"I don't know yet," I answered him. "It depends on whether I can get what I want by peaceful means; I'm going to try that first. After that, I'm going to surprise certain friends of ours – give them such a shaking-up as they'll remember to the end of their days."
"And what are you going to do to old Blowfield?" he asked; and I thought I saw in his face that he would relish anything that might happen to his master.
"What I'm going to do to old Blowfield, as you call him, won't bear thinking about," I said. "Now, I don't want you to get into trouble; you'd better cut off. I'm very grateful to you; I'm sorry if I seemed impatient. Good-night!"
He gripped my hand, and went downstairs. I followed him and let him out into the silent street; saw him flutter off round the corner like a long, awkward ghost. Then I closed the door and went upstairs again.
I own I was puzzled what to do. My own crude methods had failed hitherto; I must, if possible, meet subtlety with subtlety. Of what use was it for me to induce Debora to come willingly to me, if all my plans could be upset in a moment by Dr. Just, as they had been this day? Yet I knew that I must first go to that house in which she was imprisoned; my business with Zabdiel Blowfield could wait, I told myself fiercely.
I got a tram down to Highgate, cursing its slowness all the way; and so at last stood outside the house, not having yet made up my mind what to do. I opened the gate cautiously, and went into the grounds. I saw that the house, so far as the front, at least, was concerned, was in darkness. I knew that it would be madness to attempt to obtain admittance in the usual fashion; I determined to break into the house, as I had done once before.
I was on the very point of selecting my window, when I heard a rustling among the leaves close to me; I drew back and waited. There came into sight out of the shadows William Capper; but not the William Capper I seemed to have known. For this man stood alert and ready, and the face I saw in the light of the stars was the keen, watchful face I had surprised before. He seemed to be waiting for something; he, too, was watching the house. Determined to put the matter to the test, I stepped out quickly from my hiding-place and confronted him.
The instant change in the man was surprising; but this time it did not deceive me. I gripped the now drooping figure by the shoulder and shook him. He looked up at me with that vacant smile on his face, but said nothing.
"What's the game, Capper?" I asked quickly in a whisper. "Why are you pretending you don't understand things, and can't remember things? I hate this man Just, quite as much as you do; why won't you confide in me?"
For a moment I thought he was going to do so; he kept very still under my grip, and I knew that he was thinking the matter over carefully. It was almost as though I could see into his mind. But a moment later he seemed to come to some resolution; he looked up quickly, and shook his head, with that lost look again in his eyes.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "I don't remember."
"Yes, you do," I retorted roughly. "You're as sane as I am; and you've got some purpose in your mind – and I can guess what it is."
"You frighten me, sir," he said in a whisper. "I am old and feeble, and I have forgotten so many things. Please let me alone."
He did it so well, that for a moment I believed that I had not seen that change in him; at all events, I saw that I could do nothing with him, and I watched him as he drifted away among the trees and was lost to my sight. Then I turned my attention to the house.
But I found that every door and every window was strongly fastened and shuttered; evidently they had been expecting a visit from me. I had nothing with which I could effect an entrance, so that I merely raged round the place, in a futile fashion, in the darkness, wondering what I should do. Every now and then I thought I caught sight of the man Capper, dodging about in the shadows; but even of that I could not be sure. At last, in desperation, I went to the big hall-door and boldly rang the bell.
I waited for a long time, while I heard slight movements within the house; then there was a whispering behind the closed door. I had made up my mind that the moment that door was opened I would force my way in, at whatever risk. I prepared to rush the citadel now, by drawing back a little, where no light could reach me as the door was opened, so that I could force anyone who had answered my ringing to peer out. While I waited, I was certain that I saw Capper waiting, too, a few yards away.
My ruse succeeded. The door was opened a little way, and the voice of Martha Leach demanded to know who was there; then there was more whispering, and the door was opened a little further, and Martha Leach stepped out under the porch. I made one leap at her, and caught her in my arms; and before she quite knew what was happening, had literally rolled with her into the hall, keeping a tight clutch of her. In the confusion someone slammed the door, and I put my back against it.
I saw that it would be a matter of three to one, at the least, even though one of the three was partly disabled. The doctor had backed away as he saw us come flying in, and I think it must have been Harvey Scoffold who shut the door. I blurted out at once what I had to say.
"There's a young lady here – Miss Matchwick – detained against her will. Where is she?"
"Turn that fellow out!" shouted the doctor. "Two of you ought to be able to manage him, I should think. Turn him out!"
Now, it is a most undignified thing to be tackled by a woman; yet I am bound to confess that in the rough and tumble that ensued, Martha Leach did more than her full share. Bardolph Just had run back into the house, and had set a bell ringing; a couple of men-servants came rushing up. I did not want to hit the woman; but I longed for one blow at Harvey Scoffold, and as a matter of fact I contrived to get one or two really serviceable ones in on his rotund person. But by this time, while we were all scrambling about together, and while I was raising my voice in repeated shouts of "Debora," in the hope that I might attract her attention, the woman had literally wound herself about me, so that I was powerless. The door was pulled open, and this time we tumbled out instead of in. And as Martha dexterously released me only when I was outside, and contrived to trip me up very neatly down the steps, she was inside again, and the door closed, before I could get to my feet. Then I heard the bolts shooting into place, and knew that the victory was with them.
I had a mind to set the bell ringing again, in the hope to force them to open the door. But I had the good sense to understand that I should serve no good purpose in that way; I should, in all probability, bring some night policeman down upon me, when explanations would be difficult. For after all, on the face of it, you cannot very well demand that a young lady shall be fetched out at night from the house of a highly-respectable guardian by a stranger who can give no really good account of himself. And that, as you will acknowledge, was exactly the position of affairs.
Baffled, I went away again, and was fortunate enough to be able to get back to Barnet in the same fashion as before. You may imagine my frame of mind by the time I got to Uncle Zabdiel's house; I was in a state of ungovernable fury. I marched into the garden, and rang the bell violently, and waited. After a minute or two, during which I had repeated the summons, I heard a window raised above me, and, looking up, saw Uncle Zabdiel's wicked old head looking out. All about me was very quiet, for the house stood somewhat retired from an unfrequented road, and I could hear his voice distinctly.
"Who is it? What do you want?" he demanded.
"I want to come in," I said, stepping back a little from the door so that he could see me. "You know me, Uncle Zabdiel."
"I should think I do," he sneered. "Do you think I should be fool enough to let you in – you wild beast! – you bully! – I've too great a care for my own safety for that."
"You'd better let me in quietly," I warned him.
"I won't – I won't!" he almost shouted. "I mean to protect myself. And I'll tell you something else, my young friend," he went on, leaning further out of the window, and shaking a fist at me. "I've made up my mind to see you comfortably put away again."
"Indeed?" I retorted, "and how are you going to manage that?"
"I've written to the authorities, telling them that if they come here to-morrow night I can give them a full and true account of a certain convict called Norton Hyde, supposed to be buried in Penthouse Prison, but really very much alive. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! I've cooked your goose, my boy, and I shall sleep peaceful o' nights in future."
He slammed down the window, leaving me standing in the darkness, thinking long thoughts. I saw that it was as hopeless for me to get in here as it had proved to be at the house of Bardolph Just; I went sorrowfully out of the gate, realising that all was over. As I turned into the road, I almost cannoned against a man who seemed to be lounging there. He turned away his face quickly, and although for a moment I had a feeling that it was a face that was familiar to me, the thought merely flitted through my mind for a moment, and was gone as the man lurched away. I saw that he was dressed roughly, like a labouring man.
You may be sure that I did not sleep that night. I paced my room, wondering what I should do; I varied that only by seating myself at the window, and staring out at the sky, telling myself over and over again that all I had striven to do had come to naught. To-morrow the true story would be told to the world; to-morrow Norton Hyde would be a hunted man again, with three or four people interested in his capture, who would know all his movements, and could supply a dozen clues towards finding him. It was impossible for me to do anything to help Debora, because Bardolph Just's house would be one of the first places to be watched, if it came to a hunt for me. I was done.
And then it was that I came to a desperate resolution. I was homeless and hopeless, and I had failed; I determined that I would keep the appointment that night, and would meet those who were to see my uncle. I would give myself up to the authorities, and so end the miserable business by going back to my prison. There was nothing else for it; I felt that it was far better to close the matter once and for all time.
I got to Uncle Zabdiel's house after darkness had set in. Just as I turned into the road leading to it, I saw two men, respectably dressed in dark clothing, and with bowler hats, going along in front of me; my heart gave a little jump, for I thought I knew their errand. They came to the gate in the wall and opened it. I had determined by this time that I would waste no time, and so I came up with them as they passed into the garden. One of them turned and looked at me.
"What do you want, sir?" he asked.
"I've come to see Mr. Blowfield," I replied; for I had made up my mind to see the matter out in my uncle's presence.
The man said nothing, but joined his companion, who was standing before the door of the house, and who had just rung the bell. There was no answer to the summons, and after a time he tugged at the bell-pull again. In moving to do this he made a discovery.
"Why, the door's open," he murmured; then he pushed it, and stepped into the dark hall.
"Hadn't you better call out?" said the other man.
The first man lifted his voice, and called out sharply, "Mr. Blowfield! Mr. Blowfield!"
His voice echoed in a dreary fashion through the house, and seemed to come back at us. The first man had by this time touched a shelf which stood in the hall, and on which was a lamp. Looking about him sharply while he did so, he dexterously got a light and lit the lamp; then, with a glance at his companion, he stepped into the room which was the dining-room. It was empty.
I followed them from that room into the study, which again was empty. Then the first man, still carrying the lamp, after muttering something to his companion which I did not hear, began to ascend the stairs. I was the last of the trio, and I suddenly heard the first man cry out in an excited voice.
"Here, catch hold of this!" he exclaimed, passing the lamp down to the other man. "There's been an accident!"
I pressed forward then, and looked. Lying prone upon the staircase, with his head and shoulders hanging down over the top stairs, lay Uncle Zabdiel. Beside him was a heavy stick – that stick with which he had once threatened me – and his head and face were cruelly beaten in. Whoever had killed him had not been able to bear the sight of him afterwards, for the clothes from his bed had been dragged out of the room and pulled across him.
Uncle Zabdiel's dream had come true.
CHAPTER XIII.
"THAT'S THE MAN!"
Half-a-dozen surmises seemed to rush through my mind at that first sight of Uncle Zabdiel lying dead. The first – that he had tried to drive too hard a bargain with Bardolph Just, and had been caught in his own net; the next, that that badly-used youth, Andrew Ferkoe, had turned at last and killed his oppressor. I thought, too, that perhaps some poor creature he had driven to desperation, and ground hard in his money mill, had chosen this way to pay his debts.
One of the men ran off in what I thought was an absurd search for a doctor; the other stood waiting, and keeping, as I thought, a watchful eye upon me. In truth, I was not altogether comfortable, for although Uncle Zabdiel's lips were for ever sealed, I thought it possible that he might have made the bare statement that his supposedly-dead nephew was alive, in writing to the authorities. In which case, it might go hard with me that I should be seen in the neighbourhood of the house in which he had been so recently killed, and that house, too, with its front door open. The man had set down the lamp upon the landing, where it lighted up the dead man horribly; he now began to put a few questions to me.
"Had you an appointment with this gentleman?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes, I had," I answered. "An appointment on a matter of business. I was coming to the house, when I saw you and the other man on your way here. May I ask who you are?" For I thought it better to pretend ignorance, although I knew well that these must be the men for whom Uncle Zabdiel had sent.
"We are police officers," said the man, "and
we
had an appointment with Mr. Blowfield for this evening. It seems a pity that we were not a little earlier," he added.
"You might have been useful," I added drily. "What should Mr. Blowfield want with you?"
The man looked at me suspiciously, but did not answer. He turned to look at the dead man with a thoughtful frown on his face. "This is the sort of case that absolutely invites murder, in a manner of speaking," he said. "A lonely old man – probably without a soul in the house – pretty well off, I expect; that sort of thing soon gets spread about among the sort of people to whom it's of interest. Of course, I couldn't say off-hand; but I should judge that robbery was the business here, and that whoever did it has had to make a mighty quick exit, or they would scarcely have left the door as we found it. It's been a touch-and-go business, and, as I say, if we had been a little earlier the old gentleman might have been alive to tell us what he wanted to tell us."
Now, although I had been resolute in my determination to end the matter, and to go back to my prison, I found myself thanking my stars that the old gentleman had not been alive to say what he had to say. Not that I should ever have found it in my heart to do him an injury on my own account, and, indeed, I was a little horrified to find him done to death in this fashion; but you must understand how great a relief it was for me.
By this time the second man had come back, bringing with him a young doctor. The latter glanced quickly from one to the other of us, and then knelt down on the stairs to make his examination. The first police officer stood near to him, holding the lamp; I, with the other man, stood below. In a moment or two the doctor looked up, with pursed lips, and nodded quickly to the man with the lamp.
"Nothing for me to do here," he said quietly. "He's been dead about half an hour – scarcely more, I should think. A weak old man like this wouldn't stand much chance when he came face to face with a strong man armed with that stick. He's had two blows – one clean in front, and the other at the side. He must have died almost on the instant. Anyone suspected?"
The man with the lamp shook his head. "We've only arrived here a matter of minutes ago," he replied, "having been asked by the old gentleman to call here to-night."
"What for?" The doctor, who had risen to his feet, asked the question sharply.
"This Mr. Blowfield," answered the man in a perplexed tone, "has written to Scotland Yard, saying that if someone would call to see him he could give them information concerning a nephew of his – a man called Norton Hyde. This nephew robbed him some time ago, and was sentenced to penal servitude. He escaped, and committed suicide rather than be captured; so that I don't see what the old gentleman could have had to tell us."
I determined that I would strike in boldly for myself; it would seem less suspicious than keeping silence. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed, a little scornfully, "he's had that idea for a long time – he was always talking about it."
"What idea?" asked the doctor.
"The idea that his nephew was alive," I said. "I daresay you may remember the case of the young man?" I added.
"Perfectly," said the doctor. "I wonder where the old chap got that notion from?"
"We'd better go through the house, and see what has been disturbed," said the first man, moving forward with the lamp. Then suddenly, after a whispered word to his companion, he turned again to me. "Were you a friend of Mr. Blowfield?" he asked, and this time I saw the doctor also looking at me curiously.
"Oh, yes! I knew him well," I answered readily. "Believe me," I said, with a little laugh, "I am quite willing to give you every information in my power concerning myself. My name is John New, and I am lodging quite near here. I have been in the habit of coming backwards and forwards on various occasions; as you know, I came in just behind you to-night."
"That's true enough, sir," said the other man.
Now all this time I had quite forgotten the boy Andrew Ferkoe; and suddenly it leapt into my mind that instead of being in the house, as he should properly have been, we had seen nothing of him. My heart sank at that remembrance, for I liked the boy, and had been sorry to think how badly he was treated. I could sympathise with him more than anyone else could well do, for had I not suffered just as he had suffered, and had not I made shipwreck of my life because of this old man who had gone to his account? I felt certain now in my own mind what had happened; Andrew Ferkoe had turned at last upon his master, and had beaten him to death, and then had fled out of the house.
The man with the lamp turned at the door of a room, and looked back at me over his shoulder. "Did you know anything about his habits, sir?" he asked. "Did he live alone?"
I determined to lie. After all, they might not discover anything about the wretched boy if I held my peace. "Quite alone, I believe," I said. "There was an old woman used to come in to clean house for him, and cook his meals; but only for an hour or two a day."
"Just as I thought: this sort of party absolutely asks to be murdered!" he exclaimed.
We found the place in great disorder. Drawers had been wrenched open, and the contents scattered in all directions; desks forced, and cupboards burst open. So far as we could judge, my Uncle Zabdiel must have been in his bedroom at the time of the attack, and must have heard a noise, and come out, armed with that heavy stick of his. There could not have been any struggle, save in the wrenching away of the stick from his grasp; after that it had been a mere matter of the two blows, as the doctor had suggested. The robbery afterwards had been a hurried business, bunglingly done. The great safe in the corner of the study – that room in which I had toiled so many years – was untouched; and, from what I knew of my uncle and his ideas regarding property, I judged that the murderer had got but little for that risking of his neck. That he had tried to cover up the body from his own sight was obvious, from the fact that he must have gone back into the bedroom, and so have dragged out the bed-clothing to put over his victim.
"We'll go through the rest of the house," said the man; and I suddenly leapt to the remembrance that they must discover Andrew Ferkoe's room, and his bed, and must begin to put awkward questions to me. I was on the point of suggesting that I believed the other rooms to be empty; but, on second thoughts, I felt it best to hold my tongue, and to trust that the boy might yet escape.
So the four of us came to the door of the room, and the man with the lamp unsuspiciously opened it, and went in. He stopped with a gasp, and looked back at us.
"There's someone here!" he whispered. "In bed – and asleep!"
Wonderingly we went forward into the room. The man with the lamp bent over the bed and turned back the clothes. Andrew Ferkoe seemed to rouse himself from sleep, and to stretch his arms; he sat up and yawned at us. For my part, I felt that he rather overdid the thing. His face was white and drawn; but then, it was always that. I confess I was a little contemptuous of the cunning he displayed; I was not quite so sorry for him as I had been. There we stood, grouped about his bed, while he sat up and looked round from one to the other of us.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
The doctor gave a short laugh. "Matter enough!" he ejaculated. "Do you mean to say you've been asleep?"
"Of course," said Andrew Ferkoe. "What else should I go to bed for?"
"Do you mean to tell us that you've heard nothing to-night?" asked the man with the lamp sharply. "No struggling – no crying out?"
Andrew Ferkoe slowly shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "Who are you? I know that gentleman," he added, pointing to me. "What do they want, Mr. New?"
I began to have a sneaking admiration for the boy, even though I shuddered at him; I thought how wonderfully he played the game. I answered as calmly as I could.
"Your master has been murdered, Andrew," I said – "brutally done to death. Have you really been asleep? – have you heard nothing?"
"Nothing at all, sir," he said, scrambling out of bed, and standing ghostlike amongst us in his long night-shirt, and with his thin, bare feet and ankles showing. "I don't know anything about it."
He began to whimper, looking from one to the other of us in a terrified way; I began to have my doubts whether, after all, he was not sincere, and had not really slept through the horrible business.
"I thought you said that the old gentleman lived alone?" asked the police officer, turning to me.
"When I said that I'd clean forgotten the boy," I answered easily. "You see, I've never been here except by daylight; how should I know that anyone else slept in the house?"
That explanation seemed simple enough, and, in a fashion, satisfactory. I suggested to the man that Andrew Ferkoe should be allowed to dress; I pledged my word to look after him.
"You see, you can hardly leave the boy in the house alone, after what has occurred," I urged. "You have my address, and you can verify it if you like. Let me take the boy with me, and I will undertake to produce him for any enquiry at any time."
I saw that they hesitated; it was the doctor who put in the final word on Andrew Ferkoe's behalf. He had been looking at the youth curiously, had even put a hand on his shoulder, and had twisted him about to look into his eyes.
"I shouldn't think much suspicion would attach to our young friend here," he said. "A bit of a weakling, I should imagine, not very likely to do any harm to anyone. Certainly it won't do to leave him in this place. Get dressed, my lad," he added to Andrew.
As he turned away I heard him whisper to the man with the lamp, "He's been asleep fast enough. I doubt if the old man even cried out. The whole attack would be too sudden."
I waited with Andrew Ferkoe while he got dressed; the others went downstairs to move the body of Uncle Zabdiel. Once or twice I noticed that the boy looked at me in a furtive way. I began to think that if he had been innocent he would in all probability have said something, or have asked some question. He got into his clothes rapidly, fumbling a great deal with the buttons, as though his fingers trembled. Once he looked up, and opened his mouth as if to speak. I shook my head at him. "Better not say anything, Andrew," I said in a whisper.
He looked at me in a startled way, but finished his dressing without a word. We went out of the room together, and on the stairs I met the doctor and the two men, who were waiting for us. It seemed that one man was to remain in charge of the house, while the other walked with me to my lodging to see that the address I had given was a correct one. In a few minutes Andrew Ferkoe and I were walking along in silence, side by side, with the police officer a little in the rear.
In due course we came to my lodgings, and there the man left us. I roused up the landlady, something to her surprise, and told her that I must have another bed put into my room. I did not mean to lose sight of the youth until I had decided what to do with him.
The woman very obligingly got out a little camp bedstead that was stowed away in an attic, and I assisted her to rig it up in a corner of my room. Then she bade us "Good-night," and Andrew Ferkoe and I were left alone. And for a time there was silence, while I sat on the side of my bed and smoked, and looked at him.
"Why do you look at me in that queer way?" he asked at last, in a trembling voice.
"Look here, Andrew," I said solemnly, "let me say quite reverently that at the present moment there's just God and you and me in this room, and God understands a great deal better even than I do what you have had to put up with. Don't speak until I've finished," I exclaimed sternly, "because I want to give you a word of warning. If you want to tell me anything, let's hear it; if you don't want to tell me anything, go to bed, and try to sleep. But if you do speak – speak the truth."
He looked at me round-eyed, and with his mouth wide open, for nearly a minute; then he gasped out a question. "Do you – do you really think I did it?" he asked.
"I don't think about it at all," I answered. "I'm waiting for you to tell me – if you feel you want to."
"I didn't do it – I never touched him. I should never have had the strength or the courage," he began, in a shaking whisper.
"But you were shamming sleep," I reminded him.
"Of course I was," was his surprising answer. "What else could I do? I didn't know who you were, or who was coming into the place, and I'd seen enough in the way of horrors for one night to last me all my life." He shuddered, and covered his face with his hands, and dropped down on to h