The Opal Serpent
by Fergus Hume · English · Gutenberg #24769 · 511,275 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Opal Serpent
Author: Fergus Hume
Release date: March 6, 2008 [eBook #24769]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24769
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OPAL SERPENT ***
Produced by Andrew Wainwright, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Opal Serpent
By
Fergus Hume
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER,"
"A COIN OF EDWARD VII.," "THE PAGAN'S CUP,"
"THE SECRET PASSAGE," "THE RED WINDOW,"
"THE MANDARIN'S FAN," ETC.
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.
_Issued July, 1905._
[Illustration: "LOOK! LOOK!" CRIED SYLVIA, GASPING--"THE MOUTH!"]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON 7
II. DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA 19
III. DULCINEA OF GWYNNE STREET 32
IV. THE UNFORESEEN 44
V. TROUBLE 56
VI. A NOISE IN THE NIGHT 68
VII. A TERRIBLE NIGHT 80
VIII. THE VERDICT OF THE JURY 91
IX. CASTLES IN THE AIR 103
X. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE 115
XI. A CUCKOO IN THE NEST 126
XII. THE NEW LIFE 137
XIII. THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS 148
XIV. MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER 161
XV. A NEW CLUE 172
XVI. SYLVIA'S THEORY 185
XVII. HURD'S INFORMATION 196
XVIII. AT CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS 208
XIX. CAPTAIN JESSOP 219
XX. PART OF THE TRUTH 228
XXI. MISS QIAN'S PARTY 241
XXII. FURTHER EVIDENCE 254
XXIII. WHAT PASH SAID 266
XXIV. MRS. KRILL AT BAY 278
XXV. A CRUEL WOMAN 291
XXVI. A FINAL EXPLANATION 306
CHAPTER I
DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON
Simon Beecot was a country gentleman with a small income, a small estate
and a mind considerably smaller than either. He dwelt at Wargrove in
Essex and spent his idle hours--of which he possessed a daily and
nightly twenty-four--in snarling at his faded wife and in snapping
between whiles at his son. Mrs. Beecot, having been bullied into old age
long before her time, accepted sour looks and hard words as necessary to
God's providence, but Paul, a fiery youth, resented useless nagging. He
owned more brain-power than his progenitor, and to this favoring of
Nature paterfamilias naturally objected. Paul also desired fame, which
was likewise a crime in the fire-side tyrant's eyes.
As there were no other children Paul was heir to the Beecot acres,
therefore their present proprietor suggested that his son should wait
with idle hands for the falling in of the heritage. In plain words, Mr.
Beecot, coming of a long line of middle-class loafers, wished his son to
be a loafer also. Again, when Mrs. Beecot retired to a tearful rest, her
bully found Paul a useful person on whom to expend his spleen. Should
this whipping-boy leave, Mr. Beecot would have to forego this enjoyment,
as servants object to being sworn at without cause. For years Mr.
Beecot indulged in bouts of bad temper, till Paul, finding twenty-five
too dignified an age to tolerate abuse, announced his intention of
storming London as a scribbler.
The parents objected in detail. Mrs. Beecot, after her kind, dissolved
in tears, and made reference to young birds leaving the nest, while her
husband, puffed out like a frog, and redder than the wattles of a
turkey-cock, exhausted himself in well-chosen expressions. Paul
increased the use of these by fixing a day for his departure. The female
Beecot retired to bed with the assistance of a maid, burnt feathers and
sal volatile, and the male, as a last and clinching argument,
figuratively buttoned up his pockets.
"Not one shilling will you get from me," said Beecot senior, with the
graceful addition of vigorous adjectives.
"I don't ask for money," said Paul, keeping his temper, for after all
the turkey-cock was his father. "I have saved fifty pounds. Not out of
my pocket-money," he added hastily, seeing further objections on the
way. "I earned it by writing short stories."
"The confounded mercantile instinct," snorted paterfamilias, only he
used stronger words. "Your mother's uncle was in trade. Thank Heaven
none of my people ever used hands or brains. The Beecots lived like
gentlemen."
"I should say like cabbages from your description, father."
"No insolence, sir. How dare you disgrace your family? Writing tales
indeed! Rubbish I expect" (here several adjectives). "And you took money
I'll be bound, eh! eh!"
"I have just informed you that I took all I could get," said Beecot
junior, quietly. "I'll live in Town on my savings. When I make a name
and a fortune I'll return."
"Never! never!" gobbled the turkey-cock. "If you descend to the gutter
you can wallow there. I'll cut you out of my will."
"Very good, sir, that's settled. Let us change the subject."
But the old gentleman was too high-spirited to leave well alone. He
demanded to know if Paul knew to whom he was talking, inquired if he had
read the Bible touching the duties of children to their parents,
instanced the fact that Paul's dear mother would probably pine away and
die, and ended with a pathetic reference to losing the prop of his old
age. Paul listened respectfully and held to his own opinion. In defence
of the same he replied in detail,--
"I am aware that I talk to my father, sir," said he, with spirit; "you
never allow me to forget that fact. If another man spoke to me as you do
I should probably break his head. I _have_ read the Bible, and find
therein that parents owe a duty to their children, which certainly does
not include being abused like a pick-pocket. My mother will not pine
away if you will leave her alone for at least three hours a day. And as
to my being the prop of your old age, your vigor of language assures me
that you are strong enough to stand alone."
Paterfamilias, never bearded before, hastily drank a glass of port--the
two were enjoying the usual pleasant family meal when the conversation
took place--and said--but it is useless to detail his remarks. They were
all sound and no sense. In justice to himself, and out of pity for his
father, Paul cut short the scene by leaving the room with his
determination unchanged. Mr. Beecot thereupon retired to bed, and
lectured his wife on the enormity of having brought a parricide into the
world. Having been countered for once in his life with common-sense, he
felt that he could not put the matter too strongly to a woman, who was
too weak to resent his bullying.
Early next day the cause of the commotion, not having swerved a
hair's-breadth from the path he had marked out, took leave of his
mother, and a formal farewell of the gentleman who described himself as
the best of fathers. Beecot senior, turkey-cock and tyrant, was more
subdued now that he found bluster would not carry his point. But the
wave of common-sense came too late. Paul departed bag and baggage, and
his sire swore to the empty air. Even Mrs. Beecot was not available, as
she had fainted.
Once Paul was fairly out of the house paterfamilias announced that the
glory of Israel had departed, removed his son's photograph from the
drawing-room, and considered which of the relatives he had quarrelled
with he should adopt. Privately, he thought he had been a trifle hard on
the lad, and but for his obstinacy--which he called firmness--he would
have recalled the prodigal. But that enterprising adventurer was beyond
hearing, and had left no address behind him. Beecot, the bully, was not
a bad old boy if only he had been firmly dealt with, so he acknowledged
that Paul had a fine spirit of his own, inherited from himself, and
prophesied incorrectly. "He'll come back when the fifty pounds is
exhausted," said he in a kind of dejected rage, "and when he does--" A
clenched fist shaken at nothing terminated the speech and showed that
the leopard could not change his spots.
So Paul Beecot repaired to London, and after the orthodox fashion began
to cultivate the Muses on a little oatmeal by renting a Bloomsbury
garret. There he wrote reams on all subjects and in all styles, and for
six months assiduously haunted publishers' doors with varying fortunes.
Sometimes he came away with a cheque, but more often with a bulky
manuscript bulging his pocket. When tired of setting down imaginary
woes he had time to think of his own; but being a cheerful youth, with
an indomitable spirit, he banished trouble by interesting himself in the
cheap world. By this is meant the world which costs no money to
view--the world of the street. Here he witnessed the drama of humanity
from morning till night, and from sunset till dawn, and on the whole
witnessed very good acting. The poorer parts in the human comedy were
particularly well played, and starving folks were quite dramatic in
their demands for food. Note-book in hand, Paul witnessed spectacular
shows in the West End, grotesque farces in the Strand, melodrama in
Whitechapel and tragedy on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. Indeed, he quite
spoiled the effect of a sensation scene by tugging at the skirts of a
starving heroine who wished to take a river journey into the next world.
But for the most part, he remained a spectator and plagiarised from real
life.
Shortly, the great manager of the Universal Theatre enlisted Paul as an
actor, and he assumed the double _role_ of an unappreciated author and a
sighing lover. In the first capacity he had in his desk ten short
stories, a couple of novels, three dramas and a sheaf of doubtful
verses. These failed to appeal to editor, manager or publisher, and
their author found himself reduced to his last five-pound note. Then the
foolish, ardent lad must needs fall in love. Who his divinity was, what
she was, and why she should be divinised, can be gathered from a
conversation her worshipper held with an old school-fellow.
It was in Oxford Street at five o'clock on a June afternoon that Paul
met Grexon Hay. Turning the corner of the street leading to his
Bloomsbury attic, the author was tapped on the shoulder by a resplendent
Bond Street being. That is, the said being wore a perfectly-fitting
frock-coat, a silk hat, trousers with the regulation fold back and
front, an orchid buttonhole, grey gloves, boots that glittered, and
carried a gold-topped cane. The fact that Paul wheeled without wincing
showed that he was not yet in debt. Your Grub Street old-time author
would have leaped his own length at the touch. But Paul, with a clean
conscience, turned slowly, and gazed without recognition into the
clean-shaven, calm, cold face that confronted his inquiring eyes.
"Beecot!" said the newcomer, taking rapid stock of Paul's shabby serge
suit and worn looks. "I thought I was right."
The voice, if not the face, awoke old memories.
"Hay--Grexon Hay!" cried the struggling genius. "Well, I am glad to see
you," and he shook hands with the frank grip of an honest man.
"And I you." Hay drew his friend up the side street and out of the human
tide which deluged the pavement. "But you seem--"
"It's a long story," interrupted Paul flushing. "Come to my castle and
I'll tell you all about it, old boy. You'll stay to supper, won't you?
See here"--Paul displayed a parcel--"a pound of sausages. You loved 'em
at school, and I'm a superfine cook."
Grexon Hay always used expression and word to hide his feelings. But
with Paul--whom he had always considered a generous ass at Torrington
school--a trifle of self-betrayal didn't matter much. Beecot was too
dense, and, it may be added, too honest to turn any opportunity to
advantage. "It's a most surprising thing," said Hay, in his calm way,
"really a most surprising thing, that a Torrington public school boy, my
friend, and the son of wealthy parents, should be buying sausages."
"Come now," said Paul, with great spirit and towing Hay homeward, "I
haven't asked you for money."
"If you do you shall have it," said Hay, but the offer was not so
generous a one as would appear. That was Hay all over. He always said
what he did not mean, and knew well that Beecot's uneasy pride shied at
loans however small.
Paul, the unsophisticated, took the shadow of generosity for its
substance, and his dark face lighted up. "You're a brick, Hay," he
declared, "but I don't want money. No!"--this in reply to an eloquent
glance from the well-to-do--"I have sufficient for my needs, and
besides," with a look at the resplendent dress of the fashion-plate
dandy, "I don't glitter in the West End."
"Which hints that those who do, are rich," said Grexon, with an arctic
smile. "Wrong, Beecot. I'm poor. Only paupers can afford to dress well."
"In that case I must be a millionaire," laughed Beecot, glancing
downward at his well-worn garb. "But mount these stairs; we have much to
say to one another."
"Much that is pleasant," said the courtly Grexon.
Paul shrugged his square shoulders and stepped heavenward. "On your
part, I hope," he sang back; "certainly not on mine. Come to Poverty
Castle," and the fashionable visitor found his host lighting the fire in
an apartment such as he had read about but had never seen.
It was quite the proper garret for starving genius--small, bleak, bare,
but scrupulously clean. The floor was partially covered with scraps of
old carpet, faded and worn; the walls were entirely papered with
pictures from illustrated journals. One window, revealing endless rows
of dingy chimney-pots, was draped with shabby rep curtains of a dull
red. In one corner, behind an Indian screen, stood a narrow camp
bedstead, covered with a gaudy Eastern shawl, and also a large tin bath,
with a can of water beside it. Against the wall leaned a clumsy deal
bookcase filled with volumes well-thumbed and in old bindings. On one
side of the tiny fireplace was a horse-hair sofa, rendered less slippery
by an expensive fur rug thrown over its bareness; on the other was a
cupboard, whence Beecot rapidly produced crockery, knives, forks, a
cruet, napkins and other table accessories, all of the cheapest
description. A deal table in the centre of the room, an antique mahogany
desk, heaped high with papers, under the window, completed the
furnishing of Poverty Castle. And it was up four flights of stairs like
that celebrated attic in Thackeray's poem.
"As near heaven as I am likely to get," rattled on Beecot, deftly frying
the sausages, after placing his visitor on the sofa. "The grub will soon
be ready. I'm a first-class cook, bless you, old chap. Housemaid too.
Clean, eh?" He waved the fork proudly round the ill-furnished room. "I'd
dismiss myself if it wasn't."
"But--but," stammered Hay, much amazed, and surveying things through an
eye-glass. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to get my foot on the first rung of Fame's ladder."
"But I don't quite see--"
"Read Balzac's life and you will. His people gave him an attic and a
starvation allowance in the hope of disgusting him. Bar the allowance,
my pater has done the same. Here's the attic, and here's my
starvation"--Paul gaily popped the frizzling sausages on a chipped hot
plate--"and here's your aspiring servant hoping to be novelist,
dramatist, and what not--to say nothing of why not? Mustard, there you
are. Wait a bit. I'll brew you tea or cocoa."
"I never take those things with meals, Beecot."
"Your kit assures me of that. Champagne's more in your line. I say,
Grexon, what are you doing now?"
"What other West-End men do," said Grexon, attacking a sausage.
"That means nothing. Well, you never did work at Torrington, so how can
I expect the leopard to change his saucy spots."
Hay laughed, and, during the meal, explained his position. "On leaving
school I was adopted by a rich uncle," he said. "When he went the way of
all flesh he left me a thousand a year, which is enough to live on with
strict economy. I have rooms in Alexander Street, Camden Hill, a circle
of friends, and a good appetite, as you will perceive. With these I get
through life very comfortably."
"Ha!" said Paul, darting a keen glance at his visitor, "you have the
strong digestion necessary to happiness. Have you the hard heart also?
If I remember at school--"
"Oh, hang school!" said Grexon, flushing all over his cold face. "I
never think of school. I was glad when I got away from it. But we were
great friends at school, Paul."
"Something after the style of Steerforth and David Copperfield," was
Paul's reply as he pushed back his plate; "you were my hero, and I was
your slave. But the other boys--" He looked again.
"They hated me, because they did not understand me, as you did."
"If that is so, Grexon, why did you let me slip out of your life? It is
ten years since we parted. I was fifteen and you twenty."
"Which now makes us twenty-five and thirty respectively," said Hay,
dryly; "you left school before I did."
"Yes; I had scarlet fever, and was taken home to be nursed. I never went
back, and since then I have never met an old Torrington boy--"
"Have you not?" asked Hay, eagerly.
"No. My parents took me abroad, and I sampled a German university. I
returned to idle about my father's place, till I grew sick of doing
nothing, and, having ambitions, I came to try my luck in town." He
looked round and laughed. "You see my luck."
"Well," said Hay, lighting a dainty cigarette produced from a gold case,
"my uncle, who died, sent me to Oxford and then I travelled. I am now on
my own, as I told you, and haven't a relative in the world."
"Why don't you marry?" asked Paul, with a flush.
Hay, wary man-about-town as he was, noted the flush, and guessed its
cause. He could put two and two together as well as most people.
"I might ask you the same question," said he.
The two friends looked at one another, and each thought of the
difference in his companion since the old school-days. Hay was
clean-shaven, fair-haired, and calm, almost icy, in manner. His eyes
were blue and cold. No one could tell what was passing in his mind from
the expression of his face. As a matter of fact he usually wore a mask,
but at the present moment, better feelings having the upper hand, the
mask had slipped a trifle. But as a rule he kept command of expression,
and words, and actions. An admirable example of self-control was Grexon
Hay.
On the other hand, Beecot was slight, tall and dark, with an eager
manner and a face which revealed his thoughts. His complexion was swart;
he had large black eyes, a sensitive mouth, and a small moustache
smartly twisted upward. He carried his head well, and looked rather
military in appearance, probably because many of his forebears had been
Army men. While Hay was smartly dressed in a Bond Street kit, Paul wore
a well-cut, shabby blue serge. He looked perfectly well-bred, but his
clothes were woefully threadbare.
From these and the garret and the lean meal of sausages Hay drew his
conclusions and put them into words.
"Your father has cut you off," said he, calmly, "and yet you propose to
marry."
"How do you know both things?"
"I keep my eyes open, Paul. I see this attic and your clothes. I saw
also the flush on your face when you asked me why I did not marry. You
are in love?"
"I am," said Beecot, becoming scarlet, and throwing back his head. "It
is clever of you to guess it. Prophesy more."
Hay smiled in a cold way. "I prophesy that if you marry on nothing you
will be miserable. But of course," he looked sharply at his open-faced
friend, "the lady may be rich."
"She is the daughter of a second-hand bookseller called Norman, and I
believe he combines selling books with pawnbroking."
"Hum," said Hay, "he might make money out of the last occupation. Is he
a Jew by any chance?"
"No. He is a miserable-looking, one-eyed Christian, with the manner of a
frightened rabbit."
"One-eyed and frightened," repeated Hay, musingly, but without change of
expression; "desirable father-in-law. And the daughter?"
"Sylvia. She is an angel, a white lily, a--"
"Of course," said Grexon, cutting short these rhapsodies. "And what do
you intend to marry on?"
Beecot fished a shabby blue velvet case out of his pocket. "On my last
five pounds and this," he said, opening the case.
Hay looked at the contents of the case, and saw a rather large brooch
made in the form of a jewelled serpent. "Opals, diamonds and gold," he
said slowly, then looked up eagerly. "Sell it to me."
CHAPTER II
DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA
Number forty-five Gwynne Street was a second-hand bookshop, and much of
the stock was almost as old as the building itself. A weather-stained
board of faded blue bore in tarnished gold lettering the name of its
owner, and under this were two broad windows divided by a squat door,
open on week-days from eight in the morning until eight at night. Within
the shop was dark and had a musty odor.
On either side of the quaint old house was a butcher's and a baker's,
flaunting places of business, raw in their newness. Between the
first-named establishment and the bookshop a low, narrow passage led to
a small backyard and to a flight of slimy steps, down which clients who
did not wish to be seen could arrive at a kind of cellar to transact
business with Mr. Norman.
This individual combined two distinct trades. On the ground floor he
sold second-hand books; in the cellar he bought jewels and gave money on
the same to needy people. In the shop, pale youths, untidy, abstracted
old men, spectacled girls, and all varieties of the pundit caste were to
be seen poring over ancient volumes or exchanging words with the
proprietor. But to the cellar came fast young men, aged spendthrifts,
women of no reputation and some who were very respectable indeed. These
usually came at night, and in the cellar transactions would take place
which involved much money exchanging hands. In the daytime Mr. Norman
was an innocent bookseller, but after seven he retired to the cellar and
became as genuine a pawnbroker as could be found in London. Touching
books he was easy enough to deal with, but a Shylock as regards jewels
and money lent. With his bookish clients he passed for a dull shopkeeper
who knew little about literature; but in the underground establishment
he was spoken of, by those who came to pawn, as a usurer of the worst.
In an underhand way he did a deal of business.
Aaron Norman--such was the name over the shop--looked like a man with a
past--a miserable past, for in his one melancholy eye and twitching,
nervous mouth could be read sorrow and apprehension. His face was pale,
and he had an odd habit of glancing over his left shoulder, as though he
expected to be tapped thereon by a police officer. Sixty years had
rounded his shoulders and weakened his back, so that his one eye was
almost constantly on the ground. Suffering had scored marks on his
forehead and weary lines round his thin-lipped mouth. When he spoke he
did so in a low, hesitating voice, and when he looked up, which was
seldom, his eye revealed a hunted look like that of a wearied beast
fearful lest it should be dragged from its lair.
It was this strange-looking man that Paul Beecot encountered in the
doorway of the Gwynne Street shop the day after his meeting with Hay.
Many a visit had Paul paid to that shop, and not always to buy books.
Norman knew him very well, and, recognizing him in a fleeting look as he
passed through the doorway, smiled weakly. Behind the counter stood Bart
Tawsey, the lean underling, who was much sharper with buyers than was
his master, but after a disappointed glance in his direction Paul
addressed himself to the bookseller. "I wish to see you particularly,"
he said, with his eager air.
"I am going out on important business," said Norman, "but if you will
not be very long--"
"It's about a brooch I wish to pawn."
The old man's mouth became hard and his eyes sharper. "I can't attend to
that now, Mr. Beecot," he said, and his voice rang out louder than
usual. "After seven."
"It's only six now," said Paul, looking over his shoulder at a church
clock which could be seen clearly in the pale summer twilight. "I can't
wait."
"Well, then, as you are an old customer--of books," said Aaron, with
emphasis, "I'll stretch a point. You can go below at a quarter to seven,
and I'll come round through the outside passage to see you. Meantime, I
must go about my business," and he went away with his head hanging and
his solitary eye searching the ground as usual.
Paul, in spite of his supposed hurry, was not ill-pleased that Aaron had
gone out and that there was an idle hour before him. He stepped lightly
into the shop, and, under the flaring gas--which was lighted, so dark
was the interior of the shop in spite of the luminous gloaming--he
encountered the smile of Barty. Paul, who was sensitive and proudly
reticent, grew red. He knew well enough that his apparent admiration of
Sylvia Norman had attracted the notice of Bart and of the red-armed
wench, Deborah Junk, who was the factotum of the household. Not that he
minded, for both these servants were devoted to Sylvia, and knowing that
she returned the feelings of Paul said nothing about the position to
Aaron. Beecot could not afford to make enemies of the pair, and had no
wish to do so. They were coarse-grained and common, but loyal and kindly
of heart.
"Got any new books, Bart?" asked Beecot, coming forward with roving
eyes, for he hoped to see Sylvia glide out of the darkness to bless his
hungry eyes.
"No, sir. We never get new books," replied Bart, smartly. "Leastways
there's a batch of second-hand novels published last year. But bless
you, Mr. Beecot, there ain't nothing new about them 'cept the bindings."
"You are severe, Bart. I hope to be a novelist myself."
"We need one, sir. For the most part them as write now ain't novelists,
if that means telling anything as is new. But I must go upstairs, sir.
Miss Sylvia said I was to tell her when you came."
"Oh, yes--er--er--that is--she wants to see a photograph of my old home.
I promised to show it to her." Paul took a parcel out of his pocket.
"Can't I go up?"
"No, sir. 'Twouldn't be wise. The old man may come back, and if he knew
as you'd been in his house," Bart jerked his head towards the ceiling,
"he'd take a fit."
"Why? He doesn't think I'm after the silver?"
"Lor' bless you no, sir. It ain't that. What's valuable--silver and gold
and jewels and such like--is down there." Bart nodded towards the floor.
"But Mr. Norman don't like people coming into his private rooms. He's
never let in anyone for years."
"Perhaps he fears to lose the fairest jewel he has."
Bart was what the Scotch call "quick in the uptake." "He don't think so
much of her as he ought to, sir," said he, gloomily. "But I know he
loves her, and wants to make her a great heiress. When he goes to the
worms Miss Sylvia will have a pretty penny. I only hope," added Bart,
looking slyly at Paul, "that he who has her to wife won't squander what
the old man has worked for."
Beecot colored still more at this direct hint, and would have replied,
but at this moment a large, red-faced, ponderous woman dashed into the
shop from a side door. "There," said she, clapping her hands in a
childish way, "I know'd his vice, an' I ses to Miss Sylvia, as is
sittin' doing needlework, which she do do lovely, I ses 'That's him,'
and she ses, with a lovely color, 'Oh, Deborah, jus' see, fur m'eart's
abeating too loud for me t'ear 'is vice.' So I ses--"
Here she became breathless and clapped her hands again, so as to prevent
interruption. But Paul did interrupt her, knowing from experience that
when once set going Deborah would go on until pulled up. "Can't I go up
to Miss Norman?" he asked.
"You may murder me, and slay me, and trample on my corp," said Deborah,
solemnly, "but go up you can't. Master would send me to walk the streets
if I dared to let you, innocent as you are, go up them stairs."
Paul knew long ago how prejudiced the old man was in this respect.
During all the six months he had known Sylvia he had never been
permitted to mount the stairs in question. It was strange that Aaron
should be so particular on this point, but connecting it with his
downcast eye and frightened air, Paul concluded, though without much
reason, that the old man had something to conceal. More, that he was
frightened of someone. However, he did not argue the point, but
suggested a meeting-place. "Can't I see her in the cellar?" he asked.
"Mr. Norman said I could go down to wait for him."
"Sir," said Deborah, plunging forward a step, like a stumbling 'bus
horse, "don't tell me as you want to pawn."
"Well, I do," replied Paul, softly, "but you needn't tell everyone."
"It's only Bart," cried Deborah, casting a fierce look in the direction
of the slim, sharp-faced young man, "and if he was to talk I'd take his
tongue out. That I would. I'm a-training him to be my husband, as I
don't hold with the ready-made article, and married he shall be, by
parsing and clark if he's a good boy and don't talk of what don't matter
to him."
"I ain't goin' to chatter," said Bart, with a wink. "Lor' bless you,
sir, I've seen gentlemen as noble as yourself pawning things down
there"--he nodded again towards the floor--"ah, and ladies too, but--"
"Hold your tongue," cried Deborah, pitching herself across the floor
like a ship in distress. "Your a-talking now of what you ain't a right
to be a-talkin' of, drat you. Come this way, Mr. Beecot, to the place
where old Nick have his home, for that he is when seven strikes."
"You shouldn't speak of your master in that way," protested Paul.
"Oh, shouldn't I," snorted the maid, with a snort surprisingly loud.
"And who have a better right, sir? I've been here twenty year as servant
and nuss and friend and 'umble well-wisher to Miss Sylvia, coming a slip
of a girl at ten, which makes me thirty, I don't deny; not that it's too
old to marry Bart, though he's but twenty, and makes up in wickedness
for twice that age. I know master, and when the sun's up there ain't a
better man living, but turn on the gas and he's an old Nick. Bart,
attend to your business and don't open them long ears of yours too wide.
I won't have a listening husband, I can tell you. This way, sir. Mind
the steps."
By this time Deborah had convoyed Paul to a dark corner behind the
counter and jerked back a trap door. Here he saw a flight of wooden
steps which led downwards into darkness. But Miss Junk snatched up a
lantern on the top step, and having lighted it dropped down, holding it
above her red and touzelled head. Far below her voice was heard crying
to Beecot to "Come on"; therefore he followed as quickly as he could,
and soon found himself in the cellar. All around was dark, but Deborah
lighted a couple of flaring gas-jets, and then turned, with her arms
akimbo, on the visitor.
"Now then, sir, you and me must have a talk, confidential like," said
she in her breathless way. "It's pawning is it? By which I knows that
you ain't brought that overbearing pa of yours to his knees."
Paul sat down in a clumsy mahogany chair, which stood near a plain deal
table, and stared at the handmaiden. "I never told you about my father,"
he said, exhibiting surprise.
"Oh, no, of course not"--Miss Junk tossed her head--"me being a babe an'
a suckling, not fit to be told anything. But you told Miss Sylvia and
she told me, as she tells everything to her Debby, God bless her for a
pretty flower!" She pointed a coarse, red finger at Paul. "If you were a
gay deceiver, Mr. Beecot, I'd trample on your corp this very minute if I
was to die at Old Bailey for the doing of it."
Seeing Deborah was breathless again, Paul seized his chance. "There is
no reason you shouldn't know all about me, and--"
"No, indeed, I should think not, begging your pardon, sir. But when you
comes here six months back, I ses to Miss Sylvia, I ses, 'He's making
eyes at you, my lily,' and she ses to me, she says, 'Oh, Debby, I love
him, that I do.' And then I ses, ses I, 'My pretty, he looks a gent born
and bred, but that's the wust kind, so we'll find out if he's a liar
before you loses your dear heart to him.'"
"But I'm not a liar--" began Paul, only to be cut short again.
"As well I knows," burst out Miss Junk, her arms akimbo again. "Do you
think, sir, as I'd ha' let you come loving my pretty one and me not
knowing if you was Judas or Jezebel? Not me, if I never drank my nightly
drop of beer again. What you told Miss Sylvia of your frantic pa and
your loving ma she told me. Pumping _you_ may call it," shouted Deborah,
emphasising again with the red finger, "but everything you told in your
lover way she told her old silly Debby. I ses to Bart, if you loves me,
Bart, go down to Wargrove, wherever it may be--if in England, which I
doubt--and if he--meaning you--don't tell the truth, out he goes if I
have the chucking of him myself and a police-court summings over it. So
Bart goes to Wargrove, and he find out that you speaks true, which means
that you're a gent, sir, if ever there was one, in spite of your frantic
pa, so I hopes as you'll marry my flower, and make her happy--bless
you," and Deborah spread a large pair of mottled arms over Paul's head.
"It's all true," said he, good-naturedly; "my father and I don't get on
well together, and I came to make a name in London. But for all you
know, Deborah, I may be a scamp."
"That you are not," she burst out. "Why, Bart's been follerin' you
everywhere, and he and me, which is to be his lawful wife and master,
knows all about you and that there place in Bloomsbury, and where you go
and where you don't go. And let me tell you, sir," again she lifted her
finger threateningly, "if you wasn't what you oughter be, never would
you see my pretty one again. No, not if I had to wash the floor in your
blue blood--for blue it is, if what Bart learned was true of them stone
figgers in the church," and she gasped.
Paul was silent for a few minutes, looking at the floor. He wondered
that he had not guessed all this. Often it had seemed strange to him
that so faithful and devoted a couple of retainers as Bart and Deborah
Junk should favor his wooing of Sylvia and keep it from their master,
seeing that they knew nothing about him. But from the woman's
story--which he saw no reason to disbelieve--the two had not rested
until they had been convinced of his respectability and of the truth of
his story. Thus they had permitted the wooing to continue, and Paul
privately applauded them for their tact in so making sure of him without
committing themselves to open speech. "All the same," he said aloud, and
following his own thoughts, "it's strange that you should wish her to
marry me."
Miss Junk made a queer answer. "I'm glad enough to see her marry anyone
respectable, let alone a gent, as you truly are, with stone figgers in
churches and a handsome face, though rather dark for my liking. Mr.
Beecot, twenty year ago, a slip of ten, I come to nuss the baby as was
my loving angel upstairs, and her ma had just passed away to jine them
as lives overhead playing harps. All these years I've never heard a
young step on them stairs, save Miss Sylvia's and Bart's, him having
come five years ago, and a brat he was. And would you believe it, Mr.
Beecot, I know no more of the old man than you do. He's queer, and he's
wrong altogether, and that frightened of being alone in the dark as you
could make him a corp with a turnip lantern."
"What is he afraid of?"
"Ah," said Deborah, significantly, "what indeed? It may be police and it
may be ghosts, but, ghosts or police, he never ses what he oughter say
if he's a respectable man, which I sadly fear he ain't."
"He may have his reasons to--"
Miss Junk tossed her head and snorted again loudly. "Oh, yes--he has his
reasons," she admitted, "and Old Bailey ones they are, I dessay. But
there's somethin' 'anging over his head. Don't ask me what it is, fur
never shall you know, by reason of my being ignorant. But whatever it
is, Mr. Beecot, it's something wicked, and shall I see my own pretty in
trouble?"
"How do you know there will be trouble?" interrupted Paul, anxiously.
"I've heard him pray," said Miss Junk, mysteriously--"yes, you may look,
for there ain't no prayer in the crafty eye of him--but pray he do, and
asks to be kept from danger--"
"Danger?"
"Danger's the word, for I won't deceive you, no, not if you paid me
better wages than the old man do give and he's as near as the paring of
an inion. So I ses to Bart, if there's danger and trouble and Old
Baileys about, the sooner Miss Sylvia have some dear man to give her a
decent name and pertect her the more happy old Deborah will be. So I
looked and looked for what you might call a fairy prince as I've heard
tell of in pantomimes, and when you comes she loses her heart to you. So
I ses, find out, Bart, what he is, and--"
"Yes, yes, I see. Well, Deborah, you can depend upon my looking after
your pretty mistress. If I were only reconciled with my father I would
speak to Mr. Norman."
"Don't, sir--don't!" cried the woman, fiercely, and making a clutch at
Paul's arm; "he'll turn you out, he will, not being anxious fur anyone
to have my flower, though love her as he oughter do, he don't, no,"
cried Deborah, "nor her ma before her, who died with a starvin' 'eart.
But you run away with my sweetest and make her your own, though her pa
swears thunderbolts as you may say. Take her from this place of
wickedness and police-courts." And Deborah looked round the cellar with
a shudder. Suddenly she started and held up her finger, nodding towards
a narrow door at the side of the cellar. "Master's footstep," she said
in a harsh whisper. "I'd know it in a thousand--just like a thief's,
ain't it?--stealing as you might say. Don't tell him you've seen me."
"But Sylvia," cried Paul, catching her dress as she passed him.
"Her you'll see, if I die for it," said Deborah, and whirled up the
wooden steps in a silent manner surprising in so noisy a woman. Paul
heard the trap-door drop with a stealthy creak.
As a key grated in the lock of the outside door he glanced round the
place to which he had penetrated for the first time. It was of the same
size as the shop overhead, but the walls were of stone, green with slime
and feathery with a kind of ghastly white fungus. Overhead, from the
wooden roof, which formed the floor of the shop, hung innumerable
spider's webs thick with dust. The floor was of large flags cracked in
many places, and between the chinks in moist corners sprouted sparse,
colorless grass. In the centre was a deal table, scored with queer marks
and splotched with ink. Over this flared two gas-jets, which whistled
shrilly. Against the wall, which was below the street, were three green
painted safes fast locked: but the opposite wall had in it the narrow
door aforesaid, and a wide grated window, the bars of which were rusty,
though strong. The atmosphere of the place was cold and musty and
suggestive of a charnel house. Certainly a strange place in which to
transact business, but everything about Aaron Norman was strange.
And he looked strange himself as he stepped in at the open door. Beyond,
Paul could see the shallow flight of damp steps leading to the yard and
the passage which gave admission from the street. Norman locked the door
and came forward. He was as white as a sheet, and his face was thickly
beaded with perspiration. His mouth twitched more than usual, and his
hands moved nervously. Twice as he advanced towards Paul, who rose to
receive him, did he cast the odd look over his shoulder. Beecot
fancifully saw in him a man who had committed some crime and was fearful
lest it should be discovered, or lest the avenger should suddenly
appear. Deborah's confidential talk had not been without its effects on
the young man, and Paul beheld in Aaron a being of mystery. How such a
man came to have such a daughter as Sylvia, Paul could not guess.
"Here you are, Mr. Beecot," said Aaron, rubbing his hands as though the
cold of the cellar struck to his bones. "Well?"
"I want to pawn a brooch," said Beecot, slipping his hand into his
breast pocket.
"Wait," said Norman, throwing up his lean hand. "Let me tell you that I
have taken a fancy to you, and I have watched you all the many times you
have been here. Didn't you guess?"
"No," said Paul, wondering if he was about to speak of Sylvia, and
concluding that he guessed what was in the wind.
"Well then, I have," said the pawnbroker, "and I think it's a pity a
young man should pawn anything. Have you no money?" he asked.
Paul reddened. "Very little," he said.
"Little as it may be, live on that and don't pawn," said Aaron. "I speak
against my own interests, but I like you, and perhaps I can lend you a
few shillings."
"I take money from no one, thank you all the same," said Beecot,
throwing back his head, "but if you can lend me something on this
brooch," and he pulled out the case from his pocket. "A friend of mine
would have bought it, but as it belongs to my mother I prefer to pawn it
so that I may get it again when I am rich."
"Well, well," said Aaron, abruptly, and resuming his downcast looks, "I
shall do what I can. Let me see it."
He stretched out his hand and took the case. Slowly opening it under the
gas, he inspected its contents. Suddenly he gave a cry of alarm, and the
case fell to the floor. "The Opal Serpent!--The Opal Serpent!" he cried,
growing purple in the face, "keep off!--keep off!" He beat the air with
his lean hands. "Oh--the Opal!" and he fell face downward on the slimy
floor in a fit or a faint, but certainly unconscious.
CHAPTER III
DULCINEA OF GWYNNE STREET
Near the Temple Station of the Metropolitan Railway is a small garden
which contains a certain number of fairly-sized trees, a round
band-stand, and a few flower-beds intersected by asphalt paths. Here
those who are engaged in various offices round about come to enjoy _rus
in urbes_, to listen to the gay music, and, in many cases, to eat a
scanty mid-day meal. Old women come to sun themselves, loafers sit on
the seats to rest, workmen smoke and children play. On a bright day the
place is pretty, and those who frequent it feel as though they were
enjoying a country holiday though but a stone's throw from the Thames.
And lovers meet here also, so it was quite in keeping that Paul Beecot
should wait by the bronze statues of the Herculaneum wrestlers for the
coming of Sylvia.
On the previous day he had departed hastily, after committing the old
man to Deborah's care. At first he had lingered to see Aaron revive, but
when the unconscious man came to his senses and opened his eyes he
fainted again when his gaze fell on Paul. Deborah, therefore, in her
rough, practical way, suggested that as Beecot was "upsetting him" he
had better go. It was in a state of perplexity that Paul had gone away,
but he was cheered on his homeward way by a hasty assurance given by
Miss Junk that Sylvia would meet him in the gardens, "near them niggers
without clothes," said Deborah.
It was strange that the sight of the brooch should have produced such an
effect on Aaron, and his fainting confirmed Paul's suspicions that the
old man had not a clean conscience. But what the serpent brooch had to
do with the matter Beecot could not conjecture. It was certainly an odd
piece of jewellery, and not particularly pretty, but that the merest
glimpse of it should make Norman faint was puzzling in the extreme.
"Apparently it is associated with something disagreeable in the man's
mind," soliloquised Paul, pacing the pavement and keeping a sharp
look-out for Sylvia, "perhaps with death, else the effect would scarcely
have been so powerful as to produce a fainting fit. Yet Aaron can't know
my mother. Hum! I wonder what it means."
While he was trying to solve the mystery a light touch on his arm made
him wheel round, and he beheld Sylvia smiling at him. While he was
looking along the Embankment for her coming she had slipped down Norfolk
Street and through the gardens, to where the wrestlers clutched at empty
air. In her low voice, which was the sweetest of all sounds to Paul, she
explained this, looking into his dark eyes meanwhile. "But I can't stay
long," finished Sylvia. "My father is still ill, and he wants me to
return and nurse him."
"Has he explained why he fainted?" asked Paul, anxiously.
"No; he refuses to speak on the matter. Why did he faint, Paul?"
The young man looked puzzled. "Upon my word I don't know," he said.
"Just as I was showing him a brooch I wished to pawn he went off."
"What kind of a brooch?" asked the girl, also perplexed.
Paul took the case out of his breast pocket, where it had been since the
previous day. "My mother sent it to me," he explained; "you see she
guesses that I am hard up, and, thanks to my father, she can't send me
money. This piece of jewellery she has had for many years, but as it is
rather old-fashioned she never wears it. So she sent it to me, hoping
that I might get ten pounds or so on it. A friend of mine wished to buy
it, but I was anxious to get it back again, so that I might return it to
my mother. Therefore I thought your father might lend me money on it."
Sylvia examined the brooch with great attention. It was evidently of
Indian workmanship, delicately chased, and thickly set with jewels. The
serpent, which was apparently wriggling across the stout gold pin of the
brooch, had its broad back studded with opals, large in the centre of
the body and small at head and tail. These were set round with tiny
diamonds, and the head was of chased gold with a ruby tongue. Sylvia
admired the workmanship and the jewels, and turned the brooch over. On
the flat smooth gold underneath she found the initial "R" scratched with
a pin. This she showed to Paul. "I expect your mother made this mark to
identify the brooch," she said.
"My mother's name is Anne," replied Paul, looking more puzzled than
ever, "Anne Beecot. Why should she mark this with an initial which has
nothing to do with her name?"
"Perhaps it is a present," suggested Sylvia.
Paul snapped the case to, and replaced it in his pocket. "Perhaps it
is," he said. "However, when I next write to my mother I'll ask her
where she got the brooch. She has had it for many years," he added
musingly, "for I remember playing with it when a small boy."
"Don't tell your mother that my father fainted."
"Why not? Does it matter?"
Sylvia folded her slender hands and looked straight in front of her.
For some time they had been seated on a bench in a retired part of the
gardens, and the laughter of playing children, the music of the band
playing the merriest airs from the last musical comedy, came faintly to
their ears. "I think it does matter," said the girl, seriously; "for
some reason my father wants to keep himself as quiet as possible. He
talks of going away."
"Going away. Oh, Sylvia, and you never told me."
"He only spoke of going away when I came to see how he was this
morning," she replied. "I wonder if his fainting has anything to do with
this determination. He never talked of going away before."
Paul wondered also. It seemed strange that after so unusual an event the
old man should turn restless and wish to leave a place where he had
lived for over twenty years. "I'll come and have an explanation," said
Paul, after a pause.
"I think that will be best, dear. Father said that he would like to see
you again, and told Bart to bring you in if he saw you."
"I'll call to-day--this afternoon, and perhaps your father will explain.
And now, Sylvia, that is enough about other people and other things. Let
us talk of ourselves."
Sylvia turned her face with a fond smile. She was a delicate and dainty
little lady, with large grey eyes and soft brown hair. Her complexion
was transparent, and she had little color in her cheeks. With her oval
face, her thin nose and charming mouth she looked very pretty and sweet.
But it was her expression that Paul loved. That was a trifle sad, but
when she smiled her looks changed as an overcast sky changes when the
sun bursts through the clouds. Her figure was perfect, her hands and
feet showed marks of breeding, and although her grey dress was as
demure as any worn by a Quakeress, she looked bright and merry in the
sunshine of her lover's presence. Everything about Sylvia was dainty and
neat and exquisitely clean: but she was hopelessly out of the fashion.
It was this odd independence in her dress which constituted another
charm in Paul's eyes.
The place was too public to indulge in love-making, and it was very
tantalising to sit near this vision of beauty without gaining the
delight of a kiss. Paul feasted his eyes, and held Sylvia's grey-gloved
hand under cover of her dress. Further he could not go.
"But if you put up your sunshade," he suggested artfully.
"Paul!" That was all Sylvia said, but it suggested a whole volume of
rebuke. Brought up in seclusion, like the princess in an enchanted
castle, the girl was exceedingly shy. Paul's ardent looks and eager
wooing startled her at times, and he thought disconsolately that his
chivalrous love-making was coarse and common when he gazed on the
delicate, dainty, shrinking maid he adored.
"You should not have stepped out of your missal, Sylvia," he said sadly.
"Whatever do you mean, dearest?"
"I mean that you are a saint--an angel--a thing to be adored and
worshipped. You are exactly like one of those lovely creations one sees
in mass-books of the Middle Ages. I fear, Sylvia," Paul sighed, "that
you are too dainty and holy for this work-a-day world."
"What nonsense, Paul! I'm a poor girl without position or friends,
living in a poor street. You are the first person who ever thought me
pretty."
"You are not pretty," said the ardent Beecot, "you are divine--you are
Beatrice--you are Elizabeth of Thuringia--you are everything that is
lovely and adorable."
"And you are a silly boy," replied Sylvia, blushing, but loving this
poetic talk all the same. "Do you want to put me in a glass case when we
marry? If you do, I sha'n't become Mrs. Beecot. I want to see the world
and to enjoy myself."
"Then other men will admire you and I shall grow jealous."
"Can you be jealous--Paul?"
"Horribly! You don't know half my bad qualities. I am poor and needy,
and ambitious and jealous, and--"
"There--there. I won't hear you run yourself down. You are the best boy
in the world."
"Poor world, if I am that," he laughed, and squeezed the little hand.
"Oh, my love, do you really think of me?"
"Always! Always! You know I do. Why, ever since I saw you enter the shop
six months ago I have always loved you. I told Debby, and Debby said
that I could."
"Supposing Debby had said that you couldn't."
"Oh, she would never have said that. Why, Paul, she saw you."
The young man laughed and colored. "Do I carry my character in my face?"
he asked. "Sylvia, don't think too well of me."
"That is impossible," she declared. "You are my fairy prince."
"Well, I certainly have found an enchanted princess sleeping in a
jealously-guarded castle. What would your father say did he know?"
Sylvia looked startled. "I am afraid of my father," she replied,
indirectly. "Yes--he is so strange. Sometimes he seems to love me, and
at other times to hate me. We have nothing in common. I love books and
art, and gaiety and dresses. But father only cares for jewels. He has a
lot down in the cellar. I have never seen them, you know," added Sylvia,
looking at her lover, "nor have Deborah or Bart. But they are there.
Bart and Deborah say so."
"Has your father ever said so?"
"No. He won't speak of his business in the cellar. When the shop is
closed at seven he sends Bart away home and locks Deborah and I in the
house. That is," she explained anxiously, lest Paul should think her
father a tyrant, "he locks the door which leads to the shop. We can walk
over all the house. But there we stop till next morning, when father
unlocks the door at seven and Bart takes down the shutters. We have
lived like that for years. On Sunday evenings, however, father does not
go to the cellar, but takes me to church. He has supper with me
upstairs, and then locks the door at ten."
"But he sleeps upstairs?"
"No. He sleeps in the cellar."
"Impossible. There is no accommodation for sleeping there."
Sylvia explained. "There is another cellar--a smaller one--off the large
place he has the safes in. The door is in a dark corner almost under the
street line. This smaller cellar is fitted up as a bedroom, and my
father has slept there all his life. I suppose he is afraid of his
jewels being stolen. I don't think it is good for his health," added the
girl, wisely, "for often in the morning he looks ill and his hands
shake."
"Sylvia, does your father drink alcohol?"
"Oh, no, Paul! He is a teetotaller, and is very angry at those who drink
to excess. Why, once Bart came to the shop a little drunk, and father
would have discharged him but for Deborah."
Paul said nothing, but thought the more. Often it had struck him that
Norman was a drunkard, though his face showed no signs of indulgence,
for it always preserved its paleness. But the man's hands shook, and his
skin often was drawn and tight, with that shiny look suggestive of
indulgence. "He either drinks or smokes opium," thought Paul on hearing
Sylvia's denial. But he said nothing to her of this.
"I must go home now," she said, rising.
"Oh, no, not yet," he implored.
"Well, then, I'll stay for a few minutes longer, because I have
something to say," she remarked, and sat down again. "Paul, do you think
it is quite honorable for you and I to be engaged without the consent of
my father?"
"Well," hesitated Beecot, "I don't think it is as it should be. Were I
well off I should not fear to tell your father everything; but as I am a
pauper he would forbid my seeing you did he learn that I had raised my
eyes to you. But if you like I'll speak, though it may mean our parting
for ever."
"Paul," she laid a firm, small hand on his arm, "not all the fathers in
the world will keep me from you. Often I have intended to tell all, but
my father is so strange. Sometimes he goes whole days without speaking
to me, and at times he speaks harshly, though I do nothing to deserve
rebuke. I am afraid of my father," said the girl, with a shiver. "I said
so before, and I say so again. He is a strange man, and I don't
understand him at all. I wish I could marry you and go away altogether."
"Well, let us marry if you like, though we will be poor."
"No," said Sylvia, sorrowfully; "after all, strange and harsh though my
father is, he is still my father, and at times he is kind. I must stay
with him to the end."
"What end?"
Sylvia shook her head still more sorrowfully. "Who knows? Paul, my
father is afraid of dying suddenly."
"By violence?" asked Beecot, thinking of Deborah's talk.
"I can't say. But every day after six he goes to church and prays all
alone. Deborah told me, as often she has seen him leave the church. Then
he is afraid of every stranger who enters the shop. I don't understand
it," cried the girl, passionately. "I don't like it. I wish you would
marry me and take me away, Paul; but, oh, how selfish I am!"
"My own, I wish I could. But the money--"
"Oh, never mind the money. I must get away from that house. If it was
not for Deborah I would be still more afraid. I often think my father is
mad. But there," Sylvia rose and shook out her skirts, "I have no right
to talk so, and only do so to you, that you may know what I feel. I'll
speak to my father myself and say we are engaged. If he forbids our
marriage I shall run away with you, Paul," said poor Sylvia, the tears
in her eyes. "I am a bad girl to talk in this way. After all, he is my
father."
Beecot had an ardent desire to take her in his arms and kiss away those
tears, but the publicity of the meeting-place denied him the power to
console her in that efficacious fashion. All he could do was to assure
her of his love, and then they walked out of the gardens towards the
Strand. "I'll speak to your father myself," said Paul; "we must end this
necessary silence. After all, I am a gentleman, and I see no reason why
your father should object."
"I know you are everything that is good and true," said Sylvia, drying
her eyes. "If you were not Debby would not have let me become engaged to
you," she finished childishly.
"Debby made inquiries about me," said Paul, laughing, to cheer her.
"Yes! she sent Bart to Wargrove and found out all about me and my
family and my respected father. She wished to be certain that I was a
proper lover for her darling."
"I am your darling now," whispered Sylvia, squeezing his arm, "and you
are the most charming lover in the world."
Paul was so enchanted with this speech that he would have defied public
opinion by embracing her there and then, but Sylvia walked away rapidly
down Gwynne Street and shook her head with a pursed-up mouth when Paul
took a few steps after her. Recognizing that it would be wise not to
follow her to the shop lest the suspicious old man should be looking
out, Beecot went on his homeward way.
When he drew near his Bloomsbury garret he met Grexon Hay, who was
sauntering along swinging his cane. "I was just looking for you," he
said, greeting Paul in his usual self-contained manner; "it worries me
to think you are so hard-up, though I'm not a fellow given to sentiment
as a rule. Let me lend you a fiver."
Paul shook his head. "Thank you all the same."
"Well, then, sell me the brooch."
Beecot suddenly looked squarely at Hay, who met his gaze calmly. "Do you
know anything of that brooch?" he asked.
"What do you mean? It is a brooch of Indian workmanship. That is all I
know. I want to give a lady a present, and if you will sell it to me
I'll take it, to help you, thus killing two birds at one shot."
"I don't want to sell it," said Paul, looking round. His eyes fell on a
respectable man across the road, who appeared to be a workman, as he had
a bag of tools on his shoulder. He was looking into a shop window, but
also--as Paul suddenly thought--seemed to be observing him and Hay.
However, the incident was not worth noticing, so he continued his
speech to Grexon. "I tried to pawn it with Aaron Norman," he said.
"Well, what did you get on it?" asked Hay, with a yawn.
"Nothing. The old man fainted when I showed him the brooch. That is why
I asked you if you know anything strange about the article."
Hay shook his head, but looked curiously at Beecot. "Do you know
anything yourself?" he asked; "you seem to have something on your mind
about that brooch."
"There is something queer about it," said Paul. "Why should Aaron Norman
faint when he saw it?"
Hay yawned again. "You had better ask your one-eyed friend--I think you
said he was one-eyed."
"He is, and a frightened sort of man. But there's nothing about that
opal serpent to make him faint."
"Perhaps he did so because it is in the shape of a serpent," suggested
Grexon; "a constitutional failing, perhaps. Some people hate cats and
other fluttering birds. Your one-eyed friend may have a loathing of
snakes and can't bear to see the representation of one."
"It might be that," said Beecot, after a pause. "Aaron is a strange sort
of chap. A man with a past, I should say."
"You make me curious," said Grexon, laughing in a bored manner. "I think
I'll go to the shop myself and have a look at him."
"Come with me when I next go," said Paul. "I had intended to call this
afternoon; but I won't, until I hear from my mother."
"What about?"
"I want to learn how she came into possession of the brooch."
"Pooh, nonsense," said Hay, contemptuously, "you think too much about
the thing. Who cares if a pawnbroker faints? Why I wish to go to the
shop, is, because I am anxious to see your lady-love. Well, when you do
want me to go, send for me; you have my address. 'Day, old man," and the
gorgeous being sauntered away, with apparently not a care in the world
to render him anxious.
Paul was anxious, however. The more he thought of the episode of the
brooch the stranger it seemed, and Sylvia's talk of her father's queer
habits did not make Paul wonder the less. However, he resolved to write
to his mother, and was just mounting his stairs to do so when he heard a
"Beg pardon, sir," and beheld the working man, bag of tools, pipe and
all.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, civilly, "but that gentleman you was
a-talking to. Know his name, sir?"
"What the devil's that to you?" asked Paul, angrily.
"Nothing, sir, only he owes me a little bill."
"Go and ask him for it then."
"I don't know his address, sir."
"Oh, be hanged!" Paul went on, when the man spoke again.
"He's what I call a man on the market, sir. Have a care," and he
departed quickly.
Paul stared. What did the working man mean, and was he a working man?
CHAPTER IV
THE UNFORESEEN
Paul did not go near the Gwynne Street shop for the next few days, much
as he wanted to do so. Being deeply in love he could hardly bear to be
away from Sylvia even for a few hours: but in spite of this he remained
away for two reasons. The first of these was that he awaited a reply to
his letter written to Mrs. Beecot, as he wished to be able to tell Aaron
Norman where the brooch had been obtained. He thought by doing this to
ingratiate himself with the old man, and perhaps, if thus confidential,
might learn, for the satisfaction of his curiosity, why the sight of the
brooch had produced such an effect on the pawnbroker.
The other reason was that, not having been able to sell the brooch, or
rather pawn it since he did not wish to lose it altogether, funds were
running low, and now he had but a few shillings left. A call at the
office of a penny weekly had resulted in the return of three stories as
being too long and not the sort required. But the editor, in a hasty
interview, admitted that he liked Paul's work and would give him three
pounds for a tale written on certain lines likely to be popular with the
public. Paul did not care to set forth another person's ideas,
especially as these were old and very sensational; but as he required
money he set to work and labored to produce what would bring him in the
cash. He made several attempts before he reached the editor's level,
which was low rather than high, and succeeded in getting the tale
accepted. With three golden pounds in his pocket and exultation in his
heart--for every success seemed to bring him nearer to Sylvia--Paul
returned to his aerial castle and found waiting for him the expected
letter.
It was written in a low-spirited sort of way, characteristic of Mrs.
Beecot, but with a true motherly heart. After two pages of lamentation
over his absence, and a description of how the head of the household
managed to bear up against the affliction of his son's absence, Mrs.
Beecot proceeded to explain about the brooch.
"Why do you ask me about the opal brooch, my dear boy?" wrote Mrs.
Beecot in her scratchy handwriting. "All I know is that your father
bought it out of a pawnbroker's shop in Stowley, which is some town in
the Midlands. Your father was travelling there and saw the brooch by
chance. As I always thought opals unlucky he was anxious to make me see
the folly of such a superstition, so he bought the brooch and took it
away with him. Afterwards, I believe, he received a letter from the
pawnbroker, saying that his assistant had sold the brooch by mistake,
that the time for redeeming it had not run out when your father bought
it. The pawnbroker asked that the brooch might be returned, and wanted
to pay back the money. But you know what your father is. He refused at
once to give back the brooch, and insisted on my wearing it. I had a bad
fall while wearing it, and then was thrown out of that high dog-cart
your father would insist on driving. I am sure the brooch or the stones
is unlucky, and, as after a time your father forgot all about it, I let
it lie in my jewel-case. For years I had not worn it, and as I think it
is unlucky, and as you need money, my darling boy, I hope you will sell
it. There is no need to pawn it as you say. I never want to see the
brooch again. But regarding your health, etc., etc."
So Mrs. Beecot wrote in her verbose style, and with some errors of
grammar. Paul saw in her simple tale fresh evidence of his father's
tyranny, since he made his wife wear gems she detested and was
superstitiously set against possessing them. The dog-cart episode Paul
remembered very well. Mr. Beecot, in his amiable way, had no patience
with his wife's nerves, and never lost an opportunity of placing her in
unpleasant positions, whereby she might be, what he called, hardened.
Paul sighed to think of his mother's position as he folded up the
letter. She had a bad time with the truculent husband she had married.
"And I can't believe she became his wife of her own free will," thought
Paul; "probably the governor bullied her into it in his own sweet way."
However, there was nothing in the letter to explain Norman's faint. It
was certainly strange that the pawnbroker, from whom the brooch had been
originally purchased, should have demanded it back; and the excuse given
seems rather a weak one. However, Paul did not waste time in thinking
over this, but resolved to tell Aaron what his mother had said.
He had received two letters from Sylvia, mentioning, amongst other
things, that her father, now quite well, was asking after Paul, and
urging him to come and see him. "My father appears to have a fancy for
you," wrote Sylvia, "so if you are very nice--as nice as you can
be--perhaps he won't be very angry if you tell him we are engaged."
There was much more to the same effect, which Paul thought good advice,
and he intended to adopt the same. It was necessary that he should tell
Aaron of his love if things were to be conducted in a straightforward
and honorable manner. And Paul had no desire to conduct them otherwise.
Having made up his mind to see Aaron again, Paul bethought himself of
Grexon Hay. That gentleman had never appeared again at the Bloomsbury
garret, and had never even written. But Paul was anxious that Hay--whom
he regarded as a clever man-of-the-world--should see the old man, and,
as our trans-Atlantic cousins say, "size him up." Norman's manner and
queer life puzzled Paul not a little, and not being very worldly himself
he was anxious to have the advice of his old school friend, who seemed
desirous of doing him a good turn, witness his desire to buy the brooch
so that Paul might be supplied with money. So Beecot wrote to Grexon Hay
at his Camden Hill chamber and told him he intended to go to Gwynne
Street on a certain day at a certain time. To this Grexon responded by
saying that he was at Paul's service and would come especially as he
wanted to see Dulcinea of Gwynne Street.
Paul laughed at the phrase. "I suppose Grexon thinks I am very
Quixotic," he thought, "coming to London to tilt with the windmills of
the Press. But Don Quixote was wise in spite of his apparent madness,
and Grexon will recognize my wisdom when he sees my Dulcinea, bless her!
Humph! I wonder if Hay could pacify my father and make him look more
kindly on my ambitions. Grexon is a clever fellow, a thoroughly good
chap, so--"
Here Paul paused to think. The incident of the working man and the
warning he had given about Hay recurred to his mind. Also the phrase
"Man on the Market" stuck in his memory. Why should Grexon Hay be called
so, and what did the phrase mean? Paul had never heard it before.
Moreover, from certain indications Beecot did not think that the
individual with the bag of tools was a working man. He rather appeared
to be a person got up to play the part. The fellow watching them both
and accosting Paul alone certainly seemed a doubtful character. Beecot
regretted that he had been so short with the man, else he might have
learned why he had acted in this way. The story of the little bill was
absurd, for if Grexon owed the man money the man himself would certainly
have known the name and address of his creditor. Altogether, the
incident puzzled Paul almost as much as that of Aaron's fainting, and he
resolved to question Grexon. But it never crossed his mind that Hay was
anything else but what he appeared to be--a man-about-town with a
sufficient income to live upon comfortably. Had Paul doubted he would
never have asked Grexon to go with him to Gwynne Street. However, he had
done so, and the appointment was made, so there was no more to be said.
The man-about-town duly made his appearance to the very minute. "I
always keep appointments," he explained when Paul congratulated him on
his punctuality; "there's nothing annoys me so much as to be kept
waiting, so I invariably practise what I preach. Well, Paul, and how is
Dulcinea of Gwynne Street?"
"She is very well," replied Paul, who was still a young enough lover to
blush, "but I have not seen her since we last met. I waited for a letter
from my mother about the brooch, so that I might explain to Aaron how
she got it. The old man has been asking after me."
"Oh, confound the brooch!" said Grexon in his cool manner. "I don't want
to hear about it. Let us talk of Dulcinea."
"Rather let us talk of yourself," said Paul.
"Not an interesting subject," replied Hay, rising as Paul opened his
garret door for departure, "you know all about me."
"No! I don't know why you are called a man-on-the-market."
Hay flushed and turned sharply. "What do you mean?" he asked in a
particularly quiet tone.
"I don't know what I _do_ mean," said Paul. "Do you remember that
working man with the bag of tools who was across the road when we last
conversed?"
"No," said Hay, staring, "I never notice creatures of that class. Why?"
"Because he asked me who you were and where you lived. It seems you owe
him some money."
"That is very probable," said Hay, equably. "I owe most people money,
and if this man has a debt against me he would certainly know all about
me as to address and name."
"So I thought," replied Paul, "but the queer thing is that he told me to
take care, and called you a man-on-the-market. What does it mean? I
never heard the phrase before."
"I have," said Hay, proceeding calmly down the somewhat steep stairs; "a
man-on-the-market means one who wants to marry and is eligible for any
heiress who comes along with a sufficient rent-roll. But why should a
fellow like that talk the shibboleth of Society?"
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. Perhaps the man guessed I
intended to take you to see Sylvia, and warned me against you, as it
seems from his phrase that you wish to marry."
"Ah! Then your Dulcinea is an heiress?" said Hay, fixing his eye-glass
carefully; "if so, you needn't fear me. I am almost engaged and won't be
on the market any longer. What confounded cheek this fellow addressing
you in that way and talking of me as he did. I suppose," he added with
a cold laugh, "it is not necessary for me to defend myself."
"What rubbish," replied Beecot, good-naturedly. "All the same, it is
strange the man should have spoken to me as he did. I told him to go to
the devil."
"And go to the devil he assuredly will if I meet him," was the dry
reply. "I'll break his head for not minding his own business. I think I
can explain, and will do so as soon as you take that telegram the lad is
holding out for you."
Grexon was quicker-sighted than Paul, for the moment they arrived at the
bottom of the stairs and were about to emerge into the street he saw the
messenger. "Do you know if any gent of that name lives here, guvnor?"
asked the boy, holding out the buff-colored envelope.
Beecot, to his surprise, saw his own name. "Who can be wiring to me?" he
said, taking the telegram. "Wait, boy, there may be an answer," and he
skimmed through the lines. "Don't sell the brooch, but send it back,"
read Paul, puzzled, "your father angry.--MOTHER." He paused, and looked
at the boy. "Got a form?" he asked.
The lad produced one and a stumpy pencil. With these materials Beecot
wrote a reply saying the brooch would be returned on the morrow. When
the boy went away with the answer Paul felt in his breast pocket and
took out the old blue case. "I've a good mind to send it now," he said
aloud.
"What's that?" asked Hay, who was yawning at the door. "No bad news I
hope?"
"It's about that brooch again."
Hay laughed. "Upon my word it seems to you what the Monster was to
Frankenstein," said he. "Send it back--to Mrs. Beecot, I presume--and
have done with it." He cast a glance at the case. "I see you have it
with you," he ended, lightly.
"Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his pocket went down the
street with his friend. Then he determined to ask his opinion, and
related the gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater wires to
have it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she has
sent it to me, and is furious."
"Well, send it back and have done with it," said Hay, impatiently; "you
are in danger of becoming a bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend you
money if you like."
"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned. However, we'll speak
no more of the brooch. I'll send it back this very day. Tell me," he
linked his arm within that of his friend, "tell me of that man."
"That man--of the working creature," said Hay, absently. "Pooh, the man
was no more a working man than I am."
"Well, I thought myself he was a bit of a fraud."
"Detectives never do make up well," said Grexon, calmly.
Paul stopped as they turned into Oxford Street. "What? Was the man a
detective?"
"I think so, from your description of his conversation. The fact is I'm
in love with a lady who is married. We have behaved quite well, and no
one can say a word against us. But her husband is a beast and wants a
divorce. I have suspected for some time that he is having me
watched. Thanks to you, Paul, I am now sure. So perhaps you will
understand why the man warned you against me and talked of my being a
man-on-the-market."
"I see," said Paul, hesitating; "but don't get into trouble, Hay."
"Oh, I'm all right. And I don't intend to do anything dishonorable, if
that is what you mean. It's the husband's fault, not mine. By the way,
can you describe the fellow?"
"Yes. He had red hair and a red beard--rather a ruddy face, and walked
with a limp."
"All put on," said Hay, contemptuously; "probably the limp was affected,
the beard false, the hair a wig, and the face rouged--very clumsy
indeed. I daresay he'll appear pale and gentlemanly the next time he
watches me. I know the tricks of these fellows."
The two friends talked for some time about this episode, and then
branched off into other subjects. Hay described the married lady he
adored, and Paul rebuked him for entertaining such a passion. "It's not
right, Hay," said he, positively; "you can't respect a woman who runs
away from her husband."
"She hasn't run away yet, Sir Galahad," laughed Grexon. "By Jove, you
are an innocent!"
"If that means respecting the institution of marriage and adoring women
as angels I hope I'll remain an innocent."
"Oh, women are angels, of course," said Hay as they walked down Gwynne
Street; "it's a stock phrase in love-making. But there are angels of two
sorts. Dulcinea is--"
"Here we are," interrupted Paul, quickly. Somehow it irritated him to
hear this hardened sinner speak of Sylvia, and he began to think that
Grexon Hay had deteriorated. Not that he was considered to be
particularly good at Torrington school. In fact, Paul remembered that he
had been thoroughly disliked. However, he had no time to go into the
matter, for at this moment Aaron appeared at the door of the shop. He
stepped out on to the pavement as Paul approached. "Come in," he said,
"I want to see you--privately," he added, casting a frightened look at
Hay.
"In that case I'll leave you," said Grexon, disengaging his arm from
Paul. "Dulcinea must wait for another occasion. Go in and do your
business. I'll wait without."
Paul thanked his friend by a look and went into the shop with the old
man. "That brooch," said Aaron, in a timid whisper, "have you got it?
Give it to me--quick--quick."
There was no one in the shop as Bart had apparently gone out on an
errand. The door leading to the stairs, down which Sylvia had so often
descended, was closed, and no one was about to overhear their
conversation. "I have the brooch," said Paul, "but--"
"Give it to me--give it," panted Aaron. "I'll buy it--at a large price.
Ask what you want."
"Why are you so eager to get it?" demanded Beecot, astonished.
"That's my business," said Norman, in a suddenly imperious manner. "I
want it. The stones take my fancy," he ended weakly.
"Was that why you fainted?" asked Paul, suspiciously.
"No." The man grew white and leaned against the counter, breathing
heavily. "Where did you get the brooch?" he asked, trying to keep
himself calm, but with a visible effort.
"I got it from my mother, and she received it from my father--"
"Beecot--Beecot," said the old man, fingering his lips, much agitated.
"I know no one of that name save yourself, and you are not a spy--a
scoundrel--a--a--" He caught the eyes of Paul fixed on him in amazement,
and suddenly changed his tone. "Excuse me, but the brooch reminds me of
trouble."
"You have seen it before?"
"Yes--that is no--don't ask me." He clutched at his throat as though he
felt choked. "I can't talk of it. I daren't. How did your father get
it?"
More and more astonished, Paul explained. Aaron listened with his one
eye very bright, and made uneasy motions with his lean hands as the
young man spoke. When Beecot ended he bit his nails. "Yes, yes," he
murmured to himself, "it would be asked for back. But it sha'n't go
back. I want it. Sell it to me, Mr. Beecot."
"I'm sorry I can't," replied Paul, good-naturedly. "But my mother wired
that it was to be returned. My father has discovered that she sent it to
me and is not pleased."
"Did you tell your mother you had shown it to me?"
"No. There was no need."
"God bless you!" breathed the man, pulling out a crimson handkerchief.
"Of course there was no need," he tittered nervously. "It doesn't do to
talk of pawning things--not respectable, eh--eh." He wiped his face and
passed his tongue over his white lips. "Well, you won't sell it to me?"
"I can't. But I'll ask my mother if she will."
"No, no! Don't do that--say nothing--say nothing. I don't want the
brooch. I never saw the brooch--what brooch--pooh--pooh, don't talk to
me of the brooch," and so he babbled on.
"Mr. Norman," said Beecot, gravely, "what is the story connected with
the brooch?"
Aaron flung up his hands and backed towards the counter. "No, no. Don't
ask me. What do you mean? I know no story of a brooch--what brooch--I
never saw one--I never--ah"--he broke off in relief as two pale-faced,
spectacled girls entered the shop--"customers. What is it, ladies? How
can I serve you?" And he bustled away behind the counter, giving all his
attention to the customers, yet not without a sidelong look in the
direction of the perplexed Paul.
That young gentleman, finding it impossible to get further speech with
Aaron, and suspecting from his manner that all was not right, left the
shop. He determined to take the brooch to Wargrove himself, and to ask
his mother about it. Then he could learn why she wanted it back--if not
from her, then from his father. This knowledge might explain the
mystery.
"Did you sell the brooch?" asked Grexon as they walked up Gwynne Street.
"No. I have to send it back to my mother, and--"
"Hold on!" cried Hay, stumbling. "Orange-peel--ah--"
His stumble knocked Paul into the middle of the road. A motor car was
coming down swiftly. Before Hay could realize what had taken place Paul
was under the wheels of the machine.
CHAPTER V
TROUBLE
"Oh, Debby," wept Sylvia, "he will die--he will die."
"Not he, my precious pet," said the handmaiden, fondling the girl's soft
hands within her own hard ones. "Them sort of young men have as many
lives as tom cats. Bless you, my flower, he'll be up and ready, waiting
at the altar, before the fashions change--and that's quick enough,"
added Deborah, rubbing her snub nose. "For they're allays an-altering
and a-turning and a-changing of 'em."
The two were in the sitting-room over the bookshop. It was a
low-ceilinged apartment, long and narrow, with windows back and front,
as it extended the whole depth of the house. The back windows looked out
on the dingy little yard, but these Norman had filled in with stained
glass of a dark color, so that no one could see clearly out of them. Why
he had done so was a mystery to Sylvia, though Deborah suspected the old
man did not want anyone to see the many people who came to the back
steps after seven. From the front windows could be seen the street and
the opposite houses, and on the sills of the windows Sylvia cultivated a
few cheap flowers, which were her delight. The room was furnished with
all manner of odds and ends, flotsam and jetsam of innumerable sales
attended by Aaron. There were Japanese screens, Empire sofas, mahogany
chairs, Persian praying mats, Louis Quatorz tables, Arabic tiles,
Worcester china, an antique piano that might have come out of the ark,
and many other things of epochs which had passed away. Sylvia herself
bloomed like a fair flower amidst this wreckage of former times.
But the flower drooped at this moment and seemed in danger of dying for
lack of sunshine. That, indeed, had been taken away by the removal of
the young lover. Bart, who had witnessed the accident, returned hastily
to tell Sylvia, and so great had the shock of the dreadful news been,
that she had fainted, whereupon the foolish shopman had been severely
dealt with by Deborah. When Sylvia recovered, however, she insisted upon
seeing Bart again, and then learned that Paul had been taken to Charing
Cross Hospital.
"They drawed him from under the wheels, miss, as white as a vellum
binding as ain't bin used. That gent as he was a-walking arm-in-arm
with, slipped and knocked Mr. Beecot spinning under the steam engine."
So did Bart describe the latest triumph of civilisation. "He was that
sorry, in a cold-blooded way, as I never saw. He helped to git Mr.
Beecot into a cab and druve off. Then I come to tell you."
"And a nice way you've told it," grunted Deborah, driving him to the
door. "Get back to the shop, you threadpaper of a man. My husband shall
never be such a fool. The engagement's off."
"Oh, Debby!" whimpered Bart, who, strange to say, was fondly attached to
the stout servant. But that may have been habit.
"Get along with you," she said, and banged the door in his face. "And
don't tell master," she bawled after him, "else he'll be fainting again,
drat him for a lily-livered duck!"
So Aaron never knew that the man who possessed the brooch had been run
over by a motor or was in the hospital. Sylvia and Deborah both tried
to look as cheerful as possible, and schemed how to see the lover who
had thus been laid low. Deborah boldly announced that she was taking
Sylvia to buy her a new dress--that is, to choose it, for the cost was
to be paid out of the servant's wages--and went with her one afternoon
to the hospital. They heard that Paul's arm was broken, and that he had
been slightly hurt about the head. But there was no danger of his dying,
and although they were not allowed to see him the two women returned
greatly cheered. But Sylvia frequently gave way to low spirits, thinking
that at any moment the good symptoms might give way to bad ones. Deborah
always cheered her, and went daily to get news. Always she returned to
say, "He's a-goin' on nicely, and has that color as he might be a
sunset." So Sylvia was bright until her next fit of low spirits came.
Meanwhile, their attention was taken up by the odd behavior of Aaron.
The old man suddenly announced that he was about to sell the shop and
retire, and displayed a feverish haste in getting rid of his stock, even
at a low price. Whether he sold the jewels so cheap as the books no one
ever knew; but certainly the pundit caste did well out of the sale.
Within the week the shop below was denuded, and there were nothing but
bare shelves, much to the disgust of Bart, who, like Othello, found his
occupation gone. The next day the furniture was to be sold, and when
Deborah was comforting Sylvia at the week's end the fiat had already
gone forth. Whither he intended to transfer his household the old man
did not say, and this, in particular, was the cause of Sylvia's grief.
She dreaded lest she should see her lover no more. This she said to
Deborah.
"See him you shall, and this very day," cried the maiden, cheerfully.
"Why, there's that dress. I can't make up my mind whether to have
magenter or liliac, both being suited to my complexion. Not that it's
cream of the valley smother in rosebuds as yours is, my angel, but a
dress I must have, and your pa can't deny my taking you to choose."
"But, Debby, it seems wrong to deceive father in this way."
"It do," admitted Debby, "and it is. We'll speak this very night--you
and me in duets, as you might say, my pretty. He sha'n't say as we've
gone to hide behind a hedge."
"But we have, Debby, for six months," said Sylvia.
"Because I'm a hardened and bold creature," said Deborah, fiercely, "so
don't say it's you as held your tongue, for that you didn't, my
honeycomb. Many and many a time have you said to me, ses you, 'Oh, do
tell my par,' and many a time have I said to you, ses I, 'No, my
precious, not for Joseph,' whoever he may be, drat him!"
"Now, Debby, you're taking all the blame on yourself!"
"And who have the broader shoulders, you or me, my flower?" asked Debby,
fondly. "I'm as wicked as Bart, and that's saying much, for the way he
bolts his food is dreadful to think of. Never will I have a corkidile
for a husband. But here," cried Deborah, beginning to bustle, "it's the
dress I'm thinking of. Magenter or lilacs in full boom. What do you
think, my honey-pot?"
So the end of Deborah's shameless diplomacy was, that the two went, not
to the inferior draper's where Debby bought her extraordinary
garments--though they went there later in a Jesuitical manner--but to
the hospital, where to her joy Sylvia was allowed to see Paul. He looked
thin and pale, but was quite himself and very cheerful. "My darling," he
said, kissing Sylvia's hand, while Debby sat bolt upright near the bed,
with a large handbag, and played propriety by glaring. "Now I shall get
well quickly. The sight of you is better than all medicine."
"I should think so," sniffed Debby, graciously. "Where's your orchards,
with sich a color."
"You mean orchids, Debby," laughed Sylvia, who blushed a rosy red.
"It's them things with lady slippers a size too large for your foot I'm
a-thinking of, pet, and small it is enough for glarse boots as the fairy
story do tell. But I'm a-taking up the precious time of billing and
cooing, so I'll shut my mouth and my ears while you let loose your
affections, my sweet ones, if you'll excuse the liberty, sir, me being
as fond of my lovey there as you is your own self."
"No, I can't admit that," said Paul, kissing Sylvia's hand again and
holding it while he talked. "Darling, how good of you to come and see
me."
"It may be for the last time, Paul," said Sylvia, trying to keep back
her tears, "but you'll give me your address, and I'll write."
"Oh, Sylvia, what is it?"
"My father has sold the books and is selling the house. We are going
away. Where to I don't know."
"Tumbucktook would suit him," snapped Debby, suddenly; "he's trying to
get into some rabbit-hole. Why, I don't know."
"I do," said Paul, lying back thoughtfully. He guessed that Aaron was
moving because of the brooch, though why he should do so was a mystery.
"Sylvia," he asked, "did your father see my accident?"
"No, Paul. He was busy in the shop. Bart saw it, but Debby said he
wasn't to tell father."
"Because of the fainting," explained Debby; "the man ain't strong,
though Sampson he may think himself--ah, and Goliath, too, for all I
care. But why ask, Mr. Beecot?"
Paul did not reply to her, but asked Sylvia another question. "Do you
remember that opal brooch I showed you?"
"The serpent. Yes?"
"Well, it's lost."
"Lost, Paul?"
The young man nodded mournfully. "I'm very vexed about it," he said in a
low tone; "my mother wanted it back. I was going to send it that very
day, but when I met with the accident it got lost somehow. It wasn't in
my pocket when my clothes were examined, though I asked for it as soon
as I became conscious. My friend also couldn't tell me."
"Him as caused the smashes," said Deborah, with several sniffs. "A nice
pretty friend, I do say, sir."
"It wasn't his fault, Deborah. Mr. Hay stumbled on a piece of orange
peel and jostled against me. I was taken by surprise, and fell into the
middle of the road just as the motor came along. Mr. Hay was more than
sorry and has come to see me every day with books and fruit and all
manner of things."
"The least he could do," snapped the servant, "knocking folks into
orspitals with his fine gent airs. I sawr him out of the winder while
you was in the shop, and there he spoke law-de-daw to a brat of a boy as
ought to be in gaol, seeing he smoked a cigar stump an' him but a
ten-year-old guttersnipe. Ses I, oh, a painted maypole you is, I ses,
with a face as hard as bath bricks. A bad un you are, ses I."
"No, Deborah, you are wrong. Mr. Hay is my friend."
"Never shall he be my pretty's friend," declared Debby, obstinately,
"for if all the wickedness in him 'ud come out in his face, pimples
would be as thick as smuts in a London fog. No, Mr. Beecot, call him not
what you do call him, meaning friend, for Judas and Julius Cezar ain't
in it with his Belzebubness."
Beecot saw it was vain to stop this chatterer, so he turned to talk in
whispers to Sylvia, while Debby murmured on like a brook, only she
spoke loud enough at times to drown the whispering of the lovers.
"Sylvia," said Paul, softly, "I want you to send your father to me."
"Yes, Paul. Why do you wish to see him?"
"Because he must be told of our love. I don't think he will be so hard
as you think, and I am ashamed of not having told him before. I like to
act honorably, and I fear, Sylvia darling, we have not been quite fair
to your father."
"I think so, too, Paul, and I intended to speak when we went home. But
give me your address, so that if we go away unexpectedly I'll be able to
write to you."
Beecot gave her his Bloomsbury address, and also that of his old home at
Wargrove in Essex. "Write care of my mother," he said, "and then my
father won't get the letter."
"Would he be angry if he knew?" asked the girl, timidly.
Paul laughed to himself at the thought of the turkey-cock's rage. "I
think he would, dearest," said he, "but that does not matter. Be true to
me and I'll be true to you."
Here the nurse came to turn the visitors away on the plea that Paul had
talked quite enough. Debby flared up, but became meek when Sylvia lifted
a reproving finger. Then Paul asked Debby to seek his Bloomsbury
lodgings and bring to him any letters that might be waiting for him. "I
expect to hear from my mother, and must write and tell her of my
accident," said he. "I don't want to trouble Mr. Hay, but you, Debby--"
"Bless you, Mr. Beecot, it ain't no trouble," said the servant,
cheerfully, "and better me nor that 'aughty peacock, as ain't to be
trusted, say what you will, seeing criminals is a-looking out of his
eyes, hide one though he may with a piece of glarse, and I ses--"
"You must go now, please," interposed the nurse.
"Oh, thank you, ma'am, but my own mistress, as is a lady, do I obey
only."
"Debby, Debby," murmured Sylvia, and after kissing Paul, a farewell
which Debby strove to hide from the nurse by getting in front of her and
blocking the view, the two departed. The nurse laughed as she arranged
Paul's pillows.
"What a strange woman, Mr. Beecot."
"Very," assented Paul, "quite a character, and as true as the needle of
the compass."
Meanwhile, Debby, ignorant of this flattering description, conducted
Sylvia to the draper's shop, and finally fixed on a hideous magenta
gown, which she ordered to be made quite plain. "With none of your
fal-de-lals," commanded Miss Junk, snorting. "Plain sewing and good
stuff is all I arsk for. And if there's any left over you can send home
a 'at of the same, which I can brighten with a cockes feather as my mar
wore at her wedding. There, my own," added Debby, as they emerged from
the shop and took a 'bus to Gwynne Street, "that's as you'll allways see
me dressed--plain and 'omely, with no more trimmings than you'll see on
a washing-day jint, as I know to my cost from my mar's ecomicals."
"Economy, Debby."
"It ain't fur me to be using fine words, Miss Sylvia; cockatoos'
feathers on a goose they'd be in my mouth. The 'ole dixionary kin do for
you my flower, but pothooks and 'angers never was my loves, me having
been at the wash-tub when rising eight, and stout at that."
In this way Debby discoursed all the way home. On arriving in the room
over the shop they found themselves confronted by Aaron, who looked
less timid than usual, and glowered at the pair angrily. "Where have
you been, Sylvia?" he asked.
The girl could not tell a direct lie, and looked at Debby. That
handmaiden, less scrupulous, was about to blurt forth a garbled account,
when Sylvia stopped her with a resolute expression on her pretty face.
"No, Debby," she commanded, "let me speak. Father, I have been to see
Mr. Beecot at the Charing Cross Hospital."
"And you couldn't have my flower do less as a good Smart 'un," put in
Debby, anxiously, so as to avert the storm. "Girls is girls whatever you
may think, sir, of them being dolls and dummies and--"
"Hold your tongue, woman," cried Norman, fiercely, "let me talk. Why is
Mr. Beecot in the hospital?"
"He was knocked down," said Sylvia, quietly, "and his arm is broken. A
motor car ran over him in Gwynne Street. He wants to see you, to tell
you that he lost something."
Norman turned even whiter than he was by nature, and the perspiration
suddenly beaded his bald forehead. "The opal serpent!" he cried.
"Yes--the brooch he showed me."
"He showed you!" cried Aaron, with a groan. "And what did he tell you
about it?--what--what--what--the truth or--" He became passionate.
Debby grasped Aaron's arm and whirled him into the middle of the room
like a feather. Then she planted herself before Sylvia, with her arms
akimbo, and glared like a lioness. "You can pinch me, sir, or gives me
black eyes and red noses if you like, but no finger on my precious, if I
die for it."
Aaron was staggered by this defiance, and looked fierce for the moment.
Then he became timid again and cast the odd, anxious look over his
shoulder. "Leave the room, Deborah," he said in a mild voice.
The faithful maid replied by sitting down and folding her arms. "Get
your wild horses, sir," she said, breathing heavily, "for only by them
will I be tugged away." And she snorted so loudly that the room shook.
"Pshaw," said Norman, crossly, "Sylvia, don't be afraid of me." He wiped
his face nervously. "I only want to know of the brooch. I like the
opals--I wanted to buy it from Mr. Beecot. He is poor--he wants money. I
can give it to him, for--the--the brooch."
He brought out the last word with a gasp, and again glanced over his
shoulder. Sylvia, not at all afraid, approached and took the old man's
hand. The watchful Deborah moved her chair an inch nearer, so as to be
ready for any emergency. "Dear father," said the girl, "Mr. Beecot
doesn't know where the brooch is. It was stolen from him when the
accident happened. If you will see him he can tell you--"
"Not where the brooch is," interrupted Aaron, trying to appear calm.
"Well, well, it doesn't matter." He glanced anxiously at Sylvia. "You
believe me, child, when I say it doesn't matter."
A snort from Deborah plainly said that she had her doubts. Sylvia cast a
reproving glance in her direction, whereupon she rose and committed
perjury. "Of course it don't matter, sir," she said in a loud, hearty
voice which made Aaron wince. "My precious believes you, though lie it
might be. But folk so good as you, sir, who go to church when there
ain't anyone to see, wouldn't tell lies without them a-choking of them
in their blessed throats."
"How do you know I go to church?" asked Norman, with the snarl of a
trapped animal.
"Bless you, sir, I don't need glarses at my age, though not so young as
I might be. Church you enjiy, say what you may, you being as regular as
the taxes, which is saying much. Lor' save us all!"
Deborah might well exclaim this. Her master flung himself forward with
outstretched hands clawing the air, and with his lips lifted like those
of an enraged dog. "You she-cat," he said in a painfully hissing voice,
"you're a spy, are you? They've set you to watch--to drag me to the
gallows--" he broke off with a shiver. His rage cooled as suddenly as it
had heated, and staggering to the sofa he sat down with his face hidden.
"Not that--not that--oh, the years of pain and terror! To come to
this--to this--Deborah--don't sell me. Don't. I'll give you money--I am
rich. But if the opal serpent--if the opal--" He rose and began to beat
the air with his hands.
Sylvia, who had never seen her father like this, shrank back in terror,
but Deborah, with all her wits about her, though she was wildly
astonished, seized a carafe of water from the table and dashed the
contents in his face. The old man gasped, shuddered, and, dripping wet,
sank again on the sofa. But the approaching fit was past, and when he
looked up after a moment or so, his voice was as calm as his face.
"What's all this?" he asked, feebly.
"Nothing, father," said Sylvia, kneeling beside him; "you must not doubt
Debby, who is as true as steel."
"Are you, Deborah?" asked Aaron, weakly.
"I should think so," she declared, putting her arms round Sylvia, "so
long, sir, as you don't hurt my flower."
"I don't want to hurt her ..."
"There's feelings as well as bones," said Deborah, hugging Sylvia so as
to keep her from speaking, "and love you can't squash, try as you may,
though, bless you, I'm not given to keeping company myself."
"Love," said Aaron, vacantly. He seemed to think more of his troubles
than of Sylvia going to visit a young man.
"Love and Mr. Beecot," said Deborah. "She wants to marry him."
"Why, then," said Aaron, calmly, "she shall marry him."
Sylvia fell at his feet. "Oh, father--father, and I have kept it from
you all these months. Forgive me--forgive me," and she wept.
"My dear," he said, gently raising her, "there is nothing to forgive."
CHAPTER VI
A NOISE IN THE NIGHT
Both Deborah and Sylvia were astonished that Aaron should be so
indifferent about their long concealment. They had expected and dreaded
a storm, yet when the secret was told Mr. Norman appeared to take it as
calmly as though he had known about the matter from the first. Indeed,
he seemed perfectly indifferent, and when he raised Sylvia and made her
sit beside him on the sofa he reverted to the brooch.
"I shall certainly see Mr. Beecot," he said in a dreamy way. "Charing
Cross Hospital--of course. I'll go to-morrow. I had intended to see
about selling the furniture then, but I'll wait till the next day. I
want the brooch first--yes--yes," and he opened and shut his hand in a
strangely restless manner.
The girl and the servant looked at one another in a perplexed way, for
it was odd Norman should take the secret wooing of his daughter so
quietly. He had never evinced much interest in Sylvia, who had been left
mainly to the rough attentions of Miss Junk, but sometimes he had
mentioned that Sylvia would be an heiress and fit to marry a poor peer.
The love of Paul Beecot overthrew this scheme, if the man intended to
carry it out, yet he did not seem to mind. Sylvia, thinking entirely of
Paul, was glad, and the tense expression of her face relaxed; but
Deborah sniffed, which was always an intimation that she intended to
unburden her mind on an unpleasant subject.
"Well, sir," she said, folding her arms and scratching her elbow, "I do
think as offspring ain't lumps of dirt to be trod on in this way. I
arsk"--she flung out her hand towards Sylvia--"Is she your own or is she
not?"
"She is my daughter," said Aaron, mildly. "Why do you ask?"
"'Cause you don't take interest you should take in her marriage, which
is made in heaven if ever marriage was."
Norman raised his head like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet-call.
"Who talks of marriage?" he asked sharply.
"Dear father," said Sylvia, gently, "did you not hear? I love Paul, and
I want to marry him."
Aaron stared at her. "He is not a good match for you," was his reply.
"He is the man I love," cried Sylvia, tapping with her pretty foot.
"Love," said Norman, with a melancholy smile, "there is no such thing,
child. Talk of hate--for that exists," he clenched his hands again,
"hate that is as cruel as the grave."
"Well I'm sure, sir, and what 'ave hates to do with my beauty there? As
to love, exist it do, for Bart's bin talked into filling his 'eart with
the same, by me. I got it out of a _Family Herald_," explained Deborah,
incoherently, "where gentry throw themselves on their knees to arsk
'ands in marriage. Bart was down on his hunkers every night for two
weeks before he proposed proper, and I ses, ses I--"
"Will you hold your tongue?" interrupted Aaron, angrily; "you gabble
gabble till you make my head ache. You confuse me."
"I want to clear your 'ead," retorted Miss Junk, "seeing you take no
interest in my pretty's livings."
Norman placed his fingers under Sylvia's chin, and tipped it up so that
he could gaze into her eyes. "Child, do you love him?" he asked gravely.
"Oh, father!" whispered Sylvia, and said no more. The expression of her
eyes was enough for Aaron, and he turned away with a sigh.
"You know nothing about him," he said at length.
"Begging pardon, sir, for being a gabbler," said Deborah, witheringly,
"but know what he is we do--a fine young gent with long descents and
stone figgers in churches, as Bart knows. Beecot's his par's name, as is
fighting with Mr. Paul by reason of contrariness and 'igh living, him
being as stout as stout."
"Perhaps you will explain, Sylvia," said Aaron, turning impatiently from
the handmaiden.
"I should have explained before," said the girl, quietly and very
distinctly. "I loved Paul from the moment I saw him enter the shop six
months ago. He came again and again, and we often talked. Then he told
me of his love, and I confessed mine. Deborah wanted to know who he was,
and if he was a good man. From what I learned of Paul's people he seemed
to be all that was good and generous and high-minded and loving. Deborah
sent Bart one holiday to Wargrove in Essex, where Paul's parents live,
and Bart found that Paul had left home because he wanted to be an
author. Paul is very popular in Wargrove, and everyone speaks well of
him. So Deborah thought we might be engaged, and--"
"And have you a word to say against it, sir?" demanded Deborah,
bristling.
"No," said Aaron, after a pause, "but you should have told me."
"We should," admitted Sylvia, quickly, "but Paul and I feared lest you
should say 'No.'"
"My child," said the old man, gravely, "so long as you wed a kind and
good man I have nothing to say. Sylvia, I have worked hard these many
years and have made much money, which, by will, I have left to you. When
I die you will be rich. He is poor."
"Paul--yes, he is poor. But what of that?"
"Many fathers might think that an objection," went on Aaron without
noticing her remark. "But I do not. You shall marry Paul before I go to
America."
"Lor'!" cried Deborah, "whatever are you a-goin' there for, sir?"
"That's my business," said Aaron, dryly, "but I go as soon as I can. I
have sold the books; and the furniture of these rooms shall be disposed
of before the end of the week. My gems I take to Amsterdam for sale, and
I go abroad next week. When I return in a fortnight you can marry Mr.
Beecot. He is a good young man. I quite approve of him."
Deborah snorted. "Seems to me as though you was glad to get quit of my
pretty," she murmured, but too low to be overheard.
"Oh, father," cried Sylvia, putting her arms round Norman's neck, "how
good you are! I _do_ love him so."
"I hope the love will continue," said her father, cynically, and
removing the girl's arms, to the secret indignation of Deborah. "I shall
call on Mr. Beecot to-morrow and speak to him myself about the matter.
If we come to an arrangement, for I have a condition to make before I
give my entire consent, I shall allow you a certain sum to live on. Then
I shall go to America, and when I die you will inherit all my
money--when I die," he added, casting the usual look over his shoulders.
"But I won't die for many a long day," he said, with a determined air.
"At least, I hope not."
"You are healthy enough, father."
"Yes! Yes--but healthy people die in queer ways."
Deborah intervened impatiently. "I'm glad you wish to make my lily-queen
happy, sir," said she, nodding, "but change your mind you may if Mr.
Beecot don't fall in."
"Fall in?" queried Aaron.
"With this arrangements--what is they?"
Aaron looked undecided, then spoke impulsively, walking towards the door
as he did so. "Let Mr. Beecot give me that opal serpent," he said, "and
he shall have Sylvia and enough to live on."
"But, father, it is lost," cried Sylvia, in dismay.
She spoke to the empty air. Norman had hastily passed through the door
and was descending the stairs quicker than usual. Sylvia, in her
eagerness to explain, would have followed, but Deborah drew her back
with rough gentleness. "Let him go, lily-queen," she said; "let sleeping
dogs lie if you love me."
"Deborah, what do you mean?" asked Sylvia, breathlessly.
"I don't mean anything that have a meaning," said Miss Junk,
enigmatically, "but your par's willing to sell you for that dratted
brooch, whatever he wants it for. And you to be put against a brooch my
honey-pot. I'm biling--yes, biling hard," and Deborah snorted in proof
of the extremity of her rage.
"Never mind, Debby. Father consents that I shall marry Paul, and will
give us enough to live on. Then Paul will write great books, and his
father will ask him home again. Oh--oh!" Sylvia danced round the room
gaily, "how happy I am."
"And happy you shall be if I die for it," shouted Deborah, screwing up
her face, for she was not altogether satisfied, "though mysteries I
don't hold with, are about. America--what's he going to America for? and
with that brooch, and him locking us up every night to sleep in cellars.
Police-courts and Old Baileys," said Miss Junk, frowning. "I don't like
it, Sunbeam, and when you're married to Mr. Beecot I'll be that happy as
never was."
Sylvia opened her grey eyes in wide surprise and a little alarm. "Oh,
Debby, you don't think there's anything wrong with father?"
Miss Junk privately thought there was a good deal wrong, but she folded
Sylvia in her stout arms and dismissed the question with a snort. "No,
lovey, my own, there ain't. It's just my silly way of going on. Orange
buds and brides the sun shines on, is your fortunes, Miss Sylvia, though
how I'm going to call you Mrs. Beecot beats me," and Deborah rubbed her
nose.
"I shall always be Sylvia to you."
"Bless you, lady-bird, but don't ask me to live with Mr. Beecot's
frantic par, else there'll be scratchings if he don't do proper what he
should do and don't. So there." Deborah swung her arms like a windmill.
"My mind's easy and dinner's waiting, for, love or no love, eat you
must, to keep your insides' clockwork."
When Bart heard the joyful news he was glad, but expressed regret that
Norman should go to America. He did not wish to lose his situation, and
never thought the old man would take him to the States also. Deborah
vowed that if Aaron did want to transport Bart--so she put it--she would
object. Then she unfolded a scheme by which, with Bart's savings and her
own, they could start a laundry. "And I knows a drying ground," said
Deborah, while talking at supper to her proposed husband, "as is lovely
and cheap. One of them suburbs on the line to Essex, where my pretty
will live when her husband's frantic par makes it up. Jubileetown's the
place, and Victoria Avenue the street. The sweetest cottage at twenty
pun' a year as I ever set eyes on. And m'sister as is married to a
bricklayer is near to help with the family."
"The family?" echoed Bart, looking scared.
"In course--they will come, though it's early to be thinking of names
for 'em. I'll do the washing, Bart, and you'll take round the cart, so
don't you think things 'ull be otherwise."
"I don't want 'em to," said Bart, affectionately. "I always loved you,
Debby darling."
"Ah," said Miss Junk, luxuriously, "I've taught you to, in quite a
genteel way. What a scrubby little brat you were, Bart!"
"Yuss," said Mr. Tawsey, eating rapidly. "I saw myself to-day."
"In a looking-glarse?"
"Lor', Debby--no. But there wos a brat all rags and dirty face and sauce
as I was when you saw me fust. He come into the shop as bold as brass
and arsked fur a book. I ses, 'What do you want with a book?' and he
ses, looking at the shelves so empty, 'I sees your sellin' off,' he ses,
so I jumped up to clip him over the 'ead, when he cut. Tray's his name,
Debby, and he's the kid as talked to that cold gent Mr. Beecot brought
along with him when he got smashed."
"Tray--that's a dog's name," said Deborah, "old dog Tray, and quite good
enough for guttersnipes. As to Mr. Hay, don't arsk me to say he's good,
for that he ain't. What's he want talking with gutter Trays?"
"And what do gutter Trays want with books?" asked Bart, "though to be
sure 'twas impertinence maybe."
Deborah nodded. "That it was, and what you'd have done when you was a
scrubby thing. Don't bolt your food, but make every bit 'elp you to
'ealth and long living. You won't 'ave gormandising when we've got the
laundry, I can tell you."
Next day Aaron went off in the afternoon to Charing Cross Hospital,
after holding a conversation with a broker who had agreed to buy the
derelict furniture. The shop, being empty, was supposed to be closed,
but from force of habit Bart took down the shutters and lurked
disconsolately behind the bare counter. Several old customers who had
not heard of the sale entered, and were disappointed when they learned
that Aaron was leaving. Their lamentations made Bart quite low-spirited.
However, he was polite to all, but his manners broke down when a Hindoo
entered to sell boot-laces. "I ain't got nothing to sell, and don't want
to buy nohow," said Bart, violently.
The man did not move, but stood impassively in the doorway like a bronze
statue. He wore a dirty red turban carelessly wound round his small
head, an unclean blouse which had once been white, circled by a yellow
handkerchief of some coarse stuff, dark blue trousers and slippers with
curled-up toes on naked feet. His eyes were black and sparkling and he
had a well-trimmed moustache which contrasted oddly with his shabby
attire. "Hokar is poor: Hokar need money," he whined in a monotone, but
with his eyes glancing restlessly round the shop. "Give Hokar--give,"
and he held out the laces.
"Don't want any, I tell you," shouted Bart, tartly. "I'll call a peeler
if you don't git."
"Ho! ho! who stole the donkey?" cried a shrill voice at the door, and
from behind the hawker was poked a touzelled curly head, and a grinning
face which sadly needed washing. "You leave this cove alone, won't y?
He's a pal o' mine. D'y see?"
"You git along with your pal then," cried Bart, indignantly. "If he
don't understand King's English, you do, Tray."
Tray darted into the middle of the shop and made a face at the indignant
shopman by putting his fingers in his mouth to widen it, and pulling
down his eyes. Hokar never smiled, but showed no disposition to move.
Bart, angered at this blocking up the doorway, and by Tray's war dance,
jumped the counter. He aimed a blow at the guttersnipe's head, but
missed it and fell full length. The next moment Tray was dancing on his
body with his tongue out derisively. Then Hokar gave a weird smile.
"Kalee!" he said to himself. "Kalee!"
How the scene would have ended it is impossible to say, but while Bart
strove to rise and overturn Tray, Aaron walked in past the Indian.
"What's this?" he asked sharply. Tray stopped his dancing on Bart's
prostrate body and gave a shrill whistle by placing two dirty fingers in
his mouth. Then he darted between Norman's legs and made off. Hokar
stood staring at the bookseller, and after a pause pointed with his
finger. "One--eye," he said calmly, "no good!"
Aaron was about to inquire what he meant by this insult, when the Indian
walked to the counter and placed something thereon, after which he moved
away, and his voice was heard dying away down the street. "Hokar is
poor--Hokar need money. Hokar, Christian."
"What's this?" demanded Norman, again assisting Bart roughly to his
feet.
"Blest if I know," replied Tawsey, staring; "they're mad, I think," and
he related the incoming of the Indian and the street arab. "As for that
Tray," said he, growling, "I'll punch his blooming 'ead when I meets him
agin, dancing on me--yah. Allays meddlin' that brat, jus' as he wos
when Mr. Beecot was smashed."
"You saw that accident?" asked his master, fixing his one eye on him.
"Yuss," said Bart, slowly, "I did, but Deborah she told me to say
nothink. Mr. Beecot was smashed, and his friend, the cold eye-glarsed
gent, pulled him from under the wheels of that there machine with Tray
to help him, and between 'em they carried him to the pavement."
"Humph!" said Aaron, resting his chin on his hand and speaking more to
himself than to his assistant, "so Tray was on the spot. Humph!" Bart,
having brushed himself, moved behind the counter and took up what Hokar
had left. "Why, it's brown sugar!" he exclaimed, touching it with his
tongue, "coarse brown sugar--a handful." He stretched out his palm
heaped with the sugar to his master. "What do that furrein pusson mean
by leaving dirt about?"
"I don't know, nor do I care," snapped Aaron, who appeared to be out of
temper. "Throw it away!" which Bart did, after grumbling again at the
impudence of the street hawker.
Norman did not go upstairs, but descended to the cellar, where he busied
himself in looking over the contents of the three safes. In these, were
many small boxes filled with gems of all kind, cut and uncut: also
articles of jewellery consisting of necklaces, bracelets, stars for the
hair, brooches, and tiaras. The jewels glittered in the flaring
gaslight, and Aaron fondled them as though they were living things. "You
beauties," he whispered to himself, with his one eye gloating over his
hoard. "I'll sell you, though it goes to my heart to part with lovely
things. But I must--I must--and then I'll go--not to America--oh, dear
no! but to the South Seas. They won't find me there--no--no! I'll be
rich, and happy, and free. Sylvia can marry and live happy. But the
serpent," he said in a harsh tone, "oh, the opal serpent! The
pawnbroker's shop. Stowley--yes--I know it. I know it. Stowley. They
want it back; but they sha'n't. I'll buy it from Beecot by giving him
Sylvia. It's lost--lost." He looked over his shoulder as he spoke in a
terrified whisper. "Perhaps they have it, and then--then," he leaped up
and flung the armful of baubles he held on to the deal table, "and
then--I must get away--away."
He pulled out three or four coarse sacks of a small size and filled
these with the jewellery. Then he tied a cord round the neck of each
sack and sealed it. Afterwards, with a sigh, he closed the safe and
turned down the gas. He did not leave by the trap, which led through the
shop, but opened and locked the back door of the cellar, ascended the
steps and went out into the street through the side passage. "If they
come," he thought as he walked into the gathering night, "they won't
find these. No! no!" and he hugged the bags closely.
Sylvia upstairs waited anxiously for the return of her father from the
hospital, as she both wanted to hear how her lover was progressing and
what he said about the permission to marry being given. But Aaron did
not come to supper, as was his usual custom. Bart said, when inquiries
were made, that the master had gone down into the cellar and was
probably there. Meanwhile, according to his usual habit, he put up the
shutters and departed. Sylvia and Deborah ate their frugal meal and
retired to bed, the girl much disturbed at the absence of her father.
Outside, in the street, the passers-by diminished in number, and as the
night grew darker and the lamps were lighted hardly a person remained in
Gwynne Street. It was not a fashionable thoroughfare, and after
nightfall few people came that way. By eleven o'clock there was not a
soul about. Even the one policeman who usually perambulated the street
was conspicuous by his absence.
Sylvia, in her bed, had fallen into a troubled sleep, and was dreaming
of Paul, but not happily. She seemed to see him in trouble. Then she
woke suddenly, with all her senses alert, and sat up. Faintly she heard
a wild cry, and then came the twelve strokes of the church bells
announcing midnight. Breathlessly she waited, but the cry was not
repeated. In the darkness she sat up listening until the quarter chimed.
Then the measured footsteps of a policeman were heard passing down the
street and dying away. Sylvia was terrified. Why, she hardly knew: but
she sprang from her bed and hurried into Deborah's room. "Wake up," she
said, "there's something wrong."
Deborah was awake in a moment and lighted the lamp. On hearing Sylvia's
story she went down the stairs followed by the girl. The door at the
bottom, strange to say, was not locked. Deborah opened this, and peering
into the shop gave a cry of alarm and horror.
Lying on the floor was Aaron, bound hand and foot.
CHAPTER VII
A TERRIBLE NIGHT
"Go back!--go back, my precious!" cried Deborah, her first thought being
how to spare Sylvia the sight.
But the girl, remembering that agonized cry which had awakened her,
faint and far away as it sounded, pushed past the servant and ran into
the middle of the shop. The lamp, held high by Deborah over her head,
cast a bright circle of light on the floor, and in the middle of this
Sylvia saw her father breathing heavily. His hands were bound behind his
back in a painful way, his feet were tightly fastened, and his head
seemed to be attached to the floor. At least, when the body (as it
seemed from its stillness) suddenly writhed, it rolled to one side, but
the head remained almost motionless. The two women hung back, clutching
each other's hands, and were almost too horrified to move at the sight.
"Look! Look!" cried Sylvia, gasping, "the mouth!" Deborah looked and
gave a moan. Aaron's mouth was rigidly closed under a glittering jewel.
Deborah bent down, still moaning, so great did the horror of the thing
paralyse her speech, and saw the lights flash back from many diamonds:
she saw bluish gleams and then a red sparkle like the ray of the setting
sun. It was the opal serpent brooch, and Aaron's lips were fastened
together with the stout pin. On his mouth and across his agonised face
in which the one eye gleamed with terrific meaning the jewelled serpent
seemed to writhe.
"Oh, poor soul!" cried Deborah, falling on her knees with the lamp still
held above her head. "Sylvia see--"
The girl gasped again, and impulsively knelt also, trying with nerveless
fingers to unfasten the cruel pin which sealed the man's lips. He still
lived, for they heard him breathing and saw the gleaming eye: but even
as they looked the face grew black: the eye opened and closed
convulsively. Deborah set down the lamp and tried to raise the head. She
could not lift it from the floor. Then the bound feet swung in the air
and fell again with a dull thud. The eye remained wide open, staring in
a glassy, manner: the breathing had stopped: and the body was
motionless. "He's dead," said Deborah, leaping to her feet and catching
away the girl. "Help! Help!"
Her loud voice rang fiercely through the empty shop and echoed round and
round. But there came no answering cry. Not a sound could be heard in
the street. On the bare floor was the lamp shining on that dreadful
sight: the body with sealed lips, and the glittering jewel, and leaning
against the wall were the two women, Deborah staring at her dead master,
but with Sylvia's eyes pressed against her bosom so that she might not
witness the horror. And the stillness deepened weirdly every moment.
Sylvia tried to move her head, but Deborah pressed it closer to her
breast. "Don't, my pretty--don't," she whispered harshly.
"I must--I--ah!" the girl freed her head from those kind arms with a
wrench, and looked at the gruesome sight. She staggered forward a few
steps, and then fell back. Deborah received her in her arms, and,
thankful that Sylvia had fainted, carried her up the stairs to lay the
unconscious girl on her own bed. Then she descended rapidly, locked the
door leading from the shop to the stairs, and again looked at the body.
The time she had been away was about seven or eight minutes, and the
body still remained with the one open eye staring meaninglessly at the
ceiling. Deborah, drawn by fascination like a bird by a serpent, crept
forward and touched the head. It moved, and she again tried to lift it.
This time she found she could do so. The head she lifted against her
breast, and then laid it down with horror when she found the bosom of
her nightgown was stained with blood. Pulling her wits together, for she
felt that she needed them every one, she examined the head and neck. To
her horror she found round the throat a strong thin copper wire, which
disappeared through a hole in the floor. Apparently this had been pulled
so tightly as to keep the head down and to choke the old man, and so
cruelly as to cut deeply into the flesh. With a moan of horror Deborah
dropped the head and ran to the trap-door in the corner. If anywhere,
those who had murdered Aaron Norman were lurking in the cellar. But the
trap-door would not open, and then she remembered that it was closed by
a bolt underneath. She could not reach the midnight assassin that way.
"The front door," she gasped, and ran to unbolt it. The bolts were
easily removed, but the door was also locked, and Aaron usually had the
key deposited nightly in the cellar by Bart. Repugnant as it was for her
to approach the dead body, Deborah again went forward and felt in the
pockets and loose clothing. The man was completely dressed, even to an
overcoat which he wore. But she could not find the key and wondered what
she was to do. Probably the key had been hung up in the cellar as usual.
Necessity being the mother of invention, she remembered that the
window-glass was fragile, and ran up in the hope of breaking through.
But the stout shutters were up, so Deborah found that she was sealed in
the house. Almost in a state of distraction, for by this time her nerve
had given way, she unlocked the door to the stairs and ran up three
steps at a time to the sitting-room. Here she opened the window and
scrambled out on to the ledge among Sylvia's flower-pots. Just as she
was wondering how she could get down, the measured tread of a policeman
was heard, and by craning her neck Deborah saw him coming leisurely
along the street, swinging his dark lantern on the windows and doors. It
was a moonlight night and the street was extraordinarily well lighted as
the moon shone straightly between the houses. Gathering her strength for
a last effort, Deborah yelled as only she could yell, and saw the
startled officer spinning round, looking up and down and sideways to see
where the shrieks came from. "Up--up--oh, look up, you fool!" screamed
Deborah. "Murder--oh, murder! Burst in the door, call the police, drat
you! Help!--help!"
By this time she was the centre of a circle of bright light, for the
policeman had located her, and his lantern was flashing on her white
nightgown as she clung to the window-sill.
"What are you making that noise for?" called up the officer, gruffly.
"Murder, you fool!" screamed Deborah. "Master's murdered. Number
forty-five--the door's locked--break it open. Police!--police!"
Before she finished the sentence the officer blew his whistle shrilly
and ran to the door of the shop, against which he placed his shoulder.
Deborah climbed in again by the window, and ran down again, but even
then, in her excitement and horror, she did not forget to lock the door
leading to the stairs, so that Sylvia might not be disturbed. As she
descended she flung a thick shawl over her shoulders, which she had
caught up when leaving her room, though for the rest she had nothing on
but a nightgown. But the poor woman was too terrified to be troubled by
any scruples at the moment, and reached the shop to hear heavy blows on
the door. Between the thuds Deborah could hear footsteps running inward
from every quarter. "I ain't got the key!" she shrieked through the
keyhole; "break in the door, drat you! Murder!--murder!"
From the noise she made those without concluded that some terrible crime
was taking place within, and redoubled their efforts. Deborah had just
time to leap back after a final scream when the door fell flat on the
floor, and three policemen sprang into the room with drawn batons and
their lights flashing like stars. The lamp was still on the floor
shedding its heavy yellow light on the corpse. "Master!" gasped Deborah,
pointing a shaking finger. "Dead--the--the cellar--the--" and here she
made as to drop. A policeman caught her in his arms, but the woman shook
herself free. "I sha'n't faint--no--I sha'n't faint," she gasped, "the
cellar--look--look--" She ran forward and raised the head of the dead
man. When the officers saw the dangling slack wire disappearing through
a hole in the floor they grasped the situation. "The passage outside!"
cried Deborah, directing operations; "the trap-door," she ran to it,
"fast bolted below, and them murdering people are there."
"How many are there?" asked a policeman, while several officers ran
round the back through the side passage.
"Oh, you dratted fool, how should I know!" cried Deborah, fiercely;
"there may be one and there may be twenty. Go and catch them--you're
paid for it. Send to number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury, for Bart."
"Who is Bart?"
"Go and fetch him," cried Deborah, furious at this delay; "number twenty
Park Street, Bloomsbury. Oh, what a night this is! I'm a-goin' to see
Miss Sylvia, who has fainted, and small blame," and she made for the
locked door. An officer came after her. "Go away," shrieked Deborah,
pushing him back. "I've got next to nothink on, and my pretty is ill. Go
away and do your business."
Seeing she was distracted and hardly knew what she was saying, the man
drew back, and Deborah ran up the stairs to Sylvia's room, where she
found the poor girl still unconscious.
Meanwhile, an Inspector had arrived, and one of the policemen was
detailing all that had occurred from the time Deborah had given the
alarm at the window. The Inspector listened quietly to everything, and
then examined the body. "Strangled with a copper wire," he said, looking
up. "Go for a doctor one of you. It goes through the floor," he added,
touching the wire which still circled the throat, "and must have been
pulled from below. Examine the cellar."
Even as he spoke, and while one zealous officer ran off for a medical
man, there was a grating sound and the trap-door was thrown open. A
policeman leaped into the shop and saluted when he saw his superior. By
this time the gas had been lighted. "We've broken down the back door,
sir," said he, "the cellar door--it was locked but not bolted. Nothing
in the cellar, everything in order, but that wire," he pointed to the
means used for strangling, "dangled from the ceiling and a cross piece
of wood is bound to the lower end."
"Who does the shop belong to?"
"Aaron Norman," said the policeman whose beat it was; "he's a
second-hand bookseller, a quiet, harmless, timid sort of man."
"Anyone about?"
"No, sir. I passed down Gwynne Street at about a quarter past twelve and
all seemed safe. When I come back later--it might have been twenty
minutes and more--say twenty-five--I saw the woman who was down here
clinging to a window on the first floor, and shouting murder. I gave the
summons, sir, and we broke open the door."
Inspector Prince laid down the dead man's head and rose to his feet with
a nod. "I'll go upstairs and see the woman," he said; "tell me when the
doctor comes."
Upstairs he examined the sitting-room, and lighted the gas therein; then
he mounted another storey after looking through the kitchen and
dining-room. In a bedroom he found an empty bed, but heard someone
talking in a room near at hand. Flinging open the door he heard a
shriek, and found himself confronted by Deborah, who had hastily flung
on some clothes. "Don't come in," she cried, extending her arm, "for I'm
just getting Miss Sylvia round."
"Nonsense," said the Inspector, and pushing her roughly aside he stepped
into the room. On the bed lay Sylvia, apparently still unconscious, but
as the man looked at her she opened her eyes with a long sigh. Deborah
put her arms round the girl and began to talk to her in an endearing
way. Shortly Sylvia sat up, bewildered. "What is it?" she asked. Then
her eyes fell on the policeman. "Oh, where is my father?"
"He's dead, pretty," said Deborah, fondling her. "Don't take on so."
"Yes--I remember--the body on the floor--the serpent across the
mouth--oh--oh!" and she fainted again.
"There!" cried Deborah, with bitter triumph, "see what you've done."
"Come--come," said Inspector Prince, though as gently as possible. "I
am in charge of this case. Tell me what has happened."
"If you'd use your blessed eyes you'd see murder has happened," said
Miss Junk, savagely. "Let me attend to my pretty."
Just at this moment a tall young man entered the room. It was the
doctor. "The policemen said you were up here," he said in a pleasant
voice. "I've examined the body, Inspector. The man is quite dead--he has
been strangled--and in a cruel manner with that copper wire, which has
cut into the throat, to say nothing of this," and the doctor held out
the brooch.
"That, drat it!" cried Deborah, vigorously, "it's the cause of it all, I
do believe, if I died in saying so," and she began to rub Sylvia's hands
vigorously.
"Who is this young lady?" asked the doctor; "another patient?"
"And well she may be," said Miss Junk. "Call yourself a doctor, and
don't help me to bring her to."
"Do what you can," said Prince, "and you," he added to Deborah, "come
down with me. I wish to ask you a few questions."
Deborah was no fool and saw that the Inspector was determined to make
her do what he wanted. Besides, Sylvia was in the hands of the doctor,
and Deborah felt that he could do more than she, to bring the poor girl
to her senses. After a few parting injunctions she left the room and
went downstairs with the Inspector. The police had made no further
discovery.
Prince questioned not only the Gwynne Street policeman, who had given
his report, but all others who had been in the vicinity. But they could
tell him nothing. No one suspicious had been seen leaving Gwynne Street
north or south, so, finding he could learn nothing in this direction,
Prince turned his attention to the servant. "Now, then, what do you
know?" he asked. "Don't say anything likely to incriminate yourself."
"Me!" shouted Deborah, bouncing up with a fiery face. "Don't you be
taking away my character. Why, I know no more who have done it than a
babe unborn, and that's stupid enough, I 'opes, Mr. Policeman. Ho!
indeed, and we pays our taxes to be insulted by you, Mr. Policeman." She
was very aggravating, and many a man would have lost his temper. But
Inspector Prince was a quiet and self-controlled officer, and knew how
to deal with this violent class of women. He simply waited till Deborah
had exhausted herself, and then gently asked her a few questions.
Finding he was reasonable, Deborah became reasonable on her part, and
replied with great intelligence. In a few minutes the Inspector, by
handling her deftly, learned all that had taken place on that terrible
night, from the time Sylvia had started up in bed at the sound of that
far-distant cry of a soul in agony. "And that, from what Miss Sylvia
says," ended Deborah, "was just before the church clock struck the hour
of twelve."
"You came down a quarter of an hour later?"
"I did, when Miss Sylvia woke me," said Deborah; "she was frightened out
of her seven senses, and couldn't get up at once. Yes--it was about
twenty minutes after the hour we come down to see--It," and the woman,
strong nerved as she was, shuddered.
"Humph," said the Inspector, "the assassin had time to escape."
"Begging your pardon, sir, them, or him, or her, or it as murdered
master was below in the cellar when we saw the corp--not that it was
what you'd call a corp then."
"Will you say precisely what you mean?"
Deborah did so, and with such wealth of detail that even the hardened
Inspector felt the creeps down his official back. There was something
terribly merciless about this crime. The man had been bound like a
sheep for the slaughter; his mouth had been sealed with the brooch so
that he could not cry out, and then in the sight of his child and
servant he had been slowly strangled by means of the copper wire which
communicated with the cellar. One of the policemen brought up an auger
which evidently had been used to bore the hole for the wire to pass
through, for the fresh sawdust was still in its whorls. "Who does this
belong to?" Prince asked Deborah.
"It's Bart's," said Deborah, staring; "he was using it along with other
tools to make some deal boxes for master, who was going away. I expect
it was found in the cellar in the tool-box, for Bart allays brought it
in tidy-like after he'd done his work in the yard, weather being fine,
of course," ended Deborah, sniffing.
"Where is this Bart?"
"In bed like a decent man if he's to be my husband, which he is," said
Miss Junk, tartly. "I told one of them idle bobbies to go and fetch him
from Bloomsbury."
"One has gone," said another policeman. "Bart Tawsey isn't he?"
"Mr. Bartholemew Tawsey, if you please," said the servant, grandly. "I
only hope he'll be here soon to protect me."
"You're quite safe," said Prince, dryly, whereat there was a smile on
the faces of his underlings, for Deborah in her disordered dress and
with her swollen, flushed, excited face was not comely. "But what about
this brooch you say is the cause of it all?"
Deborah dropped with an air of fatigue. "If you kill me I can't talk of
it now," she protested. "The brooch belonged to Mr. Paul Beecot."
"And where is he?"
"In the Charing Cross Hospital if you want to know, and as he's engaged
to my pretty you needn't think he done it--so there."
"I am accusing no one," said the Inspector, grimly, "but we must get to
the bottom of this horrible crime."
"Ah, well you may call it that," wailed Deborah, "with that serping on
his poor mouth and him wriggling like an eel to get free. But 'ark,
there's my pretty a-calling," and Miss Junk dashed headlong from the
shop shouting comfort to Sylvia as she went.
Prince looked at the dead man and at the opal serpent which he held in
his hand. "This at one end of the matter, and that at the other. What is
the connecting link between this brooch and that corpse?"
CHAPTER VIII
THE VERDICT OF THE JURY
As may be guessed, the murder of Aaron Norman caused a tremendous
sensation. One day the name was unknown, the next and it was in the
mouths of the millions. The strange circumstances of the crime, the
mystery which shrouded it, the abominable cruelty of the serpent brooch
having been used to seal the man's lips while he was being slowly
strangled, deepened the interest immensely. Here, at last was a murder
worthy of Wilkie Collins's or Gaboriau's handling; such a crime as one
expected to read of in a novel, but never could hope to hear of in real
life. Fact had for once poached on the domains of fiction.
But notwithstanding all the inquiries which were made, and all the
vigilance of the police, and all the newspaper articles, and all the
theories sent by people who knew nothing whatever of the matter, nothing
tangible was discovered likely to lead to a discovery of the assassins
or assassin. It was conjectured that two people at least had been
concerned in the committal of the crime, as, weak physically though he
was, the deceased would surely not have allowed himself to be bound by
one person, however strong that person might be. In such a case there
would certainly have been a scuffle, and as the daughter of the murdered
man heard his cry for help--which was what Sylvia did hear--she would
certainly have heard the noise of a rough-and-tumble struggle such as
Norman would have made when fighting for his life. But that single
muffled cry was all that had been heard, and then probably the brooch
had been pinned on the mouth to seal it for ever. Later the man had been
slowly strangled, and in the sight of his horrified daughter.
Poor Sylvia received a severe shock after witnessing that awful sight,
and was ill for some days. The faithful Deborah attended to her like a
slave, and would allow no one, save the doctor, to enter the sick-room.
Bart Tawsey, who had been summoned to Gwynne Street from his bed,
remained in the empty shop and attended to any domestic duties which
Miss Junk required to be performed. She made him cook viands for Sylvia
and for herself, and, as he had been trained by her before, to act as an
emergency cook, he did credit to her tuition. Also Bart ran messages,
saw that the house was well locked and bolted at night, and slept on a
hastily-improvised bed under the counter. Even Deborah's strong nerves
were shaken by the horrors she had witnessed, and she insisted that Bart
should remain to protect her and Sylvia. Bart was not over-strong, but
he was wiry, and, moreover, had the courage of a cock sparrow, so while
he was guarding the house Deborah had no fears, and could attend
altogether to her sick mistress.
One of the first people to call on Miss Norman was a dry, wizen monkey
of a man, who announced himself as Jabez Pash, the solicitor of the
deceased. He had, so he said, executed Aaron's legal business for years,
and knew all his secrets. Yet, when questioned by the police, he could
throw no light on the murder. But he knew of something strange connected
with the matter, and this he related to the detective who was now in
charge of the case.
This officer was a chatty, agreeable, pleasant-faced man, with brown
eyes, brown hair and brown skin. Also, to match his face, no doubt, he
wore brown clothes, brown boots, a brown hat and a brown tie--in fact,
in body, face and hands and dress he was all brown, and this prevalent
color produced rather a strange effect. "He must ha' bin dyed," said
Miss Junk when she set eyes on him. "But brown is better nor black, Miss
Sylvia, though black you'll have to wear for your poor par, as is gone
to a better land, let us hope, though there's no knowing."
The brown man, who answered to the name of Hurd, or, as he genially
described himself, "Billy" Hurd, saw Mr. Pash, the lawyer, after he had
examined everyone he could lay hold of in the hopes of learning
something likely to elucidate the mystery. "What do you know of this
matter, sir?" asked the brown man, pleasantly.
Pash screwed up his face in a manner worthy of his monkey looks. He
would have been an absolute image of one with a few nuts in his cheek,
and as he talked in a chattering sort of way, very fast and a trifle
incoherent, the resemblance was complete. "I know nothing why my
esteemed client should meet with such a death," he said, "but I may
mention that on the evening of his death he called round to see me and
deposited in my charge four bags of jewels. At least he said they were
jewels, for the bags are sealed, and of course I never opened them."
"Can I see those bags?" asked Hurd, amiably.
The legal monkey hopped into the next room and beckoned Hurd to follow.
Shortly the two were looking into the interior of a safe wherein reposed
four bags of coarse white canvas sealed and tied with stout cords. "The
odd thing is," said Mr. Pash, chewing his words, and looking so absurdly
like a monkey that the detective felt inclined to call him "Jacko,"
"that on the morning of the murder, and before I heard anything about
it, a stranger came with a note from my esteemed client asking that the
bags should be handed over."
"What sort of a man?"
"Well," said Pash, fiddling with his sharp chin, "what you might call a
seafaring man. A sailor, maybe, would be the best term. He was stout and
red-faced, but with drink rather than with weather, I should think, and
he rolled on his bow-legs in a somewhat nautical way."
"What name did he give?" asked Hurd, writing this description rapidly in
his note-book.
"None. I asked him who he was, and he told me--with many oaths I regret
to say--to mind my own business. He insisted on having the bags to take
back to Mr. Norman, but I doubted him--oh, yes," added the lawyer,
shrewdly, "I doubted him. Mr. Norman always did his own business, and
never, in my experience of him, employed a deputy. I replied to the
unknown nautical man--a sailor--as you might say; he certainly smelt of
rum, which, as we know, is a nautical drink--well, Mr. Hurd, I replied
that I would take the bags round to Mr. Norman myself and at once. This
office is in Chancery Lane, as you see, and not far from Gwynne Street,
so I started with the bags."
"And with the nautical gentleman?"
"No. He said he would remain behind until I returned, so as to receive
my apology when I had seen my esteemed client and become convinced of
the nautical gentleman's rectitude. When I reached Gwynne Street I found
that Mr. Norman was dead, and at once took the bags back to replace them
in this safe, where you now behold them."
"And this sailor?" asked Hurd, eyeing Mr. Pash keenly.
The lawyer sucked in his cheeks and put his feet on the rungs of his
chair. "Oh, my clerk tells me he left within five minutes of my
departure, saying he could not wait."
"Have you seen him since?"
"I have not seen him since. But I am glad that I saved the property of
my client."
"Was Norman rich?"
"Very well off indeed, but he did not make his money out of his
book-selling business. In fact," said Pash, putting the tips of his
fingers delicately together, "he was rather a good judge of jewels."
"And a pawnbroker," interrupted Hurd, dryly. "I have heard all about
that from Bart Tawsey, his shopman. Skip it and go on."
"I can only go on so far as to say that Miss Norman will probably
inherit a fortune of five thousand a year, beside the jewels contained
in those bags. That is," said Mr. Pash, wisely, "if the jewels be not
redeemed by those who pawned them."
"Is there a will?" asked Hurd, rising to take his leave.
Pash screwed up his eyes and inflated his cheeks, and wriggled so much
that the detective expected an acrobatic performance, and was
disappointed when it did not come off. "I really can't be sure on
that point," he said softly. "I have not yet examined the papers
contained in the safe of my deceased and esteemed client. He would
never allow me to make his will. Leases--yes--he has some
house-property--mortgages--yes--investments--yes--he entrusted me with
all his business save the important one of making a will. But a great
many other people act in the same strange way, though you might not
think so, Mr. Hurd. They would never make a lease, or let a house, or
buy property, without consulting their legal adviser, yet in the case of
wills (most important documents) many prefer to draw them up themselves.
Consequently, there is much litigation over wrongly-drawn documents of
that nature."
"All the better for you lawyers. Well, I'm off to look for your nautical
gentleman."
"Do you think he is guilty?"
"I can't say," said Hurd, smiling, "and I never speak unless I am quite
sure of the truth."
"It will be hard to come at, in this case," said the lawyer.
Billy the detective smiled pleasantly and shrugged his brown shoulders.
"So hard that it may never be discovered," he said. "You know many
mysteries are never solved. I suspect this Gwynne Street crime will be
one of them."
Hurd had learned a great deal about the opal brooch from Sylvia and
Deborah, and what they told him resulted in his visiting the Charing
Cross Hospital to see Paul Beecot. The young man was much worried. His
arm was getting better, and the doctors assured him he would be able to
leave the hospital in a few days. But he had received a letter from his
mother, whom he had informed of his accident. She bewailed his danger,
and wrote with many tears--as Paul saw from the blotted state of the
letter--that her domestic tyrant would not allow her to come to London
to see her wounded darling. This in itself was annoying enough, but Paul
was still more irritated and excited by the report of Aaron's terrible
death, which he saw in a newspaper. So much had this moved him that he
was thrown into a high state of fever, and the doctor refused to allow
him to read the papers. Luckily, Paul, for his own sake, had somewhat
calmed down when Hurd arrived, so the detective was permitted to see
him. He sat by the bedside and told the patient who he was. Beecot
looked at him sharply, and then recognized him.
"You are the workman," he said astonished.
"Yes, Mr. Beecot, I am. I hear that you have not taken my warning
regarding your friend, Mr. Grexon Hay."
"Ah! Then you knew his name all the time!"
"Of course I did. I merely spoke to you to set you on your guard against
him. He'll do you no good."
"But he was at school with me," said Beecot, angrily.
"That doesn't make him any the better companion," replied Hurd; "see
here, Mr. Beecot, we can talk of this matter another time. At present,
as I am allowed to converse with you only for a short time, I wish to
ask you about the opal serpent."
Paul sat up, although Hurd tried to keep him down. "What do you know of
that?--why do you come to me?"
"I know very little and want to know more. As I told you, my name is
Billy Hurd, and, as I did _not_ tell you, I am the detective whom the
Treasury has placed in charge of this case."
"Norman's murder?"
"Yes! Have you read the papers?"
"A few, but not enough. The doctors took them from me and--"
"Gently, Mr. Beecot. Let us talk as little as possible. Where did you
get that brooch?"
"Why do you want to know? You don't suspect me, I hope?"
Hurd laughed. "No. You have been in this ward all the time. But as the
brooch was used cruelly to seal the dead man's mouth, it seems to me,
and to Inspector Prince, that the whole secret of the murder lies in
tracing it to its original possessor. Now tell me all about it," said
Billy, and spread out his note-book.
"I will if you'll tell me about Miss Norman. I'm engaged to marry her
and I hear she is ill."
"Oh, she is much better," said Hurd, pausing pencil in hand, "don't
distress yourself. That young lady is all right; and when you marry her
you'll marry an heiress, as I learn from the lawyer who does the
business of the deceased."
"I don't care about her being the heiress. Will you take a message to
her from me?"
"Certainly. What is it?" Hurd spoke quite sympathetically, for even
though he was a detective he was a human being with a kindly heart.
"Tell her how sorry I am, and that I'll come and see her as soon as I
can leave this confounded hospital. Thanks for your kindness, Mr. Hurd.
Now, what do you wish to know? Oh, yes--about the opal serpent, which,
as you say, and as I think, seems to be at the bottom of all the
trouble. Listen," and Paul detailed all he knew, taking the story up to
the time of his accident.
Hurd listened attentively. "Oh," said he, with a world of meaning, "so
Mr. Grexon Hay was with you? Hum! Do you suppose he pushed you into the
road on purpose?"
"No," said Paul, staring, "I'm sure he didn't. What had he to gain by
acting in such a way?"
"Money, you may be sure," said Hurd. "That gentleman never does anything
without the hope of a substantial reward. Hush! We'll talk of this when
you're better, Mr. Beecot. You say the brooch was lost."
"Yes. It must have slipped out of my pocket when I fell under the wheels
of that machine. I believe there were a number of loafers and ragged
creatures about, so it is just possible I may hear it has been picked
up. I've sent an advertisement to the papers."
Hurd shook his head. "You won't hear," he said. "How can you expect to
when you know the brooch was used to seal the dead man's lips?"
"I forgot that," said Paul, faintly. "My memory--"
"Is not so good as it was." Hurd rose. "I'll go, as I see you are
exhausted. Good-bye."
"Wait! You'll keep me advised of how the case goes?"
"Certainly, if the doctors will allow me to. Good-bye," and Hurd went
away very well satisfied with the information he had obtained.
The clue, as he thought it was, led him to Wargrove, where he obtained
useful information from Mr. Beecot, who gave it with a very bad grace,
and offered remarks about his son's being mixed up in the case, which
made Hurd, who had taken a fancy to the young fellow, protest. From
Wargrove, Hurd went to Stowley, in Buckinghamshire, and interviewed the
pawnbroker whose assistant had wrongfully sold the brooch to Beecot many
years before. There he learned a fact which sent him back to Mr. Jabez
Pash in London.
"I says, sir," said Hurd, when again in the lawyer's private room, "that
nautical gentleman of yours pawned that opal serpent twenty years ago
more or less."
"Never," said the monkey, screwing up his face and chewing.
"Yes, indeed. The pawnbroker is an old man, but he remembers the
customer quite well, and his description, allowing for the time that has
elapsed, answers to the man who tried to get the jewels from you."
Mr. Pash chewed meditatively, and then inflated his cheeks. "Pooh," he
said, "twenty years is a long time. A man then, and a man now, would be
quite different."
"Some people never change," said Hurd, quietly. "You have not changed
much, I suspect."
"No," cackled the lawyer, rather amused. "I grew old young, and have
never altered my looks."
"Well, this nautical gentleman may be the same. He pawned the article
under the name of David Green--a feigned one, I suspect."
"Then you think he is guilty?"
"I have to prove that the brooch came into his possession again before I
can do that," said Hurd, grimly. "And, as the brooch was lost in the
street by Mr. Beecot, I don't see what I can do. However, it is strange
that a man connected with the pawning of the brooch so many years ago
should suddenly start up again when the brooch is used in connection
with a terrible crime."
"It is strange. I congratulate you on having this case, Mr. Hurd. It is
an interesting one to look into."
"And a mighty difficult one," said Hurd, rather depressed. "I really
don't see my way. I have got together all the evidence I can, but I fear
the verdict at the inquest will be wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown."
Hurd, who was not blind to his own limitations like some detectives,
proved to be a true prophet. The inquest was attended by a crowd of
people, who might as well have stayed away for all they learned
concerning the identity of the assassin. It was proved by the evidence
of Sylvia and Deborah how the murder had taken place, but it was
impossible to show who had strangled the man. It was presumed that the
assassin or assassins had escaped when Deborah went upstairs to shout
murder out of the first-floor window. By that time the policeman on the
Gwynne Street beat was not in sight, and it would have been easy for
those concerned in the crime--if more than one--to escape by the cellar
door, through the passage and up the street to mingle with the people in
the Strand, which, even at that late hour, would not be deserted. Or
else the assassin or assassins might have got into Drury Lane and have
proceeded towards Oxford Street. But in whatever direction they went,
none of the numerous policemen around the neighborhood on that fatal
night had "spotted" any suspicious persons. It was generally assumed,
from the peculiar circumstances of the crime, that more than one person
was inculpated, and these had come out of the night, had committed the
cruel deed, and then had vanished into the night, leaving no trace
behind. The appearance of the fellow whom Mr. Pash called the nautical
gentleman certainly was strange, and led many people to believe that
robbery was the motive for the commission of the crime. "This man, who
was powerful and could easily have overpowered a little creature like
Norman, came to rob," said these wiseacres. "Finding that the jewels
were gone, and probably from a memorandum finding that they were in the
possession of the lawyer, he attempted the next morning to get them--"
and so on. But against this was placed by other people the cruel
circumstances of the crime. No mere robbery would justify the brooch
being used to pin the dead man's lips together. Then, again, the man
being strangled before his daughter's eyes was a refinement of cruelty
which removed the case from a mere desire on the part of the murdered to
get money. Finally, one man, as the police thought, could not have
carried out the abominable details alone.
So after questions had been asked and evidence obtained, and details
shifted, and theories raised, and pros and cons discussed, the jury was
obliged to bring in the verdict predicted by Mr. Hurd. "Wilful murder
against some person or persons unknown," said the jury, and everyone
agreed that this was the only conclusion that could be arrived at.
Of course the papers took up the matter and asked what the police were
doing to permit so brutal a murder to take place in a crowded
neighborhood and in the metropolis of the world. "What was civilisation
coming to and--" etc., etc. All the same the public was satisfied that
the police and jury had done their duty. So the inquest was held, the
verdict was given, and then the remains of Aaron Norman were committed
to the grave; and from the journals everyone knew that the daughter left
behind was a great heiress. "A million of money," said the Press, and
lied as usual.
CHAPTER IX
CASTLES IN THE AIR
So Aaron Norman, the second-hand bookseller of Gwynne Street, was dead
and buried, and, it may be said, forgotten. Sylvia and those connected
with her remembered the old man and his unhappy end, but the public
managed to forget all about the matter in a wonderfully short space of
time. Other events took place, which interested the readers of the
newspapers more, and few recalled the strange Gwynne Street crime. Many
people, when they did think, said that the assassins would never be
discovered, but in this they were wrong. If money could hunt down the
person or persons who had so cruelly murdered Aaron Norman, his daughter
and heiress was determined that money could not be better spent. And
Billy Hurd, knowing all about the case and taking a profound interest in
it by reason of the mystery which environed it, was selected to follow
up what clues there were.
But while London was still seething with the tragedy and strangeness of
the crime, Mr. Jabez Pash came to the heterogeneously-furnished
sitting-room in Gwynne Street to read the will. For there was a will
after all. Deborah, and Bart, who had witnessed it at the request of
their master, told Mr. Pash of its existence, and he found it in one of
the three safes in the cellar. It proved to be a short, curt document,
such as no man in his senses would think of making when disposing of
five thousand a year. Aaron was a clever business man, and Pash was
professionally disgusted that he had left behind him such a loose
testament.
"Why didn't he come to me and have it properly drawn up?" he asked as he
stood in the cellar before the open safe with the scrap of paper in his
hand.
Deborah, standing near, with her hands on her haunches, laughed
heartily. "I think master believed he's spent enough money with you,
sir. Lor' bless you, Mr. Pash, so long as the will's tight and fair what
do it matter? Don't tell me as there's anything wrong and that my pretty
won't come into her forting?"
"Oh, the will's right enough," said Pash, screwing up his cheeks; "let
us go up to the sitting-room. Is Miss Sylvia there?"
"That she are, sir, and a-getting back her pretty color with Mr. Paul."
Pash looked suspiciously at the handmaiden. "Who is he?"
"Nobody to be spoke of in that lump of dirt way," retorted Deborah.
"He's a gentleman who's going to marry my pretty."
"Oh, the one who had the accident! I met him, but forgot his name."
Miss Junk nodded vigorously. "And a mercy it was that he wasn't smashed
to splinters, with spiled looks and half his limbses orf," she said.
"Why, bless you, Mr. Pash, could I let my sunbeam marry a man as wasn't
all there, 'eart of gold though he may have? But the blessing of
Providence kept him together," shouted Deborah in a burst of gratitude,
"and there he sits upstairs with arms to put about my lily-queen for the
drying of her dear eyes."
Mr. Pash was not at all pleased at this news and rubbed his nose hard.
"If a proper will had only been made," he said aggressively, "a proper
guardian might have been appointed, and this young lady would not have
been permitted to throw herself away."
"Beggin' your parding, Mr. Pash," said Deborah, in an offended tone,
"but this marriage is of my making, to say nothing of Heaven, which
brought him and my pretty together. Mr. Beecot ain't got money, but his
looks is takin', and his 'eart is all that an angel can want. My
pretty's chice," added the maiden, shaking an admonitory finger, "and my
pretty's happiness, so don't you go a-spilin' of it."
"I have nothing to say, save to regret that a young lady in possession
of five thousand a year should make a hasty contract like this," said
Mr. Pash, dryly, and hopping up the cellar stairs.
"It wasn't hasty," cried Deborah, following and talking all the time;
"six months have them dears billed and cooed lovely, and if my queen
wants to buy a husband, why not? Just you go up and read the will proper
and without castin' cold water on my beauty's warm 'eart, or trouble
will come of your talkin'. I'm mild," said Deborah, chasing the little
lawyer up the stairs leading to the first floor, "mild as flat beer if
not roused: but if you make me red, my 'and flies like a windmill,
and--"
Mr. Jabez Pash heard no more. He stopped his legal ears and fled into
the sitting-room, where he found the lovers seated on a sofa near the
window. Sylvia was in Paul's embrace, and her head was on his shoulder.
Beecot had his arm in a sling, and looked pale, but his eyes were as
bright as ever, and his face shone with happiness. Sylvia also looked
happy. To know that she was rich, that Paul was to be her husband,
filled the cup of her desires to the brim. Moreover, she was beginning
to recover from the shock of her father's death, and was feverishly
anxious to escape from Gwynne Street, and from the house where the
tragedy had taken place.
"Well," said Mr. Pash, drawing a long breath and sucking in his cheeks,
"you lose no time, young gentleman."
Paul laughed, but did not change his position. Sylvia indeed blushed and
raised her head, but Paul still held her with his uninjured arm, defying
Mr. Pash and all the world. "I am gathering rosebuds while I may, Mr.
Pash," said he, misquoting Herrick's charming line.
"You have plucked a very pretty one," grinned the monkey; "but may I
request the rosebud's attention?"
Sylvia extricated herself from her lover's arm with a heightened color,
and nodded gravely. Seeing it was business, she had to descend from
heaven to earth, but she secretly hoped that this dull little lawyer,
who was a bachelor and had never loved in his dry little life, would
soon go away and leave her alone with Prince Charming. Deborah guessed
these thoughts with the instinct of fidelity, and swooped down on her
young mistress.
"It's the will, poppet," she whispered loudly, "but if it do make your
dear head ache Mr. Beecot will listen."
"I wish Mr. Beecot to listen in any case," said Pash, dryly, "if he is
to marry my young and esteemed client."
"We are engaged with the consent of my poor father," said Sylvia, taking
Paul's hand. "I shall marry no one but Paul."
"And Paul will marry an angel," said that young man, with a tender
squeeze, "although he can't keep her in bread-and-butter."
"Oh, I think there will be plenty of bread-and-butter," said the lawyer.
"Miss Norman, we have found the will if," added Mr. Pash, disdainfully,
"this," he held out the document with a look of contempt, "can be called
a will."
"It's all right, isn't it?" asked Sylvia, anxiously.
"I mean the form and the writing and the paper, young lady. It is a good
will in law, and duly signed and witnessed."
"Me and Bart having written our names, lovey," put in Deborah.
Pash frowned her into silence. "The will," he said, looking at the
writing, "consists of a few lines. It leaves all the property of the
testator to 'my daughter.'"
"Your daughter!" screamed Deborah. "Why, you ain't married."
"I am reading from the will," snapped Pash, coloring, and read again: "I
leave all the real and personal property of which I may die possessed of
to my daughter."
"Sylvia Norman!" cried Deborah, hugging her darling.
"There you are wrong," corrected Pash, folding up the so-called will,
"the name of Sylvia isn't mentioned."
"Does that make any difference?" asked Paul, quietly.
"No. Miss Norman is an only daughter, I believe."
"And an only child," said Deborah, "so that's all right. My pretty, you
will have them jewels and five thousand a year."
"Oh, Paul, what a lot of money!" cried Sylvia, appalled. "Whatever will
we do with it all?"
"Why, marry and be happy, of course," said Paul, rejoicing not so much
on account of the money, although that was acceptable, but because this
delightful girl was all his very--very own.
"The question is," said Mr. Pash, who had been reflecting, and now
reproduced the will from his pocket, "as to the name?"
"What name?" asked Sylvia, and Deborah echoed the question.
"Your name." Pash addressed the girl direct. "Your father's real name
was Krill--Lemuel Krill."
Sylvia looked amazed, Deborah uttered her usual ejaculation, "Lor'!" but
Paul's expression did not change. He considered that this was all of a
piece with the murder and the mystery of the opal brooch. Undoubtedly
Mr. Lemuel Krill, _alias_ Aaron Norman, must have had good reason to
change his name and to exhibit terror at the sight of the brooch. And
the reason he dreaded, whatever it might be, had been the cause of his
mysterious and tragic death. But Paul said nothing of these thoughts and
there was silence for a few minutes.
"Lor,'" said Deborah again, "and I never knew. Do he put that name to
that, mister?" she asked, pointing to the will.
"Yes! It is signed Lemuel Krill," said Pash. "I wonder you didn't notice
it at the moment."
"Why, bless you, Mr. Pash, there weren't no moment," said Deborah, her
hands on her hips as usual. "Master made that there will only a short
time before he was killed."
Pash nodded. "I note the date," said he, "all in order--quite."
"Master," went on Deborah, looking at Paul, "never got over that there
fainting fit you gave him with the serping brooch. And he writes out
that will, and tells Bart and me to put our names to it. But he covered
up his own name with a bit of red blotting-paper. I never thought but
that he hadn't put Aaron Norman, which was his name."
"It was not his name," said Pash. "His real name I have told you, and
for years I have known the truth."
"Do you know why he changed his name?" asked Beecot, quickly.
"No, sir, I don't. And if I did, I don't know if it would be legal
etiquette to reveal the reason to a stranger."
"He's not a stranger," cried Sylvia, annoyed.
"Well, then, to a young gentleman whom I have only seen twice. Why do
you ask, Mr. Beecot?"
"I was wondering if the change of name had anything to do with the
murder," said Paul, hesitating.
"How could it," said Pash, testily, "when the man never expected to be
murdered?"
"Beggin' your parding, Mr. Pash, but you're all out," said Deborah.
"Master did expect to have his throat cut, or his 'ead knocked orf, or
his inside removed--"
"Deborah," cried Paul, hastily, "you are making Sylvia nervous."
"Don't you worrit, pretty," said the maiden, "it's only silly old
Debby's way. But master, your par as was, my pretty, went to church and
prayed awful against folk as he never named, to say nothin' of lookin'
over the left shoulder blade and sleepin' in the cellar bolted and
barred, and always with his eye on the ground sad like. Old Baileys and
police-courts was in his mind, say what you like."
"I say nothing," rejoined Pash, putting on his hat and hopping to the
door. "Mr. Lemuel Krill did not honor me with his confidence so far. He
came here, over twenty years ago and began business. I was then younger
than I am, and he gave me his business because my charges were moderate.
I know all about him as Aaron Norman," added Pash, with emphasis, "but
as Lemuel Krill I, knowing nothing but the name, can say nothing. Nor do
I want to. Young people," ended the lawyer, impressively, "let sleeping
dogs lie."
"What do you mean?" asked Sylvia, looking startled.
"Nothing--he means nothing," interposed Paul hastily, for the girl had
undergone quite enough torments. "What about the change of name?"
"Ah yes!" said the lawyer, inquiringly. "Will you call yourself Krill or
Norman, Miss Sylvia?"
"Seein' her name's to be changed to Beecot in a jiffy," cried Deborah,
"it don't matter, and it sha'n't matter. You leave Krill and its old
Baileys, if old Baileys there are in it, alone, my lovey, and be Miss
Norman till the passon and the clark, and the bells and the ringers, and
the lawr and the prophets turn you into the loveliest bride as ever
was," and Deborah nodded vigorously.
"I wish father had mentioned my name in his will," said Sylvia, in a low
voice, "and then I should know what to call myself."
Paul addressed the lawyer. "I know little about the legal aspect of this
will"--
"This amateur will," said Pash, slightingly.
"But I should like to know if there will be any difficulty in proving
it?"
"I don't think so. I have not gone through all the safes below, and may
come across the marriage certificate of Miss Krill's--I beg pardon, Miss
Norman's--mother and father. Then there's the birth certificate. We must
prove that Miss Sylvia is the daughter of my late esteemed client."
"What's that?" shouted Deborah. "Why, I knowed her mother as died. She's
the daughter right enough, and--"
"There's no need to shout," chattered Pash, angrily. "I know that as
well as you do; I must act, however, as reason dictates. I'll prove the
will and see that all is right." Then, dreading Deborah's tongue he
hastily added "Good-day," and left the room. But he was not to escape so
easily. Deborah plunged after him and made scathing remarks about legal
manners all the way down to the door.
Paul and Sylvia left alone looked and smiled and fell into one another's
arms. The will had been read and the money left to the girl, thereby the
future was all right, so they thought that Pash's visit demanded no
further attention. "He'll do all that is to be done," said Paul. "I
don't see the use of keeping a dog and having to bark yourself."
"And I'm really a rich woman, Paul," said Sylvia, gladly.
"Really and truly, as I am a pauper. I think perhaps," said Beecot,
sadly, "that you might make a better match than--"
Sylvia put her pretty hand over his moustache. "I won't hear it, Paul,"
she cried vehemently, with a stamp of her foot. "How dare you? As if you
weren't all I have to love in the world now poor father--is--is de-a-d,"
and she began to weep. "I did not love him as I ought to have done,
Paul."
"My own, he would not let you love him very much."
"N-o-o," said Sylvia, drying her eyes on Paul's handkerchief, which he
produced. "I don't know why. Sometimes he was nice, and sometimes he
wasn't. I never could understand him, and you know, Paul, we didn't
treat him nicely."
"No," admitted Beecot, frankly, "but he forgave us."
"Oh, yes, poor dear, he did! He was quite nice when he said we could
marry and he would allow us money. You saw him?"
"I did. He came to the hospital. Didn't he tell you when he returned,
Sylvia?"
"I never saw him," she wept. "He never came upstairs, but went out, and
I went to bed. He left the door leading to the stairs open, too, on that
night, a thing he never did before. And then the key of the shop. Bart
used to hang it on a nail in the cellar and father would put it into his
pocket after supper. Deborah couldn't find it in his clothes, and when
she went afterwards to the cellar it was on the nail. On that night,
Paul, father did everything different to what he usually did."
"He seems to have had some mental trouble," said Paul, gently, "and I
believe it was connected with that brooch. When he spoke to me at the
hospital he said he would let you marry me, and would allow us an
income, if I gave him the serpent brooch to take to America."
"But why did he want the brooch?" asked Sylvia, puzzled.
"Ah!" said Beecot, with great significance, "if we could find out his
reason we would learn who killed him and why he was killed."
Sylvia wept afresh on this reference to the tragedy which was yet fresh
in her memory: but as weeping would not bring back the dead, and Paul
was much distressed at the sight of her tears, she dried her eyes for
the hundredth time within the last few days and sat again on the sofa by
her lover. There they built castles in the air.
"I tell you what, Sylvia," said Paul, reflectively; "after this will
business is settled and a few weeks have elapsed, we can marry."
"Oh, Paul, not for a year! Think of poor father's memory."
"I do think of it, my darling, and I believe I am saying what your
father himself would have said. The circumstances of the case are
strange, as you are left with a lot of money and without a protector.
You know I love you for yourself, and would take you without a penny,
but unless we marry soon, and you give me a husband's right, you will be
pestered by people wanting to marry you." Paul thought of Grexon Hay
when he made this last remark.
"But I wouldn't listen to them," cried Sylvia, with a flush, "and Debby
would soon send them away. I love you dearest, dear."
"Then marry me next month," said Paul, promptly. "You can't stop here in
this dull house, and it will be awkward for you to go about with
Deborah, faithful though she is. No, darling, let us marry, and then we
shall go abroad for a year or two until all this sad business is
forgotten. Then I hope by that time to become reconciled to my father,
and we can visit Wargrove."
Sylvia reflected. She saw that Paul was right, as her position was
really very difficult. She knew of no lady who would chaperon her, and
she had no relative to act as such. Certainly Deborah could be a
chaperon, but she was not a lady, and Pash could be a guardian, but he
was not a relative. Paul as her husband would be able to protect her,
and to look after the property which Sylvia did not think she could do
herself. These thoughts made her consent to an early marriage. "And I
really don't think father would have minded."
"I am quite sure we are acting as he would wish," said Beecot,
decisively. "I am so thankful, Sylvia sweetest, that I met you and loved
you before you became an heiress. No one can say that I marry you for
anything save your own sweet self. And I am doubly glad that I am to
marry you and save you from all the disagreeable things which might have
occurred had you not been engaged to me."
"I know, Paul. I am so young and inexperienced."
"You are an angel," said he, embracing her. "But there's one thing we
must do"--and his voice became graver--"we must see Pash and offer a
reward for the discovery of the person who killed your father."
"But Mr. Pash said let sleeping dogs lie," objected Sylvia.
"I know he did, but out of natural affection, little as your poor father
loved you, we must stir up this particular dog. I suggest that we offer
a reward of five hundred pounds."
"To whom?" asked Sylvia, thoroughly agreeing.
"To anyone who can find the murderer. I think myself, that Hurd will be
the man to gain the money. Apart from any reward he has to act on behalf
of the Treasury, and besides, he is keen to discover the mystery. You
leave the matter to me, Sylvia. We will offer a reward for the discovery
of the murderer of--"
"Aaron Norman," said Sylvia, quickly.
"No," replied her lover, gravely, "of Lemuel Krill."
CHAPTER X
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
Paul's reason for advertising the name of Lemuel Krill was a very
natural one. He believed that in the past of the dead man was to be
found his reason for changing his name and living in Gwynne Street. And
in that past before he became a second-hand bookseller and a secret
pawnbroker might be found the motive for the crime. Therefore, if a
reward was offered for the discovery of the murderer of Lemuel Krill,
_alias_ Aaron Norman, something might come to light relative to the
man's early life. Once that was known, the clue might be obtained. Then
the truth would surely be discovered. He explained this to Hurd.
"I think you're right, Mr. Beecot," said the detective, in his genial
way, and looking as brown as a coffee bean. "I have made inquiries from
the two servants, and from the neighbors, and from what customers I
could find. Aaron Norman certainly lived a very quiet and respectable
life here. But Lemuel Krill may have lived a very different one, and the
mere fact that he changed his name shows that he had something to
conceal. When we learn that something we may arrive at the motive for
the murder, and, given that, the assassin may be caught."
"The assassin!" echoed Paul. "Then you think there was only one."
Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he said. "I speak generally.
From the strange circumstances of the crime I am inclined to think that
there is more than one person concerned in this matter. However, the
best thing to be done is to have hand-bills printed offering the five
hundred pounds reward. People will do a lot to earn so much money, and
someone may come forward with details about Mr. Krill which will solve
the mystery of Norman's death."
"I hope you will gain the reward yourself, Hurd."
The detective nodded. "I hope so too. I have lately married the sweetest
little wife in the world, and I want to keep her in the way she has been
accustomed to be kept. She married beneath her, as I'm only a
thief-catcher, and no very famous one either."
"But if you solve this mystery it will do you a lot of good."
"That it will," agreed Billy, heartily, "and it will mean advancement
and extra screw: besides the reward if I can get it. You may be very
sure, Mr. Beecot, that I'll do my best. Oh, by the way," he added, "have
you heard that Mr. Pash is being asked for many of those jewels?"
"No. Who are asking for them? Not that nautical man?"
Hurd shook his head. "He's not such a fool," said he. "No! But the
people who pledged the jewels are getting them back--redeeming them, in
fact. Pash is doing all the business thoroughly well, and will keep what
jewels remain for the time allowed by law, so that all those who wish to
redeem them can do so. If not, they can be sold, and that will mean more
money to Miss Norman--by the way, I presume she intends to remain Miss
Norman."
"Until I make her Mrs. Beecot," said Paul, smiling.
"Well," replied Hurd, very heartily, "I trust you will both be happy. I
think Miss Norman will get a good husband in you, and you will gain the
sweetest wife in the world bar one."
"Everyone thinks his own crow the whitest," laughed Beecot. "But now
that business is ended and you know what you are to do, will you tell me
plainly why you warned me against Grexon Hay?"
"Hum," said the detective, looking at Paul with keen eyes, "what do you
know about him, sir?"
Beecot detailed his early friendship with Hay at Torrington, and then
related the meeting in Oxford Street. "And so far as I have seen," added
Paul, justly, "there's nothing about the man to make me think he is a
bad lot."
"It is natural you should think well of him as you know no wrong, Mr.
Beecot. All the same, Grexon Hay is a man on the market."
"You made use of that expression before. What does it mean?"
"Ask Mr. Hay. He can explain best."
"I did ask him, and he said it meant a man who was on the marriage
market."
Hurd laughed. "Very ingenious and untrue."
"Untrue!"
"Certainly. Mr. Hay knows better than that. If that were all he wouldn't
think a working man would warn anyone against him."
"He guessed you were not a working man," said Paul, "and intimated that
he had a _liaison_ with a married woman, and that the husband had set
you to watch."
"Wrong again. My interest in Mr. Hay doesn't spring from divorce
proceedings. He paints himself blacker than he is in that respect, Mr.
Beecot. My gentleman is too selfish to love, and too cautious to commit
himself to a divorce case where there would be a chance of damages. No!
He's simply a man on the market, and what that is no one knows better
than he does."
"Well, I am ignorant."
"You shall be enlightened, sir, and I hope what I tell you will lead you
to drop this gentleman's acquaintance, especially now that you will be a
rich man through your promised wife."
"Miss Norman's money is her own," said Paul, with a quick flush. "I
don't propose to live on what she inherits."
"Of course not, because you are an honorable man. But I'll lay anything
you like that Mr. Hay won't have your scruples, and as soon as he finds
your wife is rich he'll try and get money from her through you."
"He'll fail then," rejoined Beecot, calmly. "I am not up to your London
ways, perhaps, but I am not quite such a fool. Perhaps you will
enlighten me as you say."
Hurd nodded and caught his smooth chin with his finger and thumb. "A man
on the market," he explained slowly, "is a social highwayman."
"I am still in the dark, Hurd."
"Well, to be more particular, Hay is one of those well-dressed
blackguards who live on mugs. He has no money--"
"I beg your pardon, he told me himself that his uncle had left him a
thousand a year."
"Pooh, he might as well have doubled the sum and increased the value of
the lie. He hasn't a penny. What he did have, he got through pretty
quickly in order to buy his experience. Now that he is hard up he
practises on others what was practised on himself. Hay is well-bred,
good-looking, well-dressed and plausible. He has well-furnished rooms
and keeps a valet. He goes into rather shady society, as decent people,
having found him out, won't have anything to do with him. But he is a
card-sharper and a fraudulent company-promoter. He'll borrow money from
any juggins who is ass enough to lend it to him. He haunts Piccadilly,
Bond Street and the Burlington Arcade, and is always smart, and bland,
and fascinating. If he sees a likely victim he makes his acquaintance in
a hundred ways, and then proceeds to fleece him. In a word, Mr. Beecot,
you may put it that Mr. Hay is Captain Hawk, and those he swindles are
pigeons."
Paul was quite startled by this revelation, and it was painful to hear
it of an old school friend. "He does not look like a man of that sort,"
he remonstrated.
"It's not his business to look like a man of that sort," rejoined the
detective. "He masks his batteries. All the same he is one of the most
dangerous men on the market at the present in town. A young peer whom he
plucked two years ago lost everything to him, and got into trouble over
some woman. It was a nasty case and Hay was mixed up in it. The
relatives of the victim--I needn't give his title--asked me to put
things right. I got the young nobleman away, and he is now travelling to
acquire the sense he so sadly needed. I have given Mr. Hay a warning
once or twice, and he knows that he is being watched by us. When he
slips, as he is bound to do, sooner or later, then he'll have to deal
with me. Oh I know how he hunts for clients in fashionable hotels, smart
restaurants, theatres and such-like places. He is clever, and although
he has fleeced several lambs since he plucked the pigeon I saved, he
has, as yet, been too clever to be caught. When I saw you with him, Mr.
Beecot, I thought it just as well to put you on your guard."
"I fear he'll get little out of me," said Paul. "I am too poor."
"You are rich now through your promised wife, and Hay will find it out."
"I repeat that Miss Norman's money has nothing to do with me. And I may
mention that as soon as the case is in your hands, Mr. Hurd--"
"Which it is now," interpolated the detective.
"I intend to marry Miss Norman and then we will travel for a time."
"That's very wise of you. Give Hay a wide berth. Of course, if you meet
him, you needn't tell him what I have told you. But when he tries to
come Captain Hawk over you, be on your guard."
"I shall, and thanks for the warning."
So the two parted. Hurd went away to have the bills printed, and Paul
returned to Gwynne Street to arrange with Sylvia about their early
marriage. Deborah was in the seventh heaven of delight that her young
mistress would soon be in a safe haven and enjoy the protection of an
honorable man. Knowing that she would soon be relieved from care, she
told Bart Tawsey that they would be married at the same time as the
young couple, and that the laundry would be started as soon as Mr. and
Mrs. Beecot left for the Continent. Bart, of course, agreed--he always
did agree with Deborah--and so everything was nicely arranged.
Meanwhile Pash worked to prove the will, pay the death-duties, and to
place Sylvia in full possession of her property. He found in one of the
safes the certificate of the girl's birth, and also the marriage
certificate of Aaron Norman in the name of Lemuel Krill. The man
evidently had his doubts of the marriage being a legal one if contracted
under his _alias_. He had married Lillian Garner, who was described as a
spinster. But who she was and where she came from, and what her position
in life might be could not be discovered. Krill was married in a quiet
city church, and Pash, having searched, found everything in order. Mrs.
Krill--or Norman as she was known--lived only a year or two after her
marriage, and then died, leaving Sylvia to the care of her husband.
There were several nurses in succession, until Deborah grew old enough
to attend alone on her young mistress. Then Norman dismissed the nurse,
and Deborah had been Sylvia's slave and Aaron's servant until the tragic
hour of his death. So, everything being in order, there was no
difficulty in placing Sylvia in possession of her property.
Pash was engaged in this congenial work for several weeks, and during
that time all went smoothly. Paul paid daily visits to the Gwynne Street
house, which was to be vacated as soon as he made Sylvia his wife.
Deborah searched for her laundry and obtained the premises she wanted at
a moderate rental. Sylvia basked in the sunshine of her future husband's
love, and Hurd hunted for the assassin of the late Mr. Norman without
success. The hand-bills with his portrait and real name, and a
description of the circumstances of his death, were scattered broadcast
over the country from Land's End to John-O'Groats, but hitherto no one
had applied for the reward. The name of Krill seemed to be a rare one,
and the dead man apparently had no relatives, for no one took the
slightest interest in the bills beyond envying the lucky person who
would gain the large reward offered for the conviction of the murderer.
Then, one day Deborah, while cleaning out the cellar, found a piece of
paper which had slipped down behind one of the safes. These had not been
removed for many years, and the paper, apparently placed carelessly on
top, had accidentally dropped behind. Deborah, always thinking something
might reveal the past to Sylvia and afford a clue to the assassin,
brought the paper to her mistress. It proved to be a few lines of a
letter, commenced but never finished. But the few lines were of deep
interest.
"My dear daughter," these ran, "when I die you will find that I married
your mother under the name of Lemuel Krill. That is my real name, but I
wish you to continue to call yourself Norman for necessary reasons. If
the name of Krill gets into the papers there will be great trouble. Keep
it from the public. I can tell you where to find the reasons for this as
I have written--" Here the letter ended abruptly without any signature.
Norman apparently was writing it when interrupted, and had placed it
unfinished on the top of the safe, whence it had fallen behind to be
discovered by Deborah. And now it had strangely come to light, but too
late for the request to be carried out.
"Oh, Paul," said Sylvia, in dismay, when they read this together, "and
the bills are already published with the real name of my father."
"It is unfortunate," admitted Paul, frowning. "But, after all, your
father may have been troubled unnecessarily. For over the fortnight the
bills have been out and no one seems to take an interest in the matter."
"But I think we ought to call the bills in," said Sylvia, uneasily.
"That's not such an easy matter. They are scattered broadcast, and it
will be next to impossible to collect them. Besides, the mischief is
done. Everyone knows by this time that Aaron Norman is Lemuel Krill, so
the trouble whatever it may be, must come."
"What can it be?" asked the girl anxiously.
Paul shook his head. "Heaven only knows," said he, with a heavy heart.
"There is certainly something in your father's past life which he did
not wish known and which led to his death. But since the blow has fallen
and he is gone, I do not see how the matter can affect you, my darling.
I'll show this to Pash and see what he says. I expect he knows more
about your father's past than he will admit."
"But if there should be trouble, Paul--"
"You will have me to take it off your shoulders," he replied, kissing
her. "My dearest, do not look so pale. Whatever may happen you will
always have me to stand by you. And Deborah also. She is worth a
regiment in her fidelity."
So Sylvia was comforted, and Paul, putting the unfinished letter in his
pocket, went round to see Pash in his Chancery Lane office. He was
stopped in the outer room by a saucy urchin with an impudent face and a
bold manner. "Mr. Pash is engaged," said this official, "so you'll 'ave
to wait, Mr. Beecot."
Paul looked down at the brat, who was curly-headed and as sharp as a
needle. "How do you know my name?" he asked. "I never saw you before."
"I'm the new office-boy," said the urchin, "wishin' to be respectable
and leave street-'awking, which ain't what it was. M'name's Tray, an'
I've seen you afore, mister. I 'elped to pull you out from them wheels
with the 'aughty gent as guv me a bob fur doin' it."
"Oh, so you helped," said Paul, smiling. "Well, here is another
shilling. I am much obliged to you, Master Tray. But from what Deborah
Junk says you were a guttersnipe. How did you get this post?"
"I talked m'self int' it," said Tray, importantly. "Newspapers ain't
good enough, and you gets pains in wet weather. So I turns a good
boy"--he grinned evilly--"and goes to a ragged kids' school to do the
'oly. The superintendent ses I'm a promising case, and he arsked Mr.
Pash, as is also Sunday inclined, to 'elp me. The orfice-boy 'ere went,
and I come." Tray tossed the shilling and spat on it for luck as he
slipped it into the pocket of quite a respectable pair of trousers. "So
I'm on m'waiy to bein' Lord Mayor turn agin Wittington, as they ses in
the panymine."
"Well," said Beecot, amused, "I hope you will prove yourself worthy."
Tray winked. "Ho! I'm straight es long es it's wuth m'while. I takes
m'sal'ry 'ome to gran, and don't plaiy pitch an' torse n'more." He
winked again, and looked as wicked a brat as ever walked.
Paul had his doubts as to what the outcome of Mr. Pash's charity would
be, and, being amused, was about to pursue the conversation, when the
inner door opened and Pash, looking troubled, appeared. When he saw Paul
he started and came forward.
"I was just about to send Tray for you," said he, looking anxious.
"Something unpleasant has come to light in connection with Krill."
Beecot started and brought out the scrap of paper. "Look at that," he
said, "and you will see that the man warned Sylvia."
Pash glanced hurriedly over the paper. "Most unfortunate," he said,
folding it up and puffing out his cheeks; "but it's too late. The name
of Krill was in those printed bills--a portrait also, and now--"
"Well, what?" asked Paul, seeing the lawyer hesitated.
"Come inside and you'll see," said Pash, and conducted Beecot into the
inner room.
Here sat two ladies. The elder was a woman of over fifty, but who looked
younger, owing to her fresh complexion and plump figure. She had a firm
face, with hard blue eyes and a rather full-lipped mouth. Her hair was
white, and there was a great deal of it. Under a widow's cap it was
dressed _a la_ Marie Antoinette, and she looked very handsome in a
full-blown, flowery way. She had firm, white hands, rather large, and,
as she had removed her black gloves, these, Paul saw, were covered with
cheap rings. Altogether a respectable, well-dressed widow, but evidently
not a lady.
Nor was the girl beside her, who revealed sufficient similarity of
features to announce herself the daughter of the widow. There was the
same fresh complexion, full red lips and hard blue eyes. But the hair
was of a golden color, and fashionably dressed. The young woman--she
likewise was not a lady--was also in black.
"This," said Pash, indicating the elder woman, who smiled, "is Mrs.
Lemuel Krill."
"The wife of the man who called himself Aaron Norman," went on the
widow; "and this," she indicated her daughter, "is his heiress."
CHAPTER XI
A CUCKOO IN THE NEST
Paul looked from the fresh-colored woman who spoke so smoothly and so
firmly to the apish lawyer hunched in his chair with a sphinx-like look
on his wrinkled face. For the moment, so taken aback was he by this
astounding announcement, that he could not speak. The younger woman
stared at him with her hard blue eyes, and a smile played round her full
lips. The mother also looked at him in an engaging way, as though she
rather admired his youthful comeliness in spite of his well-brushed,
shabby apparel.
"I don't know what you mean," said Beecot at length, "Mr. Pash?"
The lawyer aroused himself to make a concise statement of the case. "So
far as I understand," he said in his nervous, irritable way, "these
ladies claim to be the wife and daughter of Lemuel Krill, whom we knew
as Aaron Norman."
"And I think by his real name also," said the elder woman in her deep,
smooth contralto voice, and with the display of an admirable set of
teeth. "The bills advertising the reward, and stating the fact of the
murder, bore my late husband's real name."
"Norman was not your husband, madam," cried Paul, indignantly.
"I agree with you, sir. Lemuel Krill was my husband. I saw in the
newspapers, which penetrate even into the quiet little Hants village I
live in, that Aaron Norman had been murdered. I never thought he was
the man who had left me more than twenty years ago with an only child to
bring up. But the bills offering the reward assured me that Norman and
Krill are one and the same man. Therefore," she drew herself up and
looked piercingly at the young man, "I have come to see after the
property. I understand from the papers that my daughter is an heiress to
millions."
"Not millions," said Pash, hastily. "The newspapers have exaggerated the
amount. Five thousand a year, madam, and it is left to Sylvia."
"Who is Sylvia?" asked Mrs. Krill, in the words of Shakespeare's song.
"She is the daughter of Mr. Norman," said Paul, quickly, "and is engaged
to marry me."
Mrs. Krill's eyes travelled over his shabby suit from head to foot, and
then back again from foot to head. She glanced sideways at her
companion, and the girl laughed in a hard, contemptuous manner. "I fear
you will be disappointed in losing a rich wife, sir," said the elder
woman, sweetly.
"I have not lost the money yet," replied Paul, hotly. "Not that I care
for the money."
"Of course not," put in Mrs. Krill, ironically, with another look at his
dress.
"But I _do_ care for Sylvia Norman--"
"With whom I have nothing to do."
"She is your husband's daughter."
"But not mine. This is my daughter, Maud--the legal daughter of Lemuel
and myself," she added meaningly.
"Good heavens, madam," cried Beecot, his face turning white, "what do
you mean?"
Mrs. Krill raised her thick white eyebrows, and shrugged her plump
shoulders, and made a graceful motion with her white, be-ringed hand.
"Is there any need for me to explain?" she said calmly.
"I think there is every need," cried Beecot, sharply. "I shall not allow
Miss Norman to lose her fortune or--"
"Or lose it yourself, sir. I quite understand. Nevertheless, I am
assured that the law of the land will protect, through me, my daughter's
rights. She leaves it in my hands."
"Yes," said the girl, in a voice as full and rich and soft as her
smooth-faced mother, "I leave it in her hands."
Paul sat down and concealed his face with a groan. He was thinking not
so much of the loss of the money, although that was a consideration, as
of the shame Sylvia would feel at her position. Then a gleam of hope
darted into his mind. "Mr. Norman was married to Sylvia's mother under
his own name. You can't prove the marriage void."
"I have no wish to. When did this marriage take place?"
Beecot looked at the lawyer, who replied. "Twenty-two years ago," and he
gave the date.
Mrs. Krill fished in a black morocco bag she carried and brought out a
shabby blue envelope. "I thought this might be needed," she said,
passing it to Pash. "You will find there my marriage certificate. I
became the wife of Lemuel Krill thirty years ago. And, as I am still
living, I fear the later marriage--" She smiled blandly and shrugged her
shoulders again. "Poor girl!" she said with covert insolence.
"Sylvia does not need your pity," cried Beecot, stung by the
insinuation.
"Indeed, sir," said Mrs. Krill, sadly, and with the look of a
treacherous cat, "I fear she needs the pity of all right-thinking
people. Many would speak harshly of her, seeing what she is, but my
troubles have taught me charity. I repeat that I am sorry for the girl."
"And again I say there is no need," rejoined Paul, throwing back his
head; "and you forget, madam, there is a will."
Mrs. Krill's fresh color turned to a dull white, and her hard eyes shot
fire. "A will," she said slowly. "I shall dispute the will if it is not
in my favor. I am the widow of this man and I claim full justice.
Besides," she went on, wetting her full lips with her tongue, "I
understood from the newspapers that the money was left to Mr. Krill's
daughter."
"Certainly. To Sylvia Krill."
"Norman, sir. She has no right to any other name. But I really do not
see why I should explain myself to you, sir. If you choose to give this
girl your name you will be doing a good act. At present the poor
creature is--nobody." She let the last word drop from her lips slowly,
so as to give Paul its full sting.
Beecot said nothing. He could not dispute what she said. If this woman
could prove the marriage of thirty years ago, then Krill, or Norman as
he called himself, had committed bigamy, and, in the hard eyes of the
law, Sylvia was nobody's child. And that the marriage could be proved
Paul saw well enough from the looks of the lawyer, who was studying the
certificate which he had drawn from the shabby blue envelope. "Then the
will--the money is left to Sylvia," he said with obstinacy. "I shall
defend her rights."
"Of course," said Mrs. Krill, significantly. "I understand that a wife
with five thousand--"
"I would marry Sylvia without a penny."
"Indeed, sir, that is the only way in which you can marry her. If you
like I shall allow her twenty pounds for a trousseau."
Paul rose and flung back his head again. "You have not got the money
yet, madam," he said defiantly.
Not at all disturbed, Mrs. Krill smiled her eternal smile. "I am here
to get it. There is a will, you say," she added, turning to Pash. "And I
understand from this gentleman," she indicated Beecot slightly, "that
the money is left to Mr. Krill's daughter. Does he name Maud or Sylvia?"
Pash slapped down the certificate irritably. "He names no one. The will
is a hasty document badly worded, and simply leaves all the testator
died possessed of to--my daughter."
"Which of course means Maud here. I congratulate you, dear," she said,
turning to the girl, who looked happy and flushed. "Your father has made
up to us both for his cruelty and desertion."
Seeing that there was nothing to be said, Paul went to the door. But
there his common sense left him and he made a valedictory speech. "I
know that Mr. Krill left the money to Sylvia."
"Oh, no," said t
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