well――bah――murder you at their earliest convenience, and

made me acquainted with the whole of their proceedings. I had three or

four of the rascals arrested, but as there was no direct evidence

against them they were discharged with a caution. This is all I could

possibly do, and I believe that to a certain extent it had a salutary

effect. They were intimidated. They knew the eyes of the officers of

justice were on them, and they returned to their fastnesses like a set

of curs as they are. Still, my friend, despite all these precautions,

we cannot conceal from ourselves that your life was not worth a few

hours’ purchase while you were in the neighbourhood of those

treacherous mountains. Neither would it be now if you were imprudent

enough to return.”

“I am not likely to do that,” said Lord Reginald; “not at all likely,

for very many reasons.”

“I should suppose not.”

“Oh, dear me, no; but the day is still young, what say you to a stroll

in the grounds?”

“Nothing would please me better, but before proceeding thither will

you just let me have a look at your picture gallery?”

“By all means――with the greatest pleasure.”

Lord Reginald Ethalwood conducted the chevalier to the gallery in

which the late earl so loved to linger, and here it was that Charles

Peace, in an earlier day, succeeded in making such a wonderful

restoration of one of the portraits which now looked as fresh and

bright as when it was first painted.

As the old Frenchman passed through he came to a sudden halt, and

stood for some time gazing upon the portrait of the late earl.

“How lifelike!” he ejaculated. “What an admirable representation of my

late friend! I should have known it anywhere, and under any

circumstances. I never saw a better portrait.”

“It is wonderfully well done, monsieur. The artist has caught the

habitual expression of his features, which, to say the truth, were

generally tinged with a shade of melancholy.”

“Say, rather, thoughtfulness,” quietly remarked the chevalier. “The

late earl was thoughtful and meditative by nature. There were many

reasons for this, which it would be needless to dwell upon now.”

“You are quite right――such was the case,” returned Lord Reginald.

After passing through the gallery, the two friends rambled over the

grounds and in the woods on the Broxbridge estate, returning to the

hall to dinner.

De Monpres’ visit proved to be a great source of comfort to the young

earl.

The chevalier had been so mixed up in recent events that he was

specially welcome, and was made much of by the master of the hall.

The days passed pleasantly enough. The chevalier had a whole fund of

anecdotes at his command, and although advanced in years, he was

brimful of jocularity, sparkling repartee, and lively discourse upon

present and past events.

The visitors to the hall were quite charmed with him, and Reginald

looked forward to his departure with something like sorrow and regret.

But De Monpres was too well satisfied with his present quarters to

dream of leaving them at present. He had passed his word to remain in

England till the arrival of Theresa Trieste, who had written a reply

to the earl’s letter, intimating that she would be with him as soon as

she possibly could. Theresa lost no time in carrying out her promise.

She had become an object of mark in her mountain home, and the

mountaineers regarded her with malevolent looks, in which aversion,

not to say hatred, formed the chief ingredient.

They did not attempt to molest her, or offer any positive insult, but

she was duly impressed with the fact that there was a general feeling

of discontent and animosity towards her in consequence of the part she

had played in the sanguinary drama.

[Sidenote: No. 72.]

[Illustration: “HILLOA THERE, I’VE COTCHED HIM,” CRIED MR. ASHBROOK TO

THE DETECTIVE.]

Theresa Trieste had lost her parent, and she was left alone in the

world, with no other protector than Lord Ethalwood.

To remain any longer in the chateau at the foot of the Jura mountains

was therefore quite out of the question.

She therefore gladly acceded to the request of Lord Reginald, and made

preparations to take a speedy departure from the home which had now no

longer any charms for her.

She believed, as many other women have done under similar

circumstances, in the honour and integrity of her seducer. Any way she

had no other alternative than to trust to his good faith and

consideration.

She hastened at once to England, and upon her arrival at Dover she

dispatched a letter to Broxbridge, making him acquainted with the

fact.

The Chevalier de Monpres had been commissioned to engage apartments

for the lady.

Strange to say, he took a suite of rooms in the house occupied by Mrs.

Bourne.

The last-named had long before this furnished her house in

Somerset-street in the best possible style, and, as it was a much

larger one than she required, she had deputed an agent to procure her

a lodger.

The courteous old Frenchman applied to the aforesaid agent who

recommended Mrs. Bourne.

De Monpres waited upon the doctor’s widow, with whom he was greatly

pleased, and at once engaged the suite of rooms on the first floor.

He was at no loss to divine that Mrs. Bourne was precisely the sort of

person Theresa Trieste would, in all probability, get on with;

consequently he struck a bargain and engaged the rooms for the young

French lady, who was about to arrive from the Continent.

The earl and chevalier met Theresa at the London station, and

accompanied her to the widow’s house in Somerset-street.

She was greatly pleased with her new quarters, and her countenance

became irradiated with a smile as she gazed on the handsome features

of her lover.

She hoped for the best, and had not at this time any misgivings for

the future, for the earl demonstrated the strongest affection for her,

and was profuse in promises. Nevertheless, deep down in his heart was

the canker-worm of remorse.

However, he strove as best he could to assume an air of cheerfulness,

and after remaining for the best part of the evening with his mistress

he took his departure in company with the Chevalier de Monpres.

CHAPTER CXXXV.

SOME PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF A LONDON THIEF.

Alf Purvis, alias Mr. Algernon Sutherland, had, with the exception of

our hero, become one of the most daring of metropolitan thieves. His

genteel appearance and engaging manners were of essential service to

him in carrying on his nefarious practices.

In this respect he had the advantage of Peace; but with all these

qualities he was not nearly so cunning or artful as our hero.

Nevertheless, Mr. Sutherland was, in his own particular sphere, a

young gentleman of note and mark, who was greatly admired and envied

by villains of coarser type with whom he was wont to associate.

He was known by the cognomen of the “Dandy,” in consequence of his

fashionable attire and finicking ways.

A more audacious, unscrupulous young scoundrel it would not be easy to

find. As far as pocket-picking was concerned he was a sort of prodigy;

but he did not confine his attention to this branch of the profession,

as he termed it; he had at times recourse to other means to replenish

his exchequer, and of late he had hit upon what he deemed a most

ingenious scheme to furnish him with the means of indulging in his

extravagant mode of living.

The reader will doubtless remember the “Smoucher,” whose acquaintance

he made at the thieves’ haunt in Whitechapel.

The “Smoucher,” as he was termed by his familiars, was an adept in

penmanship, and had the faculty of imitating the handwriting of any

person in a manner which was at once remarkable and surprising.

It occurred to Mr. Sutherland that he might make very good use of the

Smoucher’s ability, and he at once put into practice a scheme he had

pondered over for a considerable period.

Mr. Sutherland had an extensive circle of acquaintances, and, strange

as it may appear, he did, by some means or another, contrive to push

himself into certain coteries of respectable society, one reason for

this being attributable to the fact that he belonged to one or more

gambling clubs in the metropolis.

At these he picked up all sorts of acquaintances, good, bad, and

indifferent. He picked up also a vast amount of information at these

establishments which he made serve his purpose in many ways.

He occasionally lost large sums of money at the gaming table, which

had a certain amount of fascination for him, so that he was a frequent

visitor to these “hells.” The term is an old one, but it is remarkably

expressive.

In the course of play he became possessed of cheques for both large

and small amounts, and was, as a natural consequence, in a short space

of time very well acquainted with the signatures of persons of wealth

and position.

When aground for money, Mr. Sutherland sought the assistance of the

Smoucher.

That worthy performed the secret of removing the handwriting on the

body of the cheque by some chemicals.

He also removed one or more of the figures, and then wrote in figures

to perhaps ten times the amount for which the cheque had been

originally drawn.

Mr. Sutherland paid his confederate handsomely for this little favour,

and then changed the cheque.

He had done this on very many occasions, and, strange to say, had

escaped detection. But the game was a risky one, and it was only under

pressing circumstances that he had recourse to this species of fraud;

but he was so extravagant, so reckless in respect to money matters,

that despite the large sums he gained by his robberies, he was, like

most of his compeers, continually in need of a fresh supply of coin.

It was on one of those occasions that Sutherland or Purvis endeavoured

to put into practice a robbery on a much more extensive scale than he

had as yet attempted. He was not aware at this time that suspicion had

been aroused, and that the detectives were at work to run him to

earth.

He held a cheque payable at the Saltwich bank. It was for forty pounds

odd. This he took to the Smoucher, who, with his accustomed skill,

took out the handwriting, and substituted in its stead four hundred

pounds instead of the forty.

It was so admirably done that no one could detect the alteration, and

Mr. Sutherland, who knew perfectly well that the drawer of the cheque

had a large balance at the bank in question, hastened down to Saltwich

with the altered cheque. He had for his companion the unscrupulous

scoundrel, “The Cracksman,” as he was termed. This personage has

already been introduced to the reader.

Sutherland and his accomplice put themselves into the train and booked

to the nearest station for Saltwich.

Sutherland was to present the cheque while the Cracksman kept watch

and ward outside.

When they arrived at their destination Mr. Sutherland made at once for

the bank. He was fashionably attired was of aristocratic appearance,

and had all the ease and self-possession of a person who was

accustomed to move in good society. And he had the audacity of the old

gentleman himself.

He walked into the bank with the greatest possible assurance and

presented his cheque, which was paid without a moment’s hesitation.

He pocketed the money and met the Cracksman at an appointed spot some

distance down the road.

“It’s all right――got the browns,” said Mr. Sutherland. “We had better

not be seen walking together. You make for the station as soon as you

see me turn down Hagget’s-lane. I’ll wait for you at the station. Do

you understand?”

“All right, Dandy. Best not be seen together till we are out of the

wood. All right, I’m fly.”

Sutherland walked rapidly on till he reached the lane in question.

He had not gone very far down this when he was accosted by a stranger.

“You have paid a visit to the bank at Saltwich, I believe?” said the

latter.

“What business is it of yours whether I have or not?” returned Mr.

Sutherland.

“I ask you a simple question, and I must insist upon an answer. Have

you been to the bank?”

“If I have, what is it to you?”

“You presented a cheque drawn by Mr. Leathside, and the cheque was

paid?”

“Upon my word, your insolence is most remarkable. What have you to do

with my business transactions? Stand aside, and let me pass.”

“You will have to accompany me. I arrest you upon the charge of

obtaining money under false pretences,” returned the stranger. “It is

of no use you attempting to carry the matter off with a high hand, Mr.

Sutherland; you are my prisoner,” observed the detective, for such he

was. “You are my prisoner, and will have to answer the charge

preferred against you.”

As he uttered these last words he placed his hand on the Dandy’s

shoulder.

“Confound your impudence!” exclaimed the latter. “If you attempt to

detain me, I’ll lay you flat in a brace of shakes.”

“You had better go quietly. If you resist it will be all the worse for

you. I am a detective.”

“What do I care for that? You don’t suppose that I am in fear of a

detective.”

“You had better go quietly. If you are innocent, you have your remedy;

but once more I have to inform you that you will have to go with me.”

“Upon my word, sir, I am astounded at your impudence. Arrested, and

for what, I pray?”

“I have already told you. For obtaining money under false

pretences――for forgery. Come, Mr. Sutherland, don’t attempt to deceive

me, for that you will find to be hopeless. I have a warrant for your

apprehension. You are my prisoner.”

“Prisoner be hanged. If you attempt to molest me I’ll give you the

soundest thrashing you ever had in your life.”

The detective made no reply, he only smiled.

Sutherland rushed past him and took to his heels, but the officer gave

chase and proved that he was as fleet of foot as the young fugitive,

whom he overtook, tripped up, and then seized with a firm grip.

The Dandy by this time was duly impressed with the danger of his

position. He struggled most desperately to escape from the clutch of

the officer, but found all his efforts unavailing.

“You are a foolish young man,” cried the detective, “and are only

making matters worse by this violence, which will not serve your

purpose.”

“Unhand me――let me go,” said the Dandy.

“Not if I know it,” returned the other.

Sutherland shouted out for assistance, and in a few seconds the

Cracksman came upon the scene.

“Have at him,” cried Sutherland. “Polish him off if you have any care

for me.”

With a yell of indignation the Cracksman precipitated himself upon the

officer, who was probably astounded at the strength and savage

ferocity displayed by his athletic assailant.

The struggle was a short but desperate one. The Cracksman threw the

detective, and when he was down pinned him to the earth with his knee

upon his chest.

The Dandy laughed. Escape seemed certain. The officer of the law was

at the mercy of the two thieves.

It is not possible to say how the conflict would have ended, but

assuredly it would have not been in favour of the detective had not

another actor arrived on the stage.

The noise of a horse’s hoofs were heard on the hard road, and in a

moment or so a farmer drew the reins of his champing steed.

“What be this?” he ejaculated. “Two upon one――that beant the right

thing. Look here, you ugly varmint, leave go of your man. Do you

hear?”

This last observation was addressed to the Cracksman, who, in reply to

the same, uttered an imprecation, at the same time pressing his knee

more firmly on the officer’s chest.

“If ee beant disposed to take heed of words, maybe blows will suit ee

better,” cried Ashbrook, for such the new comer proved to be.

The speaker whirled round his riding whip, and with the butt end of

this he dealt a terrific blow on the side of the head of the

Cracksman, who howled with pain.

“Just you let ’im go, or maybe I shall give ee a crack on the crown

as’ll knock ee silly.”

The Cracksman sprang to his feet, and at once made at the farmer, whom

he endeavoured to pull from his horse.

But Ashbrook rained such a shower of blows on the head and shoulders

of his brutal assailant, that the latter, blinded with the blood that

flowed from the wounds, and staggering from the effects of the

punishment he had received, like a coward and bully as he was, turned

tail, and took to his heels.

Mr. Sutherland, seeing that the odds were against him, followed the

Cracksman.

“He’ll get clear off,” cried the detective. “He can run like an

antelope.”

“Who do ee want, then?” inquired the farmer.

“The young un, the swell cove.”

“I’ll ketch him,” cried Ashbrook, “please the pigs,” and he forthwith

put spurs to his horse and galloped after the fugitives.

Of course the Dandy ran his hardest, but he was soon overtaken by the

horseman.

“Ye beant a goin’ to gi’ us the slip, ye circumwenting young vagabond.

Not if I know it,” cried the farmer, as he came up with the runaway.

“Hold hard, you scoundrel. The game is up, and so surrender.”

“I’ll have my revenge upon you some time or another,” said Sutherland.

“What business had you to show your ugly mug here?”

“Don’t ee gi’ me any more of your cheek. If ee do, I’ll spoil your

beauty for the next three months at the very least.”

And with these words the farmer rode full at the fugitive, whom he

collared and dragged along for some distance.

“You will have to answer for this. I shall bring an action against you

for assault and battery,” cried the Dandy.

“Ah! oh! it be you, Mister Fortescue――be it? Glad we ha’ met. So, my

beauty, you are run to earth――eh? Don’t ee think to get away ’cause

you see the ’pleece want ee, and what is more I want the ’pleece to

ha’ ee, so it be no manner of yoose yer strivin’ to get clear off.

Hilloa there, I’ve cotched ’im,” cried Ashbrook, shouting out at the

top of his voice to the detective.”

Mr. Sutherland strove in vain to slip out of the hands of the farmer,

who was altogether too strong for him.

Panting and perspiring from every pore, the detective came up with the

runaway, and while the farmer held him the officer clapped on his

wrists a pair of handcuffs, and made him his prisoner once more. He

had now no chance of making his escape, and was therefore fain to

submit quietly.

“What be going to do wi’ him?” inquired Ashbrook.

“Take him before a magistrate,” was the prompt answer.

“Ah, that be best. What be he charged wi’?”

“With forgery.”

“Oh, that be all, eh?”

“Yes, and quite enough too. I am greatly beholden to you, Mr.

Ashbrook, for the service you have rendered me, for without your

assistance I should have hardly known what to have done.”

“You’re quite welcome, Todd, quite welcome. I be glad I coom up in the

nick of time, seeing as how it might ha’ gone hard wi’ ee. But ye’re a

brave fellow and stuck to your man like a Briton, and I shall just let

un know how gallantly ye behaved”

“I am sure I dont deserve this praise. I merely strove to do my duty.”

“An ye’ve done it right well. As to this young varmint the sooner he’s

lagged the better, for he be a rank bad un.”

“Do you know him, sir?”

“Know him――I should think I did. He passed himself off as a gentleman,

and I like a fool believed him, but we won’t enter upon that now,

Todd; ye’ve got yer man――that be enough for both on us. Where be ee

goin’ to tek un to?”

“To Squire Kensett’s.”

“Aye, lad, that be the best thing to do.”

Mr. Todd marched off with his prisoner, and Ashbrook promised to

follow on to the house of the magistrate.

CHAPTER CXXXVI.

THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE AND THE PRISONER.

Mr. Sutherland was run to earth.

It was the first time during his lawless career that he had been

brought under the ban of the law; nevertheless, he was by no means so

downcast as persons would suppose.

He had unlimited faith in his tact and address, which he hoped would

stand him in good stead on the present occasion.

He told Mr. Todd that he was perfectly innocent of the charge, and

assumed an air of quiet resignation which was quite charming.

He objected, however, to the ornaments on his wrists, and begged as a

special favour to have them removed.

Mr. Todd declined to oblige him, and said that he would have to bear

them till they reached the magistrate’s house.

Mr. Sutherland made a wry face, and declared that he was an injured

person, and that the indignity was quite uncalled for, since he was a

gentleman who was well able to meet the charge, and leave the court

without a stain on his character.

Mr. Todd only smiled at the last observation, and so the two――the

prisoner and the detective――walked on conversing in what might be

considered to a casual observer in a friendly and jocund manner.

They had not very far to go, for the magistrate’s house was within

three-quarters of a mile from the spot where the affray and capture

had taken place.

The magistrate and his wife were at this time seated together in the

old oak dining-room of their habitation. He was reading the pages of a

book on heraldry, watching from the window the broods of rooks who

were cawing as they flew from bough to bough.

These two persons lived in that which their tenants believed to be a

palace, but which was in reality little better than a prison. They

were forced to live in this great house, which they could hardly

afford to repair, surrounded by these lands which were taxed in

proportion to their extent, but which only yielded income in

proportion to their real worth.

The squire was always anxious. He was buried in hopeless poverty,

engaged in an endless struggle to keep up appearances.

His wife was always sad. Providence had given her but one real

blessing――it was a son――and for this son, who had died in his youth,

she had never ceased to grieve.

That is why her face was always pale and her eyes so hollow――that is

why she lived but in a reverie, and so seldom spoke. Her thoughts were

always in the past; she had nothing to care for in the present――nothing

to hope for in the future.

They lived together, and yet so isolated; they seldom spoke to each

other――they never quarrelled. Misfortune, which had at first made them

cling closer to each other, had finished by making them gloomy,

taciturn, almost misanthropical.

They had now learned to nurse their own sorrows in their own hearts,

and never to give vent to their troubles by words.

Such misfortunes, however, as they had become inured to were now about

to yield to another――poignant, appalling, dangerous.

There was a sound of bustling and voices in the kitchen which reached

into the dining-room. The servant presented himself and informed his

master that Mr. Todd, of the local police force, wished to speak to

him.

The magistrate requested his domestic to show the officer in.

Mr. Kensett rose. His face, which had been before melancholy and

abstracted, now became dignified and severe.

It was necessary to put on the mask of self-composure which he was

obliged to wear before the world.

Mr. Todd entered and made a respectful obeisance.

“Beg your pardon, sir, and yours too, madam,” said he, in a

conciliatory tone; “but if you please, sir, I’ve managed to capture

the fellow who has been defrauding the bank by a false cheque.”

“Indeed, Mr. Todd; I am pleased to hear it,” exclaimed the magistrate.

“Caught the rascal――have you?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Wrench sent a telegram from Scotland-yard, and directed

us to watch for our man.”

“Quite right; very good of Mr. Wrench. He has done well. Where is the

culprit?”

“I have him here, your worship.”

“Oh here――eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better still. Bring him in; and you, my dear――――” observed the

magistrate, glancing at his wife.

Mrs. Kensett obeyed his gesture, took the hint, and left the room.

The magistrate was astonished at the aristocratic and gentlemanly

appearance of the young man who was conducted into his presence by the

police officer.

“Is this the accused?” said he.

“Yes, your worship.”

“Under what circumstances was he arrested?” was the next query.

The officer explained all those particulars with which the reader is

already acquainted.

“Have you searched him?”

“Yes sir.”

“With what result?”

“The four hundred pounds paid by the bank have been found upon him.”

“The cheque is a forged one――is it?”

“The signature is genuine, but the amount has been altered.”

“We shall want the drawer and the bank clerks to depose to this fact.”

“They will be forthcoming, your worship. I don’t think there is much

mistake about the forgery.”

Mr. Kensett took a volume from his book-case, which he consulted as to

the law in such cases.

“What have you to say to the grave charge preferred against you, young

man?” said the magistrate, addressing himself to the prisoner.

“I deny it _in toto_,” said Sutherland, in an indignant tone. “It is

utterly false. I have changed a cheque, it is true. That I do not for

a moment dispute; but as to tampering with it I do not admit.”

“Well, if you are innocent, I hope and trust you will be able to prove

such to be the case; but you will have to be detained.”

“Detain an innocent man! It’s most unjust!” ejaculated the prisoner.

“Of that I am the best judge,” quietly observed the magistrate. “If

you had been innocent it is not at all likely you would have made such

a desperate attempt to escape. However, I should be sorry to prejudge

the case, and shall, therefore, forbear from making any further

observations. Mr. Todd, you will have to bring this young man to the

court by ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and be prepared with what

evidence you can by that time. Enough must be procured to justify a

remand, do you understand?”

“I quite understand your worship.”

“Am I to be locked up till that time, sir?” said Sutherland.

“Certainly, you must remain in custody till the morning.”

Sutherland approached the table, and taking a pen between the tips of

his fingers, wrote two words upon a slip of paper.

When the magistrate read these two words he became frightfully pale.

“You see, sir,” said Sutherland, “this is information which would be

of material value to the cause of justice. I must, however, decline to

enter into the matter before witnesses, and――――”

“Clearly so,” interrupted the magistrate. “It would not be desirable

for you to do so. I don’t desire it for a moment.”

“Then, sir, all I ask of you is to give me a private interview.”

“I am in duty bound to accede to your request. Mr. Todd, the prisoner

has secrets of importance to communicate, and will you, therefore, be

good enough to wait in one of the upstair rooms?”

“Certainly, your worship.”

The magistrate rang the bell. A servant appeared to answer to the

summons, and Mr. Todd was conducted into another apartment in the

magistrate’s house.

When alone with the prisoner Mr. Kensett turned the key of the

dining-room, and looked inquiringly at Sutherland.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you have the opportunity of explaining yourself.

You have written upon this paper _your grandson_. I do not know what

you mean. I have no grandson, and if this is but a _ruse_, a trick on

your part, I shall take very good care that you shall be severely

punished.”

“It is no trick or _ruse_,” quietly observed Mr. Sutherland. “It is

nothing of the sort.”

“Well, sir, I fancy you will find it difficult to impose upon me.”

“I have no desire to do so, Mr. Kensett. On the contrary, I wish to

give you valuable information.”

“These are but idle words,” cried the magistrate, “a mere sound.”

“Permit me to relate to you a little story. I am sure it will not only

surprise, but will interest you much. With your kind permission I will

take a seat. Am I constrained to wear these handcuffs? They are by no

means agreeable.”

“Let me hear what you have to say. As to the handcuffs that is a

question which rests with the officer who has you in charge,” returned

the magistrate.

“They are needless appendages, but we will not discuss the

advisability of submitting me to this indignity――so let it pass. So if

you are agreeable I will at once proceed with my narrative.”

“The incident which I am about to relate to you occurred

seven-and-twenty years ago, come next September. On the night of the

eleventh of that month a woman, with a baby in her arms, proceeded

through the bye-road leading to Saltwich. She was in the depths of

trouble, so I have been given to understand, and bore in her arms a

newly-born infant.”

Mr. Sutherland paused, and placed his hand on his forehead as if to

collect his thoughts.

The magistrate seemed to be almost stupefied with astonishment, but

forbore from making any observation.

The prisoner proceeded――

“The woman’s name was Isabel Purvis; she is the heroine of my story.”

The magistrate uttered an exclamation of surprise and horror.

“Doubtless the name may be familiar to you, sir,” said his companion.

“Well, as I have already observed, she went by the name of Isabel

Purvis, but her real name was Kensett.”

“It is false,” cried the magistrate, “utterly false. She had no legal

right to the name of Kensett.”

“I don’t wish to contradict a gentleman in your position,” returned

Sutherland, “but I think you will find what I have just said is true

in substance, and, in fact, her real name was Kensett.”

“I am lost!” cried the magistrate.

“Lost in wonder, doubtless, but not yet lost, I trust, in the

extensive sense usually applied to that word. But this is digression.

To continue: It was a cheerless night, the wind was beginning to rise,

and moaned among the trees of the forest by which your house is so

gracefully encircled, the rain dashed in torrents against the windows

as if the very elements――but you can imagine the rest.”

“I can do nothing of the sort, sir. I don’t know to what you would

allude.”

“Well, Mr. Kensett, I assure you that I have every reason for

believing that what I am about to tell you is correct in every

particular. The woman placed her child on the doorstep of a house, and

then fled precipitately; but she did not escape――she was arrested by

the village constable upon the charge of attempting to murder her

offspring. You were, on that night, seated in this room, as you are

now――on one hand a book of the law to assist your memory――on the other

hand a Bible――before you a felon. You were alone with this criminal,

as you are alone with me now, and you were in the power of this

criminal, as you are now in mine.”

“In your power?”

“Most completely. But to my story. This woman, who was charged with

abandoning her offspring, was not so bad as people were led to

suppose. The father of her child was your own son――was Mr. Robert

Everhard Kensett――he went to sea, and the ship he set sail in

foundered, and all hands on board were lost.”

The magistrate uttered a groan.

“He was not only the father of the child but the husband of its

mother.”

“I never can――I never will believe it,” cried Mr. Kensett, in an

agonised tone of voice. “It is not possible.”

“It is not only possible but an actual fact. You might have read the

Roman history, sir. It is possible that you might have heard of

Brutus, the first consul. However, it is very certain you did not

attempt to imitate him. You aided your daughter-in-law to escape from

this house, gave her some money and exacted a solemn oath from her

that she would never trouble you again. That is true――is it not?”

“I will not deny it. It is true.”

“Then it appears to me that you are in my power.”

The magistrate tried to collect his bewildered thoughts.

“On that night,” said he, “there was a legal paper in the possession

of the prisoner. I was, therefore, in her power, but were you to state

these circumstances in court you would not be believed.”

Sutherland smiled.

“I will not give you the second chapter of my story. You evince but

little curiosity, and are perhaps not anxious to have it completed,

but remember the words which I have written down, and to which I have

not yet given you the clue.”

“I will hear you to the end,” said Kensett; “but wait awhile, Mr. Todd

will wonder what has so detained me.”

He went to the door and called the officer by name. Mr. Todd came down

from the upstairs room.

“Ah, Todd,” cried the magistrate, “it appears that this young man will

detain me much longer than I had at first expected. You had better

have something to eat and drink. The servants will bring you what we

have in the house,”.

“Thank you, sir. It will be very acceptable.”

“Good. Then make yourself at home. When this young fellow has finished

his――ahem――confession, I will call you.”

“All right, your worship, I am in no hurry.”

Mr. Kensett shut the door and again turned the key.

CHAPTER CXXXVII.

MR. SUTHERLAND IS TRIUMPHANT――THE AMICABLE ARRANGEMENT.

“Now, sir, you can proceed, if you please,” said the magistrate,

sternly. “I have consented to hear what you have to say in this

matter, but it does not necessarily follow that I place any reliance

upon this specious tale of yours.”

“Oh, dear me, no. Certainly not. You will, of course, take it for what

it is worth. I am not the first man by a good many who has had the

misfortune to be looked upon with doubt and mistrust.”

“You will be pleased to confine yourself to the facts, and not indulge

in extraneous or impertinent observations,” cried the magistrate.

His companion bowed and said quietly――

“The facts are in themselves significant enough.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, I hope so. Let me see, where did I leave off? Oh, I know, at

that part of the narrative where you parted with this unfortunate

woman. Well, Mr. Kensett, she went her ways. She kept her promise; for

from that day to the present moment you have not seen or heard

anything of her. Is that so?”

“Yes, that is so.”

The magistrate began to feel a vague fear, and shuddered in spite of

himself.

Mr. Sutherland continued――

“The child was taken to the union, where it remained for some three or

four years; then it was taken charge of by Mr. Searle, your wife’s

brother. I believe he elected to be its natural protector, and placed

it in charge of an old woman, whose name I do not at the present

moment remember, but she was, so I have been told, a most worthy

person, and did her duty, was mindful of her young charge. Any way the

youngster thrived, and when old enough Mr. Searle apprenticed him to

the late Mr. Jamblin, owner and occupier of Stoke Ferry Farm. The

farmer had instructions to bring the lad up us an agriculturist. He

obeyed the instructions given him by Mr. Searle. By injudicious

punishments and injudicious pardons he taught this boy, whose father

was dead, whose mother was a fugitive, and whose grandparents dared

not acknowledge him, to be mischievous, discontented, and deceitful.

Finally, he ran away from his foster father, and a reward was offered

for his apprehension, but all efforts to regain this treasure proved

ineffectual, and his relatives resigned themselves with Christian

resignation to his loss.”

Mr. Kensett was perfectly bewildered. He stretched his hand out

mechanically towards the bell.

Sutherland only smiled sardonically.

“On reaching London,” said he, “after leaving Stoke Ferry Farm, the

boy sold birds’ nests in the street, till he was adopted by a fence or

receiver of stolen goods, who instructed him in the way of cheating,

in which he soon became a proficient. He then passed into the hands of

one of the most notorious thieves in the metropolis.”

“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the magistrate, with a deep-drawn sigh.

“Can this be possible?”

Sutherland took no notice of this last observation, but went on.

“In a twelvemonth,” he observed, “like Raphael and other great artists

the boy had surpassed not only the expectations, but also the _chefs

d’œuvre_ of his master. At nineteen he became notorious――at twenty-one

he became celebrated. Now he is a Claude Duval in politeness, a

Lovelace in intrigue, a Richard Turpin on the highway, and will

perhaps prove a Jack Sheppard among the prison locks.”

Mr. Kensett began to have a dim perception of the terrible secret in

store for him.

“This man,” continued Sutherland, “this glorious hero to whom the

London detectives, if they knew heathen mythology, would attribute the

ring of Gyges, which rendered its possessor invisible, is myself, I,

Alfred Purvis, _alias_ Sutherland, _alias_ Fortescue, who have the

honour of standing before you now.”

There was a pause. The magistrate was deeply moved.

Presently he said, in a tone of anguish――

“Do you mean to say, young man, that you are Alfred Purvis, who ran

away from Stoke Ferry Farm?”

“Most certainly I am,” answered the prisoner.

“It appears to me to be altogether incredible.”

“That is likely enough, sir, but it is a fact. You see, sir,” he said,

calmly, “how intricate and mysterious are the ways of Providence. By a

miracle I was saved from death in my infancy, and why? Most probably

you have committed some crime, which has never been discovered. It is

I who have been selected as an instrument of retribution. I own I

would have preferred that I had been some one else, but――――”

“Silence, sir, this insolence is altogether intolerable! Me commit a

crime! Are you mad to make such an assertion?”

“Pardon me,” said Sutherland. “I did not make the assertion. I only

threw it out as a suggestion, as a possibility, but no doubt the

hypothesis is incorrect. It does not, however, in any way alter the

leading facts connected with the history of your humble servant. You

will find it difficult to set aside the relationship which exists

between us.”

Mr. Kensett rose from his seat, and paced the room with rapid strides.

“It is enough,” he presently said. “There is no further need for

threats or taunts if what you have been saying is true.”

“It is true――every word of it.”

“Well, if such be the case, you are the son of my son――you have my

blood in your veins――you are a felon.”

“That has yet to be proved.”

“I hope it never will be, for both our sakes.”

“I hope not.”

“Ah, but this is indeed terrible; I know not how to act.”

“Let me go!”

“I cannot do that. Do you think you will be able to prove your

innocence when the magisterial inquiry takes place?”

“You ask me a plain question?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And require a plain answer?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then, Mr. Kensett, I don’t think I shall be able to prove my

innocence, and therefore it is advisable that you aid me to escape.”

“I will save you if possible,” said the magistate, in a low voice.

“But how is it to be effected? That’s the question.”

“How!” cried Sutherland. “It is easy enough, I fancy.”

“Not without compromising myself; I am quite powerless in this case,

and yet――――”

“You have no wish to see your grandson cast into a cell?”

The magistrate shuddered.

“Suppose you let me overpower you――tie you to a chair, and then get

clear off.”

“Impossible!”

“Ah, it’s possible enough if you will only oblige me by taking off

these handcuffs.”

“I dare not do it. No, we will devise some better scheme.”

“I am at your mercy――it is not for me to dictate. I leave the affair

in your hands.”

Mr. Kensett considered for some little time and then said――

“I do not approve of your scheme――it is not practicable; but I shall

save you, Alfred Purvis――save you for my poor dear boy’s sake.

Listen――you will have to submit to a short term of imprisonment――you

must be locked up for the night. In the morning you will be brought

before the police-court, and evidence will be offered to justify me in

remanding the case――this I shall do.”

“And what then?”

“Apply for bail, which I will grant. If the case does not assume a

very serious aspect, possibly I may feel justified in letting you out

on your own recogniances. The rest is an easy matter. Go abroad; get

out of the way till the offence is blown over. You can do this, I

suppose.”

“I shall not trouble myself to come up for a second hearing――you may

depend upon that,” said Sutherland, with a mocking laugh.

“And if I do this you will promise to lead a new life, and strive as

best you can to make atonement for your past errors. Will you

promise?”

“Oh! certainly. I pass my word――that is sufficient,” replied the

prisoner carelessly.

“You are not sincere, and do not mean what you say.”

“I declare most positively I do, sir,” was the prompt reply.

“I wish I could believe you. Oh! but this is a terrible trial to me.

Even now I find it difficult to believe you are the boy who, years

ago, worked at Stoke Ferry Farm.”

I will give you proofs, sir――incontrovertible proofs, if you need

them, before many days are over our heads.”

“Peace! silence! Let it pass on. I believe your story, and so that’s

enough. I see the likeness to my dead son when I gaze on your

features. Yes, I believe all you have said. I took no notice of you

when a child; now I would risk anything to save you from ignominy and

disgrace. Leave it to me.”

The magistrate went to the door, and called out in a loud tone for Mr.

Todd, who at once made his appearance in answer to the summons.

“The prisoner is persistent in his declaration of innocence, Mr.

Todd,” said the magistrate, in his habitual official tone of voice.

“Is he, sir?” said the officer. “We know what that is worth.”

“Yes――oh, dear, yes――of course, Todd. Still, I do hope the young man,

who is evidently well educated, may not be so bad as we think.

However, you must take charge of him, and bring what witnesses you

have to the court to-morrow morning. By the way, there is, I think,

hardly any necessity now for the handcuffs. They can be removed.”

“Ah, certainly, your worship, if you wish it.”

Mr. Todd, with marvellous dexterity, removed the objectionable ruffles

from the wrists of Mr. Sutherland, who was deeply sensible of this

little favour. He was then marched off to gaol.

When he and his captor had gone, the magistrate fell into a chair,

covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a child.

He had hardly recovered himself from his first paroxysm of grief when

the voice of Ashbrook was heard in the outer hall, inquiring of the

servant for Mr. Kensett.

The magistrate pulled himself together as best he could, and assumed

an air of official sternness.

“Oh, your sarvint, sir,” cried Ashbrook, entering the parlour. “I be a

little late――leastways later than I had intended. Beg pardon, squire,

but I hope I aint intruding.”

“Not at all, my friend, so pray be seated,” exclaimed Kensett. “I am

glad to see you.”

“Thanks. I ought to ha’ been a little earlier, but it can’t be helped,

I’ve been detained. I wanted to say summut about Mr. Todd. He’s done

his duty, and I am glad I coom up just in time to render him timely

service. However, what I wanted to make known to your worship is this,

Mr. Todd did his duty and fought like a brick.”

“Ah, I have no doubt. Todd is a most efficient officer.”

“He brought in the prisoner, I s’pose,” said Ashbrook.

“Yes, the young rascal is locked up, and will be brought before me

to-morrow morning for examination.”

“Ah, just so. Well, Mr. Kensett, I know summat of the varmint; he be a

bad lot.”

“You know him, Ashbrook――do you?”

“Yes, sir; he passed himself off as a gentleman, and was my guest at

Stoke Ferry Farm for some time.”

“Indeed, and does your wife know him?”

“My wife!” exclaimed the farmer, wiping his forehead with his

bandanna. “Well, sir, she does know him――knows him to be a deceptive,

circumwenting, young scoundrel.”

“I am glad you have called upon me,” observed the magistrate, “because

I desire to know as much as possible about the prisoner. As far as I

can see at present the charge is not substantiated, but it is not

possible to say what evidence is forthcoming.”

“He is a bad lot anyway,” returned the farmer.

“Appearances are against him, I admit.”

“Appearances be hanged! I tell ee that he’s a wretched impostor.”

“May be so, Ashbrook. Possibly he is so.”

“There is no possibility in the matter――he is. I tell ee, Mr. Kensett,

that he is a false, deceitful fellow. I shouldn’t say this unless I

had good reason for it. He’s a varmint.”

The magistrate smiled.

The farmer was so energetic and impressive that it would have been

difficult for any one to have refrained from smiling.

“You are right enough, I dare say,” observed the magistrate, “but

assertions are one thing and evidence is another. If this young man is

guilty we shall know how to deal with him.”

“Oh, mek no doubt o’ that, not a morsel o’ doubt. It aint loikely that

he will be able to throw dust in the eyes of an experienced and

far-seeing gentleman loike yourself. I will be at the court to-morrow

morning, and just tell what I know about him.”

“I don’t know that there will be any occasion for that, Ashbrook,”

observed the magistrate.

“Oh, but it ’ud be just as well, your worship. I know summat about the

young vagabond, and I be willing enough to do my best to send him to

quod.”

“Just so; you are actuated by the best motives without doubt, but at

the same time we have to consider many things before rashly entering

into matters which are after all but pendents on the main issue.”

“I do not quite understand you,” said the farmer.

“Possibly not; but we will consider this over. Take a glass of wine,

Mr. Ashbrook; we do not often meet,” said the magistrate, passing the

decanter to his agricultural companion.

“Certainly, sir. Here’s your very good health, and I may say I am

happy and proud to see you,” cried Ashbrook, raising the glass to his

lips.

“The feeling is reciprocal, I am sure,” returned the magistrate. “Your

very good health, Mr. Ashbrook. By the way, you observed just now that

you knew the prisoner. Will you be kind enough to tell me under what

circumstances you made his acquaintance?”

“Sartinly,” said the farmer, “I med his acquaintance by the merest

chance.”

He then proceeded to give his companion a succinct account of all

those events which the reader is already acquainted with――the meeting

of the young man at the “Old Carved Lion,” his taking him to his own

house, and the base ingratitude of his guest.

The magistrate was surprised at the narrative, as he well might be. It

was a history he was quite unprepared for.

“So you will see, sir,” observed the farmer, when he brought his

narrative to a conclusion, “that it aint at all likely I bear him any

good will; on the contrary I should loike te see him behind the bars

of one of her Majesty’s prisons.”

“Of course, that is but natural, since he served you so badly.”

“An audacious, impudent, lying, circumwenting, young jackanapes,”

exclaimed the farmer. “A wretched impostor, who passed himself off as

a gentleman, and sent a challenge to me by a sham captain, who was no

better than himself.”

“It was a piece of impertinence, I admit.”

“That beant the proper term; it was oudacious, beyond all bounds.”

“It was so.”

“I lose all patience when I think on it.”

“No doubt. That is in no way surprising.”

“I tell ee, Mr. Kensett, that he’s a viper――a serpent as would ha’

destroyed my happiness and peace of mind for ever had I ha’ given un

the chance.”

“His conduct was bad in every way.”

“It was infamous. But I’ll be at the court in the morning, never

fear.”

“I do not think there will be any occasion for you to attend.”

“You think not?”

“Hardly so.”

“But I caught the fellow and handed him over to Todd.”

“Certainly so. He informed me had it not been for you, Ashbrook, the

officer would have been very badly used indeed.”

“I’m sure on it, sir; this young feller’s accomplice was a desperate

ruffian――there aint no mistake about that. My belief is he would not

care about committing murder.”

“I dare say not. Todd said he was a desperate ruffian.”

[Sidenote: No. 73.]

[Illustration: HE GAVE THE ORDER TO THE PLATOON TO FIRE, AND FELL

INSTANTLY.]

“He was all that, sir.”

“The case is a most remarkable one――remarkable and singular in many

ways; but I think we shall not need your evidence upon the first

examination.”

“Not need it!” cried Ashbrook, in a tone of surprise.

“Well, no, I fancy not. It will be my duty to remand the prisoner, and

you can give your evidence at the second examination.”

“Why not to-morrow? I took an active part in the scrimmage,” observed

Ashbrook.

“No doubt about that, but we shall have enough to do to hear the

evidence connected with the charge.”

“As you please, sir――you ought to know best; but I should have thought

my evidence would have been needed.”

“Most certainly it will. The timely assistance you have rendered

redounds greatly to your credit, Ashbrook. Everybody will acknowledge

that, but there are other considerations. The prisoner has made me

acquainted with other facts which have greatly astonished me. Indeed,

I may say, have caused, me much anxiety. It would surprise you, I dare

say, to learn who he is.”

“I know who he is, Mr. Kensett, a circumwenting, worthless young

scoundrel――I know perfectly well who and what he is, sir. Don’t ee

make any mistake about that.”

“You know something of his history, but not all.”

“Not all――eh? Well I ’spose not, but I know enough.”

“I say not all advisedly, Ashbrook. You must not repeat what I am

about to tell you.”

“Anything told in confidence I am not likely to repeat.”

“Very well. Perhaps you have heard of a lad who was many years ago

placed in the care of the late Mr. Jamblin, your father-in-law?”

“Well, what o’ that? Old Jamblin was as good a fellow as ever stepped

into shoe leather, or crossed a furrowed field.”

“Nobody will attempt to gainsay that. He was a most worthy man――but to

my story. This young man who is charged with fraud――this fellow who

calls himself Sutherland now, and also passed as a Mr. Fortescue when

he was a guest at your house, is the farmer’s boy who, years and years

ago, ran away from Stoke Ferry.”

“Run away!” cried Ashbrook, in a state of bewilderment. “Look ’ee

here, Muster Kensett, I dunno as I rightly understood ee.”

“You will do so after a while. You know, I suppose, that the late Mr.

Jamblin had placed under his care a lad who was said to be an orphan?

The youngster’s name was Alfred Purvis, and from what I can gather he

was a sore trouble to your father-in-law.”

“Well, I have heard so,” ejaculated Ashbrook. “I do remember a lad of

that name being at the farm, but he ran away years ago, and has never

been heard of since.”

“That’s right enough, Ashbrook; all traces of the scapegrace were

lost. But, nevertheless, I have good reason for saying that the young

man who was arrested to-day is none other than he.”

“What! Alf Purvis? Oh, that be impossible. I wunno b’lieve it.”

“I wish I could not believe, but that I find impossible.”

“Never, Mr. Kensett――it beant loikely.”

“It is so, Ashbrook. I am afraid it is true.”

“Well, I am knocked silly if that be the case. Why, he aint a mo’sel

loike the boy.”

“He is altered in every way――that I admit; but he is Purvis, I tell

you, nevertheless.”

The farmer’s breath seemed to be taken away at this announcement.

“You be mistaken, I’m thinkin’,” said he.

“No, I am not――I am correct in my surmise.”

“Well, ye ought to know a deal better than what I do, seeing as how

you have had so much experience; but I’m floored, and that’s the

honest truth, and completely by the heels! Can it be possible that

this young man, who was a guest at my house and was so friendly and

intimate with Patty, can be the boy who years and years ago was driven

from Stoke Ferry by old Mr. Jamblin, with a hare tied round his neck?

It appears to be perfectly incredible.”

“It is a fact, Ashbrook; at least, such is my impression.”

“Well, I be wonder-struck――that’s all I ha’ to say ’bout it, and as to

Patty, she’d be regularly done over when she hears this piece of

news.”

“There won’t be any occasion for you to make her acquainted with it,”

quietly observed the magistrate.

“I dunno so much about that――ye see, Mr. Kensett, I ha’ no secrets

from my wife, and I don’t b’lieve she has any secrets as she keeps

from me. I’d better tell her all about this business, for she’s sartin

to hear on it sooner or later.”

“You are the best judge as to that, Ashbrook. Tell her if you think it

advisable to do so.”

“Oh, aye, I’ll tell her,” returned the farmer; “but you see, Mr.

Kensett, after what you’ve bin a sayin’, I dunno as how I shall go to

the court to-morrow. The lad was a bit hardly dealt by when at Stoke

Ferry――so I’ve bin given to understand, and maybe it ’ud be just as

well for me to keep away, and not mix myself up in the business any

more than I can help. I’ll consult Patty. She’s got a lot more common

sense than falls to the share o’ most wimmen. I’ll ask her what she

thinks about it.”

“Certainly, it would be your best course, and act in accordance with

her wishes.”

“Aye, may be it would. Well, I never! It’s altogether a most

extraordinary affair――most extraordinary.”

“Not more extraordinary than true, Ashbrook.”

“No, sir, I aint a sayin’ as it be; but it gets over me, and no

mistake.”

After some further conversation, the worthy agriculturist bade the

magistrate good-bye, and took his departure.

Alf Purvis, whose rather chequered career we have already sketched up

to the period of his arrest, was about as unprincipled a young

scoundrel as it is well possible to conceive. The earlier years of his

life were in a measure enshrouded in mystery. He was supposed to be

the illegitimate offspring of some gentleman, but this was only

surmise. When an infant he had been left on the doorstep of a house in

the immediate neighbourhood of Saltwich. He was picked up by a

farmer’s man and taken to the workhouse. His mother, who had abandoned

him, was tracked by a village constable, arrested, and brought before

Mr. Kensett.

She told her tale to him, said that the father of the child was his

(Mr. Kensett’s) son, who had gone to sea. The magistrate, who had

every reason for believing that the story the woman told was a true

one, connived at her escape, extracting from her before she left his

presence a promise that she would never trouble him again. He gave her

a sum of money and heard no more of her, had never seen her from that

time up to the present hour. Such are the leading particulars

connected with the life and parentage of the accomplished London

thief.

When the hour arrived for the prisoner’s examination Mr. Sutherland

was brought into court by Todd, the detective. His genteel appearance,

good looks, and winning manners made him more an object of pity than

execration. The women who were present in the court were unanimous in

their opinion that he was an innocent person, or, if not quite

innocent that he had been the dupe of more designing persons, for it

was not possible to believe that so genteel and well-conducted a young

fellow could be a callous offender against the laws of his country.

Mr. Todd and the other members of the police force were, however, of a

different opinion. The London detective gave him a bad character, not

that he had ever been in trouble before, but he was said to have been

a suspected person for a considerable period while residing in the

metropolis. It is needless to observe that they were not very far out

in their reckoning.

Mr. Todd when put in the box gave a full detail of the prisoner’s

capture, and the attempted rescue of him by the Cracksman, who was a

well-known thief. These circumstances were made manifest enough, and

could not by any possibility be contravened. The fact of his having in

his possession the full amount he had received for the cheque cashed

at the Saltwich bank was also deposed to, and the bank clerk was also

in attendance who declared that the cheque had been altered.

This, however, could not be proved positively without the attendance

of the drawer of the cheque, and he, it appeared, was at this time in

Paris, and the gentleman engaged for the prosecution thereupon asked

for a remand.

At the advice of Mr. Kensett the prisoner was represented by a

badgering lawyer, who availed himself of every quibble to set aside

the evidence offered for the prosecution.

He had not much difficulty in turning the tide in favour of his

client, for, to speak the truth, the case for the prosecution was a

regular bungle, and Mr. Sharpthorne, Sutherland’s legal adviser,

damaged it materially.

“I respectfully submit, sir,” said Sharpthorne, looking triumphantly

round the court and addressing himself to the magistrate, “that there

is in reality no kind of proof offered on behalf of the prosecution

that this young man has committed any fraud whatever. A cheque has

been presented by him and paid by one of the cashiers of the Saltwich

Bank. I am instructed by my client to inform the court that he

received the cheque in the ordinary course of business――that he was,

in point of fact, a perfectly honest holder of the cheque in question,

and he presented it in the full faith of its genuineness. I must say I

think the bankers have acted in a most indiscreet and, I may observe,

a very harsh way, towards a respectable and honestly-disposed young

man.”

“Respectable and honest――eh?” sneeringly observed the attorney for the

prosecution.

“Certainly,” replied Sharpthorne, thumping the table before him. “I

say advisedly and emphatically, both respectable and honest. The

inference is a rational and reasonable one. Every man is honest until

he is found guilty.”

“The prisoner made a determined attempt to escape. You seem to forget

that,” observed Mr. Kensett, addressing: himself to the blatant

lawyer.

“Well, sir,” observed the latter, “I should be very sorry――indeed, it

would be imprudent for me to contradict you; but permit me to observe

that even this has not been clearly established. It is true a ruffian

attacked Mr. Todd and endeavoured to overpower him――indeed, he

partially succeeded in doing so; but it does not necessarily follow

that this was done at the instigation of the prisoner. It is just

possible the man in question was a perfect stranger to my client. I

believe he was.”

“Ah, Sharpthorne, that is going too far,” observed the opposing

solicitor.

“You may think so, if you please; but I do not think I am exceeding my

duty in making such a suggestion. But it is hardly worth while

discussing that question; even assuming such were the case, it does

not prove anything after all. It does not incriminate this young man,

against whom there is positively no proof of fraud or dishonesty.”

“The circumstances surrounding the case are suspicious,” quietly

observed the magistrate. “If proofs are wanting now, possibly they may

be brought forward in the due course of time.”

“But is this young man to be degraded in the eyes of the world by

lying under the stigma of dishonesty merely because a country banker

chooses to assume a position which is not supported by evidence? It is

a most trumpery charge.”

“I object to the word trumpery!” exclaimed the lawyer on the other

side.

“You may object as much as you please. Substitute contemptible in

place of it if that pleases you better,” returned Sharpthorne.

This last observation evoked a peal of laughter from those in the body

of the court.

“Order! silence!” cried the usher.

“If there is any more of this unseemly merriment,” said the

magistrate, “I will commit those persons who indulge in it.”

This had the desired effect――the audience abstained from any further

laughter.

“I have to express my regret that an unguarded expression made by

myself should have given rise to this breach of etiquette,” said

Sharpthorne.

“Let the subject drop, I pray,” observed Mr. Kensett.

“By all means, sir. I am, I hope, the last man to court a legal

wrangle. We have to deal with the evidence, and I submit that this is

of a nature that, regarding it from a legal point of view, does not in

any way bear against the prisoner, who, I maintain, is entitled to be

discharged.”

“I should not be justified in dismissing the case after the evidence

offered,” said Mr. Kensett.

“Evidence, sir,” cried Sharpthorne, “there is positively none.”

“I am not accustomed to allow gentlemen to direct me in the course I

am to pursue,” observed the magistrate. “I admit the evidence is very

weak at present, but there is no telling what may be forthcoming,

provided the legal advisers for the prosecution have time afforded

them for that purpose; and at the same time, Mr. Sharpthorne, I should

be sorry indeed to prejudice the case, or to press badly on the

prisoner who to all appearances is a quiet gentlemanly young man.

Still at the same time I have a duty to perform. If the prisoner is

innocent I hope and trust it will be proved on the next examination.

Certainly, as far as I can see at present, there is not a great deal

against him. Certainly not enough to send the case for a jury to

decide. I think, therefore, under all the circumstances, I should be

justified in remanding the case to this day week, and in the meantime

I will let the prisoner out upon his own recognisances.”

“I hope you will require him to find good and substantial bail, sir,”

said the solicitor for the prosecution.

The magistrate hesitated, whereupon Mr. Sharpthorne came to the

rescue.

“The young man knows nobody in this neighbourhood, and it would be

unjust to acceed to Hashby’s suggestion. I therefore beg of you to

bind him over in his own recognisances.”

“Yes, that, I think, will be all that the exigency of the case

requires, said Kensett.” The case is adjourned to this day week, and

in the meantime our friend Hashby will have ample time afforded him to

obtain whatever evidence he can to complete his case.”

“His own recognisances!” murmured the bank clerk. “What does that

mean?”

“Why, it means that his worship don’t think much of the evidence

offered to-day,” whispered Sharpthorne. “And to say the truth, it

would be strange if he did.”

“We are going to fight it, Sharpthorne; and we are, I hope, going to

pot our man,” said Hashby.

“Are you?”

“Well, yes, I think so.”

“We shall see, my friend. Better luck next time, as the butcher said

when the rope broke with which he had attempted to hang himself. You

haven’t scored much to-day.”

“That I admit, but it isn’t my fault. Was only instructed half an hour

before entering the court.”

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Hashby,” observed the magistrate, “you had better

leave the cheque in my hands, and I shall then have time to make a

careful examination of the same.”

The cheque was handed to the magistrate, who looked at it for some

little time.

“I must confess, as far as I can see at present, it seems to be

genuine enough. Do you happen to know whether this is the drawer’s

signature or not?”

“The bank clerks do not appear to have any doubt about that,” said

Hashby. “But the writing in the body of the cheque and the figures

have been altered.”

“How could that have been done?”

“Well, sir, it has been done on more than one occasion, for the

purposes of fraud, and it is managed in this way: The original writing

is taken out by chemicals, then the manipulator imitates the

handwriting of the drawer, and places a much larger amount in than the

cheque was originally drawn for.”

“It is a very extraordinary proceeding. I do not remember, in the

whole course of my experience, meeting with a similar case.”

“I deny most positively that the cheque has been tampered with. If it

has, it has not been done with my knowledge,” exclaimed the prisoner.

“The charge is a false and malicious one.”

“That is my opinion,” cried Sharpthorne, “and if this be the case the

matter will not rest here. The bank directors have laid themselves

open to an action for damages and false imprisonment. I say, again, it

is not at all likely the matter will be allowed to be hushed up.”

“Hushed up, Mr. Sharpthone! What can you be thinking of to make so

unjust an observation?” cried the bank clerk. “Do you suppose that we

have any vindictive feeling towards this young man?”

“I purposely avoid replying to your query,” returned the lawyer. “I

have my own opinion of the matter, which, for cogent reasons, I choose

to keep to myself.”

“But you have cast a slur upon the bank directors, and I say it is not

just or proper for you to do so. We have good reasons for acting in

the way we have.”

“Oh, I dare say,” sneeringly observed Sharpthorne. “No doubt you think

yourself on the safe side.”

“Let there be no squabbling,” said the magistrate, interposing. “The

bank think themselves justified in the course they have adopted, and

it is but fair to assume that they have good reasons for their line of

action. It is not at all likely that a respectable and old-established

firm would be rash or indiscreet enough to institute these proceedings

without due consideration.”

“I should hope not,” returned Sharpthorne; “but at the same time, sir,

we must all admit that people are sometimes mistaken, and I think it

will be found that such is the case in this injudicious and

uncalled-for prosecution.”

“I really do not see that you are mending matters by casting

aspersions upon a respectable body of gentlemen, who, from the

position they hold in the commercial world, are incapable of acting in

an improper or harsh manner.”

“I have done, sir. We’ll say no more about the matter at present,”

observed Sharpthorne, with a shrug, as he gathered up his papers and

transferred the same into his official blue bag.

The prisoner was bound over in his own recognisances to appear that

day week, and there was an end of the case as far as the first hearing

was concerned.

Mr. Sutherland had had a narrow escape. He was by far too cunning and

dexterous a thief to present himself on the following week.

He contrived to become possessed of sufficient funds to take a trip,

and repaired to the Continent, where he proposed remaining till the

little affair of the Saltwich bank forgery had blown over.

The bankers were very indignant when they found the bird had flown,

and Mr. Todd was, of course, greatly mortified at the issue, but there

was no help for it. The police had instructions to make every effort

to trace the fugitive, but as too frequently happens in such cases

their efforts proved ineffectual, and in the course of time the affair

was forgotten, and “the storm in a teapot,” as Mr. Sharpthorne

designated it, subsided.

CHAPTER CXXXVIII.

THE FASHIONABLE GATHERING AT LADY MARVLYNN’S.

Aveline Gatliffe, now Lady Batershall, wife of Sir Eric Batershall,

Bart., had long since forgotten that such a person as Tom Gatliffe had

existence.

In her new sphere of action, and the two ties in the shape of a boy

and a girl by her husband, the baronet, she had little time to think

of her earlier career, which appeared to have been blotted out of her

recollection.

She loved to be a reigning beauty in the fashionable world, and

although time had in some measure robbed her of the freshness of

youth, she was still a beautiful and loveable woman, whose society was

courted.

She had at times misgivings in respect to her son Reginald, who did

not give her much of his society.

There were reasons for this. In the first place, the young earl did

not care a great deal about his father-in-law, who, albeit, a good,

honest, bluff, English gentleman, was a little brusque in his manner

towards his son-in-law.

This was not intentional, but resulted from a habit of plain speaking

which he had acquired down in his ancestral home in the west of

England.

To Aveline he was uniformly kind and considerate. Indeed, with him her

word was law. He knew she had been indulged by her grandfather.

“Spoilt,” he would sometimes say, “if it were possible to spoil such a

gentle, tender-hearted creature. But there,” the baronet would say,

“he did his best to spoil her, but she was too much for him, and he

couldn’t succeed. Hang me, if I think any man alive could spoil my

Aveline. No man breathing, sir,” and when he gave utterance to this

speech the baronet would glare around at the persons he was

addressing, and looked as if they had done him some sort of an injury;

and so it was pretty generally acknowledged that Lady Batershall was a

star in the fashionable firmament.

She did not lose sight of her old friend and instructress, Lady

Marvlynn, whom she regarded in the light of her nearest and dearest

associate.

The latter had always on hand one or two protégees whom she was

preparing to “bring out,” as she termed it. It was not possible for

her ladyship to remain long idle, some sort of employment was a

necessity to her.

She had at this time a young lady under her charge, a Miss Arabella

Lovejoyce.

She had become greatly attached to this young girl, who was possessed

of a more than ordinary amount of beauty, and could also boast of many

accomplishments. She was a “blonde,” whom some wicked persons who take

a delight in detracting called insipid.

She was, however, by no means deficient in sense.

Miss Lovejoyce had been for some months on the Continent, in charge of

a severe vinegar-visaged old maiden aunt, and upon her return to this

country Lady Marvlynn gave a grand party in honour of her arrival.

Of course a number of notabilities were invited.

The army and navy were both represented on this occasion, likewise the

Church. People of almost every denomination were included in the list

of invitations, and amongst them were the Lady Aveline and her

husband.

The preparations were on a grand scale.

Lady Marvlynn resided at Upper Charlton. The locality was not

altogether so fashionable a quarter as she could have wished, but her

house, which stood in its own grounds, was most elegantly furnished.

It was a model bijou residence, and contained a suite of reception

rooms sufficiently commodious to admit of a tolerably extensive

gathering. Besides all this, her ladyship was the very best of

hostesses, and strove on these occasions, as indeed she did at all

times, to make those around her as much at home and as happy as

possible.

Lady Marvlynn was not only appreciated by hosts of persons, but was

generally esteemed by all who came within her influence.

It is true she was not what one might say positively rich, and hence

it was perhaps that these gatherings were few and far between, but

when she did give a party it was done in a proper manner, and it was

the fault of those present if they did not enjoy themselves.

When Aveline and her husband presented themselves they found the house

full of people.

Many of those present were known to the baronet and his wife, but

there were some who were strangers to them.

Introductions as usual took place――the requisite bowing and courtesies

followed.

On the lawn were one or two croquet parties, and seated around were

groups of persons, who did not play themselves, but elected to be

passive spectators.

These had before them iced drinks of every possible description.

Aveline took a stroll in the grounds with her friend Lady Marvlynn,

who was as lively and loquacious as usual. An opportunity was thus

afforded of taking stock of the guests.

“There are many here to day,” said Aveline, “who are to me strangers.”

“Oh, yes, of course, my dear. That is but natural, you know, but I am

sure you’ll like them; at least, I hope so. You see that elderly

gentleman sitting next to the lady in pink?”

“Yes. I don’t know him――do I?”

“I think not. He is a most wonderful man, has been in every part of

the world.”

“He’s in the army I should imagine.”

“Yes.”

“And his name?”

“Is Major Smithers Smythe. Got no end of medals. Was wounded at Agra

in the Sepoy rebellion. Oh, he has a whole fund of anecdote, and tells

such amusing stories. I’ll trot him out, dear, before the day is over.

You’ll be quite charmed with him.”

“Oh, I dare say, and the other gentleman further on――”

“In a black coat and a white tie?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the Rev. Mr. Downbent. He’s taken three degrees at Oxford, and

is a most eloquent preacher. Oh, you’ll like him, I am sure. The

slender gentleman on the other side of the grass plot is Sir William

Leathbridge, he is conversing with Lord Chetwynd――a very old family

the Chetwynds――came in with the Conqueror. His lordship is a quiet,

thoughtful man, who, as a rule, does not say much, but he thinks a

good deal more, and, _entrez nous_, he is reputed to be a little gay.

Keeps an opera dancer so I’ve been told, a beautiful Spanish woman, I

believe; but one never knows what to believe nowadays――it may be all

scandal. All I know is, that he is very charming, and as to a

‘gentleman’s private amours, that’s no business of yours, my dear,’ as

poor dear Sir Eric used to say when such topics were broached.”

“Who is the one playing now?” inquired Aveline, glancing towards the

party in question.

“That’s Captain Crasher. Oh, he’s another of the right sort; will sit

and tell you stories till the small hours of the morning――that is, if

you are disposed to listen to him.”

“And the gentleman with the long hair and dark moustache?”

“What――the one talking to Arabella?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear me――don’t you know him? That’s Signor Marowski, the

celebrated basso profondo. You’ll have an opportunity of judging of

his ability, for he is set down in the programme for two of his

favourite scenas.”

“Ah――you are going to have some music, then?”

“Dear me――yes. A little bit of a concert, you know. And about an hour,

or perhaps more, I think you’ll find we’ve got several crack singers

and instrumentalists. We are all lovers of music.”

At this point of the conversation a lady met the two speakers in the

side walk.

She was dressed in the height of fashion, and evidently strove to

assume a juvenile appearance; but she was not young――neither was she

stout; scraggy would, perhaps, be the better term.”

“Oh, glad to have met you,” said Lady Marvlynn, “as it affords me an

opportunity of introducing you to my friend, Miss Fagg――Lady Aveline

Batershall.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before,” said the faded

spinster, for such she was, “but have often heard your name mentioned

by my friend, Lady Marvlynn.”

“Oh, I dare say,” returned Aveline; “her ladyship is one of my oldest

friends.”

“Yes, so I have been given to understand. Most delighted to make your

acquaintance.”

Lady Aveline bowed somewhat stiffly.

“I am much pleased,” said she.

The conversation was continued, but there was no further discourse as

to the persons present, and Aveline would have been greatly relieved

by Miss Fagg taking herself off.

This, however, she did not seem disposed to do, for she continued to

walk by the side of Lady Aveline, apparently oblivious to the fact

that she was not wanted.

“I wish, dear,” said Lady Marvlynn to Miss Fagg, “you would give a

glance at the dining-room, and see if my people are making any

preparations for the banquet.”

“Oh, if you wish it, certainly,” returned the spinster, stepping off

like a lapwing.

“Ah, we’ve got rid of her,” cried Lady Marvlynn, with a merry laugh.

“I thought you were beginning to get a little fidgetty. You know,

dear, I was constrained to invite her. She is one of your dear Sir

Eric’s distant relatives, and it is not often she gets the chance of a

treat like this, for, although I say it myself, I know it is a great

treat to her, and the chances are that she’ll talk about it for the

next three months when she returns to her friends in the village which

has the honour of counting her among its inhabitants.”

“She’s a good sort of person, I should say, “observed Aveline,

apologetically.

“Ah, dear me, yes, very good, unsophisticated, and all that sort of

thing, but she is perhaps a little out of place here.”

“Ah, yonder is Lord Fitzbogleton,” cried Lady Marvlynn.

“Where? I don’t see him.”

“Look, through the shrubbery. He is talking to Arabella. How he does

follow that girl about to be sure! He is spoony on her――poor man.”

“And does she like him?”

“Bah! who can tell? Perhaps she doesn’t know herself. She endures him,

that is quite certain. But let us return into the house; they don’t

want our company, I fancy. In cases of this sort It is my maxim ‘to

let the young people alone;’” and here the widow indulged in another

merry laugh.

They went into the house, where they were joined by a throng of

persons. In less than half an hour after this dinner was served.

The Rev. Mr. Downbent said grace in an impressive manner, and all

present proceeded to partake of the various dishes placed before them.

The conversation soon after this became lively and animated. A few

stale jokes were uttered, which elicited as much laughter――perhaps

more――than new ones. Healths were drunk, but, as it was a private

affair, no speechmaking was attempted.

It was, in fact, a social party, and not a public banquet, and

oratorical flourishes would therefore be out of place.

The meal occupied a considerable time――much more than was necessary;

but this may be said of all such entertainments. A dessert of a most

costly and elaborate description was laid in an adjoining apartment,

and to this the greater portion of the guests repaired.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Lady Marvlynn, “I must beg of you to do just as

you like. Those who wish to smoke are requested to do so, because I

believe most of the ladies present will not offer any objection to the

aroma of the fragrant weed. I like to see gentlemen smoke――it looks

sociable; but I am not everybody, you will perhaps say. Well, that is

true enough――so we will effect a compromise, if you please. A room is

prepared for the reception of those ladies who object to smoke.”

“My dear Lady Marvlynn,” cried one of the gentlemen, “this is really

too bad. In the first place, we do not care to dispense with the

company of the ladies; and in the next, we are, I hope, not such

slaves to habit as to persist in smoking in the company of ladies.”

“I shall not be satisfied if you do not enjoy yourselves in your own

way.”

“This is not a barrack-room,” said Smythe, deprecatingly.

“Now, major, although I have every respect for your opinion,” said

Lady Marvlynn, banteringly, “you are not in command here.”

“And if I were, I should give way to your ladyship,” returned the

major.

“The best thing you can do is to keep the party alive by telling us

one or two of your adventures,” said Lady Marvlynn. “Now don’t be

disagreeable, major. Let me have my way this once.”

“Don’t I always let you have your way? Ah, dear me, I only wish I was

a younger man.”

“I should like to be a little younger myself,” returned her ladyship.

Cigars were lighted, the wine was passed round, and the whole party

were soon in social and animated conversation.

“Let me see, major,” observed Colonel Snappe, who was one of the

guests; “were you not present at the execution of the ill-fated

Maximilian?”

“I am glad to say I was not,” returned Smythe. “But I was in Mexico a

short time before that untoward event. You know, I suppose, that the

scoundrel Juarez, after Maximilian’s death, had the body of his victim

embalmed. In the holes made by the executioners’ bullets pieces of red

velvet were placed, a pair of glass eyes were inserted in the orbits

of the dead man, whose body was decked out with most costly garments,

and then it was sent on to his relatives.”

“How very horrible!” exclaimed Aveline. “I never heard of anything

more sickening.”

“Very horrible, I admit,” said the Colonel; “but such was the fact.”

“While I was in Mexico,” said Major Smithers Smythe, “facts came to my

knowledge which, with your permission, I will relate.”

“Oh, by all means, we shall all of us be delighted. Pray proceed,

major,” cried several.

“The little story I have to tell,” said Smythe, “I call a game for

life or death. It is as follows”:――

“It was night in the camp of Maxmilian’s army, and sounds of merriment

were heard upon all sides, for soldiers are ever wont to indulge in

pleasure, regardless of what morrow would bring forth.

“In a tent in the inner circle of the camp sat two officers at a rude

table, upon which was marked with lead pencil a chess, or checquer

board, while black and white buttons served for the ‘men.’

“Around the tent were stationed guards, and both of the officers were

unarmed, while not a weapon of any description was visible in their

canvas room.

“They were prisoners: soldiers in the service of Juarez, captured the

day before; but their appearance indicated that they were not

Mexicans.

“Both men were of tall commanding forms, and of easy, graceful

address; but, whereas one had dark blue eyes, and light hair and

moustache, the other had eyes that were large and black, with brown

hair and moustache.

“Both men were exceedingly handsome, and upon their faces bore the

impress of noble souls and hearts that knew no fear.

“A love of adventure had caused them to leave their homes in the

north, after the close of the civil war, in which both had fought

bravely, and cast their swords with Juarez, to aid in driving from

Mexican soil a German emperor.

“Capoul Monteith, the blonde officer, was a young man of wealth and

good family, a New Yorker, and a pet in society.

“Garnet Weston, the brunette, was a poor man, a young lawyer in New

York, of good, though poor parentage. He was possessed of superior

intelligence, and was fast winning a name, when he crossed the path of

Mabel Monteith, the sister of Capoul, and a beauty and an heiress.

“So deeply did Garnet love Mabel that he was miserable when not in her

presence, and he believed she cared for him; but his pride was great,

and he would not offer a pauper hand to a belle and an heiress, and so

struggled hard to win fortune and fa… in his profession.

“One day, an evil day for Garnet, a pretended friend told him that

Mabel was his promised wife, but that their engagement had not yet

been made public.

“Like one in a dream Garnet Weston listened, and then in despair

determined to seek some more stirring field, where the image of his

lost love would not be ever before him.

“A month later found him a cavalry captain in the army of Benito

Juarez, where, a few weeks later, he was surprised to be joined by

Capoul Monteith, who had also offered his services to the Mexican

President.

“In an engagement, two days before they are presented to the reader in

their tent, they had been captured and carried into the lines of

Maximilian.

“That night in camp they were playing a game of checquers, _pour

passer le temps_, and Capoul who was an expert player, was surprised

to see how readily he was beaten by Garnet.

“Suddenly a heavy tread resounded without, the sentinel challenged,

there was a response, and the next instant three of Maximilian’s

officers entered the tent, one of whom was an American, a Republican

fighting for Imperial Mexico, against the Republic; another was a

flashy-looking Frenchman; the third was a Mexican colonel.

“‘Gentleman, I am sorry to disturb you; but news has come to-night

that Benito Juarez has executed a captain of our army, and I have

orders to select one of you, and march you forth to die in

retaliation,’ and the American Imperialist looked sad over the duty he

had to perform.

“‘You cannot mean that one of us must die for an offence against

Maximilian by Juarez?’ said Capoul Monteith, rising.

“‘Even so are my orders, sir; but I know not which to select, for my

duty is most painful.’

“‘Let the gentlemen play a game for the choice――the loser to die,’

suggested the young Frenchman.

“‘A good idea, monsieur. Gentlemen, I observe you were playing a game

of checquers when we entered――so set to work and play three games――the

one who wins two of them to escape, the other to die.’

“‘When is this execution to be?’ asked Garnet Weston.

“‘Within the hour, sir.’

“‘Very well, Capoul, I am ready for the game of life and death.’