The man who can make his way out of Lincoln's Inn Fields--whether to the
east, west, north, or south--without travelling through some intricate
courts and passages, must do it by mounting up into the air on wings, or
ascending by means of a balloon. A splendid square--one of the largest
and finest in the metropolis--gay with green trees, and showing some
worn _facades_ that might shame much of our modern architecture, it is
nevertheless inaccessible, except by the dirtiest lanes in all London.
Almost exclusively inhabited by lawyers who have attained to the highest
eminence in their profession, these shabby approaches are emblematic of
the means by which some of them have reached it.
In the purlieus that surround this great square, art struggles feebly
for existence. Here and there is a picture shop, where the artist finds
immortality in a cob-webbed window, or _al fresco_ on stone flags
outside the door. There is a particular passage where his works may be
seen displayed with a conspicuousness, that if granted them by the
rulers of the Royal Academy, fortune would be sure to follow.
Through this passage General Harding and his solicitor had to make their
way, for the purpose of reaching the Strand, _en route_ to Downing
Street.
In this passage there is a woman, whose sharp glance and sharper voice
has a tendency to keep it clear. On seeing the one, or hearing the
other, the wayfarer will be disposed to hurry on. She is the
proprietress of a furniture shop, of which the pictures in question are
an adjunct--being usually what are called in the trade "furniture
pictures."
Neither General Harding, nor his solicitor had any idea of stopping to
examine them. They were hurrying on through the passage, when one, so
conspicuously placed that it could not escape observation, caught the
attention of the old officer, causing him to halt with a suddenness that
not only surprised his staid companion, but almost jerked the lawyer off
his legs.
"What is it, General?" asked Mr Lawson. "Good God!" gasped the
General. "Look there! Do you see that picture?"
"I do," answered the astonished solicitor; "a sporting scene--two young
fellows out shooting, accompanied by a gamekeeper. What do you see in
it to surprise you?"
"Surprise me!" echoed the General; "the word is not strong enough. _It
astounds me_!"
"I do not understand you, General," said the lawyer, glancing towards
the old soldier's face to see whether he was still in his senses.
"The picture appears to be of very moderate merit--painted by some young
hand, I take it; though certainly there is spirit in the conception, and
the scene--what is it? One sportsman has his knife in his hand, and
looks as if he intended to stab the dog with it; while the other seems
protecting the poor brute. I can't make out the meaning."
"_I can_," said the General, with a sigh, deeply breathed, while his
frame seemed convulsed by some terrible agitation. "My God!" he
continued, "it cannot be a coincidence; and yet how could that scene be
here--here upon canvas? Surely I am dreaming!"
Once more Mr Lawson looked into the General's face, doubtful whether he
was not dreaming--either that or demented.
"No!" exclaimed the old soldier, bringing his cane down upon the
pavement with an emphatic stroke. "There can be no mistake about it; it
is the same scene. Alas! too real. Those figures, Mr Lawson, are
portraits, or intended to be so. The costumes alone would enable me to
recognise them. He, holding the knife, is my eldest son, Nigel, just as
he was some five years ago; the other is Henry. The man in the
background is, or was, my gamekeeper--since become a poacher and escaped
convict. What can it mean? Who can have heard of the occurrence? Who
painted the picture?"
"Perhaps," suggested the solicitor, "this person can tell us something
about it. I say, my good woman, how came you by this?"
"That picture ye mean? How should I come by it, but by buyin' it? It's
a first-class paintin'; only thirty shillin', an' 'ud look spicy set in
a frame. Dirt cheap, gentlemen."
"Do you know who you bought it from?"
"In course I do. Oh, you needn't be afeerd of its bein' honestly come
by, if that's what you're drivin' at. I know all about its pedigree,
for I know the painter as painted it; he's a regular artist, he is."
"What sort of a man is he?"
"He's a young un; they're both young uns, for there be two on 'em. One
appear to be a furrener--a Italyin, I think. The other ain't so old--
he's English, I should say. Don't know which paints the pictures.
Maybe both takes a hand at it, for both brings 'em to sell. I had some
more o' them, but they're sold. I dare say the old un's the one as is
the artist."
"Do you know his name?" asked the General, with an eagerness that caused
the woman to look suspiciously at him, and hesitate about making reply.
"I am interested," he continued, "in whoever painted this picture. I
admire it, and will buy it from you. I'll take more from the same hand,
if you can furnish me with the name and address."
"Oh, that's it. Well, then, the black complected chap--that is the old
un--his name is a furren' one, an' I've heard it, but don't recollect
it. The other's name I never heard, an' as for him, I 'spect he's gone
away. I ha'n't seen him here lately--not for months."
"Do you know the address of either--where do they live?"
"In course I do. I've gone there to fetch away some pictures. It's
close by here--just the other side of the Fields. I can give it you on
one of my bill-heads."
"Do so," said the General. "Here is the thirty shillings for the
picture. You can send it round to Messrs. Lawson and Son, Number --,
Lincoln's Inn Fields."
The woman took the money, praising the picture throughout the
transaction, by characterising it as "dirt cheap," and worth twice as
much as she asked for it. Then scratching out with an indifferent pen
upon a soiled scrap of paper the promised address, she handed it to her
purchaser, who, folding it between his fingers, hurried off out of the
passage, dragging Mr Lawson along with him. Instead of going on
towards Downing Street, he turned sharply round, and re-traversed the
court in the opposite direction.
"Where now, General?" inquired the solicitor.
"To see the painter," was the reply. "He may throw some light on this
strange, this mysterious affair. It still appears to me like a dream.
Perhaps he can interpret it."
He could have done so, had he been found. But he was not. The address,
as given by the woman, was correct enough. The General and his
companion easily found the place--a mean-looking lodging-house in one of
the back streets of High Holborn. Three days before they would have
found the artist in it--whose description answered to that given by the
picture-dealer, and was recognised by the keeper of the lodging-house.
Three days before he had gone off in a great hurry--altogether out of
London, as his former landlady supposed. She came to this conclusion,
from the fact that he had sold off all his pictures and things to a Jew
dealer at a great sacrifice. She did not know his name, or where he had
gone to. He had settled his account, and that was all she seemed to
care about.
Had she ever had another lodger, and associate of the one she spoke of?
Yes, there had been another--also a painter--a younger one. He was
English; but she did not know his name either, as the foreigner paid the
bill for both. The young one had gone off long ago--several months--and
the foreigner had since kept the apartments himself. This was all the
woman could tell, beyond giving a description of the younger artist.
"My son Henry!" said General Harding, as he stepped forth into the
street. "He has been living in these wretched rooms, when I thought he
was running riot on that thousand pounds! I fear, Mr Lawson, I have
been outrageously wronging him."
"It is not too late to make reparation, General."
"I hope not--I hope not. Let us hasten on to Downing Street."
The Foreign Office was reached; the Foreign Secretary seen; and the
usual promises given to interfere with all despatch in an affair of such
evident urgency.
Nothing more could be done for the time; and General Harding set out for
his country seat, to prepare for any eventuality that might arise. He
was now ready to send the ransom, if he only knew where to send it; and
in hopes that a Roman letter might have arrived during his absence, he
had hurried home directly after his visit to Downing Street. In this
hope he was not disappointed. On reaching Beechwood he found several
letters upon his table that had been for several days there awaiting
him. There were two that bore the Roman postmark, though of different
dates. One he recognised in the handwriting of his son Henry. He
opened and read it.
"Thank heaven!" he exclaimed, as he came to its close. "Thank heaven,
he is safe and well."
The second foreign letter was conspicuous, both in size and shape. It
carried a multiplicity of stamps, required by its greater weight. The
General trembled as he took hold of it. Its "feel" told that it
contained an enclosure. His hands felt feeble as he tore open the
envelope. There was still another wrapper with something substantial
inside--something in the shape of a packet. The covering was at length
stripped off, and revealed to the sight an object of ashen colour,
somewhat cylindrically shaped, and nearly two inches in length. It was
a finger cut off at the second joint, and showing an old scar that, ran
longitudinally to the end of the nail.
A cry escaped from the lips of the horrified father, as in the ghastly
enclosure he recognised the _finger of his son_!