Chapter CXXI…

Chapter CXXI

MISS STANBRIDGE’S PEREGRINATIONS――HER VISIT TO CHARLES PEACE.

Laura Stanbridge succeeded in reaching London without attracting any attention or arousing the suspicions of any one. She walked on for miles until she was fairly worn out with excitement and fatigue; nevertheless she persevered, being at the time under the full impression that messengers would be despatched from the gaol in all directions for the purpose of recapturing her.

This was done, but as frequently occurs in cases of this sort, the messengers went in every possible direction but the right one.

Laura did not deem it advisable to continue for very long in any of the high roads. She went through bye-lanes and unfrequented footpaths, and thereby dodged her pursuers. When fairly worn out with fatigue, so that she could barely drag one leg after the other――to make use of a common saying――she bethought her of what she could do. To betake herself to a house of public entertainment would be running a great risk, as the chances were that these establishments would be the first places the police would visit.

She espied at no very great distance a large-sized barn, and at once made for this as a haven of rest.

She had not much difficulty in unfastening the door, which was only secured by a wooden peg. This done, she crept in and stretched herself at full length upon some trusses of straw. She was so overpowered and prostrated, that she soon sank off to sleep, and did not awaken till the voices of men fell upon her ear. She then suddenly sprang to her feet and looked through the crevice of the barn-door.

It was by this time early dawn, and the hilltops were tinted with the rays of the rising sun.

In an adjacent field she beheld two farm labourers at work, and a milkmaid with her pail.

When their backs were turned she crept out of the barn, and passed into the lane which she had traversed on the night previous.

She had sufficient money on her person for her immediate wants; this had been given her by her friend, Mr. Leverall.

As the milkmaid came along with her pail she wished her a good morning.

She was a good-looking buxom wench, with red cheeks and mottled arms――the very personification of rude health and good-nature.

“An’ good morning to you, ma’am,” said the girl, staring with wonder, “but ye be up wi’ the lark, missus.”

“Yes,” said Miss Stanbridge; “I lost my way last night and took shelter in the barn till the morning. I could not find any place open.”

“Maybe you’re a stranger to these parts?” observed the girl.

“Quite a stranger. Don’t even know where I am or the name of this place.”

“Ye be London-bred and London-born if I aint mistaken?”

“You are quite correct in your surmise. I am a Cockney. That’s what you country people term us Londoners.”

The girl gave a broad grin and a chuckle at this last observation.

“I dunno how you could manage to rest in such a place as that,” said she, nodding with her head towards the barn.

“There was no help for it, my good girl; beggars must not be choosers, you know. But I say――listen to me a moment,” added Laura, slipping a shilling into the maid’s hand――“can you tell me, like a kind, good girl, as I am sure you are, where I can get a conveyance about here――a post-chaise, or something of that sort? It matters not what it is.”

“Where ee goin’ too, then?”

“I want to get to the nearest station. How far might that be off?”

“Well, better nor five miles――not a morsel less.”

“And, can you tell me where they let out flys?”

“Lord, no――not I. You won’t find any here about, I’m thinking.”

“Dear me, that’s unfortunate. No conveyance――eh?”

“Will ee coom inside the house and see missus?” cried the girl, as if a sudden thought had struck her.

“Ah, that I will; shall be but too glad to do so. Where is the master?”

“There aint no master. He be dead and gone.”

“Oh, only a missus?”

“Ah, that be all, but she be a good sort.”

“I shall be most delighted to make her acquaintance.”

Laura Stanbridge was conducted into a primitive-looking parlour, and introduced to a comely, cheerful-looking old lady, the mistress of the establishment.

“Your sarvint, ma’am,” said the old dame. “Glad to see you.”

The milkmaid informed her mistress that the London lady had lost her way on the previous night, and had sought shelter in the granary, and, furthermore, that she wanted to reach the railway-station as soon as possible.

“I be sorry you had no better accommodation,” oberved the old lady, “but ee must be faint for want of summut to eat and drink. Sit ee down, and ha’ some breakfast, ma’am. Ye sha’n’t go away wi’ an empty belly.”

“I am sure you’re very kind. I have the wherewithal to pay for what I have.”

“Tush, tush, child; don’t ee be talking after that fashion. You are freely welcome to all I have. It be a poor tale indeed if we can’t help a fellow-creature in distress. Don’t you see――eh?”

“Yes.”

“An’ what brought ee to these parts, if it be a fair question?”

Miss Stanbridge hesitated, and turned away her head with mock modesty.

“Oh, well, if it be a secret, don’t say a word.”

“It isn’t much of a secret, as I know of,” observed the escaped prisoner. “I came unbeknown to my relatives. Had to meet a young man to whom I have been engaged.”

“Oh, I see, lass――I understand; and maybe your parents object to him as a suitor for your hand.”

“Yes they do, but――” here she hesitated again.

“You love the chap――is that it?”

“I do.” She tried to blush, and partially succeeded.

Her companion tapped her playfully on the elbow. “Well, well,” she ejaculated “I don’t blame ee. Ha’ done the same thing myself years agone. I don’t know as ye are to be blamed――we none of us can help our likes and dislikes, and we all like to choose for ourselves in cases of this sort――it is but natural. And did he keep his appointment――did ee see him?”

“Yes; Alf――he is obliged to go abroad, and wrote to me to beg me that I would meet him and wish him farewell before he took his departure.”

“Umph, thee beest a brave girl to coom all this distance by yerself. And I be glad ee saw him.”

It is, perhaps, needless to observe that the whole of this story was invented on the spot by the acute and mendacious Laura Stanbridge. It was the first that occurred to her, and, as the old adage has it, “any excuse is better than none.”

The old lady snapped at the bait, and believed every word the other had spoken.

After Laura had partaken of a substantial breakfast, which, to say the truth, she did ample justice to, she began to consider how she could get to the station.

It was so remarkably early――not six o’clock――that the chances were that she might be able to make a clean run of it and get clear off before the myrmidons of the law were abroard hunting for their prey.

“I wish I could meet with a conveyance, madam,” said Laura, addressing herself to her elder companion. “It is essential that I should be in town as early as possible, but I cannot at present see how it is to be compassed.”

“Not unless you’ll consent to ride in a milk cart,” returned the other.

“In a milk cart! Goodness me, I shall be but too delighted. What matters it what sort of vehicle?”

“Well then, I tell ee what ee can do, if ye’re amind, and don’t care about it. In less than a quarter of an hour Nat will start w’ the milk to the station, and he can take you with un.”

“Oh, my dear lady, I am so much obliged by this offer! In a quarter of an hour, say you?”

“Aye, surely. It be better nor nine miles. And if so be as ye are in a hurry――”

“I am in a great hurry.”

“Well, then, it ’ud take a goodish while to walk――at least it would me. My health ain’t so good as what it yused to be, nor my legs either, for the matter of that, but ye be strong and lithe of limb, but still it be too far for ee to walk, so ee’d better go wi’ Nat.

As she spoke these last words a raw-boned lad of about eighteen thrust his shock head in at the doorway.

“Oh, here be Nat,” cried, the old lady; “so that be all right. Now, lad, you’re going to ha’ coompany to the station.”

“Coompany!” repeated the lad. “Who be it, missus?”

“This lady. I know you’re fond of the ladies.”

The lad blushed up to the roots of his hair, and went his way without further ado.

“Don’t care about taking me, I fancy,” said Laura.

“Not care! he’s but too delighted. Don’t ee mind him lass, that’s his way――he’s rather sheepish and queer wi’ strangers. Oh he’ll tek ee right enough. Here, Nat――Nat, I say, aint ee got yer ears this morning, or ha’ ee left em behind ee? Coom here, lad.”

The lad came into the room.

“Now, look here, you’ve got to tek this leddy to the station――so mind ee drive careful and don’t get the wheels into the ruts any more than you can help. Do ee understand?”

“Yes, missus,” said the yokel, scratching his head; “I’ll be very careful.”

“Good lad. The leddy wants to get to the station as soon as possible. Is the horse put to?”

“Yes, and the milk is in the cart, but yer see, missus, it beant much of a trap――I mean there aint much room to spare. I wish I’d a better turn out, ’taint good enough for the loikes of un.” This was said in a whisper, but Miss Stanbridge heard every word.

“I am quite content,” said she, addressing herself to the lad. “Nobody knows me hereabouts. If we had to travel through the streets of London, it would be a different matter, you know.”

In a minute or so after this the milk cart was at the door of the farmhouse, and Laura, who had gone upstairs to arrange her hair, and to make something like a rude toilette, quickly descended, and after thanking her hostess and wishing her farewell, stepped into the cart and sat herself beside the lad.

“Be careful, be very careful, and mind the ruts,” was the last injunction his mistress gave him as he drove off.

“Now for it,” murmured Miss Stanbridge. “If we should chance to run across any of the warders I am lost. But the probability is that they won’t any of them be about thus early. They never are in places where they are wanted. Not that I want to see any of their ugly visages. Anyway there’s no help for it now. I must take my chance as many have done before me under similar circumstances.”

The road to the station was evidently not much frequented; for some considerable time after the horse and cart had left the farmhouse not a solitary passenger or vehicle met the eyes of either Nat or Miss Stanbridge.

So far all went on well.

“Not many vehicles about it would seem,” observed the latter.

“No, not many. Seldom is at this time. Ye see it’s a cross road, and people doesn’t care about driving over it, except them as is obliged, and there beant many of those. It be very lonely by night though.”

“So I should imagine, but it’s a bright beautiful morning, and the birds are singing so gaily, I wish I could live in the country instead of London.”

“Ah, I dessay ye do, marm, but may be ye’d get tired of it after a bit.”

“I think not. Don’t you like it?”

“Ah, ah,” said the lad, with a loud guffaw, “I loike Lunnon. There beant any place loike Lunnon to my thinking.”

“Ah, well, it is of course all a matter of taste, and I suppose we most of us like any place better than the one we are in.”

Miss Stanbridge did not force the conversation beyond reasonable bounds, but she thought it quite as well to be on familiar and friendly terms with the farmer’s boy, who was as good-natured as he was unsophisticated; so they continued to chat familiarly until the station was reached.

Then alighting from the vehicle, she put half-a-crown in the lad’s hand, which seemed to have a marvellous effect on him.

At first he obstinately refused to accept the gratuity, but Laura was equally obstinate in forcing it upon him.

He was profuse in his thanks, and when he returned to the farmhouse he declared his fellow-passenger to be a perfect “leddy.”

Miss Stanbridge took a first-class ticket for London, and then went into the ladies’ waiting-room, where she remained till the train was upon the point of starting.

She succeeded in reaching the metropolis in safety.

After paying a short visit to her house in the neighbourhood of Regent-street, and assuring her maid that she was a good deal better for her trip into the country, she set off for the Evalina-road.

She found Charles Peace at home; the time had not arrived for him to sally forth upon his depredating excursions, and he was busily occupied with his mechanical inventions.

“What, Lorrie!” he ejaculated, upon catching sight of his visitor. “Well, I am staggered! What’s up? No true bill found, or what?”

“I didn’t wait for the grand jury, old man,” returned Laura, indulging in a loud laugh.

“Didn’t wait――eh?” returned Peace, looking at the speaker from over his spectacles.

“No, Charlie. Gave ’em the slip, my boy. Ah, it’s been a lesson to me. I’ll take good care never to be caught on the same hook. It’s been a hard fight, but I’ve won, and now――――”

“Well, and now, old girl――what now?”

“It won’t do for me to remain in London.”

“Oh, that’s it――eh?”

“Well, you know, they’ll be on the look-out, and to remain at my old quarters would be too risky.”

“I don’t know so much about that. Lord bless ye, Lorrie, those fellows’ heads are as thick as a skittleball. If you’ve got clean off――which it’s pretty certain you have, seeing that you are here safe and sound and looking better than ever for your――ahem――country trip――you’ve no cause to fear. Aint the blokes after me, and haven’t I dodged them to rights?”

“Ah, but I’m not a Charles Peace.”

“Hush, silence!” cried our hero in a tone of alarm, placing his hand before the mouth of the speaker. Then in a tone more serious he added, “Drop that name for ever more. Drop it――as you love me do this. I am Mr. Thompson. Didn’t Bill tell you this?”

“I beg ten thousand pardons! Of course he did. What a donkey I am, to be sure! I am not as a rule so incautious, Thompson,” said she, emphasising the last word.

“Enough. Say no more about it, then. But don’t forget.”

“I will not.”

Laura Stanbridge now put him in possession of all the circumstances which took place respecting her escape, and wound up by thanking him most heartily for his kindness.

“Oh, bother that,” said our hero; “Bill’s behaved like a trump card, which to say the truth he is. Why, Laura, I’d trust him with my life; and if you have gratitude towards anyone it should be shown to him.”

“I shall never forget his kindness――never!” ejaculated Laura. “He’s worth his weight in gold. Indeed, I could never have believed it possible he had so much goodness in him if I had not had such unmistakeable proof of it. But I shan’t remain in London, though; so before I go I will return you the money you were kind enough to send me.”

“Any time will do for that; I am not in want of it.”

“No time like the present; so here you are, Thompson.”

She drew from her purse notes for the amount, and handed them to her companion.

“Oh, if you are so beastly particular, so be it, then,” observed Peace, taking them from her and pocketing them.

“There’s an end of that, then,” said he. “Well, I’m as pleased as Punch to see you once more free. Why it’s the first time you’ve been in gaol――aint it?”

“Yes, the very first, and I hope, Thompson, it will be the last.”

“I hope so, I’m sure,” returned Peace, in a sanctimonious tone and manner, which would have done credit to a Dissenting minister.

Miss Stanbridge stopped for some little time. After this she was introduced to the two ladies of the establishment, but, of course, not a word was said either by herself or our hero upon past circumstances or the nature of her connection with Peace. The women had to be kept in the dark as much as possible, and certainly their lord and master contrived somehow or other to throw dust in their eyes, which, all things considered, must be deemed almost marvellous to all reasonable persons. But Peace was a wonder in many ways, this being by no means the least remarkable trait in his diversified character.

Laura Stanbridge, as we have already seen, knew very well how to make herself agreeable, and her two female companions declared, after she had left the house in the Evalina-road, that she was a most delightful woman――a declaration which we don’t expect any of our readers will endorse.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXII. THE TRIAL OF THE DETECTIVES――PEACE’S VISIT TO BOW-STREET

Although Charles Peace was what is termed playing a game of hide-and-seek, and to play this game effectually it is usually deemed advisable to court publicity as little as possible, Mr. Thompson――as he called himself――did not choose to pursue this course of action. He went abroad, and paid frequent visits to places of public resort, and was as self-possessed and confident as if he had no oppressive weight on his conscience, no heinous crimes to answer for. In point of fact, he assumed all the airs and graces of a man who had done nothing but meritorious acts throughout his life.

It was at this time that the town was startled by the extraordinary detective case in which the convicts Kurr and Benson played so conspicuous a part. The confidence of the public was suddenly shaken in the whole system of the detective department of this country, and it was only after an overwhelming weight of evidence had been brought forward, that they could give credence to the startling revelations of bribery and corruption practised by Kurr and his accomplices upon paid officers of the Crown. Far be it from us to stigmatise the whole force as corrupt and unreliable. There are doubtless many good men, many intelligent, active, and praiseworthy officers to be found, but the machinery appears to be too cumbersome to be put in motion with sufficient rapidity to be of much service in cases of murder or manslaughter. We have alluded to this in a previous chapter, and since that was written, events have occurred which strengthen us in our opinion.

The Scotland-yard detective department is, and has been for years past, miserably inefficient in tracing out the perpetrators of the heinous crime of murder, and we are convinced that, sooner or later, it will be requisite, for justice sake, as well as for the safety of the public at large, that some better organised body of men will have to be formed to meet this crying evil.

Murders are rife in the land, and it is perfectly appalling the number of murderers who escape the strong arm of the law, which of late seems to be almost paralysed in dealing with crimes of this nature.

Charles Peace had read in the papers the report of the first inquiry into the charge made against the four detectives. He was greatly interested in the case, for, said he, with a sort of chuckle――

“I think I ought to know something about chaps of that kidney. I’ve dodged ’em a good many times, and when it answered my purpose I’ve bribed them; but this I only did when my dodgery failed. I’ll go and have a squint at these beauties when they come up for their next examination.”

“I’m sure I’d do nothing of the sort, if I were you,” observed his wife. “What good can it do you? Talk about women’s curiosity, why it’s nothing in comparison to yours.”

“Mind your own business, you fool,” answered Peace sharply. “Leave me to be the best judge of my own actions.”

“Oh, well, I’ve done. You know best, I suppose. I only made the remark for your own good. I shouldn’t have thought you had any desire to be seen in Bow-street Police-court.”

“I have a desire, and that’s sufficient. I’m as safe there as I am here. More so, perhaps.”

It may, and doubtless it does, appear singular that Peace should have had any desire to disport himself in the court referred to, but it is, nevertheless, a fact, he was present at one of the examinations of the detectives, and this has since been proved beyond all question.

The court was crowded almost to suffocation when the detective case came on, and Peace had the greatest difficulty in elbowing his way in. The Bow-street court, as most of our readers know, is miserably small, and inconvenient. As far as the public is concerned it could not very well be worse in the way of accommodation. It has for years been acknowledged to be ill adapted for the purpose for which it was constructed.

Peace found this out. He was a little man, and behind him was a man of elephantine dimensions, who kept bearing the greater portion of his weight on his shoulders.

“I wish you’d not press on me in this manner,” said our hero to his tormentor.

“I can’t help it, the people are shoving behind. Don’t blame me.”

“Order! Silence in the court!” cried the usher.

“But I’m half stifled,” observed Peace. “Can’t you make room for me somewhere?”

“No, every place is occupied.”

“If you don’t like it go out,” said the big man.

Peace, who was dressed in a suit of black, with his silver spectacles on his nose, and looked a mild meek old gentleman of the Pickwickian order, again remonstrated in a soft gentle voice.

“What’s the matter?” inquired a stout-built good-natured looking man, as he elbowed his way through the throng.

“Old gentleman’s hardly pressed, and can scarcely breathe,” answered one of the persons in the rear, and who evidently commiserated our hero’s situation.

The stout person, who seemed to be dressed in a little brief authority, touched Peace on the shoulder, and said in a whisper――

“Follow me――this way.”

Peace, nothing loth, did as he was bid.

He was taken by his conductor from the body of the court and passed in to that portion of it where the lawyers, barristers, and other persons of a nondescript order thread their way. Here he was comparatively comfortable――that is, as comfortable as it is possible to be in this precious sample of a court of justice, which is, perhaps, not saying much.

His conductor stood by his side on the same platform.

“I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently for this act of kindness,” observed our hero.

“Don’t mention it, sir, I beg,” returned the gentleman, who, if the truth must be told, had mistaken Peace for another and more exalted person.

Presently the four detectives――Meiklejohn, Druscovich, Palmer, and Clarke――were brought in. They took up their stations, and were joined by Mr. Froggatt the solicitor. Mr. Poland proceeded to state the case. After he had concluded, Mr. Superintendent Williamson was called.

It will be needless for us to give a detailed account of the proceedings, as the result has long since been patent to everybody. It will suffice for our purpose to note that Peace became on friendly and familiar terms with the gentleman who had been of such service to him. They conversed freely during the day’s examination, and when the court rose Peace asked his companion to have a glass of wine.

“Well,” observed the latter, “I don’t mind if I do; but I’ve not as yet dined.”

“Nor have I,” said Peace; “are you going to have your dinner in the neighbourhood?”

“Yes,” was the ready response.

“Well, so am I. Suppose we dine together somewhere.”

“Yes, I’ll do so with the greatest pleasure.”

They adjourned to a neighbouring tavern, where they met a friend of Peace’s companion, whom the latter introduced as a Mr. Shearman, who, it is perhaps needless to mention, was the American detective who had the charge against Doctor Bourne in hand.

Shearman had come over again to this country to “pot,” as he expressed it, a runaway Yankee, who was charged with frauds on an extensive scale.

“Mr. Shearman,” said the gentleman, addressing himself to Peace; “pardon me, but I don’t know your name. I took you for Mr. Belmore, whom I have the honour of knowing.”

“My name is Thompson,” said Peace; “and I am most proud to have made your acquaintance. I will, with your permission, show you a rough draft of an invention of mine.”

He drew from his pocket a drawing of his apparatus for raising sunken ships.

His two companions inspected it, and said it appeared to them to be a most admirable contrivance. This declaration was succeeded by a long discussion upon its merits, and soon after this dinner was served, upon which the three gentlemen sat down.

Peace had not the faintest notion at this time that he was hob-nobbing with two detectives, and it was fortunate for him that Mr. Wrench did not put in an appearance at this juncture.

“Wal,” said Shearman, “how goes the case? Ugly against the prisoners?”

“Most remarkably strong against them,” returned Mr. Cartridge, Peace’s friend.

“I guessed as much. Wal, it’s a scandal to your country――a great scandal,” observed Shearman.

“Oh, everybody must admit that, sir,” returned Peace. “For my own part, I can’t see any excuse for these men. They were well paid, would, on retiring, be entitled to pensions, and yet they must aid and abet dishonest persons like Kurr and Benson.”

“That is if they have done so,” said Mr. Cartridge.

“Do you doubt it after what we have heard to-day?” inquired Peace.

“I should be sorry to prejudge the case; still, as I before observed, it looks ugly――that I readily admit. It is possible, however, that they may be able to produce some rebutting evidence on the trial, which will materially alter the complexion of the case. One never knows what may take place, for it has been often said that truth lies at the bottom of a well.”

When the dinner had been dispatched Peace called for the bill, which he insisted on paying, alleging, as an excuse, that he had invited the other two to dine with him.

They both protested against this, but Peace, who was in a liberal mood, would have his own way, and a compromise was therefore effected by the other two being allowed to pay for wine and cigars.

In the course of conversation Peace discovered that he was passing a pleasant hour or so with detectives.

He was a little disconcerted when he ascertained this, but there was now no help for it――so he put a bold face upon the matter, but was at the same time more guarded in his conversation.

Mr. Shearman, as heretofore, told one of his stories about his own exploits in America, and Mr. Cartridge, not to be outdone, narrated the following case of mistaken identity, which for the reader’s behoof, seeing that it is possessed of considerable interest, we print in extenso.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXIII. MISTAKEN IDENTITY

“I felt convinced,” said Mr. Cartridge, “that I had got the right man, for all the facts that had come to my knowledge were dead against him, but I am free to confess that there were others who were of a different opinion. I will just give you a circumstantial account view of the case.

“‘Send for his friends?’ I repeated, in reply to a question put to me by the inspector of a police-station at which I happened to be; ‘oh, yes. I see no reason to refuse his request, but I think you are fully justified in not admitting him to bail.’

“The prisoner in question was a tall, fair man, of gentlemanly appearance, who seemed to feel his position acutely. He had lately been brought in on a singular charge of skittle-sharping.

“The prosecutor, a simple-looking countryman, deposed that he had met the prisoner three days before in Westminster, with two other men, and was by them solicited to have something to drink.

“After his compliance, a game of skittles was proposed. Bets were made, and he was ingeniously robbed of eighty pounds in gold and notes.

“The whole of the gang on that occasion made their escape; but the prosecutor met the prisoner while walking in the Strand, and recognising him at once, gave him into the custody of the first police officer he saw.

“The prisoner vehemently protested his innocence, and in no measured terms declared that he was the victim of a mistake.

“He gave the name of Joseph Halliday, and gave a respectable address, which we afterwards found was a correct one; described himself as a civil engineer, and said that he was the scapegoat of the prosecutor’s stupidity.

“It was the early part of the afternoon, but the business of the court that day not being very heavy, the magistrate had finished his work and gone home; so that Mr. Halliday would have to remain a prisoner until the next day, even if he were able to prove his innocence in an incontestable manner.

“We were accustomed to see respectable men――that is, externally respectable――brought into the station on charges of skittle-sharping; and so Mr. Halliday’s decent exterior did not impress me in his favour in the least.

“He appeared greatly distressed, and said repeatedly, as the charge was being taken, that he was innocent. His manner had the appearance of being genuine; but I never allowed appearances to have any weight with me.

“Some of the rascals who infest the streets and plunder the simple are such clever actors that if they were not incorrigibly idle, they would make a decent living upon the stage.

“I suggested to the inspector that it might be a case of mistaken identity; and, in order to set the question at rest, it would be better to send for the landlord and barman of the ‘Duke’s Head,’ which was the name of the public-house in which the swindle had been perpetrated.

“The prisoner evinced the utmost signs of joy and exultation when he heard this proposal; and the prosecutor made no objection, saying that he was sure their testimony would bear out the charges he had just made against Joseph Halliday.

“Accordingly messengers were dispatched to the ‘Duke’s Head,’ requesting the immediate attendance of the landlord and his barman. In the meantime the prisoner was conveyed into the yard of the station-house and placed in a row with nine other men.

“It was intended that the witnesses we had sent for should identify the prisoner from amongst a number of others.

“When they arrived, the landlord of the ‘Duke’s Head’ requested to be told why he had been summoned.

“‘A case of skittle-sharping,’ replied the inspector, ‘took place in your house three days ago. Would you remember the three men who hired your skittle-ground for the best part of the afternoon?’

“‘Perfectly,’ replied the landlord; ‘there were four altogether, and this gentleman’ (turning to the prosecutor) ‘was one of them.’

“‘You are quite right; but he is the victim of the three rogues. We imagine that we have one of them in custody. He is amongst some others in the back yard. If your memory serves you, you will have no difficulty in selecting him from his companions.’

“‘I don’t think I shall have the least trouble. I have a distinct recollection of the whole party,’ replied the landlord, following myself and the inspector to the yard.

“The barman we left behind; his turn was to come next.

“It must have been a moment of intense anxiety to Mr. Halliday.

“I was a little curious as to the result, and looked on with expectation.

“The court-yard was a narrow piece of ground, in which men were drilled occasionally. It was covered with gravel and surrounded by a high wall, which, however, in no way obstructed the light, which fell in a bright stream upon the men, who were marshalled in single file, to await the scrutiny of the landlord, who took a critical survey of them, and, without a moment’s hesitation, went up to Mr. Joseph Halliday, and touching him on the shoulder, exclaimed, ‘this is the man.’

“A shudder of repulsion ran through the prisoner’s frame, and he turned ghastly pale. I thought he would have fallen. The inspector smiled, and said, ‘An old hand, evidently.’”

“Oh, they generally come to that conclusion in most cases――do they not?” observed Peace.

“Well, I don’t know that they do, sir,” returned Mr. Cartridge; “but you know we have such a number of shocking characters under our hands, that it is, after all, but a natural conclusion. But I will proceed with my narrative:”

“‘Oh! I knew him again in an instant,’ exclaimed the landlord, who went back again with the inspector to allow the barman to commence his investigation.

“A tin cup stood under a tap, and seeing the prisoner looked faint and ill, I filled it with water, and presented it to him.

“He drank off the contents at a draught, and regarded me gratefully.

“‘You are very kind,’ he murmured, in a low tone.

“There was something in his voice that interested me――something quiet and gentle; but the evidence against him was so strong and damning, that I could not bring myself to regard him favourably, or look upon him as the victim of a mistake.

“Presently the barman made his appearance; he seemed an intelligent fellow, possessed of powers of discrimination.

“He walked along the yard and looked steadily at the men who were grouped together for his inspection, and stopped abruptly when he came to Mr. Halliday.

“‘This is the one,’ he said, triumphantly. ‘I could tell him amongst a thousand.’

[Sidenote: No. 64.]

“The slender hope which had hitherto animated the prisoner now deserted him, and he fell on the ground in a heap, insensible. It was a terrible ordeal for him to have gone through, if innocent. Stepping up to the inspector, I said, ‘This is a remarkable case; but although the evidence seems against him, it is odd――isn’t it?――that he should take on so.’

“‘I don’t know. These fellows are up to as many dodges as there are days in the year. He must take his chance. He’ll have a fair trial to-morrow. Perhaps he can prove an alibi. If you take an interest in him you can talk to him. I won’t lock him up again till you’ve done your little bit of palaver.’

“Thanking the inspector, I returned to Mr. Halliday, and was glad to see that he showed signs of returning animation. Some good Samaritan had sprinkled his face with water, and he had opened his eyes.

“By my orders, he was accommodated with a chair, and when he was sufficiently recovered I began a conversation with him.

“‘Do you still persist in saying that you are the victim of a mistake, Mr. Halliday?’ I exclaimed.

“‘Most certainly I do,’ he replied, earnestly. ‘Some one must have a strong and fatal resemblance to me.’

“‘Will you tell me how you spent your time on the day of the alleged robbery?’

“‘With pleasure,’ he answered; ‘but, I presume――excuse my asking the question――that I am talking to some one connected with the police.’

“‘I am a detective, and in my professional capacity may be of service to you.’

“‘You are very good, and I esteem myself fortunate in having met with you. In the first place, I must tell you that I am a civil engineer by profession, and tolerably well known to people who move in scientific circles. On the day in question, when the man who gave me in charge was robbed and plundered, I was attending a meeting at Muswell-hill and giving evidence as to the advisability of extended sewerage in the vicinity before the Muswell-hill Board of Works. The solicitors to the Board will prove it. The members of the Board will prove it.’

“‘Very good, so far,’ I replied. ‘Leave your case in my hands and make yourself easy as to the result. I shall, with your permission, instruct Mr. Sea, one of the cleverest practising barristers we have in cases of this kind, to defend you when brought before the court to-morrow morning, and to ask for a remand. You must put up with the worry and annoyance of imprisonment for a few days. Bring all your philosophy to your aid, and I will see if I cannot unravel this tangled skein. By the way, I should like to ask you one thing.’

“‘As many as you like,’ he replied readily.

“‘Does any of your family resemble you in any way? Have you ever been taken for any one else on a previous occasion?’

“‘Some years ago,’ he replied, thoughtfully, ‘my twin-brother was alive, and you would not have known us from one another――we were veritable Dromios.’

“‘Is he dead now?’

“‘I am sorry to say he is. We were much attached to each other, but he was of a roving disposition and would never stick to anything. I started him in several professions, but he always repaid my kindness by ingratitude, which is hard to bear from a relation. At length, on my refusing to assist him any longer, he ran away to sea, and the ship in which he sailed was subsequently wrecked on a voyage to Malaga.’

“‘Oh!’ I said, with a prolonged exclamation; I began to see my way a little clearer.

“Wishing Mr. Halliday good-bye, I left the station-house to commence operations. If what the prisoner said about his being in attendance upon the Muswell-hill Board of Works at the very time at which he was accused of being at an obscure pot-house in Westminster, in company with two other men not in custody, to defraud a simple-minded countryman of his money, the case was at an end. I at once left a retainer for Mr. Sea and engaged his services for Mr. Joseph Halliday on the morrow.

“I had a shrewd suspicion that I was about to embark in the investigation of one of the strangest cases of mistaken identity that had ever been heard of; nor was I mistaken, as after events tended to prove.

“I was acquainted with a man of the name of Pegon――a Frenchman――who had, it was popularly believed, been a thief in his own country, although he might have left France through political motives.

“On arriving in England he had taken service in the police force, and evinced such wonderful dexterity in tracking criminals that he speedily became one of our most valued detectives.

“The old saying――set a thief to catch a thief――was, admitting the reports about Pegon to be true, never better exemplified than in the person of the dapper little Gaul. He was not a proficient in the English language; he talked it in a half-broken sort of way, rather amusing than otherwise. It was to Pegon that I betook myself after leaving Mr. Sea’s office.

“I found him at his favourite public-house――the ‘Three Spies.’ He was seldom at home, and when not on business he could always be discovered at the before-mentioned tavern or else at the Welsh ambassador’s――the ‘Goat in Boots.’

“Pegon had probably a greater acquaintance with the skittle-sharping fraternity than any other man in London.

“He knew them all, and when they occasionally took a trip into the country Pegon would miss the familiar face, find out where he was gone, and telegraph to the police of Birmingham, Manchester, or Liverpool, and they would exercise such a strict look-out that their vigilance would soon drive the sharper back to his old haunts and associates.

“When Pegon met him on his return, he would smile sardonically and say――

“‘Back again――eh? Change of air is goot for your ’elth;’ and his mouth would distend itself into a broad grin.

“It was rumoured that Pegon was occasionally heavily bribed by the thieves to allow them to remain unmolested; but his superiors took no notice of this scandal, as they always found him an active and intelligent officer; and if a man was wanted particularly, and Pegon was applied to for his apprehension, he was almost always forthcoming at a specified time. Pegon was sitting in the parlour of the ‘Three Spies,’ smoking contentedly, and drinking out of a pewter pot, which contained nothing stronger than the best old and mild ale. He rose when he saw me, and exclaimed, in a genial tone――

“‘Ah, sir, it ees you! How you carry yourself? Sit down――’ere is a chair.’

“Taking out his handkerchief, with true politeness, he dusted the bottom of it, and handed it to me.

“‘Good morning, Pegon,’ I said; ‘I have come to consult you on a matter of some importance.’

“‘Yaes――yaes.’

“‘Three days ago a countryman was robbed by a skittle sharper at the ‘Duke’s Head,’ in Westminster.’

“‘Yaes,’ said Pegon, concentrating his attention on what I was saying.

“‘To-day a gentleman was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the robbery. The barman and the landlord swore that he was one of the men.’

“‘Ah,’ said Pegon, ‘that is strange――ver strange.’

“‘Have you heard of the robbery?’

“‘No, but I have my suspicions; my good friend Toko, and my dear friend Donnymore have been ver flush of their money, and I suspect――――’

“‘Who is Donnymore?’ I ventured to ask.

“‘Donnymore! oh, he ver goot fellow, Donnymore, but he go leetle too far.’

“‘In what way?’

“‘I shall tell you,’ replied Pegon.

“‘Donnymore he come to my ’ouse, and he drinking my wine, but that is noting――oh, no, noting. You must know I need to pay Donnymore when I first com to England to show me thing or two I not know much, and Donnymore he shows me the places where thieves go, and give me hint now and then; but Donnymore he ver goot fellow, only he go little too far――just little bit too far. One day he com to my ’ouse and he drinking my wine and smoking my tabac, but that is noting――oh, noting――but he go to drawer, and he steal my stocking――oh, Donnymore, he ver goot fellow, but he go leetle, leetle too far.’

“‘Your stocking,’ I said; ‘that was not very valuable, I should think.’

“‘Oh, be Gar! it was. I keep all my money in my stocking. Thirty, forty, fifty, hundred pound! Oh, Donnymore, he ver goot fellow; but by Gar, he got leetle too far.’

“‘So you think Donnymore had a hand in this robbery?’ I said, laughing at the Frenchman’s story.

“‘I be dam well sure,’ replied Pegon, slapping his fist on the table. ‘I say to myself, aha, Donnymore, my boy, you have been at your old games again. More stocking, eh? Donny more, take care, sare, you do not go leetle too far.’

“‘Who is Toko?’ I asked.

“‘Toko! he Donnymore’s pal. They stand in always.’

“‘And the third, do you know him? I believe these fellows always work in gangs.’

“‘Oh, certainement! It most be! Let me see. It most be Fon Beest, the German. I know him. Oh! he is crafty, like one English fox――yaes, I say so!’

“Von Beest I had heard of as a clever German thief, who had once been imprisoned for two years for a daring burglary in Oxford-street.

“‘What do you know about Toko?’

“‘Toko! he is what you say new mans almost; he has not been here ’bove year and half. He is sailor or something; he look like gentleman, and knows how to talk, and Donnymore he make him decoy. Oh, leave Donnymore alone. I have met him before to-day. Yaes, I know Donnymore; he ver goot fellow, but he go leetle too far, just leetle bit too far.’

“And as the little Frenchman recalled his grievances, he pulled away somewhat vigorously at his pipe, and looked at the sanded floor as if the reminiscence of the gold-laden stocking was painful to talk about.

“After a pause of a minute, he said, ‘Oh, yaes! I know Donnymore!’ and then he chuckled as if he contemplated revenge.

“‘Where could you find Donnymore and his associates?’ I asked.

“‘I say,’ asked the astute little Frenchman, ‘is there reward offered?’

“‘No,’ I replied; ‘but Mr. Halliday, the gentleman I was speaking of, who is in custody, is well off, and will, I have no doubt, make a couple of days’ work worth our while.’

“‘Bien! that is goot. I like to be on ze square, you know. You vash humbug, I vash humbug, we all vash humbug. Tiens! you shall hear. Donnymore, Toko, Fon Beest all stay now at the “Crown,” King-street, Seven Dials. I have my eye on all of them toujours. I am father――they are my children.’

“‘Let us go, then, and reconnoitre; I want to see if this man Toko resembles Mr. Halliday in any way; if so, the mystery is cleared up at once.’

“‘Of coarse it is. Well, we will go. I can spot them. I shall not touch Donnymore, I think, for Donnymore he ver goot fellow; but he go leetle too far――just leetle bit too far. Donnymore and me were pals once, confrères. You shall have Toko and Fon Beest, but Donnymore he shall shake loose leg a little longer. Vat you say to that, sare?’

“‘I have no objection,’ I replied. ‘I only want Toko.’

“‘Bon! You shall have Toko, and I will be liberal――I will throw Fon Beest into the bargain.’

“We shook hands in order to cement the bargain; and leaving the ‘Three Spies,’ we wended our way to the Seven Dials, and entered the ‘Crown.’ It was filled with thieves and loose women, their companions. Pegon perceived no trace of the trio we were in search of. Coming near, he said: ‘Attendez! they are en haut.’

“On ascending the stairs, we found ourselves in a spacious room, in which singing was going on. It was long and narrow, with a stage at one end, and a succession of tables on each side, with a passage up the middle for ingress and egress, very much after the manner of the cafes chantants in the Palais Royal. The room was tolerably well filled.

“A man who threw himself into the most awful contortions and impossible attitudes, attired in a suit of clothes of a check pattern――something like Mr. Leech’s caricature of Mr. Briggs when his mind is on hunting intent――was lilting a ditty respecting ‘Sairy’s young man,’ which seemed to take the audience by storm. The success of this song was only equalled by another, beginning――

A cove he would a macing go, Whether the blueskins would or no.

An evident allusion to accomplished thieves and baffled policemen. We took up a position from which we commanded an excellent view of the room. I began to look about me, and perceived a couple of bottles of champagne standing on a particular table in one corner.

“At this table three men were seated. I started. Pegon asked me what was the matter. I smiled at my stupidity; I thought I saw Mr. Halliday. My explanation of the singular coincidence was, that the brother whom Mr. Halliday had thought dead had escaped the shipwreck which had induced the belief of his decease, and that on returning to England his innate vagabondism had broken out afresh and he had allied himself with Donnymore and Von Beest.

“‘Who is that?’ I asked Pegon, pointing out the man who bore such a marvellous resemblance to Mr. Halliday.

“‘That is Toko, and that is my dear friend Donnymore, while the other is that sacre German Fon Beest. Oh, I will make it hot for Toko and Fon Beest.’

“‘Cannot you go up to them and get into conversation?’ I asked.

“Pegon looked at me steadily for a moment, and replied――

“‘You of course my friend. Donnymore, he will jump to see me; but I shall give him the office, and say, it is no business; he is not wanted; and we shall be ver merry. When he is in luck he will spend money like a king; so vill Toko; but Fon Beest he is a screw――no good, no, not to anyone. Come along, mon cher. Baisez moi? Non. It is droll, is it not? Come ’long; let us go to these ruffyans.’

“The Frenchman offered his hand to Donnymore and exclaimed――

“‘Ah, how is Donnymore, my ole friend Donnymore? I always say he ver goot fellow, but he once go leetle to far――just leetle bit too far. But we will not talk ’bout that now. I have come out for what you say spree, one lark, and I am rejoice to see you here; and my friend Fon Beest too, and that dear Toko: Toko, how you do? You not shake hands with your own Pegon? That is right; Fon Beest, your hand: That is right also: Now, Donnymore, you make room for us.’

“Donnymore, slightly reassured, made room for us, and we sat down:

“‘Ah,’ continued the indefatigable Pegon, ‘you have been in luck lately. Champagne, vin de ciel. Give me some, Donnymore; I feel very dry.”

“Donnymore called for some more glasses, and poured out some wine for both of us.

“The more I looked at Toko the more surprised was I at the wonderful likeness between him and Mr. Halliday. No wonder, I thought, that the innkeeper and his barman as well as the prosecutor were deceived.

“The resemblance was something marvellous. I remarked the same mild-looking blue eyes, the same rather broad mouth and thick lips, the same straight nose a little dilated at the nostrils; but there was one thing about Toko which was not observable in Mr. Halliday.

“His face wore a restless expresssion, as if he had been haunted by the apprehension of arrest. You would have put him down at first sight as a man who had something upon his mind which was eternally weighing upon his spirits and depressing them. He drank heavily.

“His somewhat bloodshot eyes, together with their swollen lids, and the dry, parched, burnt-up, cracking skin upon his lips sufficiently proclaimed the fact of his having addicted himself to spirituous compounds in a wholesale manner.

“Pegon was in his element. He carried on the part he had undertaken with admirable cleverness.

“‘Ha――ha!’ laughed the sharpers.

“‘Pegon’s a good judge,’ said Toko.

“‘Yes, leave him alone,’ replied Donnymore.

“‘More wine, Donnymore,’ exclaimed Pegon. ‘Once you drinking my wine; to-day I drinking yours.”

“Donnymore complaisantly filled his friend’s glass, paying mine the same compliment. After Pegon had, to his satisfaction, quaffed the foaming vintage, he exclaimed――

“‘Donnymore, you telling me one thing.’

“‘Fire away, old fellow.’

“‘You will tell me true this one thing?’

“‘Yes, half-a-dozen, if you like.’

“‘What you going to do now?’

“‘Do?’ repeated Donnymore, with the light of consternation in his eyes, for Pegon’s words seemed to have a strange significance for him.

“‘Yaes, what you going to do?’

“‘Oh, I don’t know.’

“The man looked nervously around him, and eyed the door suspiciously, as if he fully expected to see a body of police standing in its immediate vicinity.

“‘Why not try change of air?’

“‘I’m well enough.’

This was said rather surlily.

“‘Birmingham is nice place.’

“‘D―――― Brummagem,’ muttered Donnymore.

“‘Ah; you not like to leave your friends!’

“‘No, I don’t.’

“‘That is good, shows you have good heart. It is but natural, you are so well known, and have so many friends.’

“He laid a stress upon the last word, and Donnymore looking steadily at Pegon, said angrily――

“‘Look here, Pegon――what the deuce are you driving at?’

“‘Me! noting, my friend――it is only anxiety for the state of your health.’

“‘My health be blowed! What’s your little game?’

“‘How you talk! as if I ever had little games; but he is so funny, that Donnymore.’

“There was an awkward pause, during which the sharpers looked at one another uneasily.

“‘There is that dear Fon Beest,’ resumed Pegon. ‘His friends could not part with him; he is too precious to them.’

“‘Drink your wine and hold your row!’ growled the German.

“‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Pegon.

“‘That dear Fon Beest is like one bear with a sore head. He is complimentary too. But I shall have the pleasure of returning his compliment some day. I never forget my debts.’

“‘Devil doubt you,’ said Donnymore.

“‘I wish I was like you, Donnymore,’ exclaimed Pegon.

“‘What for?’

“‘Shall I tell you?’

“‘Go ahead.’

“‘I would take a Schwostle.’

“‘Where’s the pull in that?’

“‘Oh, you’d soon learn the squeak.’

“It was clear now that Donnymore began to see some hidden meaning in Pegon’s apparently objectless remarks. He became more and more uneasy, and it was evident that he came to the conclusion that Pegon was giving him the office in a friendly way. He did not care much for Toko or Von Beest.

“Self-preservation was the first law with him, and he apprehended they were both wanted, whilst he was, through the Frenchman’s kindness, allowed to escape. Rising from his chair, in a careless way, he put on his hat.

“‘You are not going yet?’ asked Pegon, pretending to be surprised.

“‘Going! no, not till midnight. I’m game for a spree.’

“‘Where you off to, then?’

“‘Back in a minute.’

“When his associates heard this they disposed themselves quietly to await his return.

“Pegon muttered to himself, ‘Oh, he’s fly bird, ver fly bird.’

“After the lapse of five minutes the sharpers began to grow fidgety, and Toko rose to take his leave. Pegon got up at the same time and exclaimed――

“‘Have you a minute to spare?’

“‘What for?’

“‘Just one word――private conversation. You stop here.’

“This was to me.

“Toko and Pegon walked up the room together. Suddenly there was a cry of rage and alarm. I looked up. Two men in the body of the hall were fiercely straggling together. The fight was of short duration. In less than a minute Toko was lying on his back on the floor handcuffed.

When Von Beest perceived this he turned deadly pale.

“I heard him utter an imprecation upon Donnymore and his treachery, and then he made a rush towards the door, but Pegon had by this time drawn his policeman’s staff, which he carried concealed under his cloak, and as the German attempted to pass him, he struck him on the forehead, and he rolled heavily over upon the floor.

“Toko and Von Beest were both manacled and helpless.

“A smile of triumph flitted over Pegon’s face; he beckoned to me. I came up and stood by the side of Toko, who was sitting disconsolately upon a bench.

“The musical performance was arrested, and the people who were in the hall manifested the most lively interest in the proceedings of Pegon and myself.

“I was especially an object of remark and scrutiny.

“‘Mr. Halliday,’ I said, in a low voice to Toko.

“He started; my words roused him from his listless apathetic mood, and he asked in a hurried voice if I spoke to him.

“‘Certainly,’ I replied, ‘that is your name.’

“‘How do you know?’

“‘That does not matter; you cannot deny it.’

“‘I can――I do,’ he vociferated.

“‘Your violent asseverations――’ I began, when he interrupted me, saying――

“‘Whoever says so is guilty of an infamous falsehood.’

“‘Possibly,’ I replied. ‘By the way, have you seen your brother lately?’

“‘My――my brother?’ he stammered.

“‘Yes, the engineer.’

“‘Who are you,’ he cried, ‘and why do you ask me these questions?’

“‘I am a detective, and I ask you these questions in order that Justice may vindicate her character and reputation for impartiality.’

“‘A detective,’ he repeated slowly.

“‘I think I said so.’

“‘Why, I should as soon have thought of seeing a flying fish or a sea-serpent with a ring through its nose.’

“‘You have not answered my question respecting your brother yet?’

“‘I have not seen him, nor do I wish to.’

“‘What harm has he done you?’

“‘Only driven me to――――; but never mind.’

“‘He thinks you’re drowned at sea.’

“‘A good job too――let him think so.’

“‘Do you know where he is now?’

“‘No,’ he replied laconically.

“‘He is where you will soon be.’

“‘In gaol?’

“‘Yes, in a prison.’

“‘What!’ he cried with a bitter laugh; ‘does it run in the family?’

“‘Not that either.’

“‘Explain yourself?’

“‘You are the cause of his arrest.’

“‘I!’ he ejaculated in astonishment.

“‘Yes; he is accused.’

“‘Of what?’

“‘Of committing an offence, the responsibility of which rests entirely with you. He has been taken up as a skittle sharper.’

“‘No; you are joking?’

“‘I assure you I am speaking the truth.’

“There seemed something so exquisitely ludicrous in the idea of his sober, steady-going respectable brother being brought before a magistrate for a disgraceful misdemeanour, that the dissipated scamp laughed immoderately.

“The painful position in which he was did not affect his hilarity or his flow of animal spirits.

“‘That is capital,’ he said at last. ‘I am only sorry he was not committed for trial.’

“‘There is no chance of that now.’

“‘I suppose not, as I have fallen into your clutches through the infernal treachery of that fellow Donnymore. But I’ll be even with him some day.’

“‘He had nothing to do with it; you must lay your misfortune to the astuteness of Mr. Pegon.’

“‘I wish you and Pegon and the whole kit of you were at the bottom of the sea!’ he growled.

“Presently Von Beest returned to consciousness and glanced fiercely around him.

“‘Ah,’ said Pegon, with cruel levity, ‘that dear Fon Beest is himself once more. Do I not pay my debts well? Have I not returned your compliment, my amiable Fon Beest? Come along; you shall go to the ‘Government Hotel’ to-night, and if the beds should turn out hard come and complain to me and I will get you a new chambermaid. Come here, my dear Fon Beest. Come along, my good Toko.’

* * * * * * *

“When the magistrate saw Toko he was no less astonished than the prosecutor, who at once admitted that he had fallen into an error which, he trusted, was excusable, owing to the wonderful likeness existing between the brothers.

“Mr. Halliday, the engineer, and Mr. Halliday, the skittle-sharper, must have been cast in the same mould. The prisoner was at once discharged, and his brother placed in the dock.

“Mr. Halliday’s joy at seeing his brother once more was considerably damped by the reflection that he had provoked the doom of a felon; and taking me on one side he asked me to add to the favour I had already done him, and try to make terms with the prosecutor.

“I found this worthy rather obdurate at first, but when I told him that Mr. Halliday would refund all the money he had lost, and make him a handsome present besides, his anger gave way, and he consented to withdraw from the prosecution.

“Toko was so much affected by this proof of his brother’s good nature that he gave up his evil ways of living, and addicted himself to honest pursuits. He thought it unadvisable to stay in England, so he went to Australia (not at the expense of the Government as he was once ambitious of doing――but by his brother’s assistance), and set up in New South Wales as a sheepfarmer; and the last time his friends heard from him he was doing remarkably well, and turning out better than the most sanguine of his acquaintances had ever anticipated; and so ended this marvellous case of mistaken identity.”

“Ah,” observed Peace, in a quiet, contemplative manner, “we cannot any one of us be too careful in the matter of identity. I myself have on more than one occasion been sadly at fault in this respect, and I should hesitate before I swore to a person, unless there were corroborating circumstances.”

“We have most of us been at fault in this respect,” returned Mr. Cartridge. “No stronger proof can be given of this than an event which occurred on this very day. When I saw you in the body of the Bow-street Police-court I mistook you for another person. I was under the full impression that you were the individual in question, and hence it was that I was induced to take you to a more convenient part of the court. So you see you have not so much reason, after all, to thank me for my courtesy,” he added, with a smile.

“You were of essential service to me, anyway,” said Peace; “and, as a matter of course, I am duly thankful.”

At this all three gentlemen laughed once more.

“Wal, Cartridge,” said Shearman, “I have always said that sooner or later some very great alterations will have to be made in the detective department of this country. We manage matters a great deal better in the United States. Look at the number of murderers who escape in and about London! Why, it’s perfectly scandalous. With such a large and expensive establishment such things ought not to be.”

“I quite agree with you――it is scandalous,” returned Shearman; “but how is it to be remedied?”

“Ah――that’s another question, and one I shall perhaps not find it easy to answer; but that some remedy must be applied is, in my opinion, beyond all question. Why, within the last few years you have suffered a host of assassins of the very worst type to slip through your fingers. What am I saying?――that’s not precisely my meaning, for you have never laid hold of them at all. Now, there was that case at Brompton-Edith-grove or Maude-grove――I forget which. The two Wallaces, after the death of the ill-fated woman, betook themselves to a cab, were driven off, and not the faintest clue has been found to either of them. Is that not so?”

Mr. Cartridge shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I am afraid it is.”

“I’m sure of it. Wal, such things ought not to be. What is the inference? I say again, what is the inference?”

“Can’t tell.”

“I can――bribery and corruption. You won’t make me believe that they would have been all this time at large unless, like Kurr and Benson, they had closed the eyes of the police with gold-dust. What say you, sir?”

This last observation was addressed to Peace, who by this time had begun to be in a little bit of a quandary, for he felt that it was an act of great imprudence to continue in the company of his two associates much longer, but he did not very well know how to bring the interview to an end without exciting suspicion.

“I quite agree with you, sir,” he returned.

Then, thinking to change the subject, which was to him by no means an agreeable one, he drew from his pocket again the drawing of his invention for raising sunken ships.

“It would be indeed a favour if either of you gentlemen could put me in the way of laying this draft of my invention before the proper authorities.”

With a couple of drawing-pins he fastened the drawing against the wall of the room, and proceeded to point out its merits once more to the two detectives. They knew but little about it, but strove to comprehend its mode of operation, rising from their seats and carefully inspecting the chart in question.

“Ah,” murmured Peace to himself, “I wish I was fairly out of this. The Yankee bloke seems ever and anon to look one through. He’s awfully cute――I do wish he’d go.”

After some further discussion the chart was rolled up again, and Peace placed it in his pocket, whereupon the three gentlemen sat down again.

“Wal, stranger,” said Shearman, addressing himself again to Peace, “as we are all here to ourselves, I’ll just give you an account of a bit of business I was engaged on in New York. It’s a true story, and there ain’t no tall talk in it.”

“I’m really very sorry,” observed Peace, “but I am afraid I shan’t have time.”

“Oh, bosh, I’ll trot it off as sharp and brisk as a donkey’s gallop. Here’s to our better acquaintance. I am glad to have met you, sir,” added the American, raising the glass to his lips.

“And I am equally glad to have met you, sir,” returned our hero, who wished the Yankee to the Antipodes. “But you must excuse me.”

“Sit down for another quarter of an hour,” said Shearman. “We shall be all three of us going at the expiration of that time. Come, light up――have another cigar.”

“Devil take these fellows!” murmured Peace to himself. “There is no getting out of their clutches.”

He, however, lighted up, and reluctantly consented to remain a little longer.

“My friend, Shearman, can tell you tales of detective life for a week at a stretch,” observed Cartridge, with a smile; “and mind you a good many of his stories are both interesting and instructing. One thing I will say for him, he is never backward in obliging.”

“Wal, I hope we learn something from each other,” observed the American. “It is by the interchange of thought, and knowing something of other men’s experiences, is addition to our own, that we may eventually become smart officers. That’s my opinion, I make it a rule to listen to all people have to say, whether they be wise or otherwise.”

“That’s right enough,” returned Cartridge.

So here goes,” exclaimed the Yankee.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXIV. STOLEN LETTERS――AN AMERICAN DETECTIVE’S STORY

“The Post-office,” said Mr. Shearman, “is one of those institutions where scrupulous honesty is required, where very inadequate pay is given――a man is expected to slave like a mule or a camel for something under a pound a week, and to resist temptation.

“Some do it, others do not――they fall. Possibly these latter have wives and children, and cannot help thinking of them as a letter passes through their hands with a little coin inside. It is not a large sum, but it is more than half a week’s wages to them, and would enable them to do something for the ‘young ones.’

“The post-office, or more correctly the public, is robbed to a large extent annually, and it is impossible to put a stop to these depredations, for although the offenders are detected in some instances, and brought to justice, others escape and become hardened in crime.

“During the year of the last Great Exhibition these robberies became so frequent that it was found necessary to adopt some extraordinary means to check them. The utmost vigilance was exercised by the officials, but they found their efforts unavailing.

“The thefts continued, and the authorities were deluged with letters, stating that money, notes, cheques, and valuables of all descriptions had never come to hand. In the dilemma in which they found themselves placed they had recourse to the police, and Colonel Warner recommended the case to my notice. I undertook it; for it was a task of some difficulty which I found would occupy a week or so most agreeably.

“I was always happier in the harness than out of it. I do not mean to say that I despise reasonable relaxation, but I depreciated any great waste of time. I petitioned to be allowed to learn the business of a letter-sorter, which request was granted at once.

“A few days initiated me into this branch of the business, and I was then drafted into the room in which the latest operations were carried on. Large bags of letters were continually being shunted down shafts.

“When they reached the floor they were eagerly pounced upon and sorted for transmission to all parts of the kingdom. I carefully watched every man, which would seem a useless proceeding on my part, because a spy appointed for the express purpose is continually looking on. He is concealed from view, and gazes through a pane of glass at those who are at work in the room, and of course he detects frauds when they are very frequent.

“This man maintained, for his own credit sake, that the robberies were perpetrated at some other place and not in the General Post-office, but I did not agree with him. It required something more searching than the sleepy vision of a hired spy to detect the skilful thieves who were making a large income out of his carelessness and inefficient efforts.

“The quickness with which experienced men perform their duties is inconceivable to those who have not witnessed their exertions. I found it very difficult to keep my attention sufficiently fixed upon one in particular to be able to remark the peculiarity of his manner. The hands of all of them were here, there, and everywhere at once.

“I pretended to be absorbed in my occupation, although I was in reality remarking everything――one man especially attracted me. There was something so restless in his manner, that from the first time I set my eyes upon him I singled him out as the most likely fellow in the room to be a thief.

“I remarked that he every now and then raised his hand to his mouth. But so rapid were his motions that they resembled sleight-of-hand, and I could not discover what he was doing. This man looked as if he had known trouble, and was thoroughly acquainted with that painful process which is known as being in hot water.

“Perhaps he had been born with ideas above his station. There are people who move in a very humble sphere of life think they ought to have been born peers of the realm, and nothing but monarchical greatness will content others, though the majority of aspirants draw the line at nobility.

“Luxurious notions may have entered this man’s head. He may have had a fancy for asparagus, or new potatoes, or lamb and duck and green peas, and his own beggarly salary not ‘running to it,’ as the phrase goes, he may have thought it no great sin to help himself when the occasion presented itself in a favourable manner. He was not of full habit of body.

“There was something hollow and unsubstantial about him, although he was not much more than thirty years old, if you could judge from his outward appearance, which was not prepossessing.

“I determined, when work was over, to follow this man to his lair and see what he was like at home. The domestic hearth is something like wine. It shows men in their true character. The public-house is not a bad interpreter, but the hearth is the best of all. Work was over at six. At that time the night men came on.

“I afterwards ascertained that the man’s name was John Brown. He walked with a quick step along the street, looking behind him occasionally without seeing anything to arouse his suspicion, and entered a public-house, which was situated about half-way up a small court, whose obscurity must have prevented it from being generally known.

“Standing at the bar was a young man of gentlemanly but dissipated appearance, well dressed, and wearing some jewellery which, if real, must have been expensive. When he perceived Brown, he exclaimed――

“‘Johannes, my man, otherwise John, I am glad to see you.’

“Brown responded by a nod and a grunt.

“I followed, unnoticed by either party, and placed myself in a convenient position for eavesdropping.

“Brown sat down by the side of his acquaintance, said――

“‘Rather later than usual to-day, Mr. Wareham. The bags were rather heavy.’

“‘Never mind that. Have you worked the oracle properly?’ replied Wareham.

“‘About the same as usual, I think; my pockets are pretty well lined.’

“‘Turn them out; there is no one here to notice us.’

“‘I shouldn’t mind something to drink first,’ growled John Brown.

“‘You shall have it, my pippin. What tap’s most to your liking?’ replied Mr. Wareham.

“Brown expressed an opinion strongly in favour of beer such as is brewed by Bass on the banks of Trent, which was promptly brought him by an obsequious waiter. After quenching his thirst, he said――

“‘Now, sir, I feel better.’

“Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he produced several pieces of money, together with little scraps of paper. He had, I imagined, first of all felt the letters that passed through his hands, and if he detected the presence of gold, he raised the envelope to his mouth and bit off the corner in which the coin had fallen, afterwards placing it in his pocket. He appeared to have about twelve pounds to show as the result of his day’s work.

“Mr. Wareham examined the spoil, counted it, and having divided it equally, gave Brown one-half as his share of the plunder. Brown uttered an exclamation of discontent.

“‘What are you growling at?’ exclaimed Wareham.

“‘I ought to have the whole of it. I run the risk.’

“‘So you do. But you are obliged to bring all you get to me, because I know your secret. I need not give you anything if I did not like. You ought to be grateful for the generosity with which I treat you; upon my word, Brown, you are a fortunate fellow.’

“‘More of a fool than that,’ grumbled Brown, who seemed inclined to retaliate, and kick over the traces.

“‘I can’t agree with you, then.’

“‘It don’t much matter whether you do or not. I am pretty well sick and tired of this little game. I have a good mind to leave this land and go to Texas or Mexico.’

“‘At the expense of the Government,’ sneered Wareham.

“‘If I went, you’d go with me,’ said John Brown, fiercely.

“‘Think so? Well, you have a right to form your own opinion.’

“‘I, however, don’t suppose that such a thing is even remotely possible. I am very well satisfied with my native country; I have found you, and you are a source of profit and of income to me. You are what I may call a pearl of great price. I am unwilling to relinquish you. If I did so, I should be like the man who killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. My dear Johannes, you are necessary to my existence.’

“‘You always think of yourself.’

“‘Of course; egotism is the primary duty if not the whole duty of man.’

“‘I don’t know anything about that, but I’m tired of the way we’re going on. I would rather be in a prison than lead this sort of life.’

“‘Have you ever been in a prison?’ exclaimed Wareham, with a searching glance.

“‘No, but the time may come for all that. I’m going the right road to be shut up in gaol,’ returned Brown, savagely.

“‘As we are friends,’ said Wareham, ‘I don’t mind telling you that I have.’

“‘You!’ said Brown.

“‘For a year and a half I enjoyed that pleasure.’

“‘I wish you were there now.’

“‘Very possibly, my friend, but I really cannot join you in your amiable desire. I am unable to say in the spirit of the hymn, “I have been there and still would go,” for it is anything but a little heaven below.’

“‘So you had your hand in before you met me?’ said Brown, with a malicious grin.

“‘Certainly I had; a man must live, and I can declare that I was never any burden to my respectable parents. From my earliest infancy I had a talent for appropriating the property of other people, and I have lived upon my wits ever since I first knew I had any.’

“‘What got you into trouble?’

“‘An inordinate passion for riding. I always envied people I saw on horseback, and one day as I was loitering about the best part of the town, a gentleman asked me to hold his horse for him, while he entered the house of a friend. I looked upon the request as an insult, and while I held the bridle I ruminated as to the best method of revenge upon the aristocrat who had laid himself open to my resentment. It occurred to me that the best way to punish him would be to rob him of his horse. So seizing an advantageous opportunity, I sprang lightly upon the animal’s back.

“‘I did not know how to ride. The horse found at once that he had a light weight upon him, and he soon discovered, with equine instinct, that I had never been on a horse before. Setting back his ears, the beast bent his legs under him and set off at a quick pace. John Gilpin going to Edmonton must have felt very much as I did.

“‘The horse galloped recklessly and furiously from street to street, and at last landed me in the paternal arms of a blue-coated policeman, who looked after me with the care of a father.

“I was committed for trial, and engaged Mr. Earwig, the celebrated criminal counsel, who did his best for me, and moved the court to tears as he recounted the sad position of this well-connected young man (my father was at the time in Sing Sing gaol for debt, and my mother in the penitentiary owing to a little matter of manslaughter), whose parents were highly respectable.

“‘The misguided youth had given way to a sudden impulse of temptation which led him into the commission of a sin, the enormity of which was regretted by none so much as himself.

“‘At this juncture of the learned barrister’s speech the prosecutor got up, and said he hoped the court would deal leniently with the prisoner.

“‘He was willing to make all the reparation which lay in his power.

“‘The horse had subsequently run up against an omnibus, broken his neck, and damaged sundry pedestrians in his dying struggles, so it may be imagined that I was not able to make much reparation.

“‘The unhappy boy (sobs audible in various parts of the court) narrowly escaped with his life. When he, in an unguarded moment, leaped into the saddle he had no idea that the horse would go on.

“He had never been in a similar position before, and was so ignorant of the first principles of horsemanship that a donkey might lead him to destruction.

“No felonious design lurked in my client’s head. Steal the horse! Why, gentlemen of the jury (this with a persuasive simper), you might just as well, and with equal propriety, accuse me――me, Mr. Earwig――of wishing to run away with the box in which you are at this moment sitting. (A murmur of incredulity arose from the body of the court, which was instantly suppressed by the energetic efforts of the usher.)

“‘No, no, gentlemen, the poor young man whose prospects in life are already partially ruined, owing to his having been placed in the ignominious position in which he is by the precipitancy of the sitting magistrate who committed him for trial; whose character has been aspersed, and whose prospects have been blighted through a strange perversion of the truth, and a misconception of actual facts, never――I say it emphatically, never――contemplated an offence against the common law of the land.’ (Applause, and “hear, hear,” from a juryman.)

“‘Acquit him, gentlemen. You are not the slaves of prejudice. Do your duty as is meet and proper for men of standing and position. Why should you wreak an imaginary vengeance upon an innocent man, for innocent he is, in spite of the allegations that have been made to the contrary? Let him go his ways, gentlemen of the jury, and none of you will sleep the worse for it.’

“Mr. Earwig sat down in a state of moisture, arising from perspiration and exertion, but his arguments were not so availing with the jury as I would have wished them to be; they found me guilty, and I made the acquaintance with the interior of the State Prison. Profit by my experience, my dear Johannes. If you are of an ascetic turn of mind, and wish to mortify the flesh, by all means step within the pale of the criminal law, and get brought up before the district judge. You will not forget your interview with that terrible functionary in a hurry. I have seen him once, and I do not want to renew my acquaintance with him. Since that delightful period of my existence I have played the part of the monkey who made use of a cat’s-paw to pull the chesnuts out of the fire for him. You, my accommodating Johannes, are my cat’s-paw. The coins which you bring me from the G.P.O are the chesnuts. My heart overflows with gratitude to you. I regard you as my benefactor, and I wish I could promote you in some way. The days in which Jack Sheppards and Dick Turpins flourished have gone by, but you might be a Redpath or a Dean Paul; I think you have talent enough for a Redpath, and I don’t think you would make a bad Roupell.’

“‘When you have ended your nonsense I shall be glad if you will tell me,’ exclaimed Brown, who had been fretting and fuming during this lengthy speech.

“‘My good, my excellent Johannes,’ replied Mr. Wareham, suavely, ‘I have scarcely commenced.’

“‘What I want to know is, how much longer this game is to last?’

“‘I can tell you,” said Wareham. ‘If you can manage to nail a certainty――by that I mean something worth having――we will divide the swag, and you can go to Mexico when you like. I shall not endeavour to stop you. Can’t you rob the California mail? Get yourself put on night duty; do something. If you go on like this, you will get bowled out at last, and we shall have to throw the sponge up.’

[Sidenote: No. 65.]

“‘I’ll try,’ replied John Brown, moodily.

“‘Think it over, Johannes, and do your best.’

“‘I wish I had never given way to your temptation,’ muttered Brown, in a low voice, but Wareham did not overhear the remark.

“‘I must tear myself away from your fascinating society, Johannes,’ continued Wareham; ‘I have an appointment with a fly flat (i.e. a clever fool), and he has some superfluous cash which I covet. See if you cannot do something worth talking about. I shall meet you to-morrow at the usual time.’

“Wareham lighted a cigar, and nodding to his accomplice, strutted leisurely out of the place.

“Brown allowed his face to sink upon his hands, and I heard him say, ‘Curse him! may God in Heaven curse him!’

“He remained sunk in a lethargic despair for more than an hour, then he raised himself and left the tavern. I returned home to ponder. It was necessary to put a stop to the nefarious practices that Brown carried on with such skilfulness, and I considered how I should best take action in the matter.”

“Which of course you did,” observed Mr. Cartridge.

“Wal, I guess so, I never was one to let the grass grow under my feet.”

“Ah,” thought Peace, “when will he have done. I am on tenter-hooks.” Then aloud he said, “I am greatly interested in your narrative――pray proceed, sir.”

“All right,” returned the American, “I’ll jest git this darned weed to draw and be hanged to it. The Britishers always roll their cigars up too tight. It’s a way they’ve got, I suppose.”

“Take another,” said Peace.

“No, he’s all right now, thank you.” Mr. Shearman then proceeded.

“I had not the remotest conception how Mr. Wareham became acquainted with John Brown’s secret, but one thing I was sure of, and that was that the aforesaid gentleman was a consummate scoundrel.

“In order to understand his character better, and to see with whom I was contesting, I applied to an intelligent officer who was acquainted with almost all the thieves, vagabonds, and rogues in the city.

“The reply I received confirmed my suspicions. Wareham was well known to the police under a dozen of aliases. He had been convicted, and I resolved that he should be so again if there was any virtue in an indictment for conspiracy to defraud.

“I watched the two men carefully for some days, and at last I gained some information upon which I determined to act. They had planned an elaborate robbery between them, and Mr. Wareham’s habitual prudence was so far overruled that he consented to take an active part in it.

“Those letters which were registered on account of their containing valuables were also placed in a bag by themselves. Of course there were different bags for different places, but the Cincinnati bag was always a bulky one; they determined to appropriate the contents of that one.

“It was Brown’s duty to take certain bags to the lower regions of the Post-office for transmission through the tubes of the Pneumatic Company, which had just been laid down.

“Having overheard all their plans, and made my arrangements accordingly, I concealed myself with one of the watchmen connected with the establishment, in an angle of the wall, where I was free from observation, but able to spring out on a moment’s notice.

“Wareham accompanied Brown from above, and assisted him to carry the bags. No one asked him any questions――it was supposed that he had been told off on the same duty. The room in which the opening to the tube was situated was unoccupied by any one except the workmen connected with the machinery requisite to put the valves in motion.

“Browne and Wareham, thinking themselves alone, commenced the execution of their nefarious project. They hastily untied the neck of the small sacks, and plunging their hands in drew out as many letters as they could conceal about their persons.

“They had taken the precaution to have pockets ingeniously sewn on inside their coats and waistcoats, so that the plunder might be more easily distributed about their bodies.

“If they had crammed and stuffed the two ordinary pockets that every coat possessed, they would have bulged out, and most likely have betrayed them.

“I allowed them to satisfy their rapacity, and waited patiently to see what they would do next.

“The mouth of the pneumatic tube was very like the opening of the boiler of a furnace. The bottom part resembled a miniature railroad, and the idea was strengthened by the car or small waggon, which was driven along at an immense pace by atmospheric pressure.

“The waggon was in readiness for the bags, and when the two thieves had robbed the appointed bag of as much of its precious contents as they thought they could safely carry away with them, Brown raised it up and placed it in the waggon.

“I considered this a good opportunity to make my presence known and make a captive of Brown and his dangerous accomplice.

“Stepping from my place of concealment I appeared unexpectedly before them. Brown uttered a terrified cry, and seemed petrified with fear and apprehension.

“To be detected when success seemed most certain was very mortifying. He had made his arrangements to leave the country that very night. I could see by the aid of the gaslight that he was ghastly pale.

“Wareham did not exhibit the symptoms of terror and consternation that characterised the bearing of his less hardened confederate, but he was a little thrown off his guard, nevertheless.

“‘Well, governor, what do you want?’ he exclaimed in a voice he vainly endeavoured to render calm.

“‘What are you going to do with all those letters?’ I asked.

“‘Letters――what letters?’ he replied, with well-affected astonishment.

“‘Those you have in your pockets.’

“‘I don’t know what you mean.’

“‘Don’t you, really? That’s a pity,’ I said, in a bantering tone. ‘Unfortunately I saw you put them away.’

“‘And suppose you did; what then?’ he cried, boldly; ‘I suppose you want something to keep your mouth shut?’

“The watchman had remained in his hiding-place up to the present time, but now turning half round I beckoned him to show himself.

“He did so.

“‘Take that man into custody,’ I cried, ‘for robbing the post-office.’

“Brown was too much alarmed to make any resistance, and in half a minute the handcuffs were glittering on his wrists.

“Wareham looked on at this with blank amazement; then when it was finished and his friend secure, he burst into a loud laugh and exclaimed――‘Sold, by Heavens!’

“The watchman now came to my assistance, and we advanced to Wareham, who retired until he came to the mouth of the pneumatic tube.

“I made sure of catching him, and was already congratulating myself upon having apprehended the prisoners without any bloodshed, when I was unpleasantly forced to remember that there was such a thing as a slip between the cup and the lip.

“Just as our hands were upon him Wareham courageously gave a spring and entered the tube, taking a recumbent position upon the waggon by the side of the plundered mail-bag.

“Seizing the handle he pulled the door to after him. This, I afterwards found, was the signal for the workmen to put the machinery in motion. The bird escaped from my hand just as I was about to seize it.

“I do not think that Wareham imagined the waggon would be at once propelled through the tube; it is more probable that he wished to gain a temporary asylum; but a loud rumbling soon informed us that something was taking place inside.

“Leaving John Brown in charge of the watchman I ran hastily upstairs and asked where the tube discharged its contents. I was told the correct spot. I went hastily into the street and got into the first cab I could see and drove to the place at the utmost speed of which the cab horse was capable.

“On arriving there I proceeded to the post-office department, and found to my inexpressible chagrin that the waggon had duly arrived with its human freight ten minutes before.

“The workmen were surprised to see a man travelling in charge of the bag; but Wareham, elated at his narrow escape, told them that he had done it out of curiosity, and they asked no farther questions.

“As may be imagined, he took the earliest opportunity of leaving the office, and I was too late to apprehend him. That, however, did not annoy me very much; I had a satisfactory clue to Mr. Wareham, and by twelve o’clock the next day he was in custody.

“Neither money nor letters were found upon him, so he must have been associated with some gang to whom he had handed over, for the better concealment thereof, the quantity of letters he had stolen.

“He was afterwards induced to relate his sensations when in the tube.

“‘The air,’ he said, ‘felt cold and refreshing, but the darkness was appalling. The waggon was about four feet long by two wide. He disposed his legs as well as he was able, so as to avoid contact with the sides of the tube or any foreign body he might encounter.’

“‘He was surprised beyond measure when he found the waggon in motion, but being somewhat of a philosopher, he resigned himself to his fate. The speed at which he was driven along took his breath away, and he was not at all sorry when he arrived at his journey’s end.’

“Brown and Wareham were arraigned at the State Sessions. I was the principal witness against them. Brown, at the last moment, finding that he had no chance of escape, having been taken in flagrante delicto, turned State evidence, so that his punishment was comparatively trivial to that of Wareham, who was for a term of years removed from that busy sphere in which he had so greatly distinguished himself, and of which he was so promising a member.

“He was much missed by the school to which he belonged, and many of the thieving fraternity went into deep mourning for what was almost equivalent to the death of their versatile friend.”

“I am sure, I hardly know how to express myself,” cried Peace, when the American detective had brought his narrative to a conclusion. “I don’t know when I have passed such an agreeable hour or two as I have with you two gentlemen, who have given me an insight into matters quite new to me.”

“‘Oh, Shearman can tell you a heap of good stories, and can keep anyone amused for hours,” remarked Cartridge. “I’m not in the race with him.”

“Oh, you are well matched,” returned Peace, forcing a smile, for by this time he had had more than enough of his two companions. “But I must now be off, as I have to meet the gentleman who goes partner with me in some of my inventions. He is a practical man, and is, therefore, able to carry out my ideas.”

“I’ll tell you what I’d do,” said Shearman.

“What?”

“Wal, I would lay the matter before the Admiralty. If you can raise ships by the means you propoee――and I don’t see why you should not――why, it will be worth thousands to them.”

“An excellent thought, sir. I’ll take your advice,” cried Peace, rising from his seat and putting on his hat.

His two companions followed his example, and they all descended the stairs and passed out of the front door of the house.

Peace hailed a cab; then, wishing the detectives a hearty farewell, jumped into the vehicle, which was driven off, at Peace’s request, in the direction of the Ludgate-circus.

“Got rid of ’em at last!” cried our hero, as the cab rattled along. “Gad, but this has been a dose. No more police-courts for me. Why, they’d jaw a horse’s hind leg off――and think themselves so jolly clever, too. I’ve had enough of them――quite enough for the present, at all events.”

When the cab reached Ludgate-circus Peace paid the fare, and walked over Blackfriars-bridge.

He thought it just possible that his movements might be watched. Not that he imagined that either Mr. Cartridge or the Yankee suspected him――far from it; but he considered it to be just as well to be on the safe side, and break the continuity of his journey.

He therefore just dropped into a coffee-shop in the London road and had his tea. He remained there for some little time, and then proceeded once more on his journey. He said nothing to the ladies of his establishment about his rencontre with the detectives, but put Bandy-legged Bill in the full possession of all the facts when that worthy called on the following day. His predatory excursions were continued for night after night, and up to the present time he had escaped detection. But we must leave him for awhile to take a glance at other characters in our story.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXV. THE YOUNG EARL OF ETHALWOOD

The reader will understand that a lapse of years has taken place since we last took a glance at the inmates of Broxbridge Hall, and it will be needless to signify that time is an active agent, and many changes have taken place since our last visit to the hall. The Lady Aveline plunged into the vortex of fashionable life, and as a natural consequence had a number of admirers. It was her grandfather’s wish that she should form an alliance with a member of the aristocracy. She would then be still further removed from the low-born engineer. There were many suitors for her hand, but Aveline herself did not display any willingness to change her condition; and the probability is that she would not have done so had it not been for the importunities of the earl and the vivacious Lady Marylynn.

After a good deal of flirtation, hesitation, and irresolution, she consented to become the wife of a baronet of some eight and thirty summers, Sir Gerald Batashall by name.

On the day of her marriage the earl settled on her a princely dowry, and all went on as merry as a marriage bell. The Batashalls were an old family in the West of England; they were proud, like the earl, and the match was considered by everyone to be a suitable and proper one.

The Lady Aveline bore her husband two children, a boy and a girl.

In the meantime, the young heir of Ethalwood was growing up to man’s estate; he had been indulged by his mother and spoiled by his grandfather, who made him his pet, and indeed it might be said, almost his idol.

He was sent to college, and when at home had tutors in the house. No expense was spared to make him worthy of the proud position he was to occupy.

He was a generous-hearted impetuous youth, but could not brook control, and the servants averred that he had much of the Ethalwood spirit.

Before he reached his nineteenth year his grandfather breathed his last in the presence of his grand-daughter and great-grandson.

The latter came into the title and estates at too early an age, perhaps, but there was no help for it; the earl was full of years at the time of his decease――between eighty and ninety, which is a respectable old age.

After the few months of mourning for his noble ancestor Lord Reginald Ethalwood soon began to have his own views of youth and freedom in the new life which was so suddenly opened to him.

The temple of pleasure was before him, and he soon found his way into its innermost penetralia. For a long time the intoxicating and enervating draught of luxurious indulgence was never absent from his lips until at last he had drunk down to the very lees of the cup, and, as a natural consequence, tasted of satiety and disgust.

His mother could not give so much heed to him as she wished, as she had her husband and her young children to occupy her thoughts, so that the young earl was left to steer his course as best he could. He became blasé, discontented, and yearned for a change.

Change of scene, change of pursuit, both were open to him as the natural resources of his condition, and without hesitation he turned to them for relief from the ennui and discontent that had overtaken him.

Among the possessions that had come to him with the patrimonial estates he had inherited from his great grandfather, was a small chateau or hunting lodge on the borders of Switzerland. In the earlier days of his life, the deceased earl had been accustomed to spend a good deal of his time at this place. The Ethalwoods had always a great predilection for sports, and shooting and hunting had special charms for them when in the pride and full vigour of manhood, and hence it was that the chateau in question had at one time been a favourite resort with the father and his sons.

It was built on the side of one of the high spurs of the Jura, in the midst of some of the wildest and most picturesque scenery of that portion of the country which links France with Switzerland.

Except to a few visitors in the summer months the profound solitudes of the mountains were almost unknown to strangers――the valleys and mountain sides being inhabited by populations ignorant of everything that passes in the world beyond the bounds of their native forests.

Erected some three hundred years before, the chateau was a sombre and imposing building. Above it rose a pine forest, dark and stately; below it lay a deep valley.

The whole aspect of the place was one of savage grandeur. Lord Reginald Ethalwood, tired of London fashionable life, made up his mind to seek change in this charming retreat.

He was a keen sportsman: could handle a rifle with the best of his fellows, and, much to the surprise and discomfiture of his gay and thoughtless companions, he left England for the far-famed retreat on the borders of France. Once arrived there, he gave himself up, with a constantly-increasing ardour, to the hunting of the fox and the wild boar.

He had in a short time grown to like this sort of life; and it might have lasted for many years but for an adventure which cast a shadow over his path――a deep and sinister shadow, which brought with it regret, sorrow, and remorse.

In the ardour of the chase he was led over the highest pinnacles of the mountains; a toppling crag gave way, and he was precipitated into the chasm below. The fall was a fearful one, and he lay stunned and motionless, and to all appearance dead. Some peasants discovered him, and placing him on a litter they conveyed him to the nearest habitation, where every attention was paid him by the kindly disposed mistress of the establishment. But for some days he hovered between life and death. Luckily for him, he had fallen into good hands. Madame Trieste, the owner of the chalet into which he had been conveyed, tended on him with maternal solicitude, and by careful nursing, joined to medical skill, he recovered from the terrible injuries he had received.

Madame had two valuable assistants in nursing the wounded earl, these being her daughter and a servant, so that the English nobleman had every possible attention.

When he recovered he was loth to leave the hospitable establishment. One reason for this was a lurking fondness for Mademoiselle Theresa Trieste――his hostess’s charming daughter, in whose society he found great solace and comfort.

Days and weeks had passed over, but the young nobleman still continued an inmate of the house in the occupation of Madame Trieste――he did not feel disposed to leave. He had by this time recovered from his accident, but did not feel inclined to return to his own domicile. Indeed, to say the truth, he had been persuaded to remain by mademoiselle, who had no desire to part with him. Thus matters went on for some time, until a change took place in the aspect of affairs.

On the day in question there was a sort of lull; the dinner passed over in a humdrum way. Madame Trieste was the only one of the party whose good spirits were not forced; Theresa scarcely spoke at all; she appeared to be preoccupied――the reason for this was not made manifest.

Agatha, the servant girl, was even in a still worse condition; it was evident that she had been weeping, for her eyes were red and swollen.

Lord Ethalwood himself felt dispirited, and it was in vain that he strove to assume an air of cheerfulness, and it was impossible for the vivacious Frenchwoman, his hostess, not to observe that there was something the matter with her guest. The woman prudently forebore to make any allusion to his altered demeanour.

“I am but a dull and cheerless companion, madame,” observed Lord Ethalwood, when he rose from the table. “The fact is I am not so strong as I supposed, and my long morning’s walk has been a little too much for me.”

“It is not to be wondered at, my lord,” returned the lady. “It will be some time, I expect, before you have recovered your strength.”

“No doubt some time, but to-morrow I hope and trust I shall be a little better.”

“I hope so, I am sure.”

He excused himself upon the plea of weakness, and retired to his room. Here he sat ruminating for some time, and upon retiring to bed that night, he could not rest, a vision of two girls sleeping under the same roof with him rose up and floated before him, so that repose was impossible.

The next morning he rose earlier than usual, hoping to find health and strength in the fresh mountain breeze.

He was away some considerable time, wandering about in a desultory manner he knew not whither.

When he returned to Madame Trieste’s house, he was silent and thoughtful, but was, nevertheless, extremely courteous in his manner. This was habitual to him. He found the ladies waiting breakfast for him.

Theresa looked pale, and appeared to be in a state of trepidation. Her maid Agatha, however, seemed to be keenly alive to all that was passing, for her eyes wandered about from one to another in an inquiring manner.

Madame Trieste was lively and loquacious, and the meal passed over pleasantly enough. When it was concluded, and the party were about to leave the dining-room, a loud barking of dogs in the garden fell upon their ears.

“Oh, a visitor,” remarked Madame Trieste.

“Do you expect anyone?” inquired Lord Ethalwood.

“Well, yes, I do, if the truth must be told,” returned his hostess.

Theresa started, and a troubled look sat on her beauteous and expressive features.

There was a gentle rap at the door, after which a young man entered the room. He appeared to be about four or five and twenty. He had a well-knit frame, indicating great strength and activity. His features were characteristic of determination and were possessed of a certain amount of manly beauty――albeit, they lacked refinement. His hair was black, and his complexion swarthy.

Madame Trieste held out her hand to him, which he raised to his lips with a kind of rough gallantry. He then shook hands with Theresa, who appeared to be greatly disconcerted.

Lord Ethalwood returned the young man’s salutation with the greatest possible hauteur.

“My dear Gerome,” said Madame Trieste, in an affectionate tone, “this gentleman is Lord Ethalwood, of whom you have heard us so often speak.”

The young man nodded.

Then, turning towards his lordship, she added――“My dear Lord Ethalwood, allow me to introduce you to one of my neighbours, Gerome Chanet. You are both young, both sportsmen, both good-hearted and intelligent, and I hope and trust you will become excellent friends.”

Lord Ethalwood bowed stiffly, and turned on his heel.

“My dear Ethelwood,” exclaimed the hostess, “do pray shake hands with my young protégé. You English are so singularly cold and unimpressionable.”

“Are we?” returned his lordship. “Well, it is constitutional with us, I suppose,” he added, with a sickly smile.

Gerome Chanet held out his hand and Lord Ethalwood took it; but there was an evident reluctance on both their parts. Each of the young men divined that in the other he had a rival, or it might be an enemy.

“You intend to spend the whole day with us――do you not, Gerome?” said Madame, assuming an air of cheerfulness.

“Ahem! I hardly know,” he returned. “You have a visitor.”

“What of that? You ought to be proud to make the acquaintance of so distinguished a gentleman.”

“Ahem! Yes, of course.”

“Then, why do you hesitate?”

Gerome made no reply to this last observation.

The little party went out into the garden, and seated themselves in a small bower overgrown with honeysuckle and eglantine. Madame Trieste and her daughter took with them their needlework, and all more or less entered into conversation.

It would have been impossible for Lord Ethalwood, without ridiculous affectation and unpardonable bad taste, to refrain from addressing Gerome Chanet.

The young man greatly displeased him, it is true; but he had done nothing offensive, and it would have been in very bad taste on the part of the English nobleman to ignore his presence.

The conversation, therefore, became general. Gerome recounted several wild and exciting stories of mountaineering life, but sedulously avoided making himself the hero of the adventures. He was as modest as he was brave.

During these recitals Lord Ethalwood watched Theresa. She evidently took but little interest in any of the narratives, and her undisguised indifference filled his heart with joy. Now and then, Madame Trieste slightly bent her eyebrows and looked vexed as her eyes rested upon her daughter.

Afternoon arrived. Theresa and her mother returned to the house to see to the preparations for the dinner. Lord Ethalwood and Gerome Chanet were thus left together.

The masks they had been wearing instantly fell from their faces――it was useless to keep them on any longer, and, from the moment of the ladies’ departure, not another word was spoken. Lord Ethalwood strolled in the garden, leaving his companion to enjoy his pipe alone in the arbour.

Dinner passed over, and at length the day――which had seemed interminable to Lord Ethalwood――was drawing to a close. Night was slowly approaching, and Gerome Chanet took his leave of the ladies.

In obedience to the request of madame, the two men once more shook hands in the same cold formal manner as before.

Gerome departed along a road leading to the mountains, and every step which increased the distance from the house seemed to lift a portion of a heavy burden that weighed upon the English nobleman’s heart.

He seemed to breathe more freely when he felt assured that Gerome was far removed from the house in which he and his rival――for he felt assured he was so――had first met.

As soon as the young mountaineer was out of sight, Madame Trieste motioned Theresa to return to the house, and then taking Lord Ethalwood’s arm led him back to the arbour in which a great part of the day had been spent.

My dear friend,” said madame, as soon as they were seated, “here we can converse freely, and I have something to tell you.”

“Oh, indeed, madame! I am all attention.”

“I look upon you as one of our nearest and dearest friends. I am right in that supposition?”

“Of course you are――perfectly right.”

“And, as a proof, I am going to show you how much confidence I have in you. I have introduced you to Monsieur Gerome Chanet――you have had ample opportunities afforded you to converse together――now tell me, without reserve, what you think of him?”

“My dear lady, what reason have you for putting such a question?”

“Never mind; answer it.”

“Frankly?”

“Yes. Do you like him?”

“Well, you put a plain question, which, to say the truth, I would rather not answer, but if you insist――――”

“I do insist, you perverse creature.”

“Well, then, my answer is that I do not like him at all.”

“I thought as much.”

“Then you are not mistaken.”

“And your reasons?”

“He displeases me. It is wrong to be prejudiced against any person, but, nevertheless, I frankly confess that the moment I set eyes upon him I felt towards him the greatest possible aversion.”

“How very singular! He is brave and generous.”

“That may be; but he is evidently not my sort. I do not like him. I should perhaps find it difficult to tell you the reason for that dislike. All I know is, that it does exist, and I may add it is likely to exist.”

“I am very sorry for it.”

“Why, my dear Madame? It cannot be a matter of any moment whether I like or dislike Monsieur Chanet. I have met him to-day for the first time, and possibly we may never meet again.”

“You are mistaken.”

“In what way?”

“This young man,” answered Madame Trieste, “will shortly be my son.”

“Your son, madame? Impossible!”

“It is a fact, monsieur.”

Lord Ethalwood appeared thunderstruck, and he changed colour.

Luckily, however, it was nearly dark, and his altered demeanour was not observed by his companion to its fullest extent. She, however, saw that he was moved and greatly disconcerted.

“I cannot believe it possible,” he repeated.

“He is betrothed to Theresa,” said Madame Trieste. “The marriage will take place three months hence; all has been arranged and definitely settled.”

“And, Mademoiselle Theresa,” stammered out his lordship, “does――does she love him?”

Through the increasing darkness the young nobleman could see that the French mother shook her head sadly.

“Does she love this man, madame?” cried Ethalwood, in a more imperative tone.

“No, I do not believe she does,” was the answer to this query. “But she esteems him, and feels for him a strong friendship,” added madame.

“Oh, indeed.”

“Yes, I hope and trust she does.”

“But why do you give her to him?”

“Because, though she does not love him now, love may come with marriage. It is often the more solid for coming a little late.”

Lord Ethalwood shook his head.

“You do not think so?”

“No, indeed, I should be blind to facts if I did,” returned he.

“I do not think so.”

It could not possibly occur to the mind of Madame Trieste that in speaking thus she was wounding the heart of her guest and friend. The idea that her daughter, the fortuneless daughter of a poor lieutenant of gendarmerie, might cast her eyes upon a proud wealthy English nobleman never for a moment occurred to her.

“You will understand that what I have told you is strictly confidential,” said Madame Trieste, “and you will not, of course, ever mention the subject to my dear Theresa under any circumstances.”

“Certainly not――I should not think of doing so. You may rely upon my discretion in this matter.”

“Thanks, my lord, a thousand thanks. It is now getting late, and the night air is cool. Will you come indoors?”

“I will rejoin you in a few minutes.”

“We shall be waiting for you in the house,” she said, as she turned and left him.

It is hardly necessary to describe the nature of the reflections to which he gave himself up on being left alone.

The natural repugnance he had for the young mountaineer was now greatly intensified.

He hated the very name of the man, and half regretted not having openly insulted him――indeed, had he been acquainted with all the circumstances which had since come to his knowledge, the probability would have been that a violent scene might have taken place.

He was at this time greatly concerned and deeply dejected, and his reflections were by no means agreeable ones.

He was suddenly aroused by feeling a burning hand pressed upon one of his own, while a breathless voice whispered in his ear――

“Leave your door open. I must speak with you to-night.”

The speaker was Agatha, and she had disappeared before the sound of her voice had died in Lord Ethalwood’s ear.

He strove in vain to fathom the intention of the young girl in thus addressing him.

What could she probably have to say of such moment as to impel her to take such a questionable course as that of secretly visiting his room in the dead hour of the night?

It was altogether strange and unaccountable, and he was at a loss to account for the girl’s conduct.

Upon rejoining Madame Trieste and Theresa in the house, he seemed so abstracted and preoccupied that his hostess regarded him with a look of commiseration, being under the impression at the time that he was indisposed.

She asked him if he felt unwell.

He answered in the affirmative, being but too glad to avail himself of any excuse to be by himself. He therefore retired to his room.

It was by this time a little after ten o’clock, and he might have to wait a long time for the arrival of the maid.

He opened the window of his apartment, and gazed out. A panorama of beauty lay before him, which was lighted up by the silver rays of the moon and myriads of stars.

Lord Ethalwood surveyed the scene with something like satisfaction, for the temperature was soft and mild, and a light breeze, laden with the perfume of flowers, fanned his cheeks.

But as yet Agatha had not made her appearance.

Possibly it might be, after all, a mere girlish whim――a caprice forgotten almost as soon as expressed.

“What could she have to tell? No matter,” murmered the English nobleman, “I will wait patiently. It may be something of moment, or it may be a mere trifle――any way I will wait. I am far removed from friends and home, and my mother in her last letter begs of me to return to London with all convenient speed. Perhaps she suspects that there are attractions in this district, and to say the truth she is not far out――――”

His soliloquy was suddenly brought to a termination by a gentle rap at the door, which was afterwards slowly swung back on its hinges, and Agatha, the pretty French waiting maid, presented herself.

“So you have kept your word, my pretty little tormentor,” cried his lordship. “It is almost more than I expected.”

“You have never known me to break my word,” returned the girl, “but we will not dispute on that point. I am here, as you see.”

“As I see.”

“And I am here for a purpose.”

“I do not doubt it, Agatha.”

The girl seemed to be in a sort of a tremour; possibly she half repented of her rash and imprudent act, for Lord Ethalwood, upon her entering the room, had carefully and almost noiselessly closed the door. This done, he led her to a seat.

“Ah,” sighed Agatha, “it is perhaps wrong of me to visit you thus, but I do not see any other way, and, so, pardon me, monsieur.”

“I have nothing to pardon,” returned his lordship. “On the contrary, I have reason to be grateful for your disinterested kindness, for I am sure you are prompted by nothing but the best and most unselfish motives in thus presenting yourself.”

The girl’s face became suffused with blushes as she listened to this complimentary speech.

“Monsieur――my lord!” she ejaculated, “what I have to tell you is serious――nay, it may be terrible.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You are in danger――imminent danger.”

“Pray don’t frighten me, Agatha,” he said, with a smile.

“Oh, my lord,” she returned, “you cannot deceive me. You love Mademoiselle Theresa. Don’t shake your head. I say you are enamoured of my young mistress.”

“Hush! Do not make such rash assertions. I swear to you,” he cried.

“Do not swear, monsieur,” she answered, interrupting him. “It is useless your attempting to deny it. You might as well attempt to prove to me that I am the Queen of France, as to that you do not love my mistress.”

“Well, for argument’s sake――mind, only for the sake of argument――assume, if you like, that I do love Mademoiselle Theresa. What then?”

“Well, then――a young man came here to-day.”

“Certainly. What of that?”

“You do not like him. That is in no way surprising; and he hates you!”

“There is not much love lost between us, I dare say. But how do you know he hates me?”

“I have seen the evil looks he cast upon you. I tell you his hate is of a most deadly and venomous character. Ah! monsieur――my lord, have a care, be warned in time. This young man――this Gerome Chanet――loves my mistress to distraction――he doats upon her. Full well I know this. He would gladly and cheerfully lay down his life for her.”

“Upon my word, Agatha, he is a most chivalrous, self-sacrificing knight errant――that is, assuming your theory to be a correct one.”

“I am not mistaken,” said the girl, with renewed emphasis and force.

“Monsieur Gerome Chanet idolises Mademoiselle Theresa, and madame has promised that she shall become his wife.”

“This may be the case.”

“It is so.”

“Well it is, then, if you will have it so.”

“It is not I would have it, because I do not like him; neither does Theresa.”

“Then she is a fool if she has a man she does not like.”

“But then he will be revenged, take a deadly vengeance on the man whom he deems his rival.”

“And who may that be?”

“None other than yourself. Oh, my lord, how can you ask such a question?”

“Upon my word, Agatha, you are a most extraordinary girl.”

“You do not know the man you are dealing with, but I do,” exclaimed Agatha. “He is brave and impetuous, his passions are like a mountain torrent; his father is rich, but his grandfather was a smuggler, who thought as little of killing a fellow-creature as you think of plucking a flower. Gerome takes after his grandfather. Oh, monsieur, be warned in time. If he supposes you supplant him in the affections of my mistress, which you do, he will strike you down in one of the mountain passes without pity or remorse.”

“You are drawing a most terrible picture, my dear Agatha.”

“Not more terrible than true, my lord.”

“What would you advise me to do then?” he inquired.

“You must leave this house at once――you must quit this country, return to your native land, and await the issue of events. I don’t believe that Mademoiselle Theresa will give her hand to the young mountaineer after all that has passed.”

“You don’t think she will. And why not, I pray?”

“Because she has another attachment.”

Lord Ethalwood gave a prolonged “oh,” but forbore from pressing the question further.

“You can guess who the object of that attachment is,” murmured his companion.

“I think you are a wise counsellor, Agatha, and I will think over all you have said and act in accordance with the dictates of my judgment, but to leave this country, to part with you, my charmer, would be, indeed, a terrible punishment.”

He caught the French maiden round the waist, pressed her form, and covered her face with kisses.

“Oh, moussu――Oh, pray don’t!” she cried, as a deep blush suffused her face and neck. “Pray release me.”

“You are my protectress, my adviser, my sweet pet,” cried he.

She struggled to release herself from his grasp, and when she had succeeded she opened the door and fled precipitately.

“Ah!” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “what a charming creature! So piquant!――so unsophisticated――so loveable!”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXVI. FURTHER ENTANGLEMENTS

Lord Ethalwood, at this particular period of his career, stood a fair chance of getting himself into a scrape. His conduct, albeit that of a gentleman, could not, taking the most favourable view of it, be deemed prudent. He was enamoured of his hostess’s charming daughter, but at the same time carried on a flirtation with the maid, which, as discreet persons would say, was in every way reprehensible.

It would have been well for him if he had taken the advice of Agatha, whose acute perceptive faculties enabled her to see the coming storm, which might probably overwhelm more than one of the inmates of Madame Trieste’s establishment.

After the girl’s departure his reflections were by no means of an agreeable character, for at this time the idea of marriage was the very last thing that occurred to him.

He was embued with much of the aristocratic prejudice which formed so strong an element in the character of his ancestor, the late earl, who before his death had made his great grandson promise――nay, indeed, swear――that he would never contract a marriage with any lady who was not nobly born, and it was therefore impossible for him to give his name to a girl of humble and obscure origin.

He had not duly considered this when he first suffered himself to be allured and fascinated by the beautious and susceptible French maiden.

He was not singular in this respect, for hundreds, and indeed thousands, have been equally reckless both before and since.

His mother all this time was in entire ignorance of the course which was being pursued by her erratic son. She suspected something was amiss, perhaps, but then she argued that all members of the aristocracy must have their private amours――it was but in the natural order of things that such should be the case.

Lord Ethalwood came to the conclusion that he had been both unwise and indiscreet, and the only course open to him was flight; he therefore on the following day intimated to Madame Trieste that he intended to return to his own chateau, and much to his surprise the widow did not make any objection to this, but upon the face of her daughter sat an expression of sadness and almost despair. She, however, did not make any observation.

No doubt she had discovered that a fatal attachment had been growing from hour to hour in the young girl’s heart, and like a prudent mother she was solicitous of seeing her daughter married, feeling perfectly well that no good could come of her encouragement of the English nobleman’s attentions, seeing that it was not at all probable a gentleman in his position would form what everyone must consider a mesalliance.

Towards the middle of the day Lord Ethalwood set out for his own residence.

He was not in his usual spirits upon returning to his chateau, and forbore from indulging in the pleasures of the chase.

In consequence of this he felt the time hang heavy on his hands and had serious thoughts of returning to Broxbridge Hall, and plunging again into the vortex of fashionable life. But there was a loadstone which kept him from carrying out this good resolution.

He had passed about a month of dull purposeless existence since his return, when one morning his valet delivered to him a letter in an unknown handwriting.

The unexpected missive came from an old French gentleman who had been at one time an intimate associate of the late earl, who was most anxious to pay his respects to his successor.

Any society was better than none, so in reply to the Frenchman’s letter Lord Ethalwood wrote an invitation to the writer, intimating that he would be glad if he would spend a day or two with him at his chateau.

The name of his father’s friend was the Chevalier Gustave de Monpres, and punctual to the time appointed the chevalier arrived in a post-chaise at the chateau.

He was a thin man, with a bald head and a heavy military moustache, and although verging on three score years and ten, was as active as a harlequin and as loquacious as a barber.

He very soon made himself known to the English nobleman, whom, he said, was the image of his friend, the deceased earl.

He was most profuse in his protestations of friendship, and passed his arm through that of his host as if he had known him for years, and led him into the park, where he insisted on giving his companion an account of the wonderful adventures he and the late earl had had together, and speaking to the present one as if he were a man of his own age.

He certainly was a most vivacious, amusing old gentleman.

Poor Reginald could not get a word in edgeway. It is true he did not make any great effort to out-talk the Frenchman, being convinced from the very first that he was in this respect “nowhere,” to make use of a sporting phase.

The chevalier had sufficient penetration to see that his young friend was rather dispirited, from what cause he could not divine. However, he made up his mind to get at the pith and marrow of the subject before he left the chateau, and he was just the sort of man who was beyond all others the most likely to succeed in such a case.

He told the young earl a series of anecdotes and stories about all sorts of people, and the general tenour of his conversation was what some persons would term free――it partook more of the libertine than the moralist. However, it served to beguile the tedium of the earl’s monotonous life, and he was in a measure amused with his vivacious guest.

When the walk in the grounds was over, the dinner was served, and the two gentlemen sat down to what in truth might be termed a costly banquet.

The chevalier, who was a connoisseur in gastronomic matters, tasted all the dishes, did honour to all the wines, and complimented infinitely the talents of Lord Ethalwood’s chef, whom he declared to be a man of supreme ability and taste.

As the meal progressed the old roué’s spirits frothed and sparkled like the champagne he swallowed, but his host remained dull and thoughtful, despite the exhilarating effects of the wine.

His companion could not fail to observe this; he was too much a man of the world, and too great a courtier to rally the earl on the subject. He took a different course: he tacked about, changed the character of his discourse, for he had the protean power of adapting himself to all occasions. He therefore became affectionately insinuating, and even almost parental. This was more consonant with the earl’s state of mind at that time.

The chevalier did not seem to be the same man he was an hour or so ago. He was so engaging, so soft and winning, and it might be said earnest and almost pathetic.

“Oh, my dear young friend,” said he, “it is well to be young――but, at the same time, the young as well as the old have their cares, troubles, and anxieties, though these in most cases result from different causes. You are preoccupied to-day――there is doubtless good reason for this.”

“Nothing in particular,” said Ethalwood――“but you must understand that at times I feel the effects of the severe fall I had some time ago.”

“Ah, true, no doubt; but if there is nothing more serious than that――well, I think you’ll get over it in good time.”

[Sidenote: No. 66.]

The conversation was continued much in this strain, when by artfully calculated means the chevalier soon succeeded in drawing from Lord Ethalwood the cause of his preoccupation, and, indeed, of all that had happened in the house of Madame Trieste.

Monsieur de Monpres’ eyes sparkled and his whole face was lit with an expression of joyousness when Lord Ethalwood had finished his confession. He was wholly in his element; he had before him a young man trembling on the brink of a moral abyss, and his was not the hand to be stretched forth to save him.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the old chevalier. “Carrying on a flirtation with the mistress and her maid both at the same time――excellent! Why you are a perfect Don Giovanni, my young friend. By the way I know Lieutenant Trieste, the husband of the lady whose house afforded you such timely shelter; but, of course, a man in your exalted station would never for a moment contemplate uniting yourself to a person in Mademoiselle’s humble position――that’s altogether out of the question.”

“It is quite out of the question.”

“Good; I am glad to hear you say so, because it proves to me that you are a sensible young man. I should not trouble myself much about the young mountaineer; fellows of his character are not worth wasting one’s thoughts over. Bah! she’ll never marry him――never――take my word for it.”

“Unless I return to England.”

“Ah, that’s quite a different matter, but you do not intend to return?”

“Not just at present, at any rate,” added the chevalier, with a sarcastic smile. “I think I know you too well for that, although our acquaintance is of such short duration. Be of good cheer, and don’t give up the girl to a boor like that.”

The chevalier took the young man’s soul, as it were, and softened it in the fire of passions which he excited with his contaminating breath; then he kneaded it like molten wax, and gave it back more or less after the pattern of his own.

His language had the glitter of the serpent, that seems to caress its victim the better to destroy it. Without once wounding the sensibility of his listener, the chevalier scoffed down all his beliefs, demolished all his illusions.

Lord Ethalwood had heard much of the lax morals of our continental neighbours, and in Monsieur de Monpres he had a bright example.

“Come, come,” said the latter, “you must bear a more cheerful aspect. I tell you freely I don’t intend to take my departure from your hospitable house until I see you looking bright and cheerful.”

The old Frenchman kept his word, for he remained several days with the young earl. During his stay he was explanatory as regards Madame Trieste, whom he described as a very clever and cunning mother, speculating on the inexperience of a young man of name and fortune, with the view of entrapping him into a marriage with her daughter. This, he said, was all fair enough. She had a perfect right to do the best she could for her child, but on the other hand the earl had an equal right to take excellent care not to snap at the bait so artfully presented to him.

Finally he demonstrated that Gerome Chanet, the girl’s betrothed husband, was simply a supernumerary called in to play a part, to serve the ends of the chief actors in the drama, by exhibiting himself in the character of a betrothed, to force his lordship into a declaration of love.

Ethalwood listened to all his unprincipled counsellor had to say, and pointed out to him that Chanet was desperately and madly in love with Theresa.

At this the old Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in a most significant manner.

When the chevalier had taken his departure Ethalwood felt in some measure relieved. While he was with him he lent an attentive ear to all he had to say, and he was inclined to believe that he was tolerably right so far as the main facts were concerned, but despite this he could not bring himself to believe that the young mountaineer was playing a double game, or acting as a subordinate to others. It appeared to be altogether foreign to his nature; besides, Agatha herself had told him that Chanet was very much in earnest, and this declaration was proved but too plainly by subsequent events.

“I cannot believe all he says,” murmured Ethalwood, “but nevertheless there is much truth in many of his observations. Doubtless he is enabled to see things much more clearly than I can myself. He’s a sharp-sighted old gentleman, without a doubt, and he hasn’t been too particular at any period of his life. I wonder what the proud old earl could have seen in him to make him his companion. I suppose he did do so? I never heard him mention his name, though. But, Lord bless me! how many years ago must it have been?”

Lord Ethalwood was restless and fidgety――so much so, that he could not remain any longer at his own chateau; so he determined upon paying Madame Trieste another visit. He longed to learn something about the fair Theresa, and was a little piqued that no messenger had been sent by Madame Trieste to inquire how he was, or bring him an invitation.

As he was proceeding in the direction of madame’s house he was met by the chevalier, who was being driven along in his old lumbering post-chaise.

“Going to the widow’s――are you?” said the chevalier――“good, excellent! I am going close to where she lives. Jump in, and we’ll drive there. That is close to her house; you can then alight, and walk the remainder of the distance alone.”

Ethalwood availed himself of the offer, and drove within half a mile or so of his destination. He alighted and walked rapidly on. When he presented himself he found Madame Trieste in her garden. She was alone, and as he passed through the gate she raised her eyes with such a look of astonishment as to almost imply that she did not recognise him.

This a little disconcerted him, and he felt half disposed to turn back and go away in dudgeon. The probability is that he would have done so had not the widow advanced a few steps and exclaimed in a tone of surprise――

“What! my lord? Well, you do astonish me.”

“And pray, madame, what reason is there for astonishment? I have not heard from you. Not a scrap of intelligence has reached me from either yourself or your daughter, and hence it is I have deemed it my duty to call.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” observed Madame Trieste; “yes, quite natural you should do so, and――ahem――have you quite recovered from the effects of your accident?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

Her manner was constrained, not to say cold, and the earl was at a loss to account for her altered demeanour.

“I am glad you are yourself again.”

“And so you see, madame,” he observed, assuming a cheerful, confidential tone, “I could not keep away from you any longer――so I’ve just run over to see how you all are.”

“Certainly; it’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”

Lord Ethalwood was under the impression from the lady’s manner that his presence in her chateau was not altogether desired, but he did not choose to take any notice of this. There might be something amiss, and he was determined, if possible, to find out what that something was.

Without invitation he unslung his game-bag and ascended the stairs leading to the apartment he had before occupied.

Madame Trieste looked a little surprised, but said nothing.

On the landing he met Agatha.

“Gracious me!” she ejaculated――“you here, my friend.”

“Certainly. Is there anything astonishing in that? I am here, as you see.”

The maid drew back and seemed to be a little disconcerted.

“Like mistress, like maid,” murmured his lordship to himself. “It does not much matter――I don’t intend to be baffled if I can help it. Hang their blank looks and frigid manner.”

Agatha still stood contemplating her mistress’s visitor.

“Why, what ails you, my little pet? You look scared.”

“Do I?”

“I fancy so. Are you not well?”

“I am well enough, as far as health is concerned.”

“Are you in trouble then?”

“Oh, my lord!” returned the girl. “You went away from here leaving sorrow behind you. This you ought to know without my telling you, and you have returned to bring misery and despair.”

“Upon my word, Agatha, for the life of me I cannot understand what you mean. Explain yourself.”

“Let me pass,” exclaimed Agatha.

He endeavoured to detain her, but she refused to answer his questions, and fled along the passage with the speed of an antelope.

“Perverse, obstinate girl!” exclaimed the English nobleman. “What can possess the little jade? The whole household appears to be under some malign influence, which is both extraordinary and unaccountable.”

As he passed on towards the apartment he had previously occupied, he observed in one of the sitting-rooms Theresa Trieste, who was reclining in a large arm-chair in a pensive attitude.

“Mademoiselle Theresa,” ejaculated Lord Ethalwood, “whence this altered demeanour?”

“My lord!” cried the French maiden――“you here!”

“Yes――may I enter?”

“If it pleases you to do so――you can of course.”

Lord Ethalwood entered, and crept up to the chair on which the young woman was seated.

“Tell me,” said he in a voice of deep emotion, “the reason for my being received so coldly by the inhabitants of a house where I was wont to receive nought but kindness. Have I done ought to offend you, Theresa?”

“Nothing whatever,” was the quick response, “but the aspect of affairs has greatly altered since you were last here, and I am no longer my own mistress――am not free to do as I might wish.”

“Not your own mistress? Surely you are not united to that――――”

“No, I am not,” she answered, interrupting him quickly; “but I was under an engagement which is now broken off. Ah, why did you leave so precipitately?” she added, regarding him with a reproving look.

“Why?” he replieed. “For a very cogent reason, Theresa. I learned from your mother that you were affianced to the young man I was introduced to just before I took my departure. I was duly impressed with the awkwardness of the situation in which I so suddenly and unexpectedly found myself, and felt it my duty to retire from a scene in which I appeared to be an interloper. From prudential motives I deemed it expedient to leave.”

“Just at a time when your presence was most needed,” returned Theresa.

“Just at a time when my presence was least needed――so I concluded.”

“You might have consulted me on the subject, my lord, before you took your departure. I am free to confess that I think you have not acted altogether so prudently as you might have done under the circumstances.”

“So you upbraid me. This is most wicked. I durst not trust myself here any longer. But oh, Theresa, you have been for ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I could no longer remain away――hence it is I am here now. You will not――you cannot――find it in your heart to censure me――me who would lay down my life for you.”

“Ah, sir, these are but words――idle words――the past cannot be recalled, but the actual present is absolute, and the future is terrible.”

“Why terrible, Theresa?”

“Do not ask me such a question, my lord. It comes with ill grace from you.”

Lord Ethalwood was puzzled, as well he might be. He did not very well know how to construe the meaning of the young girl’s words. He remained silent and thoughtful for some little time, and then said in a low tone――

“Possibly I may be mistaken. This young man who has caused us all so much anxiety may not be after all the one you would have chosen for a husband of your own free will, but your mother――――”

“He is her choice――not mine,” cried Theresa, with sudden energy.

“Tell me frankly, dearest,” said Lord Ethalwood, bending fondly over her――“do you love him?”

“No――a thousand times no!” she answered. “I should have thought that was self-evident.”

“Theresa,” said he, taking her hand within his own, “I thank you for this candid avowal. I have no desire to see you sacrificed on the altar of filial duty or affection. Be bold and resolute――discard him, dearest, send him adrift.”

“You wish me to do so?”

“I do most earnestly desire it; since I feel perfectly well assured that your future happiness will be sacrificed by so ill-assorted a match.”

He bent over her and kissed her on either cheek as a brother might kiss a sister.

Her face flashed up, and she burst into tears.

“Leave me now, my lord,” she exclaimed suddenly. “Madame my mother will wonder what has become of you. Possibly she may suspect something. Rejoin her, I pray.”

“But you? I cannot consent to part so suddenly from one I hold so dear.”

“Go, my lord; it is not well for you to remain any longer here.”

“But when shall we be able to converse further on this subject? When can I see you again?”

“Offer to take me out for a walk towards evening. This you can easily do.”

“Enough――so be it. I will do so.”

Lord Ethalwood returned to his own chamber, where he reflected overall the incidents of the day. It was evident enough that Theresa Trieste was greatly piqued at his abandoning the field, and leaving her to the control of her mother, and he assumed that she was desirous of evading or cancelling the contract made with Gerome Chanet. This was evident enough, but the earl found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He could not make honourable proposals to the widow’s charming daughter, and how to act in the matter he could not very well determine. He came to the conclusion that it would be best to trust to chance. After remaining for some time in his own apartment he deemed it advisable to pay his respects to the mistress of the establishment. So he descended below, and found Madame Trieste at work in the summer-house. She was alone, and Lord Ethalwood without further ceremony entered the rural retreat and sat himself down beside the widow.

“You see, madame, I don’t stand on ceremony,” said he, in a tone of familiarity, “I take the privilege accorded to an old friend of the family. I come without invitation, and I remain without much pressing.”

“You are welcome, Lord Ethalwood,” said madame, with a furtive glance at her visitor.

“Ah, that’s well. I feel assured of that.”

He then inquired about the health of Theresa.

“She has not been at all herself for some days past,” observed madame. “Indeed she has been constrained to keep her room.”

“Goodness me! I hope she is not in danger,” cried his lordship, with well-simulated anxiety.

“I hope not. It would be a source of great anxiety and trouble to me if I thought there was anything serious in the malady of my poor dear child.”

“And it would be an equal source of trouble to me.”

The widow looked up, but made no reply to this last observation.

“Is your daughter’s indisposition likely to delay the ceremony appointed to take place at no very distant date?” observed the earl.

“You ask me a question I shall find it difficult to answer, monsieur,” returned the lady.

“And why so, I pray?”

“I am not certain that the marriage will ever take place at all. We can none of us tell what may happen. It is an old saying that ‘there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.’”

“But I understood,” stammered out his lordship, “at least such was my impression, that all the preliminaries were arranged, and that a special time had been appointed.”

“So it had, but what of that?”

“I presume the contracting parties have no desire to withdraw from the covenant?”

“I don’t know about that. There is a new aspect in affairs, and one of the contracting parties has imprudently chosen to withdraw.”

“Indeed, you surprise me. Which may it be? Excuse my plain questioning. I am deeply interested in all that concerns your dear amiable daughter.”

“You are very kind, I am sure,” observed madame, with something like sarcasm in her tone.

Lord Ethalwood bowed courteously.

“You surprise me, madame,” said he. “One of the parties has a wish to withdraw――eh?”

“It is more than a wish――it is a positive refusal. Theresa will not consent under any circumstances to give her hand to Monsieur Chanet.”

“How very remarkable!”

“Not at all so, monsieur. There is nothing at all remarkable or surprising in the matter. Theresa is inflexible.”

“But what is her reason?”

Madame shrugged her shoulders.

“Ah, sir,” she remarked, “you would be a clever man if you could account for the caprices and fancies of a young maiden. Theresa will not give me any reason. All she says is, that she will not become the wife of Gerome, and he, poor fellow! probably doats upon her.”

“Then he is very much to be pitied.”

“He is. You are just right――he is greatly to be pitied, but of what avail is pity or commiseration to a despairing lover?”

“Not much avail.”

“None whatever.”

“I do hope and trust he will get over the disappointment.”

“I don’t think he ever will.”

“That is very sad, indeed. But cannot you divine the reason for her objecting to the union?”

“I have my ideas upon the subject; but these are only surmises, which are vague and unsupported by facts. Still, I am under the impression that there is a reason――what this is I do not care to say.”

“Oh, no――I suppose so. Far be it from me to intrude upon family secrets. These are matters which no man has a right to inquire into.”

“It is altogether a most unfortunate affair, and one I have great reason to regret. I wish now we had never seen Gerome Chanet. I fancy we should all of us have been spared a great deal of anxiety had we not known him.”

“That is likely enough, madame,” returned Ethalwood, “but it is impossible for the wisest of us to foresee these things. It would have been well, perhaps, if I had not been so close an intimate of the family.”

“I have not said so, my lord.”

“No, madame, you are a great deal too considerate to make such an uncourteous observation, but we cannot alter the events which are now past. We have to consider the future, and your daughter’s happiness in the years that are to come.”

“I am afraid she is tossed about in a stormy sea of trouble at the present moment. How it will end none of us can determine.”

“She has a sincere and attached friend in me, and anything I can possibly do to serve her will be most cheerfully done.”

“She looks upon you as her friend, Lord Ethalwood. I hope she is not mistaken.”

“Mistaken, madame! Do you doubt my sincerity?”

“I have the greatest possible esteem for you,” returned Madame Trieste.

The conversation was abruptly brought to a close by the girl, Agatha, making her appearance. She announced the arrival of a visitor.

At first Ethalwood thought it was his rival, but he was presently informed that the new arrival was an old lady who was a near neighbour of his hostess. The latter left the summer-house, and Lord Ethalwood soon found himself alone in the little alcove.

He was ill at ease, troubled in his mind, and did not know very well how to act. The matter could be easily enough brought to a satisfactory conclusion by his openly avowing his attachment for the French maiden, but for prudential reasons he refrained from adopting such a course.

His oath to his deceased relative was an insurmountable barrier, and, in addition to this, there were others of a lesser note.

Nevertheless, he was not disposed to give up the beauteous young female who held him in bondage.

“I am a silly, weak, love-sick fool,” he murmured, “to be hesitating and vacillating after this fashion. I haven’t a grain of resolution left in my whole composition. What must――what can be the end of all this? Nothing but trouble and difficulty! And yet I appear to be powerless. I cannot――nay, I will not――abandon Theresa.”

These words were hardly out of his mouth when the party in question made her appearance in the garden. Lord Ethalwood at once rose to meet her.

She was dressed as if about to go abroad, and he at once remembered her suggestion respecting an afternoon walk.

“This is most kind and considerate on your part,” he exclaimed. “I perceive you are ready, and, I hope, willing, to do me the honour of becoming my companion for a short ramble.”

The young girl nodded, and said, “You must mention the subject to madame, my mother.”

“By all means, Mademoiselle Trieste,” said he, leading her to the alcove, and conducting her to a seat. This done, he flew into the house and informed Madame that he and her daughter were about to take a ramble over the mountains for an hour or so. The widow made no objection, and the young man and the maiden were soon far away from the house, taking their way over a narrow footpath, which was the beaten track of travellers who took delight in wandering over the mountains.

The conversation between the two was, as may readily be imagined, of a tender nature. Lord Ethalwood was profuse in his protestations. He told his companion that he found life insupportable when he was away from her, and a thousand other declarations of a similar character, one or two of which would have sufficed to turn the young girl’s head.

She listened to him, and, like an infatuated fool that she was, believed all he said. She was flattered by the encomiums he passed upon her, charmed with his protestations of love. He, in his turn, was at no loss to perceive the effect his words had on her, and he felt proud that he had so much power over a young and confiding maiden.

They sat on the promontory of a rock, and looked out at the distant mountains, whose peeks were now gilded with the rays of the setting sun. Here he again poured into her ear the soft and delusive whispers of love, and Theresa Trieste was enraptured by his eloquence, which sounded as sweet and seductive as the Arcadian lutes did to the village maidens of old.

While thus seated together, their arms encircling each other’s waist, their hands locked together and touching, a dark form was visible on an adjacent rock. It was that of a hunter, who paused, and whose eyes of flame were instantly fixed on the lovers. This was Gerome Chanet, who stood like a statue――still, silent, and immovable. Fire was at his heart, and the demon of jealousy had him in his clutches.

“Theresa!” he hissed between his clenched teeth, “and with him――with the Englishman. Heaven be merciful to me, for I feel as one about to sink into some dark and fathomless abyss.”

Neither Lord Ethalwood nor his companion was aware that their actions were being watched by the terrible and vengeful young mountaineer.

When by chance either of them turned their heads Gerome crept behind a mountain peak and stood motionless.

He was the very personification of mute despair.

No wonder. Theresa Trieste had cast him off. The reason was now but too palpable. Gerome felt that he had lost the dearly-coveted prize he had sought with such pertinacity for so many years.

The looks, the attitude, the low whispers which the loving pair were exchanging told the mountaineer of the utter hopelessness of his case.

Theresa would not condescend to even look at him after this.

He felt so supremely miserable at this time that the thought crossed his mind of committing suicide there and then by precipitating himself from the promontory upon which he stood.

But upon second thoughts he made up his mind to make one last desperate effort. He would send a messenger to the earl and ask him to give him an interview. As a gentleman, he could not refuse this request.

Having made up his mind to this course of action, Gerome Chanet crept like a guilty thing over the rocks, and had his dark and miserable hours all alone.

Meanwhile the lovers had lingered, as lovers usually do, much longer than they had intended, and warned by the shadows of the evening, they both rose and made the best of their way back to Madame Trieste’s residence.

The widow cast an inquiring look at the lovers. She judged rightly enough that ample time had been afforded them for explanations as to the past and promises and good resolutions for the future. As may be readily imagined nothing would have pleased her better than seeing Lord Ethalwood in the character of an acknowledged suitor of her daughter, but she was far too prudent to suggest or even hint at such a thing. Like a prudent mother she thought it best to leave the young people alone, as in any case matters would not be forwarded by her interference.

The evening passed over pleasantly enough; the inmates of the chateau were more sociable and in better spirits than they had been in the earlier portion of the day. From Theresa’s manner Madame Trieste augured that she had had a satisfactory tête-a-tête with the earl, and he on his part was more than usually pleasant and animated.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXXVII. THE RIVAL LOVERS

On the following day Lord Ethalwood sallied forth alone. In the course of his migrations he met the chevalier in his lumbering old postchaise. He affected to be overjoyed to meet his young friend, and rallied him on his intrigue, as he termed it. He informed Ethalwood that he was stopping in the neighbourhood with a friend, to whose house he invited him to spend an evening when quite disengaged. The earl promised to do so, albeit he was not at all disposed to do so, since he was otherwise engaged. However, he felt constrained to treat the chevalier with becoming courtesy; so he took leave of him with a promise to see him again as early as possible.

After his ramble he returned to the widow’s house and dined with her and her daughter. In the after part of the day he noticed outside the garden gate a ragged sheep boy making signs and motions to attract his attention. He was under the impression that the lad in question was a beggar, who was about to ask alms, but at the same time he was rather surprised at his pertinacity.

“Confound the fellow’s impudence!” he exclaimed thrusting his hand in his pocket, with the intention of throwing him a piece of money; but the lad, who had noticed his action, shook his head, and signified by motions that he wished to speak to him. Upon this, the earl went direct up to the gate.

“What are you nodding like a Chinese mandarin, for, you young rascal?” said he. “Be off, without further ado.”

“Are you the English milor who is stopping with Madame Trieste?” inquired the boy.

“And if I am, what business is it of yours, you impudent young jackanapes?”

“Pardon, monsieur, I’ve got something for you,” returned the lad, in a submissive and respectful tone.

“What is it?”

“This letter.”

As he spoke he drew from his pocket a large-sized letter, which he handed to the earl. It was carefully folded and sealed, and addressed in a firm, bold handwriting.

“And who may this be from?” inquired Ethalwood.

“Please read it, sir; then you will see who sends it.”

The earl broke the seal, and read the contents of the missive, which ran as follows:――

“Milor,――Although far beneath you in station, I claim as a right some explanation for the great wrong you have done me. I have always been given to understand that an English gentleman is never wanting in courtesy towards a stranger, however humble may be his birth, and I hope I am not mistaken. I request an interview. This surely you will not deny me, for I have a terrible reckoning to demand of you. If I were a reckless bravo, a lawless freebooter, I should waylay you and have my revenge, but I am neither of these. You know best how deeply you have injured me, and as a man of honour you cannot refuse to hear what I have to say. I shall await you at the foot of the large lime-tree, which stands at the corner of Alacia Pass. Tell my messenger whether you will be there.”

The letter was signed “Gerome Chanet.”

“Umph!” exclaimed the earl, “a nice, amiable sort of person to meet; but, however, I suppose there is no other way than seeing the young ruffian.”

“What answer am I to take back?” inquired the boy.

“What answer, my lad? Oh, I haven’t time to write any reply, but you can tell him I will be there at the appointed time.”

“You will be there?”

“Most certainly I will. Here is something for yourself.”

He handed the boy a silver coin, which he at first refused. After a little pressing, however, he consented to accept the proffered gratuity.

He then scampered off like a mountain goat, and was soon lost to sight.

“I don’t like the business,” muttered the earl, “and it strikes me that I shall get myself into trouble. An injured parent or a despairing lover is a dangerous person at the best of times, and from all accounts this young fellow is a sort of fire-eater. Well, I will hear what he has to say.”

Shortly before the specified time Lord Ethalwood started off in the direction of the lime-tree named in Chanet’s note.

On reaching the spot indicated he found the young mountaineer seated on a large moss-covered stone.

He appeared to be in a depressed state; his head was bent forward, and rested on the palms of his hands, which were pressed firmly against his temples.

The miserable young man was heedless of the earl’s presence, so absorbed and abstracted did he appear to be.

“So,” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood, in a loud voice, “I am here, agreeable to the request made in your uncourteous and intemperate letter. What would you with me?”

Chanet regarded the speaker with a malevolent look.

“What would I?” he repeated.

“Aye, surely you sent for me. Pray――inform me what for?”

Rising from his seat Chanet made a courteous obeisance, and then said――

“I am not mistaken, then――you have condescended to grant me a meeting?”

“That is evident. Now, your business. Proceed, if you please. In this letter,” said the earl, drawing the missive from his pocket, “you speak of a terrible reckoning you have to demand from me. I must frankly confess I do not at present understand the meaning of this expression. Perhaps you will enlighten me, for at the present moment I am in the dark. I hope you are not labouring under some hallucination.”

A bitter smile passed over the swarthy features of the mountaineer, who shook his head ominously.

“I will explain, milor, and hope to make you comprehend plainly enough the nature of the injury you have done, and for which I now seek reparation.”

“Do so, then, and let it be done as briefly as possible, for I have not much time to spare, and if I had I should not be disposed to a prolix account of real or imaginary injuries.”

Chanet leaped over a narrow ditch which formed the boundaries of a wood, and bade the earl follow him.

“What would you have me do? Whither would you lead me?” inquired the latter.

“A hundred paces in the forest,” replied Chanet.

“I don’t see any necessity to go farther. I can hear what you have to say here. What is your reason for penetrating the forest? Come back.”

“We cannot talk here, because we shall be liable to interruption, and what I have to say is for your ear alone.”

“You are a strange person, and I don’t know that I shall accede to your request.”

For a moment or so the idea that Gerome Chanet sought to draw him into the forest for the purpose of murdering him crossed Lord Ethalwood’s mind, and he did not, therefore, comply with the demand made by his companion; but reflection quickly banished this apprehension, which, if it was ill-founded, would be an insult to his rival, and might in any case call down upon himself a suspicion of prejudice.

Lord Ethalwood deemed the suspicion an unworthy one, and without further hesitation he followed Chanet. He took care, however, to be upon his guard, and keep a sharp look-out for any sudden surprise.

The two men moved forward for a hundred paces or so, and Chanet stopped in a kind of opening among the trees.

“Well, sir,” said the earl, “is this the spot you have selected for our conference?”

“Yes,” was the answer. “We can now converse freely.”

“Proceed. I am all attention.”

“I will.”

“Be good enough to abridge as much as possible whatever you may have to say, as otherwise you might exhaust what little patience I happen to possess.”

Chanet darted upon the speaker a look as bitter and vengeful as that with which he had first regarded him when they met at the lime-tree, but by a violent effort he controlled his feelings and assumed an air of tranquillity.

“You wish me to be brief, and not trouble you with too many words,” said he.

“I do,” returned his companion.

“Enough. I will endeavour to explain as quickly as the circumstances of the case will admit.”

“Thank you,” returned the earl, with an air of condescending hauteur.

“Milor, I will try and be calm and unimpassioned, although my heart seems to be almost ready to burst,” exclaimed Chanet. “You will not perhaps be surprised at this when I tell you I love Mademoiselle Trieste. Oh, how fondly, how sincerely, no one knows save myself.”

“Surely you have not drawn me hither for no other purpose than to make this declaration. I have been given to understand that you love her. What of that?”

“What of it!――are you mad?”

“Certainly not. You were engaged to her――were you not?”

“Yes, I was to have married her in four weeks from this time.”

“That I also understood.”

“You did――from whom?”

“From madame, her mother.”

Chanet was perfectly astounded at the coolness displayed by his companion.

“Oh, from madame, eh?” he stammered.

“Yes, from her; and are you not going to be married to mademoiselle at the time you have just named――in five weeks from this date?”

“No!” thundered forth the mountaineer. “No, I am not.”

“Indeed you surprise me.”

“Do I?”

“Well, yes, I confess you do. May I ask why you are not able, or possibly it may be willing, to keep your engagement?”

“Willing!” yelled Chanet in a voice of concentrated passion. “Do not aggravate me――do not taunt me.”

“I have no desire to do so――you are quite excited enough already.”

“You ask me why I am not going to marry Theresa Trieste. You do not know, I suppose?”

“I cannot say I do.”

“I will tell you, then,” said Chanet, with forced calmness.

“You will be conferring a great favour on me if you do, my dear M. Chanet,” remarked the earl.

“You are the cause of the engagement being broken off――you, Lord Ethalwood, and no other person. Sacre! don’t attempt to deny it. You have been the blight in the bud, which sooner or later will destroy so fair a rose. I am ashamed of myself to be pleading and beseeching one who has done me such a deadly injury.”

“You have not done so as yet; that is, if you mean me, which I presume you do.”

“You endeavour to carry the matter off with a high hand, milor. It is the way with you English; but you can’t deceive me. You cannot deny that you have no right to gain the love of my darling Theresa, and by so doing you have robbed me of my betrothed――my future wife and my happiness. Do you think it possible for me to be calm and unmoved under such an affliction?”

“I make every allowance for your excitement, which is, perhaps, but natural under existing circumstances,” replied the earl, in the same measured tone of dignity and hauteur he had assumed from the commencement; “but at the same time, Monsieur Chanet, I must observe that you have fallen into a grievous error, which, in justice to myself, I feel bound to correct.”

“What error do you allude to?”

“You make a great mistake in asserting that I have robbed you of the love of Theresa. The Ethalwoods never rob or steal.”

“You have supplanted me in her affections, then, which is much the same thing, call it by what term you please,” cried Chanet. “Like a wolf, you have stolen into the house, and stolen from me the fairest and most beautiful young creature that ever human eyes lighted on. You have driven me to desperation, made my life one long and hopeless sorrow, and now at the present moment I should feel thankful if death would come and release me from my sufferings. Oh, milor, you don’t know――you cannot possibly know――the deep, deep affliction that has fallen upon me.”

There was an amount of pathos in the manner as well as the words the young mountaineer had given utterance to that for a moment touched the heart of his rival.

“Poor fellow,” thought Ethalwood, “he is most terribly in love.”

There was a pause, after which the nobleman said in a less cold tone――

“I very much regret that you should take this matter so much to heart; but, upon my word, Monsieur Chanet, I cannot see how you can blame me.”

“Not blame you! You have won from me the love of the only woman I had ever loved.”

“No such thing. It is a mere supposition on your part. A chimera――a dream.”

“It is no dream, milor. It is a certainty.”

“But what proofs have you to offer? Assertions without proofs are valueless――everybody knows that.”

“Proofs!” iterated Chanet. “Oh, milor, don’t deny it. Last night I saw you and Theresa seated on the platform of a rock; your hands locked together, your cheeks touching, and you breathing soft words into her ear. Do you take me for a fool to doubt after what I have seen?”

The earl’s face became at once of a heightened colour, and he stammered out――

“We are attached friends, it is true. I won’t deny that.”

“Friends!” ejaculated Chanet, with ineffable disgust. “Bah, I’m not to be cozened in that way. You are her lover, and she is attached to you.”

“You are in error, my friend.”

Chanet shook his head sorrowfully and said――

“I wish I could think so.”

“I wish you could, because you would then be a more contented man.”

“From the day on which I first set eyes upon Mademoiselle Trieste,” said Chanet, sorrowfully, “I loved her――loved her with all my heart and soul, loved her with a love which nothing can extinguish――a love which will go down with me to the grave. It is little to say, perhaps, that I would lay down my life for her, and if she asked me to give her up for a more wealthy suitor, a man of title, such as you are, if I thought, if I could believe that it was her own special desire for me to do so I would resign her; and this, it is true, would be a terrible alternative――a miserable sacrifice as far as I am individually concerned, but it should be done nevertheless. My father asked of Madame Trieste the hand of her daughter for me, and my suit was accepted by both mother and daughter. All went on well enough till you came upon the scene, and then――――”

“But surely you do not mean to say that I am answerable for the caprices of a young maiden. Was she attached to you? Answer me that question――I mean before I came upon the scene, as you are pleased to term it.”

“Well, monsieur, I am free to confess that I don’t think she cared for me nearly so much as I did for her.”

“I am sure she did not; that’s better than thinking.”

“She did not?” exclaimed Chanet, in a tone of surprise.

“No.”

“Not since you have been here――that I admit, for since you made your appearance she became so completely changed that I hardly knew her as the same person. You have poisoned her mind against me.”

“I have done no such thing. Look here, my young friend, I charge you to be a little more careful in your observations, or if you are not it is just possible we may quarrel.”

“Quarrel!” cried the mountaineer, with a horrible laugh.

“Yes, that was my word. Have you invited me here for the purpose of picking a quarrel with me? It looks like it, and if that be the case I shall take my departure forthwith.”

“You must not go yet.”

“Must not!――and why, pray?”

“Because I have much more to say.”

“You had better be quiet about it then, for I am getting tired of the subject, which, to say the truth, is becoming wearisome.”

“Well, then, I will come to the point,” said Chanet. “Theresa has refused me, after giving her solemn word to become my wife. What reason is there for this? Now I ask you, monsieur, on what other ground than that of her love for you is it possible to explain her sudden and absolute change of mind and refusal to redeem her promise to me. From her birth Theresa has known but two young men――yourself and me. She loves one of these two. It is not me; therefore it must be you.”

“You sum up the case like a judge,” said the earl, with a smile. “Assuming your hypothesis to be correct――what then?”

“That is just what I am coming to. Theresa loves you and you love her. Let me ask you one question. Will you marry her? Tell me you will, and I will leave this country to-morrow, and never trouble either you or her again. That is the point I have been trying to reach all the time.”

“I am not likely to ask your permission in such a case. What business is it of yours whether I marry her or not? You are begging the question, and I do not choose to be dictated to by my inferiors.”

“I do not like you. I disliked you when we first met; now I hate you with a deep deadly hate!” cried Chanet, his countenance becoming lurid with ill-suppressed passion.

“It is as I suspected,” he added, with supreme bitterness.

“Is it?”

“Yes; you take it so,” he cried, in a half-suffocating voice. “You will not marry Theresa Trieste?”

“I do not choose to answer such a question. I am not called upon to marry all the young girls who may happen to decline the honour of marrying you, Monsieur Chanet.”

“Is that all the reason you choose to give?”

“Most certainly it is.”

“Then hear me, monsieur. From this moment I claim all the rights over Mademoiselle Trieste, given me as an accepted suitor.”

“You are justly entitled to them, I suppose, and welcome as far as I am concerned.”

“I will watch over my betrothed and guard her from stain――not her honour, which is unassailable, but her maiden reputation.”

“Well, sir, you are at liberty to do so. What has all this to do with me?”

“A very great deal. T forbid you to pass another hour under the roof of Madame Trieste.”

“Your insolence is intolerable,” exclaimed the earl, in a fury. “Do you suppose I am likely to submit to the dictation of a low-born peasant? You forbid! Be thankful I do not chastise you on the spot.”

“I am not to be intimidated――I have a duty to perform,” cried Chanet. “I say again I forbid you.”

Lord Ethalwood now became furious. He had listened complacently enough to a long and to him a tedious harangue, but his patience was by this time quite exhausted. He closed his fist and shook it in the face of his companion, who folded his arms and looked calmly but resolutely at the earl.

“I ought not to have lowered myself by consenting to this meeting, and now much regret having done so, since it has resulted in my being subject to insults from one who evidently does not know his own or my position. Get thee hence. I will have nothing more to say to you.”

And with these words, Lord Ethalwood struck Chanet a violent blow on the chest. The act was, to say the least of it, a most imprudent one, for had the mountaineer chosen to take reprisals――which, all things considered, it was surprising he did not――he could have slain his adversary there and then. Indeed, for the moment, the earl thought Chanet meditated drawing a knife upon him.

He was, however, too honest a fellow for that, and would scorn to take any mean advantage――albeit he was almost trembling with passion. For a brief period both men stood motionless and silent.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us