By Right not Law

Front matter

Unijorm with this Work. The Admirable Lady Biddy Fane. By Frank Barrett. Under a Strange Mask. By Frank Barrett. The Astonishing History of Troy Town. By Q Dead Man's Rock. By Q. A Queer Race. By W. Westall. The Phantom City. By W. Westall. Captain Trafalgar. By Westall and Laurie. Comm dore Junk. By G. Manville Fenn. St. Cuthbert's Tower. By Florence Warden. By Right Not Law. By R. Sherard. Within Sound ofthe Weir. By Thomas St. E. Hake. The Coombsberrow Mystery. By James Colwall. Another's Crime. By Julian Hawthorne. An American Penman. By Julian Hawthorne. Section 558 ; or, The Fatal Letter. By Julian Hawthokve. A Tragic Mystery. By Julian Hawthorne. The Great Bank Robbery. By Julian Hawthorne. The Yoke of the Thorah. By Sidney Luska. Who is John Noman? By Charles Henry Beckett. The Tragedy of Brinkwater.

By Martha L. Moodey. The Brown Stone Boy. By W. H. Bishop. The Man with a Thumb. By W. C.Hudson (Barclay North). Jack Gordon, Knight Errant. By W. C. Hudson. The Diamond Button: Wnose Was it ? By W. C. Hulson. Cassell & Company, Limited, Ludgate Hill, London. 28—8.91 BY R. H. SHERARD, Author of " Rogues," " Agatha's Quest, <ic. CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited : LONDON, PARIS <_ MELBOURNE. 1891. [Ail EIGHTS EESEEVED.] DEDICATION. Co THE MANY GENTLEMEN OF THE PEESS WHO HATE ENCOURAGED ME IN THE PAST WITH THEIK KINDLY NOTICES, AND ESPECIALLY TO THE LITEEAEY CEITICS OF THE MOUSING POST, THE DAILY NEWS, THE FREEMAN'S JOURNAL, AND THE SCOTSMAN, I GRATEFULLY DEDICATE THIS BOOK. R. H. SHERARD. Auvert-tur Oiae, 1891. CONTENTS. PAGE

Chapter I. An Unexpected Guest

One night, in the first week of the year 1890, the landlord of the inn at Auvers-sur-Oise, which is pompously known as the " .Nations' Hotel," was much surprised on receiving at his house a stranger, who had come from Paris by the 11.25 train. As a rule the only business done at the " Nations' Hotel " was entertainment for man and beast of the most primitive kind. Once in a way, it is true, some hardy and adventurous commercial traveller would put up at his house, but he never stayed more than one night. The few shopkeepers that there are at Auvers are a most conservative class. It is doubtful whether the late George Moore himself could have per- BY BIGHT NOT LAW. suaded any one of them to give him even a trial order. Auvers is a village, very prettily situated, straggling for miles along the right bank of the Oise.

It is about three miles distant from Pontoise, about six from L'lsle Adam, and can be reached in an hour by train from the Northern station in Paris, In the summer it is much frequented by Parisian holiday makers. A num ber of artists and literary people pass the fine months there. It is a charming, old-fashioned place, with many old thatched cottages. The woods on the slope behind are full of flowers. In the spring there are hawthorn and la burnum to be seen everywhere. The old road to Pontoise, which runs along the slope, and is distinct from the new, or lower route, which skirts the Oise, leads through many picturesque sites. In the winter, however, it is the dullest and most dreary of places ; so much so that nobody has been known to visit it otherwise than for business. This will explain the surprise of the landlord of the " Nations' Hotel " when his un expected guest, who brought a considerable amount of baggage with him, asked to rent a room in the house, and announced that he intended to pass some weeks at Auvers.

As he paid his rent in advance, and, in spite of the fact that he was evidently an English man, looked a respectable young man, the land lord gave him welcome, and, at his request, served him with as good a supper as the larder could afford — bacon and cabbage, with a piece of cheese and a bottle of wine. Whilst the Englishman was partaking of this homely fare in the parlour of the inn, the landlord came in with a register in his hand. He laid this open before him ; then fetched a pen and ink, and sat down. " You must excuse me interrupting you, sir," he said, " but I must ask you for your name and address, and for other particulars about yourself. It's the law, you know. Every innkeeper must register full particulars about every lodger in his house." " Very well," said the Englishman ; " my name is Oliver Martin."

The landlord asked him to repeat it ; then, having written it down, he asked — BY RIGHT NOT LAW. " Your age ? " " Twenty-seven." " Your last address ? " " Hotel du Perou, Paris " Your nationality ? " " English." " Your birthplace ? " " London." " With or without papers ? " " Papers ? " " Yres, papers of identification — birth certifi cate or passport." " Ah ! I understand. No, no papers. Eng lishmen never have papers." The landlord entered " Without papers " in the column referring to that particular, and seemed about to close up his register, when he said, as he picked up his pen again — " Oh, there's one particular we have for gotten. What is your profession ? " Martin hesitated. " Men will laugh," he said. " Treasure hunter," he added, after a pause. The landlord stared. Then, thinking that his guest was joking, he laughed, and cried — " We are all in that profession, more or less."

After a pause he added — " But, seriously, what am I to put down ? " " Yes," said Martin, " that designation won't do, though a true enough one. Say commercial clerk ; that is the profession I was brought up to." " Oh, that's very much better," said the landlord, as he entered the words " employe de commerce " in the professions column. When he had done this, he closed up the register, and was preparing to leave the room, when Martin, jmshing the bottle towards him, cried out — "No, don't go yet. It's my turn now. You have asked me a number of questions, and I have answered you to the best of my ability. Now, I want to ask you some questions. Take a glass of wine. I sha'n't keep you long." " I am at your service, sir," said the innkeeper, filling his glass. " Do you know whether an old lady named Prudence Mecrant lives in this village ?

" "Bless you, sir, yes; and has lived here close on thirty-five years." B So I was told. She is very old, is she not ? " "I have heard it said that she is seventy nine years of age." " Yes, that must be about her age. She is not married ? " "No; an old maid. It's strange she should be so, as she is said to be very rich, and must have been, in her time, a very good looking party. When she first came, although she was then nearly forty-five, there were a number of men after her. But she turned them all out, and wouldn't hear of marrying." " So I understand ; she is rich, then ? " " Oh, very. I have heard it said that she has at least fifty thousand francs a year income — that is to say, two thousand pounds. I know that she is constantly going to Pontoise about money business. Mind you, I have heard her income assessed at that sum ever since I have been in Auvers.

As she does not spend more than five pounds a month on herself, and that only makes sixty pounds a year, she must have saved a fine sum out of her income since she has been here. Let me see, why, it must be close on seventy thousand pounds — eighteen hundred thousand francs. It is said she does not bank her money, but hoards it up at home." " Ah, indeed. Is anything known of her origin ? " O " I have heard it said that her parents were colleagues of mine — that is to say, hotel keepers, and that she was the only daughter, and inherited the money. They must have had more luck than I have ever had." " Isn't it a very foolish thing for an old woman like that to keep so much money in her house ? Doesn't she run a risk of being robbed, if not murdered ? " " People have said so. But, bless you, sir, we are a very quiet lot of people here in Auvers.

There is never any crime committed here." " I suppose she has somebody to look after her?" " No, she lives quite alone. There's not a soul in the house. She won't even have a dog. I must tell you she is a very curious old lady — very eccentric." ' She must be, from what you have told > me ' Yes ; she is very religious. She spends b most of her time in Auvers Church, and con fesses regularly every Sunday. In fact, the cure is about the only man in the village she will speak to. He is the only person she will receive into her house." " Ah ! I suppose he is going to get her money ? " " They say so. I don't think he would be so attentive otherwise, especially as I know for a fact that he has not had a penny from her, for charity or anything else, during the whole time that she has been here. That I know for a fact."

" Take some more wine. Can you tell me where she lives ? " The landlord looked up from filling his glass. "Not very far from here — about a quarter of an hour's walk. It's a house on the new road, about three hundred yards from the Chaponval halte or station. It's a house one can't pass without noticing — a thatched cottage, with vines growing on the wall facing the road. Half the building is a barn, and on the wall of this barn is a large sundial with a lot of inscriptions in Latin and in French painted above and below the dial, which is very old aud dilapidated. The inscriptions are almost illegible. The cottage is at the corner of a road leading up to the old Pontoise highway, and faces a lane which leads through the fields to the river, to reach which one crosses the railway at the No. 13 crossing.

One can't miss the house, I say. Another thing is that the shutters of the down stairs front room are almost always closed. The old woman, they say, spends most of her time in one of the upstairs rooms, and keeps the shutters closed downstairs so as to prevent people looking in from the road, which they could do by stepping up the little bank in which the vines are planted. Besides, the kitchen is at the back, and looks out on the courtyard of the house, which is surrounded by a high wall on all sides. But," he cried, interrupting himself, " may I ask you what business you have with Mademoiselle Mecrant that you are so curious to hear all about her? " "Not at all," said Oliver Martin. "As I was coming down in the train from Paris a man from this village got into conversation with me. I asked him about the place, and the people, and so on, and he told me about this curious old person, amongst other things.

It was he, by the way, who advised me to come here, and I am very much obliged to him for doing so. I am sure I shall be comfortable with you. The supper was excellent." " It's good of you to say so," said the landlord, highly pleased ; " one does one's best. And now, don't think me indiscreet, and it isn't pure curiosity, but what people are sure to ask me, and if I don't give them a satisfactory answer they are certain to gossip — but what brings you to Auvers, to stay here a month or two — didn't you tell me so ? Nobody comes here in the winter." " Oh, I haven't the least objection to telling you," said Martin, pleasantly. " I have come here for absolute rest and quiet. As I have told you, I am a clerk — a clerk in a big bank in London. About two months ago my health broke down from overwork.

I had a very responsible position in the office, and the doctor sent me to France for change of air. I went to Paris, but finding it much too noisy a city I determined to come and bury myself in a place of rest in some quiet country village. I can't say what it was that suggested Auvers to me, unless it was that Francois Villon was born here." " Francois Villon ! " cried the landlord. " I never knew the gentleman's name before." " I daresay not," answered Martin, with a smile. " He died many years ago — several cen turies ago. Anyhow, I fancy that it was from his poem that I got the idea of visiting Auvers. I made one or two inquiries amongst artist friends of mine in the Latin Quarter, and they told me it was a charming place — just the village, in fact, to recruit in. Then it is near Paris, and I want to be able to run up now and then.

So that's why I came here ; and what I want of you, my dear sir, is to get me on my legs again. I must be well in six weeks at the latest, or otherwise the directors of the bank will fill up my place, and I could never find such a good one. My salary is four hundred pounds a year — ten thousand francs." " A good place, by my faith ! " cried the landlord, admiringly. " Well, we'll do our best to BY BIGHT NUT LAW. 12 coddle you. In the first place, I should recom mend you to go to bed at once, as it is now long past one in the morning." " That's so," said Martin, rising and taking his bedroom candle, that the landlord held out to him. His host escorted him to the bedroom, and left him after profuse courtesies. When he got back to his own room he could not forbear waking his wife to tell her about their new lodger.

"A splendid gentleman, Marie!" he said. " Quite an important person. He must be very clever, for though he is only twenty-seven years of age, he already earns ten thousand francs a year in the bank where he is employed. And speaks French like a native. Very good mannered and liberal. We never had such a customer since we took over the ' Nations' Hotel.' " " What is he like ? " asked the wife, like a true woman. " Well, I don't know. Some might call him handsome, but he is rather too pale to suit me. It's true he has been very poorly, and then life in Paris He is rather tall, and looks very strong, especially for an invalid. But, as I say, he is very pale, and this is all the more notice able because he is very dark — black hair, black moustache, such large black eyes, that at times his face looks all eyes.

Do I make myself understood? What puzzled me was how an invalid could have such red lips. His mouth and his teeth reflect the best of health. But then he is very pale, and he tells me — and I am sure he is truth itself — that he has been ill." " Well, I will wait till to-morrow," said the good woman, turning over on her side, " and judge for myself. I never heard a man give a proper description of another man. Now, if it had been a woman, you could have described her so that I could have seen her before me." " Well, all I know is," said her husband, "that we have a good lodger, who has money, and who means to spend it. I charged him seventy-five francs for his room for a month, which is fifty francs too much, and he paid it without a murmur. And he knows what good fare is, and knows good wine.

He likes good wine. He drank two bottles of our three-franc claret — you know, the bottles with the green seals — for his supper. It's true — I helped him with the second." "That was right," said his wife, dozing off; "a, landlord should always drink at his guest's expense when he gets a chance to do so. It is one of the pleasures of his life to drink good stuff, and to have, at the same time, the satisfac tion of knowing that he is earning good money by enjoying himself. By the way," she con tinued, rousing herself suddenly, " mind }-ou make him pay his bill each day. For, after all, we know nothing about him ; and then he's an Englishman." " Oh, don't be afraid ! He has baggage enough to answer for any debt we may allow him to contract. And, as you say, I shall make him pay every day." Whilst his hosts were thus talking, Oliver Martin was sitting at the table in his room.

Before him lay a piece of paper covered with figures, which had just been written down by the flickering light of the candle. " It's strange," he cried, digging his pen into the table-cloth, "that to-night I should feel so addle-headed that I can't work out a simple sum like this. Let me read the problem over again. What sum does £1,500, invested at three per cent, compound interest, produce in seventy years? I cannot get at it. Now, at five per cent, it would be easy enough." Here he paused and reflected. " After all," he cried, " why shouldn't it be at five per cent. ? Why should I have supposed it invested at so low a rate ? Because I want to be strictly just — to claim no more than my barest due. What nonsense ! Five per cent, is a very fair average rate, and, under the circumstances, by no means too much.

Five per cent. it shall be. Now it is much easier, and I can make out my claim in a minute. The capital, invested at five per cent, compound interest, doubles every fourteen years. That is to say, in seventy years the capital doubles five times. So, then, £1,500 becomes £3,000 at the end of fourteen years, £6,000 in twenty-eight years, £12,000 in forty-two years, £24,000 in fifty-six years, and £48,000 in seventy years. That is it : £48,000. Now, to be quite just, I must deduct something to allow for what might have been lost, say, in bad investment, as well as for the risk, and so on. Let me say £8,000 : that is fair. £8,000 from £48,000 equals £40,000." He then tore up the paper and crossed the room to his boxes, which were arranged against the wall. There were four large wood boxes covered with leather and fitted with patent double locks, besides several smaller valises, hat box, dressing-case, and so forth.

"All in good order," he said. Then, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he proceeded to open the largest of the four boxes. As he threw up the lid he started back. "How came that there?" he oried. "It never will be needed ; it can't be needed — only as the very last, the very last measure." As he had opened the box his eyes had fallen on a long and formidable-looking stiletto, which was lying on the very top of the clothes and other articles with which the trunk was packed — the handle turned towards him. " For menace only," he muttered, as he closed the trunk again. "No, no, for menace only."

Chapter II. Pursuer And Defender

The people of Auvers are so accustomed to see ing strangers in their village that the presence of Oliver Martin in their midst excited little attention. The women found him handsome ; the men were too much pre-occupied about their asparagus plantations and the prospects of an early harvest to trouble about the Englishman ; and as for the children, they had only good things to say of the young man, who was remarkably free with his pennies. The people of the inn were delighted with their lodger. They found him most regular with his payments, which is the first virtue of man in the hotel-keeper's eyes, and withal good-mannered, polite, and amiable. Many a bottle of the three -franc wine did mine host share with his lodger. Martin led a very quiet life in Auvers. He usually rose at nine, and retired punctually at the same hour in the evening.

He spent his days in roaming about the country — now push ing as far as LTsle Adam, now visiting the picturesque surroundings of Pontoise. On rainy days he would remain at the inn, playing billiards, or reading in his bedroom. He was very much liked by every one who came into contact with him. One day, however, about a fortnight after he had been in Auvers, he performed an act of courage which at once made him the most popular man in the country — throwing himself into the Oise to rescue a child who had fallen into the water off the quay on the other side of the iron bridge which communicates between Auvers and Mery. The child was a daughter of a farmer of considerable importance. The young man risked his life — for the Oise was swollen and the current strong — but was fortunate to bring the child to shore in time to save its life.

After that, nobody met him in the village or for miles around without saluting him. He was known as the "good Englishman." The Paris papers had chronicled his exploit, and the French Society for the Protection of Life gave him a silver medal. PUBSUEIi AND DEFENDER. 19 There are at Auvers, as at every provincial place in France, a number of devotees, and with these, as with the cure of the village, the young man was especially popular. He was a constant frequenter of the village church, not only on mass days, but regularly every day. This was the only thing in his conduct which did not please the non-believing people, who got to say that it was difficult to decide which was the more bigoted of the two, " the Englishman " or Prudence Mecrant. As a matter of fact, these two were always in church at the same time.

As for the village cure, he was enthusiastic about his new parishioner, whom he described as a most devout young man, charitable in the extreme, and of great good sense. Martin was constantly seen walking about with the priest, and spent more than one evening in the presby tery. It was noticed that every time the priest went to pay a visit to Mademoiselle Mecrant, Martin accompanied him to the door, and only left him after he had let himself in with a private key. People joked about this, and said that the young Englishman was in love with the old maid, and that the cure was their go-between. This was not said in any spiteful manner, because public sympathy and respect were with him. " And what if the old lady were to marry him ? " people making that joke would add. " Why shouldn't she taste a little happiness in life ?

Besides, what will she do with all her money ? Why should she not leave it to that good young man? " The gossip of the village, of course, reached the ears of the landlord of the " Nations' Llotel," and as he was on terms of familiarity with his lodger he naturally spoke about it. " Do you know what they are saying in the village?" he remarked to Martin one evening, about a month after his arrival. " They say you are paying court to old Prudence." " Prudence ? " said Martin. " Yres, Mademoiselle Mecrant. You know, the party you spoke to me about the evening you first came." " What nonsense ! Why do they say that ? " PUBSUEB AND DEFENDER. 21 " Oh, it's their joke. We must have some thing to laugh over in this dull place. You are always at church when she is there, and you are constantly seen near the Oven."

"The Oven?" " Yes ; that's what they call the part of the village where she lives." " Why so ? " " Oh, in the old times there used to be a sisterhood or convent there, founded by Mar guerite of Burgundy. The only oven in the village was there, and everybody had to use it, and pay, of course, for so doing. It was a kind of tithe, or tax. Nobody was allowed to bake elsewhere. Hapj^ily those times are past." " Well, to return to the subject. I am surprised to hear what you say. I don't think that I am more often in the neighbourhood of her house than elsewhere." " It's said so. Indeed, I have heard it said that you have been seen outside her house at very late hours in the night. That, of course, I know is a lie, as I know that ever since you have been in my house you have gone to bed regularly at nine o'clock every evening." c BY BIGHT NOT i.llT.

" How annoying this is ! " cried Martin. " I am afraid that I shall have to leave Auvers. I am sorry, as I like the place, and I am sure that my health has improved here. But if people talk such nonsense about me " " Oh, I wouldn't pay any attention," cried the landlord. "Even if people do gossip, there isn't a bit of harm meant. Everybody likes you here, and I. am sure everybody would be sorry to lose you. Isn't that so, Mr. Mayor?" he added, turning to a portly farmer in a blue blouse, who had just entered the room. " Yrou, as mayor of the village, can speak. Shouldn't we all be sorry to lose monsieur? " "Oh, very! We consider monsieur's presence an honour to the village," said the mayor. " Why is monsieur thinking of leaving ? " " Oh, because I told him the silly gossip you know of, about him and Prudence."

"What a joke!" cried the mayor, laughing heartily. " You shouldn't mind that. Why, there isn't a man in the village about whom the same thing has not been said. Why, it's too absurd. That old hag ! No, you mustn't mind that, sir." PUBSUEB AND DE FEN DEB: 23 " It annoys me all the more," said Martin, " because the cure wants to introduce me to the old lady, and indeed has, I believe, arranged to take me to her house one of these days." " And why in the world, sir, if I may ask without any indiscretion," cried the mayor, " do you want to know that queer old card ? " "Oh, just because she is so queer; and, besides, she has my sentiments about re- 1* ■ ,, lgion. " Well, each man has his fancies. I wouldn't pay any attention to what is being said. Do what you want to do ; it is sure to be right.

We all respect you here." "You are very good, sir," said Martin. When he had left the room the mayor exclaimed, " What a charming man ! I declare, he's much more like a grand seigneur than a bank clerk. Such a noble presence and such fine manners. I declare, if he wasn't a foreigner, and he cared to marry a girl with fifteen thousand pounds dowry, he should have my daughter Plaisance to-morrow." A day or two later, as the mayor was waiting1 for the Paris train at the Auvers c BY BIGHT NOT LAW. station, a friend of his accosted him, and after various remarks exclaimed — " It's done ! He's been admitted ! " "Who?" :< The Englishman was seen yesterday entering the Oven House with the cure. Old Prudence, you know." Yes ; and I know why, too." " Ah ! " " Yes ; the two, being both wealthy and both religious, have got a scheme for restoring the St. Nicholas Chapel.

You know that old ruin on the old road, which, they say, dates from the thirteenth century," inventing a story to save his friend. " Oh, is that so ? Well, I am glad you told me so, as people have been talking a lot of non sense. I will let everybody know." " Yes, do," said the mayor, " and stop this idle talk. I know that Mr. Martin is very much annoyed about this gossip, and means to leave if people go on talking. When we do have a respectable foreigner in Auvers, why shouldn't we keep him ? " Thanks to this plausible invention, little PUBSUEB aIND DEFENDER. 25 further notice was taken of Martin's visits to Prudence's cottage, in spite of the fact that after a few days they became more and more frequent. At the end of his second month he used to go to her house every day, and at last was seen to be in possession of a private key to the garden door, such as was used by the cure, by means of which he could let himself in without obliging the old woman to come and open the door, which was always kept locked. On the 10th of March, however, his visits suddenly ceased, and for an excellent reason.