CHAPTER VIII.
GERALD AT STAMMARS.
A pleasant morning-room at Stammars. Lady Dudgeon is busy with her correspondence. To her enter Sir Thomas and Mr. Pomeroy. The former has a volume of Hansard under his arm, the latter carries a roll of manuscript. Lady Dudgeon lays down her pen and looks up.
"There is no fear, I hope, Mr. Pomeroy," she says, "that Sir Thomas's letter of thanks to his supporters will be too late for the next issue of the 'Pembridge Gazette'?"
"The editor has promised me that it shall appear on Saturday without fail."
"Have you got the speech ready that Sir Thomas is to deliver at the Farmer's Dinner on Tuesday next?"
"Sir Thomas had it from me yesterday."
"Have you looked over it, my dear?"--to the baronet.
"I fell asleep over it last night while you were at the ball."
"And you doubtless found that Mr. Pomeroy had succeeded in faithfully reproducing your views and ideas with regard to the various important topics on which you are desirous of addressing our friends on Tuesday next?"
"Mr. Pomeroy has written the speech. If he would only speak it too, I----"
"That is nonsense, dear. No one but yourself must be the exponent of your own ideas. Mr. Pomeroy's share in the transaction is a purely mechanical one--that of finding words wherewith to clothe the thoughts of a profoundly original mind. Am I not right, Mr. Pomeroy?"
"Your ladyship could not be otherwise."
"So be it," said Sir Thomas. "Anything for a quiet life. But I'll be hanged if I ever knew before that I had such a lot of ideas."
"That is just what I have said all along, my dear. If you had never succeeded in getting into Parliament, what would have become of the splendid abilities, of the choice gifts of intellect, with which Nature has so liberally endowed you? They would simply have been wasted, and your country would have been so much the poorer by the loss of them."
"That is all very fine, your ladyship; but as for my splendid abilities--fudge! My abilities lie among my turnips and short-horns, and not in speechifying to a lot of fellows who laugh at me the moment my back is turned."
"The modesty of real talent, Mr. Pomeroy."
"Just so, madam."
"I have not been your wife all these years, Sir Thomas, without being aware that you were born to be a landmark in your country's history."
"Heaven forbid! Why not make a milestone of me at once?"
Sir Thomas sighed deeply, jingled the change in his pocket, and looked out of the window. Presently he began to whistle under his breath.
Her ladyship folded and addressed a note with slow, mechanical precision. Turning to her husband, she said--
"You will have to be very industrious in order to get your speech off by heart in readiness for Tuesday's dinner."
"I shall indeed--more's the pity! I never could get my lessons off by heart when I was a school-boy, and it is not likely that I can take kindly to the task at my time of life."
"Now that your election is safe, there will be no necessity for you to speak, except on very rare occasions. There are too many empty-headed speakers, too many frothy orators, in Parliament already. All the more will your grand faculty of silence be invaluable to your country. We want men of profound thought, with the ability to express themselves in the fewest possible words. When once it is understood by the House that you are not a speaker, but a thinker, you cannot fail to be appreciated. Am I not right, Mr. Pomeroy?"
"Undoubtedly you are right, madam. The House will soon learn to appraise Sir Thomas at his proper value."
"You will be a man, dear, much sought for on committees. Your opinion will carry immense weight with it, because it will be so seldom expressed. There is a massive solidity of brain about you, such as few of your contemporaries can hope to rival."
"That's all very well; but don't forget to let me have a supply of lozenges on Tuesday. If I haven't a lozenge in my mouth while I'm speaking, I shall be sure to break down."
"The lozenges shall not be forgotten," said her ladyship. "I will make a note of it."
"And I shall want a spare handkerchief in my pocket. Something to fumble with, you know. I can't bear to be empty-handed when I'm speaking. So awkward, you know."
"Everything shall be attended to." Then, turning to Mr. Pomeroy, she added, "How delightful it is to note the little peculiarities of genius! Lozenges and a spare handkerchief for one; for another, an orange or a toothpick! When Sir Thomas's biography comes to be written, these little traits of character must not be forgotten."
"They are very characteristic," said Jack, with the utmost seriousness.
Gerald (or, as we had better perhaps call him during his sojourn at Stammars, Jack Pomeroy) could never feel quite sure whether Lady Dudgeon in her own mind really believed her husband to be possessed of those superior qualities the presence of which she was continually striving to impress as an undoubted fact on the minds of all around her, or whether it was merely an effort on her part to blind people to the deficiencies of her very commonplace idol.
How was it possible, Jack often asked himself, that such a woman as Lady Dudgeon could be self-deceived in so simple a matter? On every other subject her ladyship was shrewd and clear-headed to a degree. She could scold her servants, or check her tradesmen's accounts; she could discuss the last fashion in bonnets, or the last bit of gossip anent a neighbour's shortcomings, as effectively and with as much relish as any middle-aged lady in the three kingdoms. And yet with regard to Sir Thomas she seemed so thoroughly in earnest, her admiration of him (while keeping the matrimonial yoke fixed tightly on his shoulders) seemed so genuine, that it was next to impossible to believe that she was merely acting a part in furtherance of certain hidden views of her own. It was a problem that Jack set himself to study from the day of his arrival at Stammars; but at the end of a month he found himself no nearer its solution than he had been at first.
Sir Thomas himself was by no means elated by the honour which the electors of Pembridge had thrust upon him. He felt it especially hard that he should have to leave the country, which he loved so much, and be obliged to mew himself up in London during the six pleasantest months of the year.
"What do I want with being M.P.?" he would often ask himself, with a sort of mild despair. "When a man has got his cows, and his sheep, and his grass crops, and his wheat to look after, as I have, what more can he want to make him happy? What a fool I must have been to let Matilda persuade me as she did! And then that speechifying! Ugh! Matilda may say what she likes, but I've not got what Cozzard calls 'the gift of the gab;' and if I had, there's far more talking done in the world now than there's any need for. If people would only work more and talk less, we should be all the better for it."
The "Cozzard" alluded to was Sir Thomas's factotum and chief business man in all inferior matters. Mr. Kelvin looked after his interests in matters superior. Cozzard was something more than a gamekeeper, without coming up to the modern notion of a bailiff. Being Sir Thomas's foster-brother, he could do and say things that nobody else would venture on, and was more in his master's confidence, and knew more of his master's secrets, than Lady Dudgeon herself.
In search of this faithful retainer, Sir Thomas bent his steps this morning towards the stables, after leaving his wife and Mr. Pomeroy. He found Cozzard in the harness-room, smoking a short black pipe and mending a fishing-rod: a spare, grizzled, hard-featured man, in a velveteen coat and gaiters, with an unmistakable something about him that spoke of horses, and dogs, and guns, and a free life in the woods and fields.
"Morning, Cozzard," said Sir Thomas. "I've just looked in to tell you that we're off to London next week."
"I'm mortal sorry to hear it, Sir Thomas."
"So am I sorry, Cozzard--very sorry."
"It's all through that confounded 'lection. I wish with all my heart that you'd lost it!"
"So do I wish with all my heart that I'd lost it--only I wouldn't for the world have her ladyship hear me say so."
"Lord! how we shall all miss you down here at the old place! But there! it seems months now since we saw you about the fields with your billycock on your head and your spud in your hand, or riding Gray Dapple from one farm to another, and all through that confounded 'lection. And now Gray Dapple's that fat for want of exercise she can hardly get out o' the stable door, and everything looks different since you took to them 'lectioneering ways."
"I am missed, then, a little bit, am I, Cozzard?"
"I should think you just was, Sir Thomas.--Why even old Granny Roper at the toll-bar says to me, only yesterday, says she: 'My snuff doesn't seem to have the right flavour now the squire's not here to dip his fingers in my box.'"
"The old girl said that, did she! I'll send her a quarter of a pound of the best rappee this very afternoon."
"Why the very dogs, Spot, and Ranger, and Lob, seem to miss you. I know they do. And poor old John Nutley as died t'other day--eighty and five weeks was his age--what were his last words? Why these: 'Give my respex to Sir Thomas,' says he, 'as has been a good master to me, and tell him as I should like to have seen him again afore going home. He would have shaken bands with me, I know he would, if he had been here.'"
"Poor old John! But why didn't you send for me?"
"You were speechifying at Pembridge," said Cozzard sententiously, not without a touch of contempt in his voice.
Sir Thomas coughed and turned the subject. "What I want you to do," said he, "is to write me a long letter once a week while I'm away in London, telling me how everything is going on. Not but what I shall drop down and see you sometimes on a Saturday. I would come every week--it's not a long journey--only you know----," and Sir Thomas actually winked at Cozzard.
"Only her ladyship wouldn't like it," said Cozzard bluntly.
"That's just it. When I'm not busy at the House she will want me to go out with her. She doesn't like me to be gadding about by myself."
"Just like my old woman when she fetches me of a night from the Green Lion."
"You will write me the letter, won't you, Cozzard--a good long one every Saturday? You will tell me how the stock is getting on, and how the crops look, and give a look at the kitchen garden, and see that a couple of hampers of fresh vegetables are sent up to us every week, and----"
"But, Sir Thomas----!" pleaded Cozzard, with a visible lengthening of his thin visage. "I couldn't put down half that, not if I was to write all day on Sunday. Six lines is the most as ever I could manage, and then there mustn't be any long words in it."
"Then I'll tell you what you shall do: you shall get my god-daughter, Sally, to do the writing part. You tell her what to say, and she'll put it down all right and ship-shape, and I'll bring her a new silk gown when I come back from London. And now get Gray Dapple saddled, and find my favourite spud. You and I, Cozzard, will go round the farms this very morning."
It had been altogether a surprise to Pomeroy to find Miss Deane in the position of governess at Stammars. Was the coincidence of her being there at the same time as himself due altogether to accident, or was there some hidden purpose underlying it?--Was it, or was it not, connected in any way with the concealment by Kelvin of the contents of the sealed packet? And yet, how was it possible that Olive Deane could have any knowledge of the sealed packet? Matthew Kelvin was not a man who would be likely to take anyone into his confidence in such a matter. No; Miss Deane's presence at Stammars must evidently be set down as one of those fortuitous events which happen so often in real life; events which would seem as if they must have their origin in some set purpose or prearranged design, but which are in reality due to the merest accident.
"You did not expect to see me here, Mr. Pomeroy," said Olive with a smile, as she shook Jack's hand about an hour after his arrival at Stammars.
"No, indeed," said Jack. "It is quite an unexpected pleasure."
"When I saw you last, I had no idea whatever of coming here. Lady Dudgeon, knowing I was out of a situation, called on me some three days after your departure from Pembridge, and offered me the charge of her two daughters--a charge which I was glad to accept. When one has to work for one's daily bread, it does not do to be idle for too long a time."
"I have been used to idleness--to comparative idleness, that is--for so long a time that I am afraid it will go rather against the grain to settle down to any daily occupation."
"And yet it must be their very rarity which makes the idle hours of a busy man seem so peculiarly sweet." Then she turned the subject. "Miss Lloyd is away visiting in Leicestershire, and will not be back for about a week." This she said with her searching eyes bent full upon him.
"So I have been told already," said Jack, drily: but he could not prevent a little tell-tale colour from mounting to his cheek.
Nothing more was said at that time, nor was Miss Lloyd's name mentioned again between them till after that young lady's return.
Jack was very eager that she should return. He chafed and fumed at her absence, but why he should do so he could not have told anyone, unless it were that he thought he could have spent his time much more pleasantly and profitably to himself than in cataloguing the books, and writing the letters, of an unfledged country M.P. But having advanced so far in his enterprise, he was by no means minded to give it up. He would await the return of Eleanor Lloyd even though she should be two months away instead of a single week. He had not yet decided as to what his line of action should be when he should meet her. All that he left to time and circumstance: at present he asked only that he might see this girl about whom so much had been told him, and towards whom he stood in a relationship so peculiar and uncommon.
He was destined to see her sooner than he was aware of.
Always a great walker, Jack found his greatest pleasure, since he had come down to Stammars, in long, solitary rambles along the pleasant Hertfordshire roads, and the more lonely the road, the better he was pleased. As he was posting along at the rate of four miles an hour one afternoon towards the end of January, swinging his walking-stick, and watching the flying clouds, his ear was suddenly caught by a low, plaintive cry that evidently came from somewhere close at hand. He stood still to listen. Presently he heard it again, evidently the wailing cry of a very young child. He looked round him on every side, but there was not a human being nor even a house visible from where he was standing. Once again the cry came, this time louder than before. His eyes, drawn by the sound, concentrated themselves on the root of a large tree, of a tree which grew out of the hedge and overshadowed the road. Between the footpath and the hedge was a tiny watercourse, now covered with a thin coat of ice. Over this Jack strode, and began to peer about in the hedge bottom. He was not long in discovering the origin of the cry that he had heard. In a sort of tiny recess formed in part by the gnarled roots of the tree, and in part by the close-woven shoots of the hedge, lay a child--a child of apparently some six months old, with a tiny, pinched face, and dark, serious eyes, that gazed up wonderingly at Pomeroy for a moment and then filled with tears.
"A pleasant predicament truly!" muttered Jack to himself. "There must surely be somebody belonging to it close by."
He swung himself up on to the root of the tree, and took a long, steady look round. The point where he now was was exactly on the crown of a small hill. Right and left of him the road dipped down into a valley with bare, treeless fields on either side. Nowhere was there a human being visible: had there been one he could hardly have failed to see it. The child had evidently been deserted--left there to be found by chance, or otherwise to die.
When Jack had satisfied his mind on this point he dropped quickly from his perch, flung his stick over the hedge, picked up the child as tenderly as he knew how, stepped lightly across the brook, and set off on his way back to Stammars--a three miles' walk. He felt very awkward indeed, and was possessed by an acute sense of the ludicrous appearance he must have presented had anyone been there to see him, which fortunately there was not. The child seemed wrapped up warmly enough, its outside covering being an old black skirt of some cheap material. Whether it were a boy or a girl, Jack had no skill to judge, nor was that a point which had much interest for him. That strange, serious look in its eyes troubled him a little; but when, after it had finished its examination of him, a wintry smile flickered over its little white face, while it seemed to nestle nearer to him, he could not keep his arms from folding themselves still more closely round it.
The difficulty that now presented itself to Jack's mind was how to dispose of the child. It would never do to take the little waif to Stammars: Lady Dudgeon would have been horrified: and yet Jack shrank instinctively from the thought of leaving it to the tender mercies of the workhouse authorities, although that was clearly the proper thing to do. He was still debating the question, when he heard the noise of wheels behind him. He turned instinctively, and to his great dismay saw a pony phaeton coming rapidly along the road, driven by a youth in livery, beside whom was seated a lady--whether young or old Jack could not yet tell--but evidently well wrapped up in furs. The hot colour rushed to his face. What should he do? What indeed could he do? There was no bye-lane up which he could slink--no stile through which he could wriggle, and so put the shelter of the thick hedge between himself and the road; and it was quite evident that he could not leave the child on the footpath and take to his heels. All that he could do was to pull his hat savagely over his brows, set his teeth, and march stubbornly on, as if it were the most natural and proper thing in the world for a gentleman in a fashionable overcoat and kid gloves to be strolling along a country road in the middle of the afternoon, hugging a baby--and not a nicely dressed baby either--and acting generally the part of a nursemaid.
"I hope she's an old lady--a grandmother, or at least a mother," said Jack to himself in desperation. "In that case, it mightn't be a bad thing to appeal to her, and tell her how I came to pick up this pitiful little vagabond. It's quite evident that I can't walk into Pembridge like this."
But, as it happened, the lady who caused poor Jack to quake so terribly was neither a grandmother nor a mother. She was, in fact, no other than Eleanor Lloyd, who was on her way back to Stammars a couple of days before she was expected there. One of the children having been taken suddenly ill at the house where she had been staying, she had hurried her departure. She had quitted the train a couple of stations short of Pembridge in order to call upon another friend, and it was in this other friend's phaeton that Miss Lloyd was now being conveyed to Stammars.
As the phaeton drove past, Pomeroy, struggling gallantly on, with a very red face, could not resist shooting a little glance out of the corners of his eyes at the occupant of the carriage. She was young and had blonde hair--so much he could see; and then he set his eyes stubbornly before him and would not look again. He could see too that she gave him one quick comprehensive glance in passing. He thought the worst was over, and began to breathe again. But hardly had the phaeton passed him a score yards when a small hamper that had been tied up under the back seat slipped, and fell to the ground. Unconscious of her loss, the lady drove serenely on. What was to be done? Unless Jack should call out, the hamper would be left behind in the road; and if he did call out they would drive back, and then all concealment on his part would be impossible. "I'm in for it now and no mistake!" he muttered to himself, and then he called at the top of his voice.
By the time the phaeton had been driven back and the hamper picked up, Jack, who had been walking steadily forward all the time, was within half a dozen yards of the lady. She turned to thank him, but he could see that all the time she was speaking her eyes were fixed in a sort of mild surprise on the burden in his arms.
"If you are going my way, perhaps you will allow me to help you along the road," she said.
"You are very kind, and I will gladly avail myself of your offer," he replied. "But first a word of explanation. I found this little waif in the hedge bottom about half a mile from here, evidently deserted. Of course I could not leave it there; but now that I have brought it away I am really at a loss to know what to do with it."
"Deserted, did you say?" exclaimed Miss Lloyd, and she was out of the phaeton in a moment. "Poor, poor little darling!" and before Jack knew what had happened, he found himself relieved of his burden. Miss Lloyd's next act was to stoop and kiss the child. When she looked up, her lovely blue eyes were brimmed with tears, but a half-smile still dimpled the corners of her mouth. Pomeroy vowed to himself that never in the whole course of his life had he seen anything half so charming.
Then they got into the phaeton, Jack sitting behind, and Miss Lloyd still holding the baby.
"What a cruel thing to do!" she said. "Who would believe that there could be such hard hearts in this beautiful world!"
Jack did not answer, but his heart gave a little sigh. "What a darling she is!" he thought. "I wonder whether Eleanor Lloyd is half as pretty. And yet, why wonder, for what is Eleanor Lloyd to me, or I to Eleanor Lloyd?"
He could not keep his eyes off her, and Miss Lloyd could not keep hers off the baby. "If it were a duchess's child she couldn't take to it more kindly," said Jack to himself. "What strange creatures women are!"
Presently Miss Lloyd turned with a bright look in her eye. "How good it was of you to pick up the child, and bring it away with you!"
"Under the circumstances, I don't see what else I could have done," said Pomeroy, simply.
"Many people would have left the child where they found it, and have satisfied themselves with telling the inmates of the nearest house of their discovery."
"That is a plan I never thought of," said Jack, with a smile, "or else I should very likely have adopted it."
"No, I don't think you would," said Miss Lloyd, earnestly.
"In any case, now that I have saddled myself with the young shaver, I'm quite at a loss to know what to do with him."
"Do with him, indeed!" exclaimed Miss Lloyd. "Don't you know, sir, that it's a little girl?"
"I certainly didn't know anything of the kind," said the crest-fallen Jack. "But at that age they are all so much alike."
"Ah, you gentlemen are very ignorant of many things." Then she added, "I suppose it would never do to take the child to Stammars."
"To Stammars!" exclaimed Jack, in astonishment. "That is the place where I am living at present."
"Indeed! A guest of Sir Thomas Dudgeon, I presume?"
"Hardly that. My name is John Pomeroy, and I am only Sir Thomas's new secretary."
"And I am Miss Lloyd. Like you, my present home is at Stammars."
Pomeroy did not answer. He was confounded. But through him there shot a strange, rapturous thrill, such as he had never felt before. "I wish we were going to travel together for a thousand miles instead of three!" was the unspoken thought in his heart. "This is she whom I have secretly longed to see ever since I was quite a boy. Her name itself had always a strange fascination for me. And now I see her and know her. If there be any wit in my brain, any power of pleading in my tongue, any strength of purpose in my heart--then shall this sweet creature become my wife!"
"I think," said Miss Lloyd, "that for the present, at least, we could not do better than place this little darling under the care of Mrs. Nixon, the wife of the under gardener at Stammars. She is a mother herself, and will treat it kindly. We shall then have time to think about its future. It is very singular that you and I should have met thus. When I passed you on the road I was certainly puzzled at first to make out what it was that you were carrying," she added, with a smile. "But when I saw what it really was, I thought that you were perhaps doing it for a wager. Such things have been done, I daresay. But to do what you did out of pure compassion, was very nice of you indeed."
CHAPTER IX.
FOUND.
On the eve of his departure for Pembridge, Gerald Warburton had promised Ambrose Murray that immediately after his return he would consult with him as to the steps which it would be advisable to take in furtherance of that quest on which the mind of the elder man was so firmly bent, but which to the younger one looked, at that time, so thoroughly hopeless. The momentary glimpse which they obtained of Jacoby while standing on the platform of Welwyn Station, happening just then, came like an apt and singular confirmation of the story told by Murray. It acted as a spur to Gerald's flagging purpose, and would have served as an additional incentive to Murray, had any such been needed, to press forward unflinchingly towards the end he had in view. From that day forward no one could accuse Gerald of any want of enthusiasm for the cause he had adopted as his own. He put his hand to the plough, and he never looked backward again.
The first, and perhaps the most difficult, move in the game they had set themselves to play, had been solved for them by the merest accident. Jacoby was still alive. There was no need for them to trouble themselves further on that score. The next move, and one hardly less difficult than the first one, was to find out where Jacoby was now living; and the question that Gerald at once set himself to answer was this: What is the likeliest and readiest mode of discovering the whereabouts of this man?
Among the papers which had come into the hands of Miss Bellamy at the death of Ambrose Murray's wife, were certain verbatim accounts of the trial for the Tewkesbury murder. These papers Miss Bellamy had carefully preserved, and they were now handed over by her to Gerald, who proceeded to read them carefully through three or four times, by which means he made himself master of all the details of the case as they had presented themselves at the trial. A certain Mr. Frodsham had been Murray's counsel on that occasion, and very admirable had been the speech, and very cogent the arguments, employed by him in his attempt to prove the innocence of his client--an attempt which, as we have already seen, did not succeed. To Gerald, turning the whole case over in his mind, it seemed that the first thing to do was to find out this Mr. Frodsham, see him, consult with him, tell him in confidence of Murray's escape, and ascertain whether, after so long a time, his experience could suggest any feasible plan for proving, or even attempting to prove, the innocence of a client for whose sake, twenty years ago, all his eloquence had been exerted in vain.
In setting about the task which he had thus taken in hand, and which he was thoroughly determined to go through with, Gerald did not expect to derive much assistance from Murray himself, nor, in fact, did he. Murray was altogether too unpractical; he had been shut up too long from the busy, struggling world around him to enable him to cope with it face to face, or to grope his way through such a blind man's maze as his own case necessarily involved, at every step of which a knot would have to be disentangled, or a difficulty of some kind encountered and overcome. He could asseverate earnestly enough that Jacoby was the murderer, and that the sole object for which he now lived was to bring the crime home to him; but when asked by what means that was to be done, he was like a child who had lost itself in some dark place. He could only cling to Gerald, and ask him to think, to devise, to scheme for him. "I have faith--faith the most intense," he would sometimes say, "that the world will know me for what I am before I die. Why else was my reason given back to me? why else was a way of escape shown me? why else am I here, except to prove this thing? And, oh, Gerald! why has an over-ruling Intelligence sent to me you, the son of my lost darling's oldest friend--you, with your kind heart, and clear brain, and knowledge of the world and its ways--except to assist me, to give to my forlorn weakness that strong helping hand, without which I can do nothing! Other men might ask: Why should I help this escaped lunatic? Why should I trouble myself about this criminal madman, on whose head the guilt of blood still rests? But not you--not you! You and I, Gerald, have been mysteriously drawn together by the bonds of an invisible sympathy. We have been brought together, not that we may be to each other as mere touch-and-go acquaintances, but for the working out of some hidden purpose. For good or for evil, the issues of your life and mine are inextricably mingled; like streams from two distant sources, they have met, never again to be disunited, till they fall into the far-off Hidden Sea!"
Mr. Frodsham had been too well known in the legal profession for Gerald to experience much difficulty in obtaining answers to his inquiries respecting that gentleman. It did not take him long to ascertain that Mr. Frodsham had been dead for several years. But from the same source whence he derived this positive information, came another piece of information not quite so positive, which, being of no apparent use, was thrown in gratis, as it were, to the effect that although Mr. Frodsham was dead, Mr. Peter Byrne, who had been his confidential clerk for many years, was supposed to be still alive. To Gerald this extra piece of information seemed of no use whatever. His idea in wanting to see Mr. Frodsham had been, not to obtain facts--those he had already--but to seek his advice, his counsel, perchance his assistance. But of what use or assistance Mr. Frodsham's confidential clerk could be to him, he could not for the life of him see. Still, as it behoved him to neglect no source of information, however trivial or apparently unimportant it might seem to be, and as he was rather nonplussed for the time being as to what was the next step which it behoved him to take, he decided to have this Mr. Byrne hunted up, if it were possible to find him, and then see him in person, on the very faint chance that something might be elicited from him which would tend to show what line of action it would be advisable to adopt next.
Five days later Gerald received Mr. Byrne's address by post. It was No. 2, Amelia Terrace, Claridge Road, Battersea, which place Gerald next day made it his business to go in search of.
Amelia Terrace was in a desolate locality enough, being shut out from the world by wide intervening stretches of market garden, very useful and very productive, no doubt, but which seemed to lack every pleasant attribute with which a garden is usually associated in one's mind. The particular house that Gerald was in search of was one of twenty others exactly similar to it in pattern and design. Little shabby-looking six-roomed houses, the cheap stucco with which their fronts were plastered peeling off already in great ugly blotches, the yard of "garden" on to which their windows looked protected by cheap railings, broken away in many places, and thick with rust, or twisted out of shape in others. Inside, the rooms were close and frowsy, with doors and windows that in some cases would not shut, and in others left crevices that in this wintry weather had to be stuffed up with rags, or old newspapers, or even here and there with an old bonnet. At one corner was a flaring gin-palace, and at the other a huckster's shop, only its proprietor did not call it a shop, but an "emporium."
Yes, Mr. Byrne was at home, said the slatternly servant who answered Gerald's knock at No. 2.
Before more could be said, some one called out from the parlour, "Walk in, sir, walk in, if it's me you are in want of. I saw you when you were over the way, but I didn't know that you were looking for No. 2."
Gerald accepted the invitation and walked into the parlour, a shabbily-furnished little room, pervaded by a vile odour of stale tobacco-smoke. Mr. Byrne, in red morocco slippers, a Turkish cap, and a faded dressing gown of a flowery Chinese sort of pattern, rose from the sofa to receive him.
Peter Byrne was a man of sixty, but looked quite ten years younger than that age, thanks to his dyed hair, his artificial teeth, and the faintest possible suspicion of rouge, without which, when got up for the day, he never ventured abroad. But so deftly and artfully was the hare's foot applied, that not one out of a dozen of his acquaintances accepted as other than genuine that pleasant, healthy colour which, whatever the season might be, Peter Byrne's cheeks never failed to display. He was rather under than over the medium height, was lightly built, and was very active for his age. His head was large, and somewhat disproportionate to the size of his body. He had large, but regular features, and had doubtless thought himself very good-looking when a young man; but the lines of his face were now coarse and fleshy, and seemed to indicate a too free indulgence in the good things of the table, and possibly too great a fondness for after-dinner potations. He had clear grey eyes, with a keenness and a steadfastness in them that Gerald liked; and yet there seemed something factitious about his smile--it came and went too readily to seem altogether genuine.
Gerald having introduced himself and taken a chair, proceeded at once to the object of his visit.
"In my search for certain information," he said, "I have been recommended to call upon you as having been the confidential clerk of the late Mr. Frodsham."
"I certainly was Mr. Frodsham's confidential clerk for several years," said Byrne, "and any information that may be in my power I shall be happy to afford you--provided, of course, that such information involve no breach of business confidence."
"You need be under no apprehension on that score," answered Gerald. "I must ask you, in the first place, to let your memory travel back for twenty years, and then to tell me whether you have any recollection of a somewhat remarkable case in which Mr. Frodsham was engaged for the defence. It was a murder case, and was tried at the Gloucester Spring Assizes. The crime was committed at Tewkesbury, the murdered man's name was Paul Stilling, and the prisoner's name Ambrose Murray."
"I remember the case in question quite well," answered Byrne. "In fact, I was in court when the trial took place. Mr. Frodsham was busier than usual that circuit, and he took me with him."
"So far that is fortunate," said Gerald. "Then you will probably recollect that one of the chief witnesses at the trial was a Dutch or German Jew of the name of Max Jacoby?"
"I recollect distinctly the man to whom you refer."
"My object in coming to see you to-day is to ask you whether you can in any way assist me to discover the present whereabouts of this man, Max Jacoby?"
Byrne gave vent to a long, low whistle.
"It's a hard nut, sir, that you've set yourself to crack--the finding of a man like that after twenty years; and--and really I hardly know in what way I can help you."
Gerald was silent. He had no intention of accepting Byrne's answer as final.
"Why don't you apply to Scotland Yard for assistance?" asked Byrne, after a pause.
"I have private reasons for not doing so," answered Gerald. "But there is no reason why you should not treat me as your client in this matter, and endeavour to obtain this information for me either from Scotland Yard or elsewhere."
"Hum! Such inquiries, whether successful or unsuccessful, cost money."
"Get me the information I ask for, or even show me that you have done your best to get it but have failed, and we shall not quarrel about the price."
"But the man may have died years ago, or, being a foreigner, he may be living in some little town on the continent, in which case our inquiries could hardly hope to be successful."
"Jacoby was alive, and well, and in London only three weeks ago."
"Oh, come, there's something tangible about a fact like that. And you know nothing more concerning him?"
"Absolutely nothing."
Mr. Byrne, with due solemnity and deliberation, proceeded to charge and light a long-stemmed pipe with a painted China bowl, which stood propped against the chimney-piece ready to his hand.
"I will be candid with you, Mr. Warburton," he said, after a few preliminary puffs. "I don't anticipate that there will be so much difficulty in tracing this man Jacoby as there might be in the case of a great many other people."
"Why should there be any difference in his case?" asked Gerald.
"Because he is a man with whom the police have had dealings, directly or indirectly, not on one occasion only, but several times. There is no need for me to say more at present, except this, that such a man is seldom altogether lost sight of, unless he leaves the country and goes to live abroad. Still, I should not advise you to be too sanguine."
Gerald promised not to be too sanguine, but still had good hopes of success. He then went into some monetary details with Mr. Byrne, and after that he rose to go.
"I dare say you wonder a little to find a man like me living in a dog-kennel of a place like this," said Byrne, with his expansive smile, as he stood for a moment or two airing his back at the fire.
"I have seen too much of the world to wonder greatly at anything," said Gerald, ambiguously.
"You see, this is how it was," said Byrne, confidentially. "I was Mr. Frodsham's clerk for a great number of years--not that I ever liked the profession, but my bread and cheese was dependent on it, and I was bound to stick to it. By the death of a relative, I came in for ten thousand pounds, and I at once retired to live on my means. I had always been fond of the turf, I had always fancied that I knew something about that noble animal, the horse, and I now determined to turn my knowledge to account. I made up my mind that I would turn my ten thousand pounds into thirty thousand. Sir, I did not turn it into thirty thousand pounds, but into thirty thousand pence. In fact, I lost the whole of it. I was too old to re-enter the profession, and having an income of eighty pounds a year for life, I determined to settle down upon it, and make the best of a bad job. This locality, if not the most genteel in the world, is cheap and salubrious, and here Miriam and I have pitched our tent for a little time, while waiting for summer weather. Relatives, sir, can't live for ever, especially when turned eighty years of age, and asthmatical into the bargain."
"At the risk of being thought impertinent, may I ask who Miriam is?"
"Miriam, sir, is my daughter--an only child, and a jewel of a girl, though I say it who ought not. Nature, sir, has been liberal to her, having endowed her with beauty and talents that would fit her to adorn a sphere far superior to this one. I hope and trust that there is a brilliant future in store for her."
This interview with Mr. Byrne took place between the time of Gerald's first visit to Pembridge and that second visit which resulted from his acceptance of the position of secretary to Sir Thomas Dudgeon. He gave Byrne Miss Bellamy's address, to which any communication for him was to be sent. Such communication would be re-addressed and forwarded to him at Stammars by Miss Bellamy. He had been at Sir Thomas Dudgeon's about a week, when he received the following brief note from Byrne:--
"Dear Sir,
"With reference to the subject respecting which you spoke to me a few days ago, no time has been lost in taking the preliminary steps, and I am happy to inform you that I believe we are already on the right track. I hope in a week at the most to be able to supply you with some positive information. But we must not be too sanguine.
"Faithfully yours,
"P. B."
A few days later Gerald went up to town to transact certain business for Sir Thomas Dudgeon, and having some spare time on his hands, he spent most of it either with Miss Bellamy or Ambrose Murray. It was while they were all three sitting together one afternoon, that the postman brought a second note from Byrne to Gerald.
"Dear Sir,
"The person respecting whom you spoke to me at my house is now, I believe, passing under another name. If you will meet me either this or to-morrow evening at seven on the steps of the General Post Office, I will take you to a place where--yourself unseen--you can see the man to whom I allude, and so have the means of identifying him. Should he prove to be the person you want, I will afterwards furnish you with his address. If you decide upon meeting me this evening, wire me to that effect.
"Yours faithfully,
"P. B."
At seven o'clock that evening, Gerald Warburton and Ambrose Murray found themselves at St. Martin's-le-Grand, where, two minutes later, they were joined by Mr. Byrne.
"As I myself am totally unacquainted with the person we are in search of, never to my knowledge having seen him," said Gerald to Byrne, "I have been compelled to bring this gentleman with me. Jacoby was well known to him by sight many years ago, and he does not doubt his ability to identify him now."
Byrne bowed slightly, and threw a keen glance at Murray; but the evening was cold, and the latter was so muffled up that very little of his features could be seen.
They were still standing on the post-office steps, when Byrne, turning to Gerald, said--
"The man I am about to show you lives in the city, and has done so for several years. When in town he always dines at one particular tavern. He is generally to be found there from half-past six till half-past seven. He dined at this place yesterday and the day before, and I have no doubt that he is there at the present moment. We must wait near at hand till he comes out, and then you will have an opportunity of getting a clear view of him by the light of the lamp over the door."
Here and there in some quiet city nook may still be found one of those homely, old-fashioned taverns, innocent of lacquer-work and gilding--panelled, not with looking-glass, but with substantial mahogany, dark with age, such as were common in the days when Charles Lamb or Washington Irving were peripatetics about the streets of London, but which are becoming rarer with each recurring year. To several of these taverns is attached a dining-room, where a fried sole or a cut off a wholesome joint may be obtained as late as six or seven o'clock, and where any one who is known to the house may have a chop or a steak done to a turn up till midnight. There is no bustle and confusion here; you are not hurried over your meals; you need not quit your seat the moment you have swallowed your last mouthful, in order to make room for some one else. Day after day the same people come--punctual to the minute, as a rule. They are all on hob-nobbing terms with each other, and fresh faces are rarely seen.
It was over against such a tavern as this that our three conspirators now stationed themselves. The street was very narrow, and exactly opposite the tavern was a dark passage leading to sundry suites of offices, now silent and deserted. Within the shelter of this passage they took their stand. Not long had they to wait. Presently the swing doors were pushed open from the inner side, and the man whom they had come to see issued forth into the street--a man of fifty, or perhaps fifty-five, broad-chested, strongly built, and with a face that might have been carved out of lignumvitæ, so hard, resolute, and determined was it in every line. He stood for a moment in the full light of the lamp over the doorway, and then he walked slowly down the street.
Gerald felt Murray's grasp on his arm tighten suddenly as the man came out.
"Is that the man you wanted me to find? Is that Max Jacoby?" asked Byrne, in a low voice.
"That is Max Jacoby!" answered Murray, in a whisper.
"We must give him time to get clear away," said Byrne, "and then I will show you the place where he lives."
Five minutes later they left their hiding-place. Byrne, taking his companions through several short cuts and narrow ways, brought them presently to another part of the city, and came to a halt close against a tall, substantial-looking house. It stood in a narrow way intended for foot-passengers only, that led from one great artery of city traffic to another. One side of this footway was bounded by the blank wall of a range of huge warehouses that had their frontage in another street. The opposite boundary of the footway consisted of a low stone wall, crowned with rusty railings, that shut in an ancient graveyard. The church that once on a time had appertained to the graveyard had been demolished years ago; but the dilapidated tombstones, with their "forlorn Hic jacets" all overgrown with rank and frowsy herbage, were still there, together with a miscellaneous assortment of old shoes, broken bottles, and other rubbish. As usual, it was Nobody's business to bring about a different state of things, and Nobody did his business thoroughly by leaving it altogether undone.
The house to which Byrne had brought his companions was built into the graveyard, and its front door was in a line with the raised wall already spoken of. It was an old-fashioned, red-brick house, and had doubtless at one time been the residence of the rector, or of some other functionary connected with the church that was no longer there. From the windows, both back and front, the view must have been dismal in the extreme. To-night the whole house looked as dark and deserted as the graveyard in which it stood. Not a single glimmer of light was visible in any of its windows. Byrne, after taking a cautious look round, drew his companions forward. There was a square brass plate let into the door, on which, by the light of a lamp near at hand, they all three read these words: