George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

D. Wragg pointed as he spoke at Mr John Screwby, which gentleman had, from a scarcity of watchers, and from doubts as to the probability of his staying so long as he was wanted, been brought up from stage to stage, to stand now, shuffling from foot to foot, and staring first at the irate dealer, and then at the door which concealed the interior of the attic from his graze.

“Somebody shall pay for all this, though,” cried D. Wragg, “as I said afore, and as I’ll say half a score o’ times.”

As he spoke, he looked full at Sir Francis, as if identifying him with the “somebody” who should be made to pay, although at the present time no mean sum of the baronet’s money had made its way into his pockets. But at last, seeing that Sergeant Falkner would not be trifled with, and that in another moment the door or doors would be kicked down, he produced the keys with a great many protestations, ending at last in a perfect whine of misery, one that strangely reminded the eager bystanders of the dogs below.

But the keys produced, D. Wragg’s importance decreased on the instant; for though there were those present who trembled at the thought of the door being thrown back, the majority were devoured by curiosity—the morbid curiosity which used to take a crowd to an execution, and even at the present day attracts hundreds to the Old Bailey that they may catch a glimpse of the black flag, and imagine for themselves the horrors going on behind the grim black stony walls.

There were no stony walls here though—only a few slight boards between the gazers and the mystery whose solution they were so eager to read.

“Here! stop him, will you!” cried the sergeant. “Have you any brains at all, Smith?”

P.C. Smith raised his hand to his head, as if to feel whether those thought-producers—brains—were really there; but he contented himself with a vicious scratch, as he once more took hold of D. Wragg, that gentleman having made another attempt to limp away.

“Don’t you make no mistake,” half-whimpered the dealer, rubbing his hands together, bending down as if in pain, and limping about to the extent of his tether—to wit, his own arm and that of the policeman. “I’ll be squared for this; just you see if I ain’t.”

“Very well—very well,” exclaimed the sergeant, with something of excitement in his tones; “only don’t make quite so much noise about it. Now then,” he cried, as he unlocked the fastening, and threw open the rickety door, whose rusty hinges creaked dismally, while the door itself was stopped, when little more than ajar, by the warped framework, which forced one corner upon the floor.

“Now I hope you’re happy,” said D. Wragg.

“Not yet—not yet,” said the sergeant, “but we mean to get there soon. Now then, pass him here, Smith. That’s right. Now Mr Wragg, you go first, and we’ll follow.”

Again, there was the dealer’s strong resemblance to the ragged terrier brought out; for the sergeant treated him precisely as a keeper would a dog that he was about to place in some fox’s hole, D. Wragg being thrust forward into the room—going, though, most unwillingly, and had he suddenly broken out into a sharp wailing bark, no one would have felt much surprised.

The sergeant laid his hands upon D. Wragg’s shoulders as he forced him in, peering over the said shoulders into the dingy place ahead, and then he drew back for a few moments.

“Here, Smith, you take my place,” he said; and the constable went next, while his leader crossed the low landing to where, arm-in-arm, stood Clayton and Sir Francis. “Just a moment, please, sir,” he said to Clayton, in a low voice; and then aloud to the others present, “Stand back there, will you: I go next!”

“What do you want to say?” said Clayton, glancing uneasily at the sergeant’s stern face, as the latter turned his eyes for a moment to where they had left Sir Francis.

“Only, sir,” said the sergeant, in a whisper, “that if I was in your place, I should think it my duty at any cost to get him away.”

The young man shook his head, for he knew that the sergeant counselled an impossibility.

“Well, sir, I thought it my duty to advise,” said the sergeant.

“Quite right—quite right,” said Clayton, hastily; “but he would not stir an inch. Now, pray end this horrible suspense.”

Clayton looked round once more to see that the women were not within hearing, and then, with Sir Francis and the other constable, he passed into the low, dingy, sloping-ceiled room.

There had once evidently been a partition, but this had been removed, and the attics turned into one long place, so that the whole of the top floor could be seen through at a glance, with its lumber of old cages, bundles of dried herbs, baskets of feathers, and broken furniture—chairs lame of one leg, halt and rickety tables, and an old wash-stand.

In three different corners, chained to staples in the wall, and each with its straw bed, were as many wretched captives, wasting their days in their lofty prison. But these were only three dogs, kept there for reasons best known to the occupant of the house.

“Nothing here,” was the mental remark of the sergeant, as he made his light play about the place, its rays falling strangely upon each of the dogs in turn, and eliciting howls that were doleful in the extreme.

That light, though, was allowed to rest longest upon the fourth corner of the room, where there were three well-filled sacks and a large flat basket.

“Look outside the window; there’s a parapet out there in the front. One of you had better crawl along a little each way, and see if you can make anything out,” said the sergeant, who directly after turned to another of his men. “Here, you!” he exclaimed, “climb up there,” and he pointed to a half-closed trapdoor in the ceiling.

His orders were obeyed, the bystanders watching eagerly the progress of events, till the man who had somewhat nervously forced his way through the trap came back covered with whitewash and cobwebs, which he brushed impatiently from his uniform.

“Well?” said the sergeant, as the man descended by means of the broken wash-stand and chair, which had been used for escalading purposes.

“No one been up there this side o’ six months ago, I’ll swear,” said the man; “the cobwebs would have told you that if you’d liked to look.”

The sergeant turned sharply upon his muttering subordinate, but his attention was taken off by the return of the man who had been sent outside to examine the gutter.

“Well?” said the sergeant again, as this man climbed back.

“Well, I ain’t seen nothing,” said the latter, dragging one leg after him into the room. “Quiet, will you?” he cried to a dog which bayed at him furiously. “You can go along out there for best part of a mile if you like, dodging in and out, for it seems to be a reg’lar rat’s run from winder to winder. There’s some nice games carried on, I’ll be bound, and any manner of thing might be done here or there, and hidden from place to place without us being a bit the wiser.”

“How many men would it take to make a good search?” said the sergeant.

“Hundred,” said his subordinate, gruffly, “would be nowhere. You’d want a man at every door, and at every attic window; and when you tried to stop ’em, they’d slip out somewhere else.”

The sergeant stood for a moment thinking, and then he made a step towards the sacks, looking curiously at the dog-fancier.

“Shouldn’t wonder if there was a tale hanging to every one of those dogs,” he said, grimly. “But what’s in these sacks?”

“Now look ye here—look ye here!” exclaimed D. Wragg, assuming not to have heard the last remark; “don’t you make no mistake. You’ve searched all from top to bottom now, gents, so let’s have an end of all this game.”

“Stand aside, will you,” cried the sergeant, roughly; and forcing D. Wragg back, he strode up to the sacks, threw them down one after the other, and felt through them.

“Pooh! corks!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, after a few moments’ examination. “Don’t know what you want with corks up here though, master. What’s in the basket? Tied down, eh?”

“Now look here, don’t you make no mistake—don’t now—I purtest agen it all.”

With a fierce rush, D. Wragg threw himself upon the great basket, clinging frantically thereto, and struggling viciously, and kicking with his club boot at the men who tried to drag him away.

A sharp scuffle ensued, for the dealer clung tightly to the great flat hamper, and it was not till after quite a battle that D. Wragg was dragged from his hold, to stand panting, hot, and glaring of eye, gazing from one to the other.

“Now do, sir—do take my advice,” said the sergeant, once more drawing Harry Clayton aside. “I tell you frankly, I don’t like the look of things; and only think of the old gentleman, sir, if anything should prove to be wrong. You’d better take him away—you had indeed.”

He left Clayton, and, as if seeking to make delays, went and spoke to the constables, and then threatened to handcuff the dealer if he did not quietly submit.

“I don’t care,” said D. Wragg; “you may handcuff me, and leg-cuff me, and put a collar round my neck if you like; but I ain’t agoin’ to stand still and see my place pulled all to pieces for nothing at all. Don’t you make—”

“There! hold your tongue!” cried the sergeant; and he turned round to gaze at Harry Clayton, who had slowly crossed to where Sir Francis was standing, pondering the while upon the detective’s meaning looks and words.

He laid his hand upon the old man’s arm, but Sir Francis, on hearing his words, although he shudderingly turned from where lay the basket, sternly refused to go, and moved Harry aside as he grew more earnest and pressing.

Sergeant Falkner shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something about the obstinacy of old folks. Then he turned away, and, as a groan burst from D. Wragg, and he struggled with his captors, the basket was approached, the string that tied down the lid was cut; the said lid, set quite free, was dashed open, and then the sergeant stood gazing excitedly down into the straw which covered something with which the great wicker case was filled.

“Here! hold a lanthorn here, somebody,” cried the sergeant; and one of the men who were holding D. Wragg darted eagerly forward, making the rays of his bull’s-eye fall full upon the straw, when, after parting it a little, the lid was dashed down again, and the sergeant sat upon it, wiping his hot forehead.

“Pooh! what a fool I am!” he ejaculated the next instant; “but really for a while I thought—. Well, Mr Wragg, I think we’ve done up here for the present; but ’pon my soul, if I had a lot of stolen hams in my attic, I don’t think I should tell the police quite so plainly as you did that every one of them belonged to some one else.”

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Disappointment.

Five minutes after, his brain in a whirl from the reaction that had taken place, when—wound up to expect some great horror—he had found nothing but that which was trifling and absurd, Sir Francis Redgrave was seated in the Frenchman’s room; for he had turned sick and faint, and brandy had been procured for him, Patty eagerly bringing forward glass and water, for Janet seemed completely unnerved, and had sunk down on a low seat with her face in her hands, as if stunned.

“You look young, and good, and pure-minded,” said the old man, feebly, as he looked fixedly in Patty’s fair young face, as she gazed sympathisingly in his countenance. “Listen to me, my child—for you are quite a child to me. Perhaps you know I am seeking my boy, my only child. I can see through it now. In his folly he was attracted here by you. I don’t reproach you; I say nothing harsh, only pray you humbly, as his father, to tell me where they have placed him. Is he dead? Has he been inveigled into some den for the sake of his money? Only tell me—only let me be at peace, and I will bless you. Do you know? Do not be afraid to answer. You shall be protected, even if it were for life, should it prove necessary. The man below has sworn that my son entered this house, and did not come out again.”

“Yes—Jack Screwby,” said the sergeant, interposing, and nodding his head as he spoke.

“Tell me then, my child,” continued Sir Francis, “and I will bless you, pray for you, offer up an old man’s prayers for your happiness—only set me free from this horrible suspense. Tell me even if he is dead.”

Patty sobbed as she gazed in the old man’s face, and then with an effort she exclaimed—

“It’s all false, every word. That man is a bad, cruel fellow, and the enemy of my friends here. What he has said is not true, I am certain of it.”

“You are in league with these people,” said the old man, turning from her.

“No—no—no! What I said is true—quite true,” sobbed Patty.

But the old man refused to hear her, and turned to speak to Janet; but she shrank from him, cowering in a corner with a childlike display of fear, and only glancing at him from time to time, as if horror-stricken.

“You see,” said Sir Francis, “she knows all, and dare not approach to tell it. That there is some fearful mystery here, I feel more and more convinced; but, doubtless, in God’s good time all will be brought to light.”

He rose as he spoke, and approached Janet, who shrank from him more and more, waving her hand to keep him off her, and each moment growing more frightened and hysterical.

“Come, my friends,” said Sir Francis, drawing back with a bitter sigh, as he saw the uselessness of pressing inquiry in Janet’s case, “let us go. Constable, you will sift this matter to the very bottom.”

The sergeant nodded shortly, and Sir Francis turned towards the door; but Patty flew to him, and caught one of his hands.

“Oh, sir!” she cried, “can you not believe me? Indeed, indeed, I have spoken the truth. Your son did come many times, I know; but I hate him,” she cried, naïvely. “I would not, though, nor would any one here, hurt a hair of his head. We could not help his coming; and if he were here on that Tuesday night, I did not see him when I came. I am sorry—indeed I am; and I pity you from the bottom of my heart, for we have our feelings even as you rich people have.”

“But not feeling enough to ease a poor old man’s heart,” said Sir Francis, coldly, as thrusting her back, he took another step towards the door.

“He does not believe me—he does not believe me!” sobbed Patty, clasping her hands together, and then, excitedly, she exclaimed—“Does no one believe what I say?”

“I do, Miss Pellet, from my soul,” exclaimed a deep voice, and, stepping forward, Harry Clayton caught her clasped hands in his, as the young girl joyfully met his gaze.

But this was but for a moment; the next instant had hardly passed before her eyes fell, she hastily drew back her hands, and, with a heavy sigh, she shrank back to where Janet cowered in her chair, and stayed there until, one by one, the others went out, leaving the two friends the sole occupants of the room.

“Are they all gone?” whispered Janet at last, from where she had hidden her face in Patty’s breast.

“Yes; all—all,” said the agitated girl.

“I could not bear to look at the suffering old man,” said Janet, huskily. “It seemed to me as if he would be able to read in my face all that I felt, and so I acted like a frightened child, and he must have looked upon me as almost an idiot. But it is very horrible, Patty; and I seem to see the poor boy always before my eyes, with his white forehead all dabbled in blood, and his face pale and ghostlike. I dream of him so every night, and I know I feel as if something dreadful had happened. But what does it all mean?”

“Oh, hush—oh, hush!” said Patty; while Mrs Winks, who had just returned, buried her face in her apron, and seating herself upon the floor, as more lowly than a chair, she rocked herself to and fro, in the true sympathy she felt for the distressed girls.

“Why did they come here at all?” cried Janet, fiercely. “We were happy in our poor way before that; and now they have made us wretched for life. But Patty, Patty, this sight—this horrid vision—which I always have before me;” and as she spoke, she looked straight before her with hot and straining eyes. “What does it mean? I feel sometimes that I cannot bear it.”

Patty tried hard to soothe her companion; but her efforts seemed to be absolutely in vain, so wild and excited had Janet grown. At times her hearers shuddered as they listened to her exclamations, Mrs Winks even going so far as to glance over her shoulder to make sure that nothing of the kind described was really present.

Then for a time the poor girl calmed down, and Patty began to hope that her soothing words had taken effect; but soon there came a repetition, and Janet raised her head to stare straight before her, as she exclaimed:—

“It seems, at times, as if I could not bear it—as if it would send me mad; for he is in pain, I know—I feel. He is wounded—perhaps dead; and oh, Patty,” she whispered, her face, her voice softening as she leaned her forehead upon her companion’s shoulder, “I love him so—so dearly.”

Kissing her tenderly, smoothing her hair fondly the while, Patty tried to whisper comfort to the fluttering aching heart, beating so wildly within that deformed breast.

But all seemed in vain; the troubled spirit refused to be comforted, for it knew its desolation, and that even if Lionel Redgrave were found to be living and well, there was no hope, no rest for her.

“Try not to cry so much, dear,” said Patty, simply. “It will make your head ache.”

“Better the head than the heart, Patty,” cried Janet, passionately. “Oh, I wish I was dead—I wish I was dead!”

“Hush, hush, dear! how can you?” whispered Patty. “Try, do try to keep it back.”

“Yes, yes,” said Janet, with a sigh that was more like a groan. “I will be patient, I will try and bear it, and you will try and pray with me, Patty, that he may be safe and well, and restored to the good old man, his father. Oh! how I longed to be near him—to go on my knees by his side; and when he asked me to come, it was almost more than I could bear. Something seemed to be drawing me to him, and again something was dragging me back. Patty, how do people feel when they go mad? Is it anything like what I have been suffering these last few days?”

“Did you not promise me that you would be calm?” whispered Patty, soothingly.

“Yes, yes, I know I did, and I am trying; but you will pray too, Patty dear, will you not?”

“Yes,” answered Patty, as she clung close to the poor suffering girl. “I will pray too.”

“But he believed you, Patty,” Janet exclaimed, suddenly; “and came to your side then, like a lover should. I was in trouble, but all the same I could see his proud look. He loves you—he loves you!”

“Oh! hush, Janet, hush!” cried Patty, wearily. “Am I not unhappy enough? It can never—never be! And besides,” she added, proudly, as her pale cheeks flamed up, “does he not love somebody else?”

“Here’s somebody a-comin’,” cried Mrs Winks, suddenly starting into life from the bundle of collapsed clothes that seemed to be heaped the minute before upon the floor. “Most likely it’s Mr Pellet come to fetch you, my dear; and oh! what faces we three have got!—all swelled up with cryin’ so as was never seen. What’s goin’ to come of us all? for, dear me, if it ain’t for all the world like a scene in a play, with the lovers all going crosswise and the others crooked; and I declare once if I didn’t think as the curtain was going to come down in a minute, and I should have to fetch my basket. But there! do wipe your eyes, my dears—there’s somebody a-comin’; and it’s glad I shall be when it comes to the last act, and everybody’s made happy ever after—except Jack Screwby, as is the bad villin of the whole piece. Come, dry your eyes, do.”

Mrs Winks gave her own optics a most tremendous scrub with her apron as she spoke, drying them certainly, but at the same time making them far more red. Then she made an elephantine kind of movement towards the door, holding it to with one hand, signalling with the other to her young companions to remove the remaining traces of tears, and nodding and frowning till there was a gentle tap, and a voice said from the outside—

“May we come in?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the stout dame, smiling, “I’m glad you’ve come home, Mr Canau,” as, on her opening the door, the Frenchman entered the room, closely followed by Jared Pellet, who raised his eyebrows as he saw the traces of the tears the girls had shed.

“I only wish you’d been here, Mr Canau, I do!” exclaimed Mrs Winks; “for it’s dreadful, people coming and going on as they do and half fainting away for brandy.”

Jared looked serious as he heard the narrative of what had taken place, and then he glanced uneasily from one to the other, ending by sighing as he thought of how much trouble there was in the world; and soon after Patty and he were hurrying through the streets, with the poor-box uppermost in Jared’s thoughts, so that he had not a word for his child.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Confidential.

D. Wragg seemed to think that, in spite of his words, the mistake might be on his side if he made any complaints about the treatment he had received from the police. Once or twice he bristled up, and seemed to be making ready for a grand eruption; but second thoughts always came in time to calm him down, and those second thoughts, as a rule, related to the three dogs in the attic, the sacks of new corks, and the large flat hamper of Westphalia hams, respecting the possession of which goods he would not have liked to be too closely questioned.

That the police still had an eye upon his place he was sure; for he had many little quiet hints to that effect from friends outside, who knew a policeman in plain-clothes quite as well as if he were in uniform, and who, in consequence, were rather given to laughing at the popular notion that plain-clothes officers were able to mix here and there unknown with any society they might choose. But as the police seemed disposed to confine their attentions to a little quiet surveillance, and in other respects left him quite at peace, D. Wragg did not conceive that it would be advisable to beard the lions of the public order in their dens; so he winked to himself, watched anxiously every bystander who struck him as being at all like a policeman in mufti, and contented himself with talking largely to his confidential friends, though how far he was placing confidence in them remains to be proved.

“Look here, you know,” he said to Monsieur Canau one morning, when they had met on that neutral ground the passage, and adjourn ed to the shop, where they stood looking at one another in a curious distrustful fashion,—“look here, you know; we’re old friends, and you’ve lodged with me goodness knows how many years. I don’t mind speaking out before you. But don’t you make no mistake; there ain’t nothing kept back by me. As to them dorgs, how could I help about the dorgs when friends comes to me and says, ‘My dorg ain’t quite the thing to-day; I think I’ll get you to give him a dust o’ your distemper powder.’ And another one says, ‘I wish you’d take my dorg for a bit, and see if you think it’s mange as is a-comin’ on;’ while directly after comes another with a skye wiry, and says as he isn’t satisfied with the sit of his dorg’s ears, nor the way he sets up his tail. Well, in course I has to see to these things for ’em, my place being a sorter orspittle; and that’s how them dorgs come to be up-stairs; and the way they’ve come on since I’ve had ’em is something wonderful.”

Monsieur Canau nodded, and began to roll up a cigarette with clever manipulating fingers, keeping his eyes half closed the while, and smiling in a strange reserved way, that might have meant amusement, contempt, or merely sociability.

D. Wragg saw it, and became directly more impressive in his manner.

“Look here, you know,” he continued, earnestly; “I don’t mind speaking out before you. Don’t you make no mistake; we’re old friends, and this is how it is. Don’t you see, it’s all a plant as that there Jack Screwby got up because I as good as kicked him out—a vagabond! Wanted to come sneaking here after—but there!” he jerked out, throwing himself into quite a convulsion of spasmodic kicks, and scattering imaginary turnip-seed by the handful;—“I won’t talk about that no more. Only look here, you know; you’re my lodger, and I like my lodgers to look up to their landlord with respect; so don’t you make no mistake, and go for to think as them corks ain’t all square, because they air—square as square.”

Canau nodded, and lit his cigarette.

“Look here, you know,” continued D. Wragg; “it’s like this here—A man comes to you and he says, ‘I want two score o’ blue rocks’—pigeons, you know, for trap-shooting, a thing as you furriners can’t understand, though you may come to some day. Well, he says, ‘I want two score o’ blue rocks, and I ain’t got no money, but I’ve got corks;’ and corks, you know, is money, if there ain’t no money, same as, when there warn’t no money, people used to swop. Well, then, we settles it in that way—wally for wally—he has blue rocks, and I has corks; and he’ll sell his blue rocks for money to the swells, and I shall sell my corks for money to a chap I knows as makes ginger-pop. And now, what’s the matter? No one can’t say after that as them corks ain’t square, can they?”

“But there was the ham,” said Canau, apparently disposed to cavil.

“Don’t you make no mistake about that. That there ham’s sweet enough; nothing couldn’t be squarer. We like ham, we do; and Mother Winks is mortal partial to a rasher. That’s why I laid in a stock.”

“Um!” said Canau, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke; “and about—about the young man?”

“Well,” said D. Wragg, looking sidewise out of his little eyes, “perhaps I worn’t quite square over that; for you see the young chap was all on the stare about little Pellet; and as he seemed ready to buy half the shop if she was likely to be here, I did think we might as well make a few pounds extry; for times is werry hard, you know, Mr Canau, and expenses is werry great: things runs up ’orrid.”

Canau smoked fiercely, his yellow forehead growing knit and angry-looking; but he did not speak.

“She didn’t like it, though,” continued D. Wragg; “and don’t you make no mistake: I was sorry for it afterwards, and called myself a bumble-footed old beast when I see her a cryin’. But don’t you make no mistake; as soon as I see she didn’t like it, why, bless her little heart, I says, ‘Don’t you go in the shop no more than you like, my pet,’ I says; and, bless her, she said she done it for poor Janet’s sake.”

D. Wragg seemed to be so affected by his recollections that he drew out a pocket-handkerchief and removed a faint drop of moisture from the corner of one eye, and another from the right side of his nose with the stem of his pipe, Canau nodding satisfaction the while many times over—seeming, too, more tranquil of spirit, for the puffs of smoke from his cigarette were evolved far more slowly, and went curling gently upwards towards the ceiling of the shop.

“I like natur, Mr Canau,” said D. Wragg, “and being a spoiled child of natur myself, I always did like natur. That little Pellet’s like, as you may say, natur’s cream, all served up together. Dorgs is natur, and all these here’s natur.”

D. Wragg paused, inserted his left thumb in the armhole of his vest, and with the other hand gracefully waved round the stem of his pipe, indicating in turn the caged prisoners around.

“I loved natur, Mr Canau, when I was a boy, and went birds’-nestin’ and ketchin’ frogs instead of goin’ to school, and took to the serciety of bird-ketchers, which is men of nat’ral habits, as is in some things a pleasure to know. It was my love of natur, Mr Canau, as fust set me beginning trade—selling ’edge-hogs and greenfinches and nesties of young birds in the streets; and it was natur as made me to prosper and get into this here large way of business. I’m a London man bred and born, though justice worn’t done me in either case—for I’m wideawake to what’s wrong with me; but I’ll back myself in nat’ral history to tell anything you like, from a ork down to a tom-tit, and t’other way from a mouse up to a helephant—if so be as they’re all English. For, you see, I never went travelling, only once, when I went round for a whole year with Wombwell’s nadgery, feeding the wild beasties, and helping to put the carrywans straight,—and all from a love of natur, Mr Canau, though you did get rather more natur there than you liked, ’specially as regards smells, and bein’ kep’ awake of a night by the hyenas a laughin’, or them great furrin cats letting go like hooray—let alone the other things. And that was why I left it and took to dorgs,—selling washed pups at carriage-doors, warranted never to get no bigger. And look here,” he continued, with a grin; “if ever you should take to that there trade, I’ll put you up to a breed as the pups is the werry smallest in natur, and washes the whitest in natur; but as for the size they grows up to in a swell’s house, where they’re fed up like bloated haristocrats, with their chicking and weal cutlet, and all that sorter thing, and the colour they gets to—my!”

Mr D. Wragg chuckled loudly as he described this freak of “natur;” but it was observable that the puffs of smoke from Canau’s cigarette came swiftly, as he still watched the dealer with a strange indescribable expression.

“I love natur, Mr Canau; and that’s how it is I always did love babies and little gals, for they is natur, the prettiest bits of all. I can always kiss them little soft bits of natur, babies—if so be as they’re clean, but to be dirty down here in Decadia, ’tis their natur to. But you see they ain’t werry fond o’ being kissed by me, not being no ways handsome. Natur never took no pains with me when she made me, you know. I don’t believe as I were ever finished, and ’cordingly I wear this thick boot. But this here set out’s quite upset me, Mr Canau, and I don’t think I shall have any more to do with dorgs. I’ll keep to birds only; for just fancy having the police in your house, and wanting to make out as you’ve got a young fellow burked away somewhere, and frightening them poor girls a’most to death! You know it’s nothing but that upset as has made poor Mother Winks slip out to get that ginger-beer bottle of her’s filled so many times. She don’t generally do more in that way than we do with our ’bacco.”

“I listen to all you say,” said Monsieur Canau now, for D. Wragg was almost breathless; “but this does not explain. Where is the young man?”

“How should I know?” snarled D. Wragg, fiercely. “You don’t suppose I’ve had any hand in it, do you? How should I know where he is?”

“But he came here, and he is gone,” said the Frenchman.

“Well, suppose he is,” said D. Wragg, sulkily. “He came here, and he is gone. How should I know where he is gone. Into the sewers or down the river for aught I know. Do you know where he is gone?”

“Who? who? do I know?” cried Canau, excitedly. “No, no—no, no! I know nothing. I have not seen him here or anywhere at all lately. I do not know anything about him—nothing at all.”

“No more don’t I,” growled D. Wragg, sullenly.

“You do not? You will swear you know nothing at all of the poor young man?”

“Course I will,” said D. Wragg, stoutly. “He’s got dropped on to by somebody; and no wonder. Dessay its part of Jack Screwby’s lot; but I ain’t going to blow upon anybody. He thought that he was very cunning in setting it down to my door so as to get it away from his; but he didn’t work much out of it anyhow. The young chap was safe to come in for it though, flashing about streets like these here with his gold watches and chains and rings, when there’s hundreds of hungry mouths about, and hundreds of fingers itching to snatch at ’em. And since you come to that, don’t you make no mistake; I never does nothing as ain’t honest. But, mind you, I don’t say as Jack Screwby knows all about it. I’d just as soon say you do, for you know as you didn’t like his coming.”

“Who?—I?—I know? Not I—nothing at all,” cried Canau, very heartily. “But I will take one more little pinch of tabaque, Monsieur Wragg,” he said, with the extreme of cold politeness; “and then you will excuse—I go to my promenade.”

D. Wragg gazed curiously at his sallow lodger, as he prepared himself another cigarette, till, as if feeling that he was watched, Canau stealthily raised his eyes till they encountered those of the dealer, when, for a few moments the two men stood, each trying to read the other’s thoughts, till, lowering his lids, Monsieur Canau lit his cigarette, raised his pinched hat a few inches, and then slowly left the shop.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

After the Search.

Upon several occasions when Monsieur Canau saw Patty home to the pleasant manufacturing shades of Duplex Street, he sought to open up this affair with Jared Pellet, so as to hear his opinion upon the subject; but it was only to find Jared dull and abstracted, and ready to return monosyllabic answers to all that was said. Twice over he had called too, bringing with him his violin; but upon those occasions weary-looking Tim Ruggles had been there, and no music had followed—no Mozart, not even one of Corelli’s old sad-toned minor trios, with movements named after the dances of our forefathers, corantos and sarabands; funeral marches they ought rather to have been, unless it is that music grows mellow and sad-hued with age, changing even after the fashion of wine.

Monsieur Canau used to divine that there was trouble afloat, and refrained from hinting at the object of his visits, contenting himself with buying a couple of Jared’s atrocious Roman strings, and then coming away.

“They have a bébé there,” muttered Canau, “that is like a music-box; and I think they wind him up every night just before I go, for he is always cry.”

It was as patent to Monsieur Canau as to D. Wragg that the Brownjohn Street house was under police surveillance, for there was often some stranger to be seen loitering about, one very ordinary-looking individual, trying very hard not to seem as if watching the former as he went out.

But D. Wragg was not deceived in the slightest degree, for beside his great experience of ‘natur,’ he had attempted to acquire something of art—to wit, police art—enough to enable him to point out, with the accompaniment of a peculiar wink, the plain-clothes officer to his French lodger, who had, however, only replied by a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, and a look in another direction.

But D. Wragg did not look another way, evidently bent upon wearing the aspect of utter defiance of the law. He stood now at his shop-door fiercely smoking, giving himself twitches and jerks that quite scared such of his stock-in-trade as were in close proximity, and sent his dogs shrinking back, snapping and snarling, whenever he turned their way.

Mr John Screwby and he had encountered more than once—the former gentleman making a practice of insulting the dealer; and, as if out of revenge for his non-success in obtaining the two hundred pounds reward,—staring up at the front of the house, or making believe, with a grin, to peer down into the cellar,—movements which made D. Wragg, under the idea that he was gnashing his teeth like an ordinary mortal, snap and snarl like a flea-bitten terrier.

Upon this day, it was fated that, as soon as Monsieur Canau was out of sight, Mr John Screwby should appear loafing along the opposite side of the road, so far from upright in his conduct, that he rubbed his right shoulder here and there against wall and window-frame as he passed. His cap was drawn down over his ears, a piece of straw in his mouth, and his hands right above the wrists in his pockets, and their owner staring heavily here and there after something fresh, till he came in sight of D. Wragg. Now he grinned spitefully, and, walking slowly on, stopped at last opposite the dealer’s house, to stare heavily up at the attic windows, shading his eyes, leaning a little on this side and a little on that, as if eagerly searching for something to be seen. Then, according to custom, he crossed the road to gaze for a moment through the cellar-grating, holding one hand to his ear as if listening attentively; and then fixing his eyes upon the dirty sash of the window seen through the grating, he began to walk slowly backwards and forwards, totally ignoring the presence of D. Wragg the while.

“There’ll be a row directly, Mr Jack Screwby,” said the dealer, with a sharp snarl, as he stood watching his enemy’s actions.

Mr Screwby took not the slightest notice of the speaker, only stopped short as if he had caught a glimpse of something.

“I wonder wot they’ve done with the pore chap!” he said at last, in quite a loud voice. “I shouldn’t be a bit s’prised if they’ve berried ’im in the kitchin.”

“If I could have my way with you, young fellow, I’d serve you out for this!” said D. Wragg, shaking his fist, to the great amusement of a small crowd fast collecting.

“What ’ud you do with me, eh?” said Screwby, with a grin. “Burke me, like the pore chap as come arter his dorg, eh?”

“You wouldn’t dare to talk like that there, Jack Screwby, if I was a man of your own size and age,” said D. Wragg, viciously.

“P’raps I should—p’raps I shouldn’t,” sneered Screwby. “But how about the pore young man?”

D. Wragg made a terrier-like movement, as if about to rush at a bull-dog, to the great delight of the crowd, especially as at that moment the thick new boot, freshly completed by Mr Purkis, caught in the grating, and D. Wragg nearly fell.

“Don’t let him come a-nigh you,” said Screwby, grinning, “or he’ll serve you same as he did the pore young man.”

Here there was another shout, and the popular feeling seemed to be growing so strong, that, raging within himself, D. Wragg began to think it would be prudent to retreat, and he did so, followed by a loud jeering laugh.

But even now he was not to have peace, for he had hardly reached the sanctuary of his own room before a couple of small boys, probably incited thereto by Mr John Screwby, thrust their heads in at the shop-door, to roar, at the utmost pitch of their shrill treble—

“Who burked the boy?” fleeing the next moment as if for their very lives, on hearing the scraping of the dealer’s chair.

This is merely a sample of the unpleasantness that the little dealer was called upon to bear; for Mr Screwby was exceedingly bitter against the house of Wragg, inasmuch as there had been no discovery made—not even the trace or tiny ravelling of a thread sufficient to commence a clue; and what was more, Sergeant Falkner had strongly negatived the necessity for rewarding him, even in the slightest degree—though, unseen by the police, Clayton had slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand.

But what was a sovereign as compared with the golden heap that two hundred would have made? And then what things it would have bought! Mr John Screwby had already gloated over several articles—notably a brown fur cap, dyed catskin, which he coveted hugely; but now the whole of his air-built castle was swept away; and to make matters ten times worse, he had been requested by the sergeant not to show himself anywhere near a certain number in Regent Street any more.

This last was rather a serious command, for it was indeed a special order, although couched in the form of a request. To a gentleman in Mr Screwby’s circumstances, matters might turn out very unpleasantly if he slighted the sergeant’s impressive words.

Under these circumstances, though not caring a jot for the fate of Lionel Redgrave, Mr John Screwby, failing money, determined to have the full measure of his revenge, brimming over, if it were possible, and therefore he joined himself heart and soul to the party whose every effort was directed towards the elucidation of the mystery which had prostrated Sir Francis. For after striving most manfully to fight against bodily weakness, the old baronet lay at his son’s chambers in a state upon which the medical men consulted declined to give a decided opinion.

To a bystander Sir Francis seemed weak and perfectly helpless, but a few words relating to information would galvanise him into life once more; and so it was that one afternoon, when a rough, waterside-looking fellow presented himself, Sir Francis immediately ordered him to be shown up.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

The New Clue.

“He’s been out again, sir,” said Mr Stiff to Clayton, as he entered the passage.

“What! Sir Francis?”

“Yes, sir. A man came from down Bermondsey way, and said he had some news, and I daren’t refuse him. You know, sir, it might be valuable, and it would not do for me to be shutting off the very bit of information that might be worth anything.”

“What kind of man was it?” asked Harry.

“Poor Jack sort of fellow, sir, from river stairs; and I told Sir Francis, as he told me to tell him of everybody who called only this morning again, and I showed the man up. Then they went off together in a cab, and he’s just come back, sir.”

“What madness—in his state!” exclaimed Harry, and he hurried up the stairs to find Sir Francis seated on a low chair, with his face buried in his hands.

Sir Francis looked up as the young man entered, to gaze at him in a confused, dazed way, as if he did not quite comprehend the meaning of his coming.

“Was not this rather foolish of you, Sir Francis?” said Harry, gently. “Indeed you are in no condition for going out. I see how it is, though, and I feared it when you put in the advertisement; the very name of the chambers in Regent Street was enough to bring down a host of reward-seekers. Why did you not take my advice, and refer them to the police?”

“I couldn’t, Clayton—I couldn’t,” groaned Sir Francis. “You do not know what I feel, or you would not speak to me as you do. Poor lad!—poor lad!”

Harry was silent for a few minutes, and then he spoke again.

“It was, of course, a useless quest, sir?”

“I can’t tell—I don’t know,” said Sir Francis, feebly. “I am confused and troubled in the head, Clayton, and I have been trying hard to recollect what it all was, and what I did; but as soon as I grasp anything, it seems to glide from me again.”

“Lie down, sir,” said Harry, gently, and he passed an arm beneath that of the old man.

“Not yet—not yet—not yet, Clayton. I think I have it now. Yes, that is it—I have it. The man came and said they had found some one by the river-side, and I went half-way with him; and then I suppose I must have fainted, for I can recollect no more, only that I was brought back—or no, I think I must have found my way back by myself. This weakness is a cruel trial just now.”

“You must put your strength to the test no more, sir,” said Harry, firmly. “Try and believe that I will do all that is possible. Indeed, I will leave no stone unturned.”

“I know it, Clayton—I know it!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “and indeed I do try, but this suspense is at times more than I can bear.”

At the young man’s persuasion, he now went to lie down, giving up in a weary vacant manner the effort to recollect where the man had been about to take him. He tried once to recall the names, till Harry felt a dread of delirium setting in, and it was only by his promising to follow up the clue that had been freshly opened out, that he kept the afflicted father to his couch.

Once more alone, Harry rang for Stiff, who, however, could only repeat what he had before said, and his querist was puzzled as to what should be the next steps taken.

The problem was solved by the waterside man himself, who came, he said, to see if the gentleman was well enough to go now.

“He turned ill in the cab, did he not?” said Clayton.

“Yes, sir; would go in a cab, he would. I don’t like ’em—ready to choke yer, they are; but he wouldn’t come on a ’bus. ’Fore we’d gone far, he turns as white as his hankychy, and shuts his eyes curus like, and gets all nohow in what he was a saying; but he says, he does, ‘Take me back, and come agen.’ So I brought him back, and now I’ve comed agen.”

“And now, what is your news?” said Harry. “The gentleman has placed it in my hands.”

The man looked curiously at him for a few minutes, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose with a rough hand.

“But you see, sir, this is a matter o’ offring rewards for some one as is missing, and I’ve got a mate in this here job. For, you know, as soon as ever there’s a notice up o’ that sort, my mate and I begins to look out, so as to try if we can’t find what’s missing, and get what’s offered. Now, I ask your parding, sir, but I should like to know who you may be, and what you’ve got to do with it at all? S’pose I leads you to it, shall we get the ready?”

“You may deal with me precisely as you did with the gentleman you saw before. You know for yourself that he is too ill to leave the house, and he has deputed me to act for him, as I told you.”

“True for you, sir—I did see it; and as you seem to be a gent as is all right, let’s go.”

A cab was brought, and, not without a glance at his unsavoury companion, Harry followed him into the vehicle.

“Hadn’t yer better let me ride outside, sir?” said the man, looking at the stuffed and cushioned interior with an aspect of disgust.

“No,” said Harry; “I want to know what more you have to say respecting this affair.”

The man gave a tug at an imaginary forelock, and then waited apparently to be questioned, while Harry took in his outward appearance at a glance.

He was rough and dirty enough to have passed for the veriest vagabond in existence, but all the same he did not seem as if he belonged to that portion of society that has been dubbed “the dangerous classes;” for there was a good open aspect to the brown face, and though the Bardolphian nose told tales of drams taken to keep out the cold river mists, on either side a frank grey eye looked you full in the face; while, greatest test of all, the fellow’s palms were hard and horny, and ended by fingers that had been chipped, bent, bruised, and distorted by hard labour.

“Well, sir,” said the man, “I ain’t got much to tell you; only that, seeing the reward up, my mate and me thought we might as well have it as any one else, so we set to and—”

“You found him?” exclaimed Harry, eagerly.

“Well, sir, that’s for you to say when you sees him. My mate generally sees people about these sorter things, but I come to-day; and a fine job I had to get to know where you lived, for I’d forgot the number; but I found out at last from a gal cleaning the door-step close by. It don’t do for us, you know, to go to no police—they humbugs a man about so; and I don’t know now whether they ain’t been down on my mate, ’cos you see we didn’t want to say nothing to them till as how you’d been and seen it.”

Harry shuddered at that last word “it;” there was something so repellent, though at the same time expressive, in the one tiny syllable it now, not him; and again he shuddered as he thought of the ordeal through which he had to go. He roused himself at last, though, to ask a few questions as the cab drove on, the driver making his way over the river to the Surrey side; and, as soon as they were in the comparative silence of the narrow streets, Harry learned that during the past night his companion had been successful in his search, and that what he had sought lay now in a boat-house far down the Thames in the low-lying district where wharf and dock and rickety stairs, or steam-boat pier, alternate with muddy-pile and drain, with bank after bank of slime, over which the water of the swift tide seemed to glide and play, here and there washing it up into a foul frothy scum, compounded of the poisonous refuse daily cast into the mighty stream.

It was a long ride, down deplorable looking streets, where wretched tumble-down tenements, with frowsy aspect and dingy, patchy windows, were dominated by lordly warehouses, with great gallows-like cranes at every floor—floors six, seven, and eight stories from the ground—from whose open doors men stood gazing down as coolly as if they were on terra firma, though a moment’s giddiness must have precipitated them into the street below.

Harry saw all this as they rode slowly on, in spite of the pre-occupation of his thoughts, as he tried to nerve himself for the task to come. Probably his brain was abnormally excited, and the pictures of the panorama passing the cab-window seemed to force themselves upon him. Now he was apparently interested in the places where the ship-chandlers hung out their wares; the next minute, the gate of a dock, with its scores of labourers waiting for a job, took his attention; or low public-houses and beer-shops, with their lounging knots of customers, half labourer, half sailor, or lighterman, with the inevitable brazen, high-cheeked, muscular woman. A little farther on, and he would be grazing at a clump of masts rising from behind high walls. Then came comparatively decent dwellings with a vast display of green paint, and to the doors brass knockers of the most dazzling lustre. In nearly every parlour-window he saw was a parrot of grey or gaudy hue swinging or climbing about. In front of more than one house were oyster forts with sham cannon; while others again had flagstaff’s rigged up with halyards, vane, and pennant, looking down upon the bruised figure-head of a ship which ornamented the neighbour’s garden.

Maritime population with maritime tastes, the houses of trading skippers and mates of small vessels. Sea-chests could be seen in baxrows at every turn, along with the big bolster-like bag that forms the orthodox portmanteau for a sailor’s kit. Here and there he passed, in full long-shore togs, the dwellers in the sea-savouring houses—passing along the pavement with one eye to windward, and the true nautical roll which told of sea-legs brought ashore.

On still, with the rattling of the wretched cab and its jangling windows seeming to form a tune which repeated itself ever to his ears. The man, from watching his companion, had taken to drumming the top of the door with his hard fingers, blackened and stained with tar, while from time to time he thrust out his head to give some direction or another to the driver, whose eccentric course seemed as if it would never end.

At last, though, the guide seemed to grow excited, giving his orders more frequently, the cab being slowly driven in and out of rugged, tortuous lanes, from one of which it had to back out, so as to give place to a waggon laden with ships’ spars and cables. Narrow ways seemed the rule, and down these the cab went jolting, till the driver drew up short at the end of a wretched alley.

Here the guide dismounted.

“Can’t get no furrer with cabs here, sir,” he said; “we must walk the rest on it.”

Harry told the driver to wait; and then, in a troubled state of mind, he followed his conductor in and out by wharf and crazy waterside shed, where paths were wet and muddy, and the few people seen looked poverty-stricken and repulsive. Tall walls heaved upward to shut out the light and air from the low, damp dwellings. A few yards farther and there was the din of iron as rivets were driven cherry-red into the plates of some huge metallic sea-ark. And again a little farther, and they were where corn ran in teeming golden cascades out of shoots to lighter or granary. Farther still, and the rap, rap, incessant rap, of the caulkers’ hammers were heard as they drove in the tarry oakum between the seams of the wooden vessels.

Iron-workers, black and grimy, painters, carpenters, rope-makers, all were busy here. Steam hissed and roared and shrieked, as it escaped from some torturing engine in white wreaths, like the ghost of dead water hurrying to its heaven of clouds far above the grimy earth. All forced itself upon Harry Clayton’s brain, as he followed his conductor to where there were loose stones and mud beneath his feet, the black rushing river on his left hand, and on his right slimy piles, black and green and brown, with the bolts protruding, and iron rings hanging from their sides, all eaten and worn away.

There was a channel leading to some dock close by, and foul water was babbling noisily down through a pair of sluice-falls, and this too struck him painfully as the plashing fell upon his ear.

All passed away, though, but the one shudder-engendering idea of that which he had come to see; for a rough harsh voice, proceeding from another amphibious muddy being, said:—

“You’ve found some one, then?”

“Ay!” was the response from Harry Clayton’s conductor; and making to the right, the young man found himself beside a low, wet, half-rotten shed.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

What the Shed Held.

Harry Clayton felt his breath come thick and fast as he caught sight of the low place by his side. It was a boat-house evidently, and was roughly built of the hole-filled planks torn from the side of some ship taken to the breaker’s yard. The door was secured with a large rusty padlock, and the amphibious-looking man, now introduced as “my mate,” had evidently been doing duty as a sentry, seated upon a post, and smoking a long clay pipe, troubled not in the slightest degree that within a few feet, dripping, soddened, battered by contact with pier and pile, lay the nameless dead, separated from him only by that badly-hung door facing the river, and through whose rifts and cracks and treenail-holes the interior could easily have been viewed.

The strongest of nerve might have shuddered as the man who had been keeping guard noisily unfastened the padlock, drew it from the staple, and was about to throw open the door of the hovel, when Harry abruptly arrested him.

“Are you sure that this answers to the description given?” he said, hoarsely.

“Sure on it! Oh yes, sir; that’s right enough. You needn’t go in without you like: you may take our word for it. But as soon as you’re saddersfied, we must go and tell the perlice, or else there’ll be a rumpus. They won’t like it as it is, and’ll be wanting to go in for the reward; but we looks to you, sir, as a genleman, to make all that right.”

“I’ll see justice done you,” said Harry, still hesitating.

“Thanky, sir! You see, about them police, there’s the inquiss, and the doctor, and the jury, and all of them to see it; but you may take our word for it as it’s all right: it’s him, sure enough.”

“How—how do you suppose it happened?—by accident?”

“Well, sir,” said the first man, “it don’t look very accidental when a poor chap’s got two knife-holes in his chest, and a cut across the head enough to do for any man. You may call it a accident if you like, but accidents don’t turn a chap’s pockets inside out, and take his watch and ring.”

Harry glanced again shudderingly at the door. Should he go in, or should he stay? It was cruel work, but he had promised the father, and the duty must be performed. He could not help dreading to gaze upon the fair frank face that he knew of old; and as he thought, he recalled it, with its insolent smile of triumph, when they parted at the station. And now, barbarously mutilated, sullied with mud and water, perhaps it would be so changed as to be beyond the power of recognition.

And yet he knew that it must be done—that it was impossible for him to take the men’s judgment, which must needs be of the most partial character.

There was nothing else for it, then, but to go, and he motioned to the man to throw open the door.

“I don’t know as I’d go, sir, if I was you,” said the man who had been his guide. “Give it up, sir, and take our word for it. We’re used to this sorter thing; but it ain’t pleasant to look at I wouldn’t go in, sir, if I was you.”

The man became so importunate at last, on seeing Harry’s firmness, that the latter grew angry, for he had now nerved himself for his task; and without waiting to hear more, he muttered the two words, “Poor Lionel!” threw back the door, and strode in.

Almost as soon as he had crossed the threshold the door swung to behind him, leaving the place in semi-obscurity, for it was only illumined by the faint pencils of light that streamed in through the treenail-holes of the old planks,

But there was light enough to show Harry that he was standing in a place whose floor was of muddy shingle stones, with a plank laid down the centre, worn and furrowed by the long coursing to and fro upon it of the iron keel of some boat. A few broken oars and a small skiff’s mast were leaned against the side in company with a boathook and a rude pole. Upon a peg hard by was a coil of rope and a grapnel; and again, in other parts, coils of rope and four-fluked, sharp-pointed grapnels, which made the visitor shudder as he thought of their purpose. Pieces of old iron, fragments of chain, scraps of rope, a ragged old ship’s fender, and some pieces of drift wood, muddy, sodden, and jagged with old red water-corroded nails, were all that remained to take his attention, as his eyes wandered round the place, studiously avoiding and leaving to the last that which he had expressly come to see.

Oars, boathook, mast, cordage, they were all there, but where was the boat’s sail? It was not in the boat—that he had seen when outside with the men.

Harry Clayton felt as if his mind were divided, and one portion were set in array against the other, questioning and responding, for the response was plain enough, and he knew that answer, though he had not seen that sail—could not see it now.

As he stood gazing upon the faint rays streaming down from between two loose tiles, falling here straight, there aslant, but all to cross and form a curious network of light with the rays pouring in from the side, he told himself that he was a coward; but the defensive part of his intelligence whispered in return, had this been the body of a stranger lying at his feet he could have calmly and sadly gazed upon the dead. But it was the dread of looking upon his friend—upon the man whom of late, but for a hard battle with self, he could have struck down as an enemy—to look upon him cut off in the flower of his youth, and by some dreadful death, in the midst of a wild freak, perhaps of dissipation.

Clayton paused, and he repeated these words—

“Had it been the body of a stranger!”

Then, as if a flash of light had illumined the meaning of those words, he started. “Had it been the body of a stranger!” Why, after all, might it not be the earthly clay of some one unknown. It would be horrible still; but if he could bear back the tidings to that stricken old man that Lionel might still be living—that this was not he—how he could fervently say, “Thank Heaven!”

He stepped forward to where an old patched sail lay covering something in a pool of mud and water. The sailcloth was stained and dabbled with the mud; and a strange sense of shrinking seized upon Clayton as he stooped to lift one end.

He knew which to lift, for through the bare old cloth the human form could plainly be distinguished. It was not much to do to raise that cloth at the end for a brief moment. He could recognise Lionel in an instant; and nerving himself once more, he stooped hastily, raised the covering, and dropped it again, to mutter—nay, to exclaim loudly, with a fervour of tone that bespoke the intensity of the speaker’s feelings—“Thank God!”

Harry turned hastily away, and forced open the door to admit the light of day, and to confront the bearer of the tidings and his mate; for his glance had been but a momentary one. He had stood at the back, as he raised the sail, and in that moment’s glance he had seen no horrors—none of the distortions left sometimes by a fearful death; he had seen but one thing, and that was—

The man’s hair was black!

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

River-Side Hopes.

Harry Clayton hurriedly made his way back to the chambers, where he found Sir Francis hastily walking up and down the room.

“Ah! you are back!” he said, impatiently. “I fell asleep for quite two hours, and then I should have come after you, only the address the man gave had quite glided from my memory. It seems, Clayton, as if my head were so full of this one trouble that it will hold nothing else. But what news?”

“None, sir,” said Harry, quietly. “It was, thank Heaven, a mistake.”

“I don’t know, Clayton—I don’t know. This suspense is almost more agonising than the knowledge that my poor boy had really been found dead. I feel, at times, that I cannot bear it much longer. You saw this—this—”

“Yes, sir; I saw the body of some poor creature lying in a boat-shed; but it was not the one we seek.”

“Are you sure? You were not mistaken? You really did look to make sure?”

Harry smiled faintly, as he thought of his irresolution, and the way in which he had held back; and then he answered, calmly—

“Yes, Sir Francis; I made perfectly sure.”

It was pitiful to see the old man’s trouble—the constant agitation, the anxious gaze, the nervous restless motion of his hands—as he turned over some communication—some letter professing to give information respecting a young man in some far-off part of England or Wales—every despatch exciting hopes that were soon found to be perfectly baseless.

At length, after much persuasion, Sir Francis agreed to lie down, on the condition that Clayton would stay, ready to answer any communication that might arrive.

“You know, my dear boy, these things always will arrive when we are absent,” he said, pitifully.

“Trust me, Sir Francis,” was the reply. “I am indeed doing everything possible to lead to a discovery.”

The old man did not trust himself to speak; but wringing Harry’s hand, he despairingly left the room.

In the meantime, Harry’s sudden departure from before the boat-shed, far down on the muddy banks of the Thames, had not been allowed to pass uncanvassed by the two rough men, the seekers for such ghastly waifs and strays.

“Suv’rin,” said the one who had acted as guide, in answer to a query,

“Air you sure as there worn’t two?”

“I am,” said the other, with a wave of his pipe-stem. “Why, if there’d been two, wouldn’t you have heard ’em chink when he stuffed ’em in my hand?” said Sam, not at all relying upon the known integrity of his character for refutation of this sideways charge that he had kept back portion of the reward. “There’s what he give me,” he continued, holding out a sovereign in his horny palm; “and we’ll get it changed as soon as you like.”

“Yes,” said the other, speaking indistinctly, on account of the pipe between his lips; “we’ll get it changed afore we go on to the station.”

As he spoke, he carefully chained and padlocked the door of the shed, smoking coolly enough the while.

“I ain’t seen anything else up—no notice, nor nothing,” said Sam; “and we mustn’t wait no longer before givin’ information, or there’ll be a row.”

“No, there ain’t nothing up,” said the other, pocketing his key, and removing his pipe to expectorate. “I’ve been looking, and there’s ony a bill up about a woman. He was precious pertickler. Why wouldn’t this one do? All they wanted was some one to give a decent Christun buryin’ to; and this here poor chap would ha’ done as well as any other one, to ease their minds with.”

“But you see he’s got black hair, and on the bill it says fair curly hair,” said Sam. “I was half afeard it wouldn’t do.”

“Yah! what does the colour of the hair matter?” grumbled the other. “I mean to say its reg’larly swindlin’ us out of two ’undred pound. He’d ha’ done as well as any other; and they might have ’ad their inkwist, and sat on him, and sworn to him, and said he was found drowned; and there’d ha’ been a comfortable feelin’, and they needn’t ha’ troubled themselves no more.”

“Well, let’s go and give notice; and then we’ll change this here, and have a wet—eh, lad?”

“Ah! may as well,” said the other, removing his pipe to draw an anticipatory hand across his mouth. “Let’s see—tall and fair—curly hair—eh, Sam? Well, perhaps something may turn up yet time enough for us. That ’ere would have done safe enough if his hair had been right colour. Better luck next time—eh, lad?”

“Ah! dessay,” said Sam, forcing the sovereign right to the bottom of his pocket. “Two ’undred pound reward! We ought to have had it old man; but who knows but what something mayn’t turn up yet?”

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

D. Wragg.

There was far from being peace in the house of Wragg, for the place had gained a most unenviable notoriety. Wrong-doings were prevalent enough in Decadia, but they were ordinary wrong-doings, and those who were guilty of peculiar acts were, as a rule, patted on the back by the fraternity. In fact, if ’Arry Burge, or Tom Gagan, or Micky Green was taken for a burglary or robbery with violence, there would always be a large following of admiring companions to see the culprit off to the station, to be present at the hearing, and to give him a friendly cheer during his handcuffed walk to the black van. They had no very great objection to a murder, and more than once a good hundred of neighbours had waited all night outside Newgate to see Bob, or Ben, or Joe, die game at eight o’clock in the morning. But this mysterious disappearance work was something not to be tolerated. There was too much of the Burke and Hare, and body-snatching about it; and consequently the name of Wragg stank in the nostrils of the clean-handed dwellers in Decadia, and the house in Brownjohn Street enjoyed for the time being but little peace.

D. Wragg could not show himself outside; and as for Canau, he had been mobbed twice, to return storming and angry, ready to threaten all sorts of vengeance upon his persecutors, foremost amongst whom was Mr John Screwby.

This gentleman seemed to have devoted himself heart and soul to the task of keeping alive in the Decadian mind the fact that Lionel Redgrave had been seen to go into the Brownjohn Street house, and had not been seen to come out; though all this rested on Mr Screwby’s assertion, since he brought no corroborative evidence to bear—only spoke of the matter right and left, even haranguing excited mobs, who would have needed but little leading to have made them wreck D. Wragg’s dwelling, and administer lynch-law to its inhabitants.

In fact, instead of the matter being a nine-days’ wonder, and then passing off, interest in the mystery seemed to be ever on the increase; and a feeling of dread more than once seized all the members of the household lest some terrible evil should befall them.

“I tell you what it is, young fellow,” said P.C. Brace one evening to Mr John Screwby, whom he had warned to move on, just at a time when he was haranguing a pack of boys,—“I tell you what it is, young fellow; if you get opening your mouth so wide about all this here, people will begin to think as you know as much about it as any one else.”

Mr John Screwby’s jaw fell, and he stood gazing speechlessly at the policeman, as that worthy wagged his head expressively, to indicate the words “Move on;” and then, without uttering another syllable, on he moved, rubbing his jaw with one hand, pulling his cap a little more over his ears, and in various ways acting as if not quite at peace within himself.

It was impossible for those within the house not to observe how they were looked upon by their neighbours. The trade of the shop had dropped off day by day, till there was absolutely nothing doing, although D. Wragg sat hour after hour smoking his pipe behind the counter, and muttering to himself.

Even Mrs Winks looked troubled and scared, coming up one morning from the cellar-kitchen, with her curl papers all limp, to declare in confidence to Janet that she “dursen’t go down no more, for she had heard a noise;” and then, in a very low whisper, she declared her conviction that there was something wrong.

This was soon after daybreak one washing-day; and from that time Mrs Winks decided in favour of the central portions of the house, refusing absolutely either to ascend to the attics or descend to the basement.

“But is it not foolish?” said Janet to her, one day. “What can there be up-stairs or down-stairs to hurt you?”

“There! don’t ask me, child,” exclaimed Mrs Winks. “I don’t know; I only know what I think. There’s something wrong about the place; and you can feel it in the air; and if it wasn’t for you, child, I wouldn’t stop another day—see if I would!”

That day passed in a cheerless, dreary way, but not quite in peace, for more than once a rude shout or laugh made Janet start from her seat, and stand trembling for what might be to come. But the demonstrations proved to be harmless, and no more offensive than they could be made by jeering words, and the hurling into the shop of a few stones and broken ginger-beer bottles, occasioning a vast amount of fluttering amongst the birds, and a fierce yelping from the prisoned dogs.

The night came at last, and D. Wragg was heard stumping and jerking about the house, as if busy examining all fastenings, and putting out the gas; and then there was a knock at the outer door—a well-known tap—to which Janet hastened to reply, and admitted Canau, who entered sideways, with the door only opened a few inches, and then closed it hastily, as if in dread of pursuit, when he stood looking at Janet, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an old silk handkerchief.

“Is there any news?” he faltered, looking hard at the deformed girl the while.

“No,” she replied, hoarsely; “there is no news.”

D. Wragg opened the back-room door at this moment, to glance out hastily, when seeing who it was, he re-closed the door and waited till his lodgers had gone up-stairs, when his head once more appeared like that of a rat from its hole, and he listened till all was still before again closing his door.

Silence fell upon the house at last; not, though, that all its inmates were at rest, for Canau lay for long enough sleepless, and turning over thought after thought. D. Wragg, too, was rather uneasy that night, while to Janet the hours dragged heavily on.

At last, though, in spite of her agitation, Janet was sleeping soundly, while, soon after daybreak, D. Wragg was astir, to gently draw up his blind and inspect the morning, a proceeding that did not seem to prove highly satisfactory, for he groaned more than sighed, shook his head, jerked about as he crossed the room, and then, without his boots, he stepped into the passage, and began to climb the stairs, pausing, though, upon each landing, to listen whether any one else were stirring.

But as far as he could judge, every one was sunk in that sound slumber of early morn,—Mrs Winks loudly announcing her state as he passed her door.

There seemed to be a great deal of indecision, though, in D. Wragg’s movements; his haltings were many, and the cautious manner in which he peered about seemed to indicate that the errand upon which he was bound was one of no trivial import.

At last, though, he climbed to the top, stood listening for awhile, and then entered the attic, closing the door carefully behind him, but apparently taking no steps to make it fast.

D. Wragg had not been out of sight five minutes, before there was the soft grating noise of a key turning in the wards of a lock; then there was a loud crack, and a door below opened to give exit to Monsieur Canau, who stood in the doorway listening for a few moments, and then, shoes in hand, descended softly and swiftly to the bottom of the house. On reaching the cellar-kitchen, he lit a candle, and after unbolting a door, passed under the area grating, with his pinched old hat held lanthorn-wise over the candle; and then, drawing open a second door, he entered a large cellar, in one corner of which was the small stock of coals in use for the house, and in another the ashes and refuse.

But Monsieur Canau had hardly a look for these; he merely glanced round the place, and then drew back the fastening of the inner cellar, one which seemed to extend far beneath the street.

His candle flickered here, and burned dimly for a few moments, as he walked backwards and forwards in the cobwebbed, vaulted place, holding his candle low down, and examining the reeking floor, particularly in one spot—the furthest corner from the door. This he scraped a little with his hands, then stamped upon several times; held the candle down to see what impression his feet had made; and then, taking up a rough piece of wood, he carefully drew it backwards and forwards over where he had stamped, and lastly, extinguished his candle. He then closed the cellar doors, crossed the area, and, after leaving all below as he had found it, hurried up-stairs once more, but, in spite of his years, with all the activity of a boy.

He stopped by his own room, entered it for a few moments, and then reappeared, to step up softly to the attic landing, where he again paused to listen attentively for fully five minutes. But though Mrs Winks was as stertorous as ever in her breathing, not another sound was to be heard in the house; and laying his hand upon the attic latch, Canau raised it very gently, not the eighth of an inch at a time, coaxing the door, as it were, to open without noise, till, by slow degrees, he had pressed it back sufficiently far to allow the passage of his head, when, cautiously inserting it to peer round, the door was pressed back upon his neck, holding it between the edge and the door-jamb, while, within a few inches, and gazing malignantly into his eyes, he found himself suddenly confronted by D. Wragg.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Jared’s Trouble.

“And the box not been touched since,” muttered Jared Pellet,—“not been touched since;” and he repeated the words which he had heard from Mr Timson but a few days before, as he stood in the porch of the old church, looking straight before him in a hopeless dreamy way. He had had no occasion to be there, no business to be there; for he had conducted the service for the last time, and on the next or the following day he would be called upon to give up his key. But that organ seemed to draw him there, so that he dreamed over it, clung to it, as he recalled that he must so soon give up his duties, and in such a fashion.

They knew nothing, suspected nothing at home; they only said that he practised oftener than ever,—that he hurried through little jobs to get to the church, where he spent long hours gazing in the reflector, and dreaming of the past and future, or making the passengers in the street pause and listen to the grand old strains. At times, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that it was true; but the inexorable crept on, till he could feel that he was only there upon sufferance, and blamed his want of pride in not giving up before.

The Reverend John had ceased to preach monetary discourses, and bowed austerely when once he encountered Jared, who shrank back, although he had fully determined to address him. Mr Timson, too, gave him no further opportunities for conversation, but passed him at a half-trot, with both hands under his coat-tails, giving him short, sharp, defiant nods. Even old Purkis grew strange and constrained, backing away from him, and bursting forth into a dew of perspiration which entailed no end of mopping and wiping. As for Mrs Ruggles, she never had been in the habit of bending to sociability, so that her stiff formality was passed unnoticed.

No; there was no keeping away from the old place now; and day after day, Ichabod grew richer with the many coppers he earned as Jared tortured the instrument into the giving forth of wondrous wails and groans; no jubilant strains, but all sorrowful, and in harmony with his broken spirit.

Twelve o’clock! Ichabod dismissed, and the hour just struck by the old church clock in a halting broken-winded manner, as if the job was too much for it, while an ordinary listener would have been tired out before it reached half-way. But Jared listened, and shivered and shuddered too, as, after beating laboriously its heaviest task, it set in motion certain hammers which knocked “Adeste Fidelis” out of the bells, beaten out notes that came in a jerky, disjointed fashion, and muddled up with their rests—now one in its place, now three or four blundered together, as if in a hurry to finish a performance of which they were heartily ashamed.

But Jared stood it out, telling himself that most likely it was for the last time. Then he tried the church-door to make sure that it was fast, and afterwards slunk off slowly, and apparently believing that people could read the crime of which he was accused branded upon his forehead. Perhaps that was why he crushed his hat down over his eyes, and bent his head so as to encounter neither scowl of avoidance nor pitying glance.

In Duplex Street at last! and pausing to pull his face three or four different ways so as to get upon it a pleasant expression before inserting his latch-key; and, entering, to stand rubbing his feet upon the worn old mat, which had to be held steady with one foot while the other was cleaned, and had been so affected by time that, hydra-fashion, it was fast turning itself into two mats of a smaller size. Then, it took some time, to take off the old black kid-gloves, which Jared had cut down into mittens in consequence of finger dilapidations, or, as he said, to keep his hands warm when playing in the fireless church.

But there were cheery voices ascending the stairs, so putting away his last sigh, like his umbrella in a corner, he descended to the kitchen, and tried to enter, but the door handle only turned round and round, and would not move the latch. Directly after, though, there came the sound as of some one wriggling it back with a knife-blade.

“There, don’t touch me,” cried Patty, “or I shall flour you all over.”

The warning came too late, for Jared had already taken her in his arms to place a couple of kisses upon her blooming cheeks.

“There, I knew I should,” she continued; “and if I touch it I shall make it worse. But, father dear, I’d have that lock mended, or we shall all be fastened in some day.”

“Ah!” said Jared. “Now, if it could be repaired with glue, I might manage it myself.”

But as that seemed impossible, Jared began to hum a tune, his thoughts the while hanging upon the subject of his dismissal, as he wondered whether they had yet any inkling of the secret which oppressed him.

“Time enough for them to know when all is over, and I’ve given up the keys,” he muttered; “for even yet something may be found out. If not,” he thought, bitterly, “we must starve.”

“Has the vicar been or sent?” he said, in husky tones, but assuming all the indifference possible.

“No,” said Mrs Jared; “I’ve been thinking about him all the morning. Isn’t he late?”

Jared thought he was, and said so. But all the same, he had not expected him, only a cheque for his last quarter’s salary—money always heretofore paid to the day, though it was not likely that upon this occasion the vicar would follow out his old pleasant custom and bring the cheque himself. But Jared tried to persuade himself that even that was possible, for drowning men are said to clutch at straws, and Jared was drowning fast. He had kept his head above water a long time, but now all seemed at an end, and the waters of tribulation appeared about to close over him.

Mrs Pellet and her daughter continued to be occupied in domestic affairs, while now, as if Jared’s misery were not great enough, the straw seemed to be snatched from the drowning man as there came the terrible thought—Suppose that the vicar should not send at all? suppose that, taking into consideration how he had refrained from prosecuting, he should consider the quarter’s salary as forfeited?

Not a heavy sum certainly, but to Jared the want of it would be ruin piled upon ruin, a cruel heel crushing the head already in the dust.

“They told me to clear myself, to prove that they were wrong—and what have I done? But, there! absurd! They could not keep back the money; it would not be legal.”

But suppose that, legal or illegal, they kept it back to make up for the missing money, how then? The vicar would not do such a thing, he was too kind-hearted; but Timson might prompt him—Timson, who had always been so ready with his suspicions. He would go and tell him to his face of his cruelty to a wronged man. He dared meet him, though he now shrank from encountering the vicar. But no; he was too hasty; the money was not legally due until he had formally given up the organ-key. But if they did keep it back—that twelve pounds ten—could he not take legal proceedings for its recovery? How, when they had been so lenient to him?

“Lenient!” his brow grew wrinkled as the word flashed over his mind. Was he not innocent, unless indeed he had committed the theft in his sleep—walked to the church from sheer habit? But absurd! he was innocent. “Prove it, sir—prove it,” rang in his ears, and he seemed to see before him the stiff figure of the little churchwarden, with his hands stuck beneath the tails of his coat. “Prove it, sir—prove it,” and how was he to prove it?

Jared Pellet was a good actor, schooled in adversity; but on that day he was about worn out, and a less shrewd person than his wife would have seen that something was wrong. She noted it before he had been in long, and attributed it to the fact that they had not a penny in hand. He tried to laugh and be cheery, but his attempts were of so sorry a nature that Mrs Jared looked hard at him, when he seemed so guilty of aspect, that he was glad to call in the aid of a pocket-handkerchief, and make a feeble attempt at a sneeze.

“You won’t mind a makeshift dinner to-day?” said Patty, intent upon her task of preparing the repast.

Needless question to one who had practised the art of making shift for so many years, and to whom a good dinner was an exception to the rule.

“Been wanted while I was out?” said Jared, after declaring that he should enjoy the makeshift above all things. “Been wanted?” for it was a pleasant fiction with Jared that he did a large business in the musical instrument line, and that it was not safe for him to be away for a minute, though it was not once in a hundred absences that he was required; but the question sounded business-like, and he asked it regularly.

The answer was just what he expected—in the negative; but it came in so dreary a tone that Jared stared.

The reason was plain enough: Mrs Jared had caught his despondent complaint, and was rocking the baby over the fire as she counted up the holes that the expected cheque was to stop in connection with unpleasant demands for money, which she would have to answer meekly and with promises. The tears rose to her eyes as she thought of it all—tears reflected the next moment in those of Patty.

“What would they say if they knew all?” groaned Jared to himself as he saw the tears. But he felt that he must stave it off a little longer, as he planted a child on either knee so as to have something to do, and then declared himself to be ravenous for want of food.

Poor Patty finished her preparations. She brought out the scrap of cold mutton, and took up the potatoes and plain boiled rice-pudding, but her merry smile was gone. She too had her troubles, and it took but little to upset her. As she caught sight of her mother’s sad face, she had hard work to keep her own tears back; for the chill that seemed to have come upon their home had struck to her heart, schooled as it had lately been to trouble.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Expectancy.

It was a bitter day without, and now it seemed as cold within. The very fire in the bright little grate appeared to have turned duller, and the air more chill. As to the cold scraps of mutton, they were perfectly icy, and the fat flew off in chips and splinters. A cloud had settled down upon the house, so that there were even great tears round the potato-dish. As to piercing the cloud, all Jared’s efforts were in vain, for as fast as he tried to shine in a warm and genial manner to disperse this oppressive mist of adversity, he encountered one of Mrs Jared’s looks, which he interpreted to be suspicious—doubtful; and, one way and another, the meal was cold, not merely to a degree, but to many.

There was no work to do that afternoon; no musical cripples to doctor orthopaedically; no cracked instruments to solder, putty, or wax-end; no bellows to mend, hammers to refit, or false notes to tune in accordion or concertina. Trade was at a standstill, and Jared wondered how he should get through the afternoon till the hour when he had appointed Ichabod to meet him at the church for a last long evening practice at the old organ.

But the dinner was hardly over before the postman came by. Jared knew his legs as they passed the area grating, and ran up-stairs to see if he were coming there. For a wonder, he was, and as may be supposed, he left a letter.

Strange hand, and yet familiar. It must be from the vicar. But no; it was not his hand, Jared knew that too well to be mistaken, and his fingers involuntarily felt in his breastpocket for the missive which contained the key—a missive that he had of late told himself he ought to have taken to a good solicitor for advice, instead of quietly sitting down beneath the slur.

But perhaps, under the circumstances, the vicar had felt disposed to let some one else write to him. It must be the cheque; there could not be a doubt about it. No one else would write to him unless—unless—

Jared’s brow grew moist, as, in the ignorance of such matters, he stood trembling with the letter in his hand. Might not the vicar have taken legal proceedings, and sent him a summons, now that his time had expired?

That was a dreadful thought, and embraced innumerable horrors—the felon’s dock, police-van, cells, convicts, servitude, and worse, infinitely worse than all—a starving wife and children. Jared had a hard fight to recover his composure before going down again to the kitchen, where he tore open the letter.

Mr McBriar, the landlord, had sent his compliments, and a reminder, that though the rent for the quarter ending at Christmas would be due in a few days, that for the quarter ending at Michaelmas had not yet been paid.

Jared doubled the letter again very carefully, so as to hit the right folds, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it to his wife, who had the pleasure of taking it out and reading it, when Jared saw a tear fall upon the paper, and make a huge blot, turning the sheet of a darker colour as it soaked in.

Tears breed tears, and two bright drops sprang to Patty’s eyes as she thought of her own sorrows, of the troubles overhanging the Brownjohn Street house, and the way in which poor Janet was suffering. Then came thoughts of Harry Clayton; at times soft tender thoughts, at times those of indignation; and she told herself that he could not love her, or he would never have been ashamed to own her before his friends.

Did she love him? She asked herself the question, and replied to it with burning cheeks that she thought she did;—no, she was sure that she loved him very, very much. Oh I how gladly would the poor girl have gone up-stairs, and thrown herself upon her bed, to have a long, long, girlish cry.

“Would not Richard lend you a few sovereigns?” said Mrs Jared to her husband in a whisper.

“No, no; don’t, please,” cried Jared, in a supplicating voice. “Anything but that.” For in an instant he had conjured up the figure of his angry brother, and his disgrace. That brother calling him villain, thief, and scoundrel; upbraiding him once more for bringing disgrace upon the name so honoured amongst the money-changers of the great temple of commerce. “You know how I have asked him before, and what has been his reply. I can’t do it again. But there!” he said, in as cheerful a tone as he could command, “don’t fidget; things will come right. They always do, if you give them time enough; only we are such a hurried race of beings, and we get worse now there are steam-engines and telegraphs to work for us.”