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PURSUED BY THE LAW
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AUTHOR OF THE KING OF ANDAMAN, ETC.


NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1 899
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N0. 263
PURSUED BY THE LAW


K
PURSUED BY THE LAW_
BY
]. MACLAREN |COBBAN
AUTHOR OF THE KING OF ANDAMAN, ETC.


NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
I899
v1L


COPYRIGHT, 1899,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
All rights reserved.


CQNTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.—“ HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?”
II.—FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE . . . .
III.—A FAITHFUL SWEETHEART . . . .
IV.—“ CROWNER’S QUEST LAW ” . ‘ . .
V.+THE NEEDLE-GUN . . . . .
VI.-—MR. TOWNSHEND 0F JERMYN STREET .
VII.—SENTENCED . . . . . . .
VIII.—ON THE NIGHT EXPRESS . . . .
IX.—THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR . .
X.—ALONE ON THE WIDE WIDE MOOR! . .
XI.-A CHANGE OF CLOTHES . . . .
XII.-THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN
XIII.—A GOLDEN HAIR . . . . .
XIV.—BEN KNOTT’s LAD . . . . .
XV.—A LADY FAIR TO SEE . . . .
XVI.—THE IRON CURTAIN . . . . .
XVII.-“ STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL ”
XVIII.-—THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER . . .
XIX.—CAUGHT IN A TRAP . . . . .
XX.—IN STRANGE COMPANY . . .
XXL—THE TERRIBLE TELEGRAM . . . .
PAGE
13
25
as
49
59
71
81
XXII.—NELLY AND THE ACTRESS . . . .
92
102
114
126
136
I46
I 59
170
I81
189
203
216
227
V


vi PURSUED BY THE LAW.
CHAPTER
XXIII.—THE MAN AND THE DOG . . . .
XXIV.—REschD, AND YET IN DANGER. .
XXV.—NELLY SPEAKS . . . .
XXVI.—TOWNSHEND AS A QUICK-CHANGE ARTISTE
XXVII.—THE HUNTING THREE
XXVIII.—A WAYSIDE INN
XXIX.-—BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA
XXX—Two FALLS 0N SNOWDON
XXXI.—FOR A JUSTICE OF THE PEACE . .
XXXII.—C0N0Lu510N
PAGE
239
252
263
276
288
300
310
320
328
34I


PURSUED BY THE LAW.
CHAPTER I.
“HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?”
THUD! thud! thud! Clang! Thudl thud! thud!
C lang! It was an afternoon at the end of January.
Within the famous Fotheringay Engine Works on
the banks of the Thames a young man was working
alone in a small forge near the inner ofﬁce, marked
“ Strictly Private.” Three vigorous blows with his
hammer on a piece of soft white-hot metal, and then
a ringing drop on the anvil; three more on the
metal, and one on the anvil—and so on he contin-
ued till the cooling and hammered metal needed to
be thrust into the ﬁre again and reheated. He
blew the bellows, and shovelled the ﬁre together,
and the blaze illumined all his person—his well-
knit ﬁgure, neither tall nor short, but instinct in
every line and pose with energy and resolution,
his dark face, and his black hair and beard. He
was taking the white—hot bit of metal again from
the ﬁre when a lad entered and stood before him.
“Hallo!” said he. ~
“ There’s somebody wants to speak to you, Mr.
1


2 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
Graham,” said the boy, who was one of the mes-
sengers attached to the porter’s lodge.
“Tell somebody to go to the devil!” answered
Graham. “I’m busy.”
“‘It’s a gentleman, Mr. Graham,” said the boy.
“Oh,” said Graham, “if it’s a gentleman he
needn't.”
“ Needn’t what, sir?”
“ Go to the devil. But say I am very sorry: I
can’t see anybody till the bell rings at ﬁve o’clock.”
“But the gentleman’s here, sir,” said the boy.
At that the gentleman, who had been just out-
side the door, came forward.
“Oh,” said Graham, “it’s you!” A change
passed upon him. His face glowed and hardened
with indignation. “ You’ve found me again, have
you? ”
“ Yes, Jim, lad,” said the man, who was hand-
some and well dressed, but who had something un-
easy and insolent in his manner. Moreover, except
that he looked somewhat broken and debauched,
he was wonderfully like the young man. They
gazed upon each other an instant, Graham with
an ill—controlled indignation, the other with a trucu—
lence that was half—smile, half—snarl.
“ I can’t speak to you now,” said Graham, going
back to the ﬁre to reheat his metal. “This time’s
my master’s.”
“ My master’s!” re-echoed the man, with a
shrug. “ Imagine a Graham a common black-
smith ! ”


“HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?" 3
Graham returned to the anvil with the White—hot
metal in his hand. “There’s one Graham,” said
he, “that would be better under this hammer than
over it I ” And he set to hammering the metal and
making a shower of sparks which made the other
retreat.
_ “Very well, Jim, lad,” said he. “ I’ll wait till
after hours. Bye-bye.” And he went away, still
attended by the astonished porter lad, while Gra-
ham continued his ﬁerce and insistent hammering.
And that man was his father! To think of it!
The thought of it was so provoking and madden-
ing to Graham that he hammered till he scarce
knew What he did. Thud! thud! thud! Clang!
Thud! thud! thud! Clang! He hammered and
grew very hot, spite of his light clothing. He
paused to roll his shirt—sleeves higher above his
elbow, and disclosed an upper arm whose white-
ness a lady might envy—but not its bulging hard-
ness. Yet for a man’s it was a remarkably hand-
some arm. It was an arm that a sculptor would
have rejoiced in as a model for a Greek athlete’s:
it was not stringy, but ﬁrmly ﬂeshed, and yet it
had all the muscles distinctly marked. A beautiful
male arm and a powerful; for Graham was in the
ﬁrst ﬂush of manly beauty and strength, unsapped
and unsullied by any kind of dissipation. _
He thrust the thought of his father as far back
as possible out of sight. He heated and ham-
mered his piece of metal, and worked and shaped
it more and more gently and delicately, till it be-


4 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
came something which he looked at with pride,
and set aside to cool. Then he turned down his
shirt—sleeves, put ‘on his jacket (for he was care-
ful not to catch cold after his hot work), and pass-
ing from the forge he entered the private ofﬁce.
He sat down at a table in a corner, and pen and
ruler in hand, he drew, and calculated, and wrote_
ﬁgures and a description of something till the
winter’s light waned; and all the while the mul-
titudinous thud and clink and ring of hammers
and the rush of machinery sounded furiously round
him, and seemed to soothe and inspire, rather than
to disconcert him. When the dusk had gathered
so that he could not see to work he rose to turn
on the electric light; for he happened to be alone
in that inner sanctum sanctorum where the secrets
of the ﬁrm were kept. Before he lighted up he
turned for a moment to the window which looked
out upon the river, and contemplated its busy life.
A high tide was ﬂowing, and on its top came fuss-
ing along stout, noisy tugs, churning up the brown
water which broke over the bows of the big, laden
barges dragging at their tail. The increasing
lights on the Surrey shore winked across, like
friends, at him, and the lamps of the bridge gleamed
solemnly forth and were grandly reﬂected and
broken up in the fast-ﬂowing current.
He had just turned on the light and resumed his
work when the door opened and the head of the
ﬁrm—Mr. Moorhouse—entered. Both he and
Graham were North-country men, and they talked


“HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?” 5
to each other with a North-country friendliness and
a N orth-country accent.
“ Well, Graham,” said Mr. Moorhouse, “how is
it working out?”
“It’s getting along, I think, Mr. Moorhouse,”
said Graham, “like a house a-ﬁre."
“That’s the ticket,” said Mr. Moorhouse. He
rubbed his hands in business—like fashion together
as he went to his own desk, saying, “Just pulled
off a contract for triple condensers to put into the
cruiser they’re going to build down the river for
the Japanese Government! ”
“ O-ho, that’s good! ” exclaimed Graham, look—
ing up quickly from his work. “Now, maybe,”
said he, “ my new valve will have a chance!”
“ It shall, lad l—it shall!” said the master.
“ You get it done as fast as you can!”
At that moment the ﬁve o’clock bell of dis-
missal rang. Graham continued working at his
table for some minutes longer, while the head
i of the ﬁrm was engrossed with papers at his desk.
He waited, but no one came to seek him. Pres-
ently he gathered his papers up in a portfolio,
saying to the master: “I’m going to take the
sketches and plans home with me, and ﬁnish up
to-night.”
“ All right,” said Mr. Moorhouse half-absently,
and plunged again into his own papers.
“Good-night,” said Graham cheerfully, when
he had put on his coat.
“ Good-night,” answered Mr. Moorhouse, bare-


6 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ly looking up before he cast his eyes back to his
papers.
Graham went out with his portfolio of drawings
and plans under his arm. As he passed through
the lodge-way he bade good—night to the porter.
The porter thrust his head out of his window.
“That gentleman ain’t been back, sir,” said he.
“Oh, yes,” said Graham, halting, “that gentle-
man.” He scarcely knew what to say, for his
anger was awake again. “Did he say he would
come back? ”
“ N o, sir.”
“That’s all right, then,” said Graham.
“Well, you’ll excuse me, sir, but you’re just
the very moral of him; and he told me he was
your father. A ﬁne, pleasant-spoken gentleman,
sir, as ever I see.”
“ Oh!” said Graham, with involuntary bitter—
ness. “You think so?” Then, saying: “If he
comes again let me know,” he was going out into
the darkness. ‘
“ P’r’aps you’ll see him to-night, sir. He asked
me where you lived, and I told him.”
“You told him,” said Graham in surprise and
rage. “You infernal ass!” And he ﬂung out
into the dark of the street.
Anxiety, fear, horror ﬁlled heart and brain,
and drove him home with rapid steps to the little
house he occupied with his mother. His father
imight be there! The dark, handsome, insolent and
violent devil who had broken his mother’s life, and


“HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?" 7
would have broken and trampled on his had he
not ﬂed years ago when he was a mere boy
and taken his mother with him! The subtle, re-
lentless hound who had tracked them from town
to town, and made them pay heavy blackmail to be
free Of him—till again he had ﬂed and taken his
mother with him to this place where he now was!
That was three years ago, and the oppressor and
enemy had found them again! His mind seething
with dread, horror and indignation, Graham
reached his home.
The blinds were undrawn in the bow—window of
the little parlour as he stepped across the yard or
two of fore-court, and the ﬁrelight gleamed and
ﬂickered from within. All looked so peaceful, in-
viting and home-like that Graham thought that his
father neither was there nor could have been. It
was only then that he knew how tightened with
fear his heart had been from the slack sense of
relief that pervaded him. He put his latch-key
into the door, and was somewhat surprised that
the latch was already shot back and ﬁxed back,
and that the door was merely closed and not fas-
tened. He stepped into the dark passage, and
turned and shot the latch. He took from his
pocket a match to light'the gas—jet. Again his
heart was seized with dread: on the chair reposed
a strange coat and hat. He turned the handle of
the parlour-door and entered and then stood ar-
rested with a horrid fear.
The ﬁre burned brightly, with ﬂames that


8 PURSUED BY THE LAW. p
winked and ﬂickered to and fro, but the white
cloth was not laid for tea as usual, and the ordi-
nary table-cloth was dragged half-off, while in the
remotest corner of the little room his mother sat—
a tragic ﬁgure !—with pale, drawn, terror-smitten
face. Her hand was pressed to her cheek, her
mouth was piteously open, and her eyes—dark,
wide, horriﬁed !--were ﬁxed on something that lay
on the hearthrug! He stepped forward to light
the gas, and stumbled on a foot! That touch froze
his blood and made his ﬂesh creep. As a precau-
tionary act, that no possible eye without might see
what was within the room, before lighting the gas
he went to the window and lowered the blinds.
Then he lit the gas, and let his gaze seek the
hearthrug.
He saw a man’s head an inch or two from the
fender, with black hair and beard, and with fea-
tures ﬁxed as in death. At once he recognised his
father, understood the meaning of the deadly show,
and went to his mother’s side. Grimly calm
outwardly, but inwardly suffused with tenderness
and ﬁlial love, he sat down by her and took her
hand. She responded to the strength and warmth
of his grasp by a sympathetic shiver and by a
slackening of the tensely drawn nerves. She
withdrew, as with an effort, her gaze from the
awful object that was the centre of the scene and
after a long perusal of her son’s face recognised
him.
“ Oh, it’s James! ” she said.


“HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?” 9
“ Yes, mother, it’s me!” And he pressed her
hand. “Tell me! ”
Then she gave way. Her head sank on his
shoulder—the poor, dear head, prematurely grey—
she trembled like a nestling in the hand, clung to
her son, and poured out her grief.
“ Oh, James, you have come home, haven’t you?
Don’t be angry with me, dear. I didn’t do it!
I didn’t do anything. I was too frightened. He
was very terrible. He must have money, he said.
I told him I had no money but yours, and that he
should not have. I would not give him the money
you work so hard to earn, my dear! He said he
knew where it was,” and she pointed to the desk
on one side of the ﬁreplace, “and he must have
it. I stood there against the desk and he came at
me. He gave a trip on something, and said ‘ God! ’
and fell, and hit his head. Oh, I heard it hit the
fender, and my blood ran cold! And that’s all,
truly, my dear. I confess I was wicked enough
to wish him dead, and there he lies. But I
didn’t raise a little ﬁnger to him. Ask Liz, my
dear!”
“ Is she in? ” asked her son.
“ Who, my dear? ” asked the trembling and dis-
tracted mother.
“ Liz,” said he.
“ I don’t know,” she answered. “ I thought I
saw her at the door when he fell. I called, but
she didn’t come. And then I waited till you came
home! ”


10 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
Her son stepped out into the kitchen for the old
servant; but there was no one there.
“You are sure, mother,” said he, when he re-
turned, “ that you did not push him or anything?
It’s only me asking you, mother.”
“Push him, James! I never pushed him, or
struck him in my life. I couldn’t—though many
a time he’s done it to me.” And she shuddered.
“ Many a woman would have done it. But I never
had the spirit or the strength. He couldn’t say
I touched him.”
She turned her head and gazed anew on the
prostrate body, as if to question it. She shrank
and shivered. “He looks awful! He has never
moved! And there’s blood! Do you think he is
dead? Oh, it’s terrible for you, my dear! And
your tea is not ready, my dear! And I’m afraid
there will be trouble!”
These last sentences came from her all panting
and huddled, like a suggestion of the ruin she saw
lie before her.
Suddenly mother and son were smitten with a
fresh stroke of horror and fear. The presumably
dead body emitted a sound—a sound between a
sigh and a groan, such as a heavy sleeper will often
utter in the midst of his light breathing—and the
mother screamed in a sharp, shrill note, and sat
staring, while the son felt the hair of his ﬂesh stand
up. Had a doctor been present he would have said
that the sound was no evidence at all of lingering
life, but merely of the involuntary cooling and con-


“HAST THOU FOUND ME, 0 MINE ENEMY?” 11
traction of the muscles expelling air from the lungs.
But James Graham did not know that; and he
went and stooped over the body to feel the heart.
It was a horrible business, but he went through
with it: he always went through with everything
he set himself to do. He raised the head; the
neck Was cold, with the chill that comes from with-
in; there was a discoloured mark on the temple,
but little blood on the hearthrug. He undid the
waistcoat, and laid his hand on the heart; dead cold
had not quite supervened, but there was not the
faintest throb of life. James Graham considered
that his father was not the man to be overcome with
a syncope or faint; he must be dead beyond recall.
So the son rose again to his feet to face the con-
sequences.
“ Is he dead? ” his mother asked in a horriﬁed
whisper. .
Her son said neithe yea” nor “nay”; and
she, by a sudden revulsion of feeling and memory,
slipped to her knees on the ﬂoor, calling on her
husband’s name.
“O Robert, Robert!” she cried. “That this
Should have happened! 0 Robert! O Robert!”
A loud rat-tat sounded on the street door—in-
sistent, as if it were the repetition of a knock that
had been disregarded.
“Hush, mother!” said her son strenuously.
“ There’s some one knocking at the door! It must
be Liz. But why does she knock? She has a
key!”
l‘
/
2


CHAPTER II.
FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE.
WHEN Graham opened the front door he was
surprised and alarmed to see a tall and very gen-
tlemanly looking man arrayed in a fur coat and
a tall hat. (“A doctor! A coroner! A magis-
trate! ” ﬂashed through the young man’s thoughts.)
He had an uncommon air of ease, politeness and
distinction. He turned the ﬂash of a single eye-
glass on Graham, and in the light of the lamp the
young man saw that he wore a very heavy black
moustache, and that above it there was a hand—
some nose like the beak of a hawk. He spoke
with an educated accent, which was touched a little
with the drawl of a “ swell.”
“ Oh—er—ah, I beg pardon for troubling you,
but will you kindly tell me if Mr. Graham is
within?”
“ I’m Mr. Graham.”
“ Oh, quite so, I’m sure. But I mean the other
Mr. Graham.” (Young Mr. Graham shivered.)
“ I presume you are the son that my friend, your
father, tried to get an interview with this afternoon
at the Fotheringay Works? ”
I3


FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE. 15
“I am very much obliged. Ah—er—by the
way, if anything should arise—if he should come
back—you will remember my name is Townshend.”
“ I will.”
“ Letters always ﬁnd me if addressed to 25
Jermyn Street,” said Mr. Townshend.
Graham stared an instant. Why should letters
be mentioned to him?
“ Good-night,” said Mr. Townshend, and
walked away.
As he walked away, Liz, the faithful old servant
of the Grahams, came up. She was a little, thin,
wiry woman, middle-aged, but active as a ferret.
She was a native of Yorkshire, as any one might
have guessed who heard her talk. She had no
good looks, but she had strong affections.
“ Sakes, Mister James ! ” She exclaimed. “ W ho-
ever’s that?”
“Come in, Liz,” said Graham; “and let me
shut the door.”
She entered.
“ You haven’t been in and out again within the
last half-hour or so, have you? ” he asked.
“ No, never,” said she. “ I been out shopping.
I put catch up because I thought I’d be back afore
the missus had done with her nap, but this is ﬁrst
0’ me. Is aught amiss? ”
“ Something has happened,” said he.
“Eh,” said she, pushing on to the parlour,
“ summat ave does happen when I go out! ” She
had opened the parlour-door before he could say


16 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
another word. “ Not had your teas yet? ” she ex-
claimed. “ Eh, dear, deary! The mess that things
gets into if I ain’t to whoam ! ”
“Be quiet, Liz!” said Graham. She glanced
in wonder from his pale, grave face to the disor-
der, terror and woe depicted on his mother’s.
“ Look! ” said he, drawing aside the table-cloth.
“ Gracious mercy, Mister James!” she ex—
claimed. “ Here’s to do! ” Her shrewd, self—
possessed gaze took in the full scene, and then she
turned and closed the door. “However did it
happen? ”
A word or two of explanation was enough be-
tween them. Mrs. Graham was quickly becom-
ing incapable of speech or attention, and gave no
heed to either. -
“Eh, dear! eh, dear! ” Liz exclaimed, eyeing
the dead man. “ But he must ha’ just waited to
see me out o’ t’ house, and ta’en the chance to
pop in!”
The bitter thought came to James Graham that
Providence had offered him the Chance of speaking
with his father (and probably thus preventing this
catastrophe) and that he had refused it. What
was now to be done? At ﬁrst there had been in
the back of his mind the vague hope that the mat-
ter might be concealed; but now, with the visit
of that man Townshend, it was evident that con-
cealment was out of the question. Plainly, Town-
shend suspected, if he. did not know, that some-
thing strange had happened; and if he, and other


FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE. 17
friends of his father’s, never saw Robert Graham
again ' ! No; concealment was not to be
thought of. Concealment, followed by inquiry and
discovery, would be utter condemnation. More-
over, James Graham’s frank, strong nature
prompted him to openness; and after all it had only
been an accident, however strange and suspicious
the circumstances might appear. He glanced at
his mother, who was feebly holding out her hands
to him, while she could scarce speak for hysterical
sobbing.
“James,’ she said, “be good to me! Let me
go to my bed and die! I would like to die, James,
and be done with it all!”
“ No, no, mother,” said he, with an effort at
cheerfulness; “we’ll have no talk of dying! It
will come all right! But thou shalt go to thy bed,
mother,” said he, using the dialect he knew she
loved, though she seldom used it herself, “and
compose thysen there! Come, mother! Put thy
arm about my neck! ”
He took her easily up in his arms, small and
thin as she was, and carried her off to bed, saying
in a low voice to Liz: “ Come and help me to put
her by.” When he had taken her to her bedroom
he left the faithful Liz to help her to undress, and
returned to the parlour. He sat down to think,
with his mother’s words—“ James, be good to
me! ”—sounding over and over in his ears. He
had no strong or poignant grief for his father. His
father had never been aught but a horror and of-

’


13 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
fence to him: a terror—a hideous terrorl—to his
mother, and a ruthless tyrant to him. Why then
should he grieve for him? Indeed, had he not
now cause for offence against him that, after all the
oppressions and cruelty he and his mother had en-
dured at his hands, they should be so terribly in-
volved in the catastrophe of his death?
His death? Yes; his life had been a cruel in-
fliction on them, and in his death he had not spared
them. How would the law view it? He wished
he could have clear light on that. He had a dread
of law and police; he suspected them of a ﬁendish
desire and ability to make the worst of appearances.
He knew there would have to be an inquest, with
all its sordid and vulgar publicity. It had been an
accident. But what would an examining doctor
say? And the police, who believed nobody and
suspected everybody, how would they take it?
What would it be called? But he insisted to him—
self that it had been an accidental death, and he
could not for a moment believe that what had hap-
pened could be so viewed and twisted as to be
called by any other name. It suddenly struck him
that his mother could not go through the prying
and publicity of an inquiry. An inquest, with ex-
amination and cross-examination concerning her
relations with her dead husband: she could not
endure that. She would be distracted with shame
and fear. No, at all costs his mother must be
spared—the poor, tortured, timid, terriﬁed mother,
who had been so much to him, whom he had be-


FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE. 19
friended and defended since ever he Was able.
Then out of the jumbled to and fro of his thought
there rose clear his duty, his privilege. And he
made his decision once for all.
Liz appeared, and found him in a strange com-
posure. _
“ How is she?” he asked.
“ Eh,” said she, “she’s queer. Happen she’s
light in t’head. She keeps slummering off and
waking up, and babbling and prattling 0’ her babby
boy !—her bonny babby boy l—meaning thoo, no
doubt, Mister James. Poor lass! She must be
wandering about long years ago. She don’t seem
to know aught that’s happened.”
“Thank God for that, Liz,” said he. “That’ll
make it easier.”
She stared at him as if she suspected him also
of wandering. “Now, seetha, lad, I’m going to
make a nice cup 0’ tea for you and her. But bain’t
you going to get rid 0’ that? ” She pointed with
dislike at the dead body.
“ No,” said he, shaking his head.
“ Not put it away? Bury it?”
“ No,” said he. “ What would be the good of
that? You saw that man at the door? That was
a friend of his asking after him! And there may
be more! No. It would be very much worse
to be found out, than to go through with it openly.”
“And you ain’t a-going to put it away? ”
“ No.”
“ You ain’t going to do aught with it?”


20 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
1‘ No.,!
“ Just a-going to let it be found like? ”
“ No. I’m going to tell the police that it’s
there.”
“ Lord 0’ mercy, help us! ” exclaimed the wom-
an. “And dost thou mean to tell me, James Gra-
ham, that thou’rt a-going to let thy mother be
ta’en up for that? They’ll say ’twas done 0’ pur—
pose! ”
That chimed disagreeably with his own disturb-
ing thoughts, and staggered him.
“They can’t say that!” said he; but he was by
no means sure.
“Oh, can’t they? ” said Liz. “And you’re
going to let her take her chance? ”
“ I’m not! ” said he. “ Just listen to me.” And
he earnestly ﬁxed her attention. “ I—me—I’m
the only person that saw that done.” And he
pointed at his father’s corpse, while the bewildered
woman stared from him to it. “ That’s what you’ve
got to get into your head! My mother knows
nothing about it. You went out, leaving her ill in
bed, and the door on the latch! I came in and
found my father waiting. We had high words!
My father came at me, tripped and fellj and then
that happened.”
“ May God forgi’e tha, James Graham! ” said
she, “but thou’rt a liar! Nobody ’11 believe tha!
And where’s the sense o’t? ”
“ Can I see this trouble put upon my mother,
woman?” he broke out. “Her trouble’s mine—


FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE. 2;
to go through with to the end whatever comes of
.it! And I’m glad she’s wandering, and knows
nothing about it! ”
“ And thou’rt a-going to take it on thysen? ”
“I’m going to say that only I was here!”
said he.
“ Thou’rt either a greater fool than onybody has
ever ta’en thee for, or thou’rt a better son, James
Graham, than I ever thought ony man could be!
And thou knows nought 0’ what may come o’t!
They may bring it in murder for aught tha knows!
Them police and lawyer chaps are up to aught to
mak’ folk a deal worse than they are! ” And she
sat down ﬁrmly and looked at him. “Ay,” she
broke out presently, “and what’ll thy sweetheart
ha’ to say about it? ”
“ Nelly,” said he, after pulling his beard an in-
stant in thought, “ will think as I do."
“ Eh?” said she. “ I’m none so sure 0’ that!
Wi’ sweethearts that’s up to aught, it’s t’lad ﬁrst,
and the rest nowheres! ”
“ I’m going to tell her,” said he, “ and then go
on to the police station. Are you going to get me
that cup of tea? ”
She rose. “I don’t like it the least bit! ” said
she. “ Thoo don’t know what thou’rt going into,
James Graham! And What will thy mother say
to me when she knows I ha’ let tha do'it? And
am I not as fair fond 0’ thee as I am 0’ her? Ha’e
I not nursed tha on my knee and gi’en tha what
thou cried for, James Graham?”


22 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
And the affectionate creature’s breast began to
heave and a sob broke from her.
“ Now, see tha, Liz,” said Graham sternly,
“ none 0’ that! I’m bound to do it, as tha knows.
There now, get me a cup 0’ tea! ”
“ Ah, dear now, ’ooney! ” she pleaded. “ Sure-
ly there’d be no more harm in digging a hole in
t’ cellar for that, than in digging a hole in t’ ceme—
tery! ”
They were both silenced by another knock, a
knock which Graham seemed to recognise.
“ I believe it’s Nelly,” said he. “ I’ll go.”
He went to the door and opened it, while the
faithful Liz hovered between the passage and the
horrible thing on the hearthrug. ,
“ It is you, Nelly,” she heard her young master
say. “ I was just coming round to see you. Wait
a moment, and I’ll take a turn with you.”
He returned into the parlour for his hat.
“Oh, Mister James,” wailed Liz, “ and you
ain’t had your tea! ”
“ Never mind,” said he hurriedly. “ See to
mother; I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“ Eh, dear! eh, dear! ” she said, as he went out.
“A wilful man mun ha’e his way! They didn’t
know aught about it that said ‘ woman ’! ”
The two lovers walked away arm in arm, Nelly’s
head barely reaching Graham’s shoulder. (“A
penn’orth of cloves,” was his pet joke about her
smallness, her sweetness and her warmth of tem-
per combined.)


FOR HIS MOTHER’S SAKE. 23
“ Is anything the matter, Jim dear? ” she asked.
“An accident has happened, Nelly,” said he.
“ My father’s dead !——-killed! ”
“ Oh, where?” said she.
“ In there,” he answered, jerking his thumb
over his shoulder. “ In our parlour. It’s very un-
fortunate.”
“Oh, yes, Jirn!” said she. “ But how did it
happen P—killed ? ”
“ He fell, and hit his head on the fender—never
stirred again!”
“ Oh, Jim! Fell?” she said. “ Pushed, do you
mean? Knocked down? Or what?”
“He seemed to trip and fall heavily,” was his
answer.
He had at ﬁrst intended not to tell her about
his mother; but thus intimately close to her who
was truth incarnate, he was compelled to tell her
all and trust her with his decision. He related how
he had ﬁrst seen his father for a moment at the
works, and then how he had gone home to ﬁnd him
dead on the hearth.
“I don’t understand how it happened quite,”
said he; “ but mother’s too overcome, too ill, to go
through the trouble of it. I must keep her out of
it altogether; it would be her death! ”
“ What do you mean, Jim?” Nelly asked, in
fear.
“ I mean, Nelly dear, that I’m going to say that
it was I myself who saw my father and had a few
words with him.”


24 .PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“Oh, Jim!” she cried, looking up at him in
piteous wonder. “And what about you? ”
“Oh, nothing will come of it,” said he, affect-
ing a lightness he did not feel. “ They’ll see it was
an accident, and after an inquest they’ll ﬁnd it so;
and that’ll be the end of it.”
“And where are you going now, Jim?” she
asked, as they came out into the highroad.
“To the police—station,” he answered, “to tell
them. Wait here for me a minute, Nelly,” said
he, preparing to cross the road to the station, whose
blue lamp shone opposite. “I shall not be long.”
He ran across, and she watched him go with a
troubled heart. But she had complete faith in her
lover, and if he said nothing much would come of
it, why—nothing much would come.
She waited, and waited—but he did not return.


CHAPTER III.
A FAITHFUL SWEETHEART.
NELLY CLEMANCE waited for her lover’s return
till she was ashamed. When half an hour had
passed, and anxiety tugged terribly at her breast,
she ventured across the road to the police—station.
As she approached, a policeman in uniform, and
another who was not in uniform, came down the
two or three steps of the ofﬁce. On the impulse
she turned to them.
“ Excuse me,” said she, “ but a gentleman went
into your ofﬁce half an hour ago about a death
that has happened at his house.”
“ Party of the name of Graham, miss? ” inquired
the policeman.
“ Yes, that’s his name,” said Nelly.
“ Do you know anything about this death,
miss?” asked the other in plain clizthes. “If you
do you’d better come inside.” ‘
“ Oh, no!” said she. “I know nothing at all
about it. I only wanted to ask if Mr. Graham is
in there still.”
“Yes; he’s there, miss,” said the plain-clothes
man. “ And he’ll have to stay there till we come
back; he’s detained on suspicion.”
25


26 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“Oh!” cried Nelly. “Of what?”
“We can’t tell yet, miss, till we see.”
They were turning away.
“ Can’t I see him?” she asked.
They paused, and looked on her with interest
and pity.
“Afraid you can’t, miss,” said the uniformed
one. “ But you can ask the sergeant.”
They went away, and she entered. She made
her request of the office sergeant, who most per-
emptorily said: “ No, certainly not at present.”
And she went out, and hurriedly set off to the home
of her lover.
In that hour of trouble and terror Nelly Clem-
ance had no kindred of her own to turn to. She
was an orphan. Two years before her father (who
was a foreman at the Fotheringay Works) had been
killed in an accident. That had been a crushing
grief to her, for her father and she had been all in
all to each other. But she had bravely buckled to,
to earn a living. She gave music lessons, and on
the produce of these, added to a small pension paid.
her by the Fotheringay ﬁrm on her father’s ac—
count, she lived in lodgings in tolerable comfort.
It was at the time of her father’s death that she and
young Graham had been brought together, and the
lonely and struggling young man had become en-
amoured of the brave and lonely girl—all the more
warmly enamoured that she was of a most pretty,
piquant and captivating presence. Thus it came
about that she had no very intimate friends but
-


A FAITHFUL SWEETHEART. 27
the Grahams, and that she regarded Mrs. Graham
almost as her own mother.
She guessed that the two policemen she had
encountered at the door of the station had gone
to the house of the Grahams, and She ran all the
way thither, to be up with them. 	hen she ar-
rived they had not; so she had an opportunity of
coming to an understanding with the faithful Liz.
“ So you see,” said she to the jealous woman,
when she had repeated what Graham had told her,
“ I know all about it, and you and I must agree to
help each other through.”
“ He’s a good lad. He loves his mother,” said
Liz, with a tear in her eye, “ and thou’rt a real good
lass, too. God help us! ” Then in a whisper (their
talk was conducted in the passage) she asked:
“ Wouldst tha like to ha’ a look at it?” For Liz,
like all her order, found a horrible fascination in
death—especially in a sudden death, or a death by
violence.
“At the dead body, you mean?” gasped Nelly.
“ Oh, no! I couldn’t bear it!”
Liz looked at her in some wonder and disap-
pointment. “ Well,” said she wisely, “ there’s
some as minds and some as doesn’t. But where
wilt tha go and sit, while I talk to t’police? ”
“I’ll sit with mother, if I may,” said Nelly.
“ Eh,” said Liz, “ she’ll be no company. She’s
right of? t’head now; she just keeps slummering
and wandering about her babby boy! ”
Nelly went upstairs to sit with Mrs. Graham.
3


30 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
hold wi’ doctors. A cup 0’ hot water i’ t’ morning,
or a dose 0’ senna at bedtime: that’s doctor enough
for hus ! ” A
“ You’d better see her,” said the inspector to
the doctor.
They all went upstairs, except the plain-clothes
and the uniformed constables. Liz held the light,
and the doctor examined the poor stricken lady
who tossed and moaned upon the bed.
“ How long has she been like this?” asked the
doctor.
Then Liz knew that was the moment for lying
ﬁrmly. She nerved herself and looked deﬁantly at
the doctor—deﬁantly at the inspector.
“ She’s been queer all day,” she said. “ I made
her gan to bed after dinner, and when I put my
bonnet on to gan out shopping—there was no tay
i’ t’ house—I left her snoozing off nicely.” '
' “ But how long,” insisted the doctor, “ has she
been like this—unconscious of what’s going on
about her?”
“ Sakes!” cried Liz. “ Ain’t I telling of you?
I found her like that when I corned back. Happen
she’d heard summat 0’ t’ upset i’ t’ parlour! ”
“Well,” said the doctor, looking whimsically
at Liz, “ it’s not a case for hot water or senna either
this time, old girl! Your missus is in a high fever,
and if you don’t take care you’ll lose her. I’ll
send round some medicine at once, and I’ll come
and see her again later on in the evening.”
They descended the stairs again leaving Liz


A ‘FAITHFUL SWEETHEART. 31
with her mistress. Nelly asked the inspector if Mr.
Graham would now be allowed to come home. He
seriously shook his head, considering her in the
meanwhile.
“ N 0,” said he; “ he will not be allowed to come
to-night.”
Might she then go and see him?
Neither could that be allowed, he feared; and
again he considered her.
“ If he is a friend—a particular friend—of yours
and you wish him well, I don’t mind telling you
he is in a very tight place. If I were you I’d look
up whatever friends he has got to help him.” And
having said that he went off.
The uniformed policeman was left to keep watch
and ward over the house. Nelly was free to go and
come, and on a quick decision she went out to seek
James Graham’s employer, Mr. Moorhouse. The
house was in a very quiet neighbourhood, and she
was surprised and shocked to ﬁnd quite a crowd of
draggled women and children—=the kind of crowd
that always does smell out an excitement and gather
about it as eagerly as if it were a free tea-meeting
or a dole of blankets and coal—while the scandal-
ised genteel neighbours (to whom the Grahams had
had little to say) now and then dipped their heads
out of doors into the sensation, and then with-
drew them. The policeman stood outside the door,
indierrent and bulky, ignoring the seething excite-
ment, except that at intervals he took a step out
upon the pavement when the crowd pressed too


32 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
close and said in a deep and terrible voice, “ Now,
then, get out of it!” Upon which the children
about his feet would scurry away into the depth of
the crowd.
“Come now!” said he when Nelly came out.
“ Let the lady pass, will yer? ”
Nelly, almost in tears, but resolute, pushed
through the gaping, staring crowd, who demanded,
as she passed, “Who’s she? ”-—and tore along to
ﬁnd Mr. Moorhouse. She found him, and told him
the story of the case which her lover had taught
her, and also of the singular discovery and evident
suspicion of the police. Mr. Moorhouse listened
with surprise and perplexity.
“I ha’ known James well for three years,” said
he, “ and I never saw him give way to bad temper
or hurt a fly! Though, I suppose, he must ha’
had it in him! Eh, dear, dear! But it’s a bad busi-
ness, and I suppose it’s all up now for a long while
with that valve 0’ his! ”
While he spoke'he was getting his hat and over-
coat; he was willing and prompt to render what
aid he could to his subordinate. He returned to
the house with Nelly, and thence he went to the
police-station to seek an interview with Graham,
to receive instructions from him, and to act for
him as far as he was able. '
Nelly sat down, in the meanwhile, by the bed—
side of Mrs. Graham, to watch and wait, with her
head on ﬁre and her heart strung tight with anx-
iety. How foolishly and thoughtlessly we talk


A FAITHFUL SWEETHEART. 33
about woman being “the weaker vessel.” When
a man is caught in the toils of trouble he can com-
monly act—act—and so with the effort of struggle
relieve his mind and'keep it off strange imaginings.
But a woman in a similar case, what can she do but
wait—wait—be patient, and besuddenly engulfed
in terrors, and then struggle up to lay hold on
hope again; let fear threaten her heart and seek to
sip at the cup of her life and her love, and all the
while sit still and hold her tongue! Which situ-
ation, think you, needs the greater courage, the
ﬁner nerve? Nelly sat by the delirious Mrs. Gra-
ham, and thought of the strange and horrible situ—
ation ; and wonder, perplexity, fear and hope
haunted her mind and made it waver to and fro like
a ﬂame, while all the while the ﬁre of love and
devotion, of faithfulness and courage burned bright
and steady in her heart. She could not relieve her-
self by weeping: she could relieve herself with noth-
ing: she could but sit still and wait.
She heard the tramp of heavy feet below, and
the mutter and murmur of strange men’s voices.
Liz came up to her, and spoke in a whisper.
“It’s th’ undertaker’s men, ’ooney, to measure
for a cofﬁn! ”
Still she sat and waited and wondered. When
it was so late that she must go to her own lodg-
ings if she would not be shut out for the night, the
heavy footsteps returned. When she went down
to go home the parlour—door stOod wide open. She
turned her head to glance in. Liz was there and


34 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
a strange woman and strange men also. They
were doing something with the dead body; and
just as she looked it seemed to her that the ghastly
pale face with the black beard rose and ﬁxed its
glassy gaze on her. In horror she opened the
door and ﬂed.
“And he was my Jim’s father! He was my
Jim’s father!” she continued to repeat to herself,
without quite knowing what she meant.
When she came to herself, she thought what a
terrible thing for that man’s soul it would be, if it
could come back changed and made kinder, to see
the ruin it had wrought! It had blasted with terror
and loathing, during the life of its body, the crea-
tures it should have cherished most dearly, and now
the body, a thing of hatred and horror, was like to
work greater havoc still to those who should have
been so dear! For it was being set out for that
inquest on the morrow which would bring a new
and nameless terror to the son made in its own
image!


CHAPTER IV.
“CROWNER’S QUEST LAW.”
AGAIN it was evident how terribly and relent—
lessly the hands of Law and Police may be laid
upon an innocent man to his utter condemnation!
The Police and the Law began with an assumption
of the truth of his confession, and then their power-
ful machinery was set going to expand the meaning
of his confession, and to grind him to powder!
John Wormall was the name of the young ofﬁcer
who had discovered the candlestick under the sofa
in Graham’s parlour. I am particular to set down
his name, because we shall have more to do with
him. He was a smart young man, and he had one
ambition in life—to become a great detective. He
had, of course, no personal feeling about Graham,
but only the professional feeling that he was a man
to be proved guilty of more than he confessed to.
This Graham affair was the ﬁrst case of any con—
sequence in which he had had a leading hand, and ‘
he took pride in making it as complete and unmis-
takable as he could. He had made up his mind
what the crime should be called, and he got to-
gether his evidence very carefully to the end that it
35


36 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
should, without hesitation from the jury, receive
its proper name.
At twelve o’clock the coroner’s court was
formed in the billiard-room of the Red Lion. The
assembled jury were called over by name and
sworn.
“ Gentlemen,” said the coroner (a big man who
seemed to like his salary better than his duties,
and who had no gift of speech whatever)—“ you’ve
'met—impanelled—t’inquire—death of—of—of—a
man. Evidence will be given—given—er—and
you will give your verdict accordingly. Gentlemen
—ﬁrst thing,” said he, with a palpable sense of re-
lief, “ to view the body.”
Brought by the police, James Graham was wait-
ing for coroner and jury on their return from view-
ing the body. Most of the jury, being fathers,
looked with suspicion and disapproval upon the
pale-faced, black—bearded young man who was the
son of the body they had just viewed. They settled
down into their places, and then! the curious and
excited public (of bargees awaiting the tide, and
other idle and unoccupied folk) pushed into the
room.
First, the inspector made his sworn statement
how the young man, James Graham, appeared at
the police—station and declared to the effect that
his father and he were having words, and that his
father had tripped, fallen heavily on the fender,
and never stirred again. Then to James Graham
his own statement was read over. Being asked if
/~~_


“ CROWNER'S QUEST LAW." 37:
he had anything to add to or take away from it,
he answered, “ N0.”
“ Was your father drunk?” asked the coroner
—“ in liquor? ”
“ He might have been,” answered Graham;
“ he frequently was.”
After that, the evidence was set forth chrono-
logically, so to speak. It began with the porter
of the Fotheringay Works, who declared how a
gentleman (whom he had since identiﬁed as the
body) had asked at his lodge for Mr. James Gra-
ham and had been admitted, and so forth; “a
affable, well-spoken gentleman as ever he see—
quite the gentleman he was.”
The next witness, the boy who had conducted
the gentleman into James Graham’s presence, cre-
ated something of a sensation. The short and pas-
sionate scene between father and son had clearly
impressed the boy.
“ Mr. Graham looked at the gentleman as if he
could kill him !—told him to get out !—and to come
back if he dared after hours !—said he’d like to have
him under that ’ammer, meaning the' ’ammer he
was ’ammering with, and he hit the hot metal out
of the ﬁre very wicious ! ” '
Again the jury, fathers all, looked at James Gra-
ham, and made up their honest, British, judicial
minds that here was a villain—a beastly, low, ill-
tempered villain! It was plain he had been deter-
mined to “ do for ” his father !—the father whom
he had disgraced—or else why was he ﬁguring as


38 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
a superior kind of workman merely while his father
was “ quite the gentleman? ”
Liz was called, and said she had left her missus
in bed and gone out shopping, leaving the door on
the latch. Being asked by a juror if she was in
the habit of leaving the door “ on the latch ” when
she went out, she answered, “ No. But I had mis-
laid t’ key, and I couldn’t fetch t’ missus out o’
bed to let me in when I corned back, and I knowed
t’ master wouldn’t be in before me.”
Encouraged by that, another juror put another
question, through the coroner: might he take the
liberty to ask which she means by “ the master ”—
the father or the son? The son, of course, said
Liz; the father was no master of hers, nor hadn’t
been; and thank God for it, for he was “ a reg’lar
bad un ”—as bad as God ever made ’em. And so
she gave, at the instance of the coroner, a brief
and succinct history of the long persecution and
oppression practised by the deceased man upon his
wife and son, which impressed the jury with the
conviction that, after such provocation, the son was
sure to “go for” the father upon the ﬁrst occa-
sion, and that he had “ gone for ” him.
Then the doctor gave his evidence concerning
the wounds on the head of the deceased man, and
the length of time he judged he had been dead.
“ Did you think he had been drinking?” asked
the coroner.
“ No,” answered the doctor; “ I did not.” And
the jury looked reproach at James Graham.


“CROWNER'S QUEST LAW.” 39
Next came the ambitious young detective, John
Wormall, with his evidence about the ﬁnding of
the heavy brass candlestick, which was produced
amid profound sensation, and handed up with the
magnifying glass, for the inspection of the coroner.
The coroner said he did not see anything he
could swear to; but it did not matter.
James Graham had listened with complete com-
posure, and with something of carelessness, to the
evidence of the witness, until there came the men-
tion of the candlestick. That was the ﬁrst he had
heard of it, and his manner changed at once. He
became pale and uncontrollably excited. He
glanced quickly round from one face to another.
“ I declare, on my oath,” he broke out, “that
this is the ﬁrst I have seen or heard of the candle-
stick, and that I never had it in my hand yester-
day!”
The coroner warned him that whatever he said
would be used against him, and that he had better
keep silence till the right time; for the matter had
proved a—a thing—a case which—a case which
would not be for him to dispose of. He asked if
there was any more evidence, and Mr. Moorhouse
requested to be heard. He said he had known
James Graham for three years, and had the highest
opinion of him. He had never seen him lose his
temper. Besides, he was a clever engineer, and had
invented a valve that The coroner, interrupt—
ing, said that was not evidence; and forthwith he
put the whole matter to the jury.


4O PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ you have heard—heard
the evidence—death of the deceased, Robert Gra-
ham. If you are of opinion—death by accident—-
you will so ﬁnd. If you think—um—um—buzz
—wuzz ” (he was reading hurriedly from his text-
book on law) “ you will ﬁnd, on the contrary—er
—ah—umum—manslaughter.”
The jury retired to the lavatory and returned in
a quarter of an hour. The foreman stood in his
place and said they had agreed unanimously on the
ﬁnding that Robert Graham had died of a blow on
the temple, and that his son, James Graham, had
dealt the blow with a candlestick, but without in-
tent to kill.
“ Your verdict, then, gentlemen,” said the coro-
ner, “is manslaughter. Very good. I agree—-
quite agree.”
When the inquest was over, and while the
public—tide-bound bargees and other idlers—went
clamping and tramping off, James Graham, before
he had quite come to himself to understand what
was happening, was quietly and formally taken
into custody on the charge of causing his father’s
death; and he was suddenly startled by feeling cold
steel about his wrists, and hearing the snap of the
handcuffs. A cab was waiting outside the Red
Lion. He was hurried into it, with the young,
ambitious detective and a policeman to keep
him company, and was driven away to prison.
The remarkable combination of suspicious cir-
cumstances, a careless coroner, an ambitious


“ CROWNER’S QUEST LAW.” .4I_
policeman, and a stupid jury, had brought him to
that! .
Nelly Clemance, who was neglecting her day’s
music lessons, had sat bravely and fearlessly
through the inquest. At its overwhelming conclu-
sion she relieved herself by shedding a few quiet
tears. Then, drying her eyes, she resolved upon
another effort to see and comfort her unfortunate
lover. The polite inspector, to whom she had
spoken the evening before, was there, and to him
she addressed herself—Where was Mr. Graham
being taken to, and would they let his friends speak
to him now?
“ They’re taking him to Holloway,” said the in-
spector. ‘-‘ And I think they’ll let you see him.”
Going out, she met Mr. Moorhouse. She told
him her intention.
“ You’re a brave lass ! ” said he. “ Tell Graham
I’ll come to see him in th’ afternoon and bring a
good lawyer, wi’ me. Keep your heart up, my
girl,” he added,_patting her shoulder in fatherly
kindness; “we’ll get Jim Graham off yet. By all
accounts his father deserved a deal more than he
got, and happen by now he’s getting what he de-
served. I hope he is.”
She took a cab and pursued to Holloway. A
shiver of horror and depression seized her when
she was admitted into the silent, lowering and
gloomy prison, and conducted to James Graham.
.She resolutely cast the feeling off, lest she should
,affect him with depression; for she knew that he


42 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
was the kind of dark, atrabilious person who, once
made despondent, is sunk in the deepest gloom.
Contrary to her expectation, she found her lover
hopeful and even cheerful.
“The inquest!” he declared with contempt.
“ Did you ever hear anything like it? Would you
have believed it could have been so stupid and
absurd?”
“You don’t think, Jim,” said Nelly, “ that
mother could have taken up the candlestick and
used it, without knowing or remembering that she
did it? I have heard of such things happening
when a woman is very excited or terriﬁed.”
“ No, Nelly,” he answered. “I think the can-
dlestick was probably knocked down or rolled
under the sofa when he fell.”
“Perhaps,” said she, sadly wondering if others
could be convinced that that was the way of it.
“Cheer up, Nelly, my dear!” said he. “The
trial will bring me out all right; it must, with an
intelligent judge, an intelligent jury, and an intel-
ligent lawyer on our side. But I want to show
you this.” He took a letter from his pocket.
“That,” said he, “was pushed in at the window
of the cab as we were driving here. You see it’s
addressed to me. But they wouldn’t give it to me
till the governor here had ﬁrst seen it. Read it.”
Nelly opened the letter, and read as follows :—
“ MY DEAR SIR: I know, I understand, the po-
sition you have taken up, and I can guess why you


“CROWNER’S QUEST LAW.” 43
have taken it. Accept my homages. You have a
brave human heart—truly ﬁlial. It was an ass of a
coroner, and an absurdity of an inquest. The trial
should come out differently. From sheer admira-
tion of your conduct, I Wish to be of service to you.
I have a very clever solicitor who could conduct
your business Well, and who would, at my request.
Pray contrive to let me know if you will accept this
service. I am he who waited for your father yes-
terday.”
“Isn’t it an extraordinary letter?” he asked,
when she had ﬁnished the reading of it. He was
very excited.
“It is, Jim,” said she, looking it over again,
considering its handwriting and the turn of some
of its phrases. “I suppose it is from that gentle-
man you told me about, with the eye-glass and the
fur coat?”
“I suppose so,” said Graham. “Townshend,
25 Jermyn Street. He was a remarkable-looking
man. I wonder what he and my father had to do
with each other.”
Nelly still considered the letter. “ He writes,”
said she, “as if he really had seen something; he
evidently knows that you weren’t there at all—at
—at the time; don’t you think so?”
“Of course he does!” said Graham. “If he
was waiting outside, he might easily have seen
everything there was to be seen—for the blinds
were not down and the ﬁre was bright.”
4


44 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Why then has he not come forward to offer his
evidence?” asked Nelly.
Graham shook his head. “ I don’t pretend to
understand it,” said he. “But I’m glad there’s
somebody besides ourselves knows I didn’t do it.
I was almost beginning to wonder after all I heard
to-day whether I hadn’t really done it. Well,” he
added, still excited, “ you see, there's his letter, and
there’s his offer.”
“ But you won’t accept it, will you, Jim?”
“ N o. I won’t accept it; for I don’t know him,
or anything about him. But he may know of a
clever lawyer for us, if Mr. Moorhouse doesn’t ﬁnd
one.”
Thus they talked about the strange letter to
and fro; and at length they settled that Nelly
should write to Mr. Townshend, in Graham’s
name, thanking him for his sympathy, but declin-
ing his services.
The time allowed was soon up, and with a
murmured word or two of faith and trust, love and
hope, they parted.
But the sensations of the day were not yet at
an end. When Nelly returned home she went ﬁrst
to the Grahams’ house to see how the mother was.
There she found the detectives again, with the doc—
tor, making a new examination of the corpse. The
explanation of that she did not know till next morn-
ing when all the world read in the newspapers that
the police had made a fresh discovery upon infor-
mation anonymously conveyed. It was some little


“ CROWNER’S QUEST LAW." 45
while before it was fully revealed what that strange
information had been. This it was. A short
anonymous communication, written in a round
school-boy hand—which had a suspicious look of
being feigned—had been received by the police in-
spector through the post. It ran thus :—
“ You are all wrong. The young man didn’t do
it! It wasn’t done the way you think. Before
you put the man called Robert Graham under
ground look at him again. You will see that he
has been shot. You should have found that out
at ﬁrst.”


CHAPTER V.
THE NEEDLE-GUN.
THE result of that astonishing and mysterious
assertion, that Robert Graham had been shot, was
more astonishing still. The body of the deceased
Robert Graham was carefully explored by the
divisional surgeon. There was no sign of a bullet
or shot wound, and the surgeon was about to cease
his search, with the opinion that the anonymous
letter was a hoax, when he found on the left of
the back, in the neighbourhood of the heart, a
singular reddish mark, like an enlarged ﬂea—bite.
On examining that closely he found that the skin
was broken, and on ﬁngering more closely still he
discovered there was something buried there! A
second or two’s exploration with his instruments,
and he drew out a steel thing which was shaped
like a darning or carpet needle, but flattened and
rounded at the head! From the wound thus left
open ﬂowed a drop or two of blood and serum!
“ This is most extraordinary!” said the doctor.
“Shot? How could he have been shot with
this?”
The young and ambitious detective, Wormall,
46


THE NEEDLE-GUN. 47
in looking and searching around, found thrust into
the umbrella stand, among walking-sticks and um-
brellas, a small gun, something like a carbine. Its
barrel, however, was not a barrel in the ordinary
sense, but ﬁve or six steel tubes of the thickness
of tobacco pipes bound together. The bore of
these tubes was just great enough to admit such
a thing as the singular needle-shot.
“ I wonder,” said he, “if this has anything to
do with it.”
He inquired for the old servant, Liz (who was
dividing attendance upon Mrs. Graham with a hos-
pital nurse), and on her appearing, he asked her if
she knew whose the gun was.
“ Eh, to be sure I do,” she answered, not know-
ing, as yet, why they were in the house again.
“ It’s Mister James’s; he made it hissen, just for
play. For usual, it hangs there.” And she pointed
to two hooks on the wall above the umbrella stand.
“ Did you ever see him shoot with it?”
“Shoot say’st tha?” She was about to ﬂow
on with speech, but of a sudden she became sus-
picious that she was being pumped, and she broke
off with “ Never! Not I.” And she looked ob—
stinate and deﬁant.
The detective examined the gun, so did the
inspector, so did the doctor. How was it worked?
How was a shot ﬁred?
“There’s nothing like trying,” said the young
man, and going out into the back yard (to dissipate
'the sound of the explosion in the open), he pulled


48 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
the thing like a trigger and aimed at the back
door. There was a low hiss like that of escaping
steam, and a ping! And there, stuck deep in the
wood of the back door, was such a needle—shot
as had been extracted’from the body of Robert
Graham!
“ It’s an air—gun! ” exclaimed the doctor.
“Of a new kind,” said the detective; “a re—
volver.”
“ He must be a clever fellow,” said the inspector,
shaking his head. “I’m sorry for him; he’s in a
worse hole than ever now.”
“Must the coroner’s business be done over
again?” asked the young detective, with some un—
easiness. ‘
“The Treasury,” said the elder and more ex-
perienced man, “may get out a writ of ccrtiorari
for the coroner to sit again, but I don’t think so.
It ought to be good enough to let the young fellow
go on trial on the present charge, with this new
business to back it up.”
“ What I should like to know,” said the doctor,
“ is who thought it worth while to write that anony-
mous letter and give the young man away.”
“Ah!” said the two detectives; that and no
more. They eyed the doctor, and they eyed each
other; they each had an opinion—a theory——
which they were not at the moment prepared to
communicate.


CHAPTER VI.
MR. TOWNSHEND OF JERMYN STREET.
IT was plainly become a desperate situation in
which James Graham was placed. It was all the
more hazardous and exasperating that since he was
not truly the responsible person, since he truly had
seen nothing, he could give no explanation of the
new circumstances; he could only speculate con-
cerning them as others did.
As for his faithful sweetheart, little Nelly, she
was at her wits’ end when she knew of the
anonymous letter and the discovery ensuing there-
upon. And she could for some time discuss the
matter only with Liz; for her lover was not ac-
cessible, and Mrs. Graham, still tossing in her fever,
remained unaware of all that had happened and of
what was happening. And Liz did not help much
toward a solution of the mystery.
“I do wonder,” Nelly said, “if mother could
have ﬁred that thing off.”
“Not her!” said Liz. Then with conviction
and satisfaction: “It was nobbut a judgment on
that man ! ”
“ But even if she has done it,” said Nelly, pur—
49


SQ PURSUED BY THE LAW.
suing her own line of thought, “she couldn’t have
written the letter; that must have been written
by some one who saw it done—or, perhaps, who
did it!”
And her suspicion ﬂashed upon the strange gen-
tleman called Townshend of 25 Jermyn Street;
though why he should have done it she could not
guess.
“A man,” she continued to Liz, “ could easily
have came in quietly, for you had left the door
latched back.”
“ Now give over, ’ooney! ” said Liz. “ Wheer’s
t’ use 0’ turning thy head inside out guessing con-
undrums like them? It’s as plain to me as my
hand that it was t’ ﬁnger 0’ God Almighty! ”
“What?” said Nelly. “You mean that God
pulled the trigger and ﬁred the gun?”
“And what for not?” demanded Liz indig-
nantly. “ Bain’t God Almighty’s judgments won-
derful and past ﬁnding out, as t’ Book says? And
wasn’t Robert Graham just as bad as bad could
be?”
“And I suppose,” said Nelly ironically, “ God
Almighty wrote that letter too?”
“ Well,” cried Liz, “ and couldn’t He? He has
written a mort 0’ things about Moses and t’ proph—
ets, and it wouldna be so much wi’ one dip 0’ His
pen to write yon bit 0’ a letter!”
These views did not encourage Nelly to pursue
speculation any farther with the aid of Liz.
But, brave and resolute little heart as she was,


MR. TOWNSHEND OF JERMYN STREET. 5!
she formed a great and grave resolution. She had
already adressed a civil little letter, in her lover’s
behalf, to “ Townshend, Esq., 25 Jermyn
Street,” and she thought that, having done so
much, she might do more. Mr. Townshend was
’ evidently well-disposed to her lover—from Whatever
cause—and ready to do him a service; if she saw
him face to face, she might be able to judge what
kind of “gentleman” he was; might get some
guidance or light from him in the darkness of this
mystery; and, in Short, might derive several ad-
vantages which were not quite clear to her yet. At
any rate, she made up her impulsive and resolute
little mind to go to Mr. Townshend’s address, and
' she went.
Mr. Townshend, about seven o’clock that even-
ing, sat in his rooms in Jermyn Street, talking to
his “ man,” and keeping the thought of dressing in
his mind.
“ Yes, marquis,” said the man; “ and what jew-
ellery? ”
“ It’s at the Savoy—with Mr. Barnato and that
lot. No, Mortimer, we won’t be vulgar. I’ll wear
nothing but the Czar Alexander’s diamond ring.”
“ Yes, marquis,” said Mortimer (who though an
old valet, was active and attentive): “that will
be nobby. It will take the shine out of them.”
“ The devil!” exclaimed Mr. Townshend, who
was running his eye through the extra special of
The Globe. “ Here’s a new tip about that man
Graham! Read it, Mortimer.”


5'; PURSUED BY THE LAW.
Mortimer read the published news of the anony-
mous letter and the discovery which ensued there-
upon, while Townshend pulled his thick moustache
in careful thought. When Mortimer had ﬁnished
and handed back the paper, Townshend looked up,
tossing back the black lock which fell upon his
forehead, and showing, with that and his long
throat containing a very pronounced Adam’s apple,
a head strangely like that of a Polish fowl. That
construction of head and throat gave him a remark-
ably deep and vibrant voice, which in its higher
notes made you think of the sound of a fog—horn off
a dangerous coast.
“ What do you think of him, Mortimer ?—of his
chances after that?” he asked.
“Chances, marquis? I think he’ll have to be
one of us~and a lucky good chance, too! ”
“ I think so, Mortimer. ’Pon my soul, I’m sorry
for him.”
“ You are for everybody, marquis.”
“And a clever fellow, too!” Townshend con-
tinued, without heeding Mortimer’s remark. “Just
think of that gun, Mortimer—his own invention!
A real needle—gun! Perfect safety with it, eh?”
" Yes, marquis! ” said Mortimer, nodding in ad—
miration. “ But he’ll be one of us yet, marquis:
there’s no doubt about it. You’ll manage it, mar-
quis ! ”
“ Did I hear our bell ring, Mortimer?” said
Townshend.
“ I’ll see, marquis,” said Mortimer, and went off.


-MR. TOWNSHEND OF JERMYN STREET. 53
In a minute or so he returned. “A lady wishes to
see you, sir.”
“A lady?”
“Yes, sir; seems a nice enough little person.
But she has never been here before.”
“All right. Show her in. And, Mortimer!”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ Put my clothes out in there. I shall want to
dress in a few minutes.”
Mortimer was a discreet servant, with furtive
step and drooping eye, and after introducing the
visitor he retired so softly that he seemed to melt
away, like an unsubstantial ghost.
It was a little lady—~pretty and piquant—that
Townshend received with an impressive bow as she
crossed his threshold.
“ Perhaps it is rude of me,” said she in a tone at
once frightened but resolute, “to call on you like
this.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Mr. Townshend,
with another bow, and placed a chair. “ De-
lighted, Miss—er—? ”
“My name is Clemance,” said Nelly bravely;
“ I wrote a note to you on Mr. Graham’s account.”
“ Ah, to be sure—Miss Clemance,” said he; and
a new kindly politeness as well as a new attention
seemed to animate his manner and his voice.
“Won’t you put off that damp cloak? It is a
horrid wet night. Allow me.” He lifted the fur
cloak from her shoulders and spread it over the
back of a chair.


54 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ You are Mr. Townshend? ” said she, looking
at him in frank scrutiny, when they had sat down
opposite each other.
“ I am—at your service, Miss Clemance.”
“I heard from—from him—Mr. Graham—how
you appeared at the door that ﬁrst dreadful night,”
said she.
“Excuse me,” said he; “but do you come to
me from Mr. Graham?”
“ No,” she answered, a little put out and blush-

ing in her perplexity. “I have come just because
I suddenly thought I would. I thought—I
thought ”
“ Oh, be at your case, pray, about that. I only
wished to know if Mr. Graham had asked you to
come. If I can serve you, be assured I will.”
“ It’s him I want you to help, Mr. Townshend! ”
she broke out. “ You seemed so kind and generous
in the way you wrote to him I have ventured to
come and ask you! I am bewildered. I don’t un-
derstand this that has happened. Perhaps you do.
You know, I think—or guess—that Mr. Graham
had nothing to do with it at all; that it was all
over, whatever it was, when he got home—-
that——”
“ My dear Miss Clemance,” he interrupted, “is
it quite fair to put all that to me without Mr.
Graham’s permission? He went himself, without
any compulsion, I presume, to the police, and
made a certain statement; if he means to stick
to that statement—and I suppose he does—what


MR. TOWNSHEND OF JERMYN STREET. 55
good purpose can be served by our going be-
hind it?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” she said, clasping her
hands in her lap. “Perhaps I have done wrong.
But I know he is innocent, and I want to save him.
I would take his place if I could.”
“ Come, come,” said Mr. Townshend soothingly
and kindly. “Bear up. You are a brave young
lady, I’m sure. Between ourselves I don’t mind
admitting that I know Mr. Graham to be innocent.
That is very agreeable to know, because it makes
us admire him; but it doesn’t help us to get
him off.”
“ It may,” said she briskly, “ because you must
be sure he did not let off that gun ; who did, then? ”
“Ah, who?” said he, regarding her.
“ We can ﬁnd out, surely! ”
“ We can try. But we may fail. Let me point
this out to you, Miss Clemance. An ordinary de-
tective can no more work without a theory than
a—a clergyman can preach without a text. You
may be sure that the ﬁxed theory of the detectives
in this is that James Graham killed his father
either on purpose or by accident. A new fact more
or less won’t turn them away from that theory: it
will only make them squeeze the fact to ﬁt the
theory. Here they have little difﬁculty: the gun
was Mr. Graham’s own. And I venture to declare
that they have already made up their minds that
James Graham himself ﬁred that shot—if,” he
added, with his odd ﬂutter of a smile, “ you can say


56 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ﬁre a shot, when the business was done with air
and a needle.”
“But how unjust that is in them!” she ex-
claimed.
“ My dear Miss Clemance,” said he, “the busi-
ness of detectives is not to do justice, but having
got hold of a man to get him convicted. They
don’t mean any harm: it is just in the way of
business.”
“But,” she cried,. “ what about the letter?
Even if James might have ﬁred the gun he can’t
have written the letter! They must be very stupid
if they can’t see that! ”
“They are stupid. Most people are stupid.
And then you know the saying, ‘ None are so blind
as those who won’t see.’ ”
“ Do you really and truly think they won’t see
it?” she asked in dismay.
“ From all I know of that kind of person—and
I know a good deal, Miss Clemance--I should,
really and truly, say they won’t see it. But,” he
made haste to add, on noting how downcast she
was, “you mustn’t let that dishearten you. After
all, the matter will rest with the jury, and we must
get a clever counsel that will present things in
their proper light and their true relation, and con-
vince the twelve: I know the very man.”
“You seem to know everybody, Mr. Town-
shend! ” she exclaimed; “I mean everybody use-
ful. It is very kind of you indeed. I don’t know
why you are so kind.”


MR. TOWNSHEND OF JERMYN STREET.
“Well,” said he in his most sonorous, vibrant
tone, “ I have a weakness for courage; I like to
see a man—or a woman—brave enough to do some-
thing without counting the cost to themselves. I
consider Mr. Graham that kind of man, and I take
the liberty of admiring him. And then, in a case
like his,” said he, showing again that ﬂutter of a
smile under his thick moustache, “I can’t help
being something of a philanthropist.”
“ What are you really, Mr. Townshend? ” asked
Nelly impulsively. “Oh,” she cried, blushing, “ I
didn’t mean to say that! I was thinking it, and
it came out. I mean, I was wondering if you were
a great man of some kind—a great Government
ofﬁcial, perhaps; because you seem to know every-
body, and seem conﬁdent of this all ending easily
for James—Mr. Graham. Do you mind my asking
what you are?”
He laughed a little—a deep bark or two—and
pulled his moustache, and pushed back gently the
crest of black hair from his forehead.
“ I am,” said he, with that odd smile, “ -—er—a
Socialist, Miss Clemance.”
“Oh,” she cried with enthusiasm; for, being a
girl of warm heart and active opinions, she had
cultivated an admiration for that kind of person,
“ are you? Then you know Mr. Bernard Shaw?”
“ Shaw? Shaw? The Fire Brigade ?—I know
whom you mean: a man that writes; no; I don’t
know him.”
“ But he is a Socialist!”


58 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“Ah,” said Townshend, and again that smile
ﬂuttered, “I am a practical Socialist; he’s a theo-
retical one.”
These were the words which hung in Nelly
Clemance’s ear after she had left this man who
so strangely interested her, with his mystery and
his politeness, his kindness, and his evident sense
of power. As she descended the stairs she felt
pleased and satisﬁed with him and her interview;
and yet, when she came to reﬂect she had gained
nothing but a large though vague promise of help.
As Nelly descended the stairs she met ascending
a tall and fashionably dressed lady who stared at
her, and she wondered if she also were about to
visit Mr. Townshend.


CHAPTER VII.
SENTENCED.
“ MIss BOLSOVER, sir,” said Mortimer, usher-
ing at once the fashionably dressed lady into Mr.
Townshend’s presence.
“Oh!” said Townshend, looking at his watch.
“ Don’t—please don’t—look at the time, Fred,”
pleaded Miss Bolsover, who came pat upon Mor-
timer’s soft and furtive announcement; “it makes
me feel as if I were intruding, and I’m sure you
don’t wish me to feel like that.” And she laughed
a gay ripple of laughter, like Mrs. Bancroft in the
part of Lady Teazle, or of Lady Fairfax in “ Di—
plomacy.” She put up her veil, and threw open
the high collar of her sealskin coat, showing a well-
featured face, touched with colour which was not
native, a pair of ﬁne full grey eyes, and a mass
of bright hair, which in its exceeding dryness and
ﬁuﬂiness seemed not innocent of the dyer’s art.
“ My dear Florence,” said Townshend, “in half
an hour I ought to be sitting down at dinner in
the Savoy.”
“And, my dear Fred,” said Miss. Bolsover,
again laughing, “in half an hour I must be in my
5 59


6Q PURSUED BY THE LAW.
place on the stage; so that I am even in a greater
hurry than you. By the way, who was the little
person I met on the stairs? She seemed rather
pretty: I fear you’re a sad fellow, for all your pre-
tended indifference to ladies’ society.”
“Ah, yes,” said he, glancing at her without
embarrassment. “ I suppose you must have met
her. That was the young fellow Graham’s sweet-
heart—Bob Graham’s son, you know, who is in
prison on the charge of causing his father’s death.
She came to me, quite unexpectedly, to beg me to
help to clear up her lover’s case.”
“Dear girl!” exclaimed Miss Bolsover, her
manner changing to seriousness. “ How sweet and
devoted of her!” And there came the suspicion
of a tear in her eye. _“ But how did she know any-
thing about you? ”
“Well,” said Townshend, “I happened to send
him a note of admiration—admiration of his con-
duct. I have good reason to believe, you know,
that he’s innocent of the whole thing, and that he
took it upon himself to shield a woman—his mother,
in fact.”
Their looks met, Townshend’s eye-glass shining
like a lamp, something in the gaze of each holding
the other. .
“How odd!” said Miss Bolsover. “I have
suspected the same sort of thing myself. But it
is odder still that I should have come on much
the same errand as the young man’s sweetheart!
I don’t mean I’m in love with him. God forbid


SENTENCED. 61
that I should be in love with any man! But it is
monstrous that the young man should suffer even
if he had put an end to such a poisonous sweep as
, Bob Graham was! ” Her face grew pale with vin-
dictive passion, her voice rang loud and clear, and
her lips in their stage habit shaped every word with
distinct and vibrating energy. Townshend’s eye—
glass glimmered and shone as he regarded her and
pulled his moustache in thought. “I am grow-
ing very angry, you think, Fred,” she said, with
a laugh, and her tones lost their ringing steely
hardness and became soft as the ﬂow of milk.
“ But Bob Graham was not a nice man, now was
he?”
“Bob Graham,” said Townshend quietly, “had
some useful qualities, but he wasn’t a gentleman.”
“It is true, Fred,” said she, plainly putting a
restraint on herself. “He was not a dear, kind
creature like you; he had the eye of a vicious horse,
I know. But let us say no more about him.
Where’s the good? The point is,” and she laughed
a little forced laugh, “ that I come to the dear, good,
clever man now and say, ‘ Please, Fred, get that
young man off.’ ” .
“ Get him off! ” said Townshend, still pulling
his moustache.
“ I have an unaccountable, unreasonable desire
to see him out of this trouble, though I don’t know
him from Adam!” she ran on. “And I shall die
of a miserable, wretched, broken heart if you don’t
get him off.”


62 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“My dear Florence,” said he, surreptitiously
looking at his watch, “I may talk to you more
frankly than I could to that girl who has just
gone.”
For an instant she looked troubled; and then
she said: “Certainly. You have known her ﬁve
minutes; you have known me as many years.”
“Well, young Graham can’t be got off. The
cleverest pleader in London couldn’t get him off.
You have read the latest facts of the case, of
course?” She nodded. “Well, don’t you see,
granted the situation in which he puts himself, he
must have ﬁred that shot? He was there all the
time, by his own account; he must, therefore, have
been there When the gun was used, and yet he said
nothing'about it. Why? Because he used it him-
self! ”
“ Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed with concern;
“ I didn’t think of that. But what about the
letter?”
“He got his sweetheart to write it, stupidly
thinking in that way to set the police off on a wild-
goose chase after another person—I mean that is
the ofﬁcial view," said he.
“ Oh!” she cried. “ You really think so?”
“ I am sure of it,” said he.
“You are far too clever!” she exclaimed.
“But,” she continued quickly, “if he can’t pos—
sibly get off if he comes to trial, he must never
come to trial!” Townshend ﬂashed the light of
his eye-glass on her. “ You must get him out of
1


64 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
failed! Or, had he not tried? But had he the
means or the desire to try?
Whether or not he had the means or desire to
effect that result, he at least presently showed he
had both strong desire and adequate means to de-
feat the intention of the Law. He had promised
Miss Bolsover, and he won Miss Clemance to the
design, that Graham should not come to trial. His
plan was ready, and it was a sufficiently daring and
simply one; nothing less than to abstract Graham,
by a crafty device, from the prison van when being
driven to the court for his trial, and his agents were
prepared to carry the plan out, when it came to
nothing through the refusal of Graham to bear his
share in it.
“ No. I’m going to face the trial, Nelly,” said
Graham doggedly to his sweetheart, when she had,
in one of her periodical interviews at the prison,
set Townshend’s scheme before him. “ If I escape
like that I shall be a hunted outcast for ever. I
shall go through with it,” he said, “ and take my
chance of acquittal by an intelligent judge and a
sensible jury.”
“Oh, acquittal, Jim?” moaned his despairing
sweetheart. “Are you still hoping for that? Ev-
erybody says that is impossible.”
Prison had already had its due effect upon a
man like Graham. He had become obstinate and
morose, and alternately doggedly hopeful and hope-
lessly downcast.
“ Does everybody say so?” he asked bitterly.


66 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
to make him kind? No, no, Jim dear; though you
are in prison, and it is all a horribly dark business,
don’t forget, my dear, there are good people in the
world yet!”
“There is one at least!” said he, pressing her
hands to his lips, and' well-nigh weeping himself. '
“ I am a pig, Nelly! an ungrateful hog! Forgive
me! But I’ll go through the trial,” he maintained.
“I believe, Nelly, in the justice of my country,”
he continued more gently, “ in the common sense of
an English jury, and in the goodness of God!”
And nothing could move him from that.
But when the day of his trial came, Graham had
reason to be astonished how the justice of our coun-
try and the common sense of a jury may be per-
verted and confused by stupidity and prejudice—
prejudice which in his case took the monstrous
form of a foregone conclusion.
There is no need for us to linger over that trial
which Graham would face, in spite of more prudent
and cunning advice. The prosecution—the Crown
—urged all its points With the sharp and narrow
wisdom of those who are up to that kind of busi—
ness—dwelling little on the candlestick and more
upon the gun, declaring both wounds might have
been fatal, but giving priority to the needle—shot,
and ﬁnding motive for both in the blinding and
vindictive passion of the virtuous son against the
disreputable father. It seemed all simple and clear
enough. There was no suspicion—how should
there have been?-—that here was something that


SENTENCED. 67
criminal courts are not commonly called upon to
consider—the noble and voluntary self-sacriﬁce of
one human being for another—the self—sacriﬁce of
a son for his mother—the mother who still lay.
exhausted and ill, with no memory of all that had
' happened! Had the truth been known the court
A would have found on its hands a stranger, more
complicated and farther-reaching tragedy than it
' suspected.
The counsel for the prisoner urged what he
could—but what was the good Of anything he
could urge, when he was not able to say (he had
not even been told) that his client had been absent
when the deed was done.
The jury took a fairly lenient view, considered
the extreme provocation given to the young man,
and returned a verdict of “ Manslaughter.”
“ I can only repeat, my lord,” said James Gra-
ham, when asked by the recorder if he had anything
to say, “that I did not raise a ﬁnger against my
father, and that I do not know how or by whom
that gun was used against him! ”
That was felt by everybody to be too absurd a
statement for belief. Perhaps it tended to aggra-
vate the feeling of the judge against him. The
judge took occasion to read the young man a ser-
mon on his criminal iniquity—(judges are too fond
of thus going beyond their ofﬁce, which is to ad-
minister law, not to preach)-—and then pronounced
upon him the sentence of “ penal servitude %
teen years!” ‘ YRQPEQ, ._
1’ {’3’ or m5. ’ I)?”
5 1.‘ '-"i§i~'\i{ ‘-
\I,S>‘}:IIY\ q:
lan' 1.1“,
M/
\u. y.


68 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ My God!” exclaimed James Graham, in a low
but audible voice, turning pale with deadly horror;
he was too overcome with amazement to be angry.
“‘ My God! Fifteen years! Fifteen years!” He
gazed at the judge—at the jury—all round the
court. Were these really men, with heads to under-
stand, and bowels to feel compassion, or were they
devils let loose from hell to torture and destroy?
His warders touched him on the arm and led
him away, while the officials of the court were
fussing and babbling around in their preparations
for the next case.
If any of my readers should pause here to ex-
claim that it is incredible that a man like James
Graham should have been thus convicted and heav-
ily sentenced on such narrow grounds of circum-
stance and suspicion, I can only declare, with em—
phasis, that I am relating a case which actually
occurred.
A few days later poor, faithful Nelly Clemance
was at Wormwood Scrubs, having, by special per-
mission, her last interview with her lover before
his removal to Dartmoor or Portland. His mind
was wrapped in the blackest melancholy: he would
scarcely speak. Nor was there any opportunity for
free speech; for a warder was set near by, within
ear-shot and hand-touch of the convict and his
sweetheart.
But Nelly was there, trembling with a desperate
commission she had set herself to fulﬁl: she was
the bearer of a carefully written note from Mr.


SENTENCED. 69
Townshend to her lover, containing a plan of es-
cape for him. She had received instructions from
Townshend as to the best way of conveying the
note into Graham’s possession, and she had deter-
termined to carry them out. Townshend’s plans
were always characterised by simple audacity, and
Nelly was an agent worthy of him. ,
“ You will write to me, Jim, as soon as you can,”
Nellie was saying, while her hands trembled within
her muff, and her knees felt as if they would give
way: for the lovers were not allowed to touch each
other, nor to come within less than two feet of
each other.
“I will, Nellie,” said Graham sadly.
“Here, Jim,” said she, and made openly to
hand an obvious letter to him; but it dropped on
the ﬂoor between them.
“Come, miss,” said the warder, starting for-
ward, “that’s not allowed!” And he stooped to
pick up the letter.
Quick as lightning, a meaning glance shot from
Nelly to Jim; her hand went out over the warder’s
head and was met by Jim’s hand, and a quill tooth-
pick passed from the one to the other.
When the warder arose, with severity in his eye
and the letter in his hand, she said: “ Mayn’t he
have it? It is only about his mother’s illness!”
“ Not till the governor has seen it, miss,” said
the warder severely. “ And this having happened
I must stop your interview. Sorry, miss; but it’s
our orders.”


7o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Good-bye, Jim,” said Nellie with a sob in her
throat. “You will do as you are bid, Jim,” she
said, with another meaning glance.
The warder heard no harm in that; it sounded
like wise advice to obey constituted authority-—
warders and the like.
“I will, Nelly,” said Jim. “Good-bye, dear.
God bless you! ”


CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE NIGHT EXPRESS.
THE Great Western night mail was humming
and quivering on its appointed way like a “ sleep-
ing ” top. It had taken more than its ﬁve minutes’
rest at 'Reading, and had worked up again to that
high speed which is like the ideal of standing still.
In a reserved third-class smoking compartment
were James Graham and two warders. The night,
the smoke, and the humming motion combined to
make them drowsy; moreover, the warders had no
anxiety about their prisoner: he was quiet and do—
cile, a new “lag,” handcuffed, and far too “down
in the mouth ” to give any trouble.
“ Do you mind my having this window open?”
asked the prisoner. “ I’m not much used to to-
bacco smoke, and I should like a breath of air.”
Oh, no; they did not mind his having the win-
dow open; a breath of fresh air was little to ask
for, poor wretch!
So the window was let down—the Window on
the left side of the train—and the handcuffed pris—
oner sat by it, let the soft night air play upon his
face, and gazed out upon the dark, ﬁat landscape,
71


72 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
while the two warders smoked and talked together,
like good comrades.
For a man who was merely refreshing himself
with the cool air, James Graham’s manner_ and atti-
ture was curiously tense, watchful and alert. Why?
The problem of escape was confronting him. The
little quill so cleverly passed to him by Nelly con-
tained a closely written, pregnant scrap of paper
(which having committed to memory he forthwith
committed to digestion) to the following effect: he
repeated to himself the points again and again:
“When the train has got up speed after Reading,
ask to have left window down, and sit by it. Wait
till right window is broken by stone or something,
then get through your window.” (An undertak-
ing! Nelly must have told Townshend he was an
active jumper.) “Creep along footboard forward
to ﬁrst—class compartment. Find bundle hanging
out of its window. Take bundle and leap. Bun-
dle will have all you need. On right side of line
is a road where Mr. T. will wait with a trap. He
will do the rest.” The arrangements, though in
Nelly’s hand, were plainly “ Mr. T.’s.” Why should
“Mr. T.” take such an interest in him? Such.
,questions, however, were more than useless at the
moment; they obstructed attention and shook reso-
lution. And the desperate chance of escape he was
ﬁrmly, unswervingly resolved to try.
Suddenly the signal came! A stone, or some
similar missile, crashed upon and broke the win-
dow on the right. Both the warders jumped up


ON THE NIGHT EXPRESS. 73
to open the smashed window and look out. On
the instant, the handcuffed prisoner rose, drew back
a step, and then without hesitation, with hands out
like a diver, he plunged through the open window
on his own side. At the sound he made, the ward-
ers turned swiftly, to see all of their prisoner gone
head downward—all but his legs.
“ That was his game! ” they cried. “ Well, I’m
blowed! No, you don’t! ” That last in answer
to a ﬁerce kick administered to the warder who
had managed to seize hold of an escaping foot.
One foot was gone through the window with
the rest of the prisoner; but the warder kept tight
hold of the other, and by main force endeavoured
to haul the prisoner-in again. But that was more
than any one man was equal to, and before the
second could do anything to aid him, with a ﬁerce
wriggle the foot was gone, leaving the boot in the
warder’s hand.
Imagine the giddy and perilous situation of
James Graham out there clinging close to the foot—
board with all his might, while the train still
hummed and oscillated and spun at its highest
speed through the night! To remain where he
was would be speedy recapture; for he could not
doubt but that by means of the communication
cord the train would be drawn up in a few seconds!
To ﬂing himself off would probably mean death,
or broken bones, and still capture! But there was
hope in the “ probably ”—certain recapture if he
stayed, probable death if he leaped. What man


74 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
of spirit and courage would hesitate to leap? But
ﬁrst (in fulﬁlment of his secret instructions) he must
get forward to the nearest ﬁrst-class compartment.
He lay ﬂat for an instant on the dusty footboard,
clinging to the supporting iron rod with the ﬁngers
of his manacled hands, and gripping the wood with
knees and feet. His hope was that thus lying close
in the dark the warders would not see him, and
would think he had already leaped off. He began
to crawl like a serpent, slipping forward his hands
to pull himself and pushing himself with knee and
foot. He approached a wheel, and it roared at
him like a ferocious brute whose den was invaded,
pouring over him a furious stream of dust and dirt
and stones. He came to the gap between one car—
riage and another. In the horror and noise of the
' occasion it seemed an unfathomable raging gulf.
But he must bridge it over with his body. Slowly
he came to another roaring and furious wheel.
My God! was that the hiss of the brake being ap-
plied? Were they drawing up already? And
would he be found thus and ignominously taken
again? No. The hiss of the brake ceased. There
had been a touch of it in bending round a slight
curve. Then forward again with hand, and knee,
and foot, with the heart of desperate hope in his
mouth, and urgent fear behind like a demon of the
pit, he crept, and crept, with scarce a conscious
breath. How long it seemed—and yet he spent but
a few seconds thus!
He reached the desired door. Out of its win-


ON THE NIGHT EXPRESS.
dow hung a’bundle. He could not spare his hands,
but with his teeth he tugged at it as well as he
could. A head that was on the watch peeped out
a little farther.
“ Right! ” said a voice.
Graham felt that the hold on the bundle was let
go. Then, with a glance out at the run of the
ground, he commended his soul to God, clasped the
bundle against his breast, and launched away like
a shot from a cannon, ﬂying through the air with '
his knees doubled up, a little outward, but mainly
forward, with the same swiftness as the train, of
which he was merely a detached fragment. He was
a practised long-jumper; but never before had he
taken so long, swift, and breathless a jump as that!
He shot away over the low boundary fence of the
railway, far into a ploughed ﬁeld. He rolled over
and over in the soft mould, and ﬁnally was buried
deep in a furrow.
In a second he picked himself out of that soft
bed, astonished to ﬁnd he was unhurt, though some-
what dazed, and still more astonished to hear the
rush and hum of the train diminish in the distance,
with no apparent slackening of speed. Could it
really be that he had escaped with such compara—
tive ease? Not altogether yet was he out of the
wood: there was still a difﬁcult part of it to pass.
If the warders had failed to stop the train, he knew
it would not draw up till it reached Didcot, and
there, he was certain, the news of his escape would
be ﬂashed (far and near. He prepared to make the


76 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
most of his time. With dizzy, buzzing head, hat-
less, half-bootless, and pasted up with mud, he
clutched his precious bundle with his manacled
hands, and sought with all possible speed the near-
est side of the ﬁeld, which was that at right angles
to the railway. In the ditch he sat down and hur-
riedly undid his bundle. The ﬁrst thing he sought
for there was a ﬁle. Nor was it difficult to ﬁnd,
being the hardest thing of all.
He tested the ﬁle with his tongue (it was a tool
he was familiar with), and he found it excellent.
He guessed that a hinge cut would be the quickest
way of release; and taking the end of the ﬁle in
his teeth he tried so to use it. But there was no
resistive force in that hold. The gnarled stem of
an old hedgetree was close at hand. He went to
it; stuck one end of the ﬁle in the bark and the
other in his mouth; and then, with the practised
skill of his craft, worked the chosen hinge to and
fro on the biting edge. He could not see, but he
could feel with unerring judgment; and after a few
seconds of his skilled application he bore upon the
hinge, and it broke away. One wrist—the right
—was thus left free and bare. He hesitated whether
he should spend precious seconds in freeing the
other; but a vision of himself accosted, in day-
light, perhaps, with a manacle dangling from his
hand, determined him. He set to With energy upon
the other hinge. Speedily it gave; and he took
the pieces, and ﬂung them over the ﬁeld, this way
and that.


ON THE NIGHT EXPRESS.
“ If I ever submit to wear such things again,”
he declared to himself, passionately “ may my hands
rot off! ”
Then to the other contents of the bundle he
went with a will, and nimble, free ﬁngers. He had
occasion to admire the attention and foresight
which must have been bestowed on the choice of
these things. There was a complete suit of his own
from home, a pair of socks, and a pair of boots.
Also there was a soft, felt hat, of the wide-awake
sort—a hat which actually ﬁtted him!
“ This must be Nelly’s doings—like the rest!”
said he to himself. “She knows my size, bless
her!”
In a few hurried minutes he had exchanged his
muddy garments for these; and completely arrayed
from head to foot, with the dirty clothes now in the
bundle, he set off to meet Townshend.
It was with a great reluctance that he returned
to the railway; for who knew but searchers might
already be speeding back to seek him? But to ﬁnd
Townshend the line must be crossed. He trudged
forward on the edge of the ditch, and, as he ap-
proached the line, observed that he was close to a
road, which, dipping deep into the land, ran under
the railway. With a thrill of horror he considered
that a second longer on the footboard, and when he
leaped he might have launched himself into that
road, and broken his neck! But the horror was
surmounted by a kind of superstition of hope; for,
if he, providentially, had escaped that, he might,


78 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
providentially, escape other and perhaps worse
things!
He descended into the road, and so passed under
the railway. The road led back along the line, and
he had barely got into the straight of it when he
saw a horse and trap hovering down upon him, with
two glowing lamps like monstrous eyes. \Nhen
they met, it stopped, and he stopped. A man in a
bowler hat and a thick driving-coat leaned down
from his perch in the dog-cart.
“ Can you tell me—” he began in a voice of
sonorous deliberation.
But recognition was mutual; the light of the
lamp fell full upon Graham’s face, and its upward
rays revealed the unmistakable visage of Town-
shend—the ﬂeshy hawk nose and heavy moustache,
and the ﬂashing eye-glass. ’
“ Mr. Townshend?” queried Graham.
“Ah, Mr. Graham,” said Townshend. “Very
good. Very good indeed. Jump up here. We’ve
hit it off beautifully. Toss that bundle under the
seat ﬁrst,” said he, ﬂinging open the apron. “ And
feel in there; you’ll ﬁnd an overcoat. You’d better
put it on; we have a long drive before us.”
Graham did as he was bid without a word, and
drew out the overcoat. It proved to be a fur coat
—probably Townshend’s own, which he had worn
on the only other occasion on which Graham had
seen him.
“ Do you mean this?” asked Graham.
“ What? Of course,” said Townshend, adding


ON THE NIGHT EXPRESS. 79
in his impressive and sonorous fashion, “this is
not a tailor’s shop, to give you much choice. On
with it. We’re losing time.”
Graham put it on, and jumped up into the va-
cant seat beside Townshend; and with a ﬂick of the
whip they were off.
“Not hurt anywhere?” asked Townshend.
“ Not broken any bones? But I need hardly ask;
you wouldn’t be so active if you had got much
damage.”
“ No damage at all,” said Graham, his spirits
rapidly rising with the growing sense of freedom,
and complete escape, which the self-possession of
Townshend and the swift pace of the horse much
contributed to. “ I shot into a ploughed ﬁeld as
if it were a pit of sawdust; it was a bouncing bang
—nothing more.”
“ And you have got the darbies Off? ”
“ With the good ﬁle you supplied me,” answered
Graham showing his bare wrists.
“ Really,” said Townshend proudly, “it’s a
very neat job—the very neatest job of the kind I’ve
ever known.”
“And I have to thank you, Mr. Townshend,”
said Graham, “for contriving the whole business.
I don’t know why,” he added bluntly, “you have
taken so much interest in me, but I thank you all
the same—I may say all the more.”
“The devil, man!” exclaimed Townshend, so-
norously, ﬂicking the horse with the whip. “ Don’t
let us begin thanks and congratulations yet; it


30 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
might be unlucky. Wait till we’ve done the busi-
ness. You are not clear off yet. Look at that
engine and brake coming up the line. I’ll wager
that brings a search party from Didcot.”
They had passed under the railway again by the
arch through which Graham had come, and were
spinning along the road which now clung to the
left side of the line.
“Where are we going?” said Graham.
“ To Oxford,” answered Townshend promptly.
“I have a very good and learned friend who is a
don of one of the colleges. We’ll put up with him
for a day or two; he’ll be very glad to have us;
he is usually very dull.”
Graham was silent, half-troubled, half-amazed.
Who was this strange man, who was apparently a
clever man about town, who had known his father,
and who yet consorted with learned college dons?
For Graham knew that these two kinds of men usu-
ally lived at opposite poles of the world of gentility.


CHAPTER IX.
THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR.
GRAHAM trusted completely to Townshend; he
could do nothing else, not even if he wished to.
And they drove steadily through the night, oc—
casionally drawing up by a sign-post to read the
directions by the light of one of the lamps. Town-
shend was choosing cross and little frequented
roads, and meant to strike that upper highway into
Oxford which enters by St. Clement’s.
As soon as it was light enough Townshend sug-
gested that Graham should be shaved; would he
prefer to shave himself?
“ I have never used a razor in my life,” answered
Graham.
“Ah, then,” said Townshend, “ I had better do
it. I have all the appliances.”
The trap was stopped; Townshend got out from
under the seat a dressing—case, and Graham brought
some water from the ﬂowing ditch.
“A cold-water shave is not an undiluted joy,”
said Townshend, “ but it is better than to be seen
again with that black mat about your cheeks.”
The shaving was done with pain, but it was done
81


82 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
—-Townshend making a clean sweep of the whole
of Graham’s virgin beard.
“ Heavens!” exclaimed Townshend. “Whata
change! That ought to do it! Your sweetheart
wouldn’t know you! By gadl” he went on, “ you
are your father’s son. Look at that obstinate jaw
and chin! I shouldn’t like to have to work against
you in anything! You look like a Roman medal!
They’ll want a cast of your head for their classic
collection in the Bodleian. You look like the Em-
peror Trajan, or Napoleon, or like Cecil Rhodes, by
gad! ”
“You’re a capital barber, in word as well as
deed,” said Graham.
“My friend,” said Townshend, with distinction
and dignity, “ I am proud to be able to do anything
' that is necessary; if it were necessary, I think I
should have a try at carving your leg off.”
They rose from the bank where they had been
occupied, and were about to remount the dog—
cart.
“ Come out!” Townshend suddenly exclaimed,
frowning in a terrible manner. “ Come out of that
and show yourself! ” And he pointed a threatening
foreﬁnger across the road.
A young man—plainly a tramp—dishevelled,
dirty, and of generally wretched aspect, crept
through the opposite hedge, came forward a step
or two, and stopped, frightened but scowling. He
had the scar of a burn over his left cheek-bone,
which made his appearance still more sinister.


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR. 83
“Now kindly inform me who you are!” said
Townshend.
“ Can’t yer see?” said the man. “ I’m a work-
ing man on the pad for a job.”
“ What is your trade?” demanded Townshend.
“Are you a bloomin’ beak?” demanded the
man.
“Well, yes; in a sense I am,” said Town—
shend.
“Well, yes; you are!” said the man, nodding
with emphasis. “And a proper beak, too, you’ve
got, mister! ”
“ No cheek, my friend,” said Townshend;
“ you’ll ﬁnd it best. What’s your trade, my pad-
ding friend?”
“Blacksmith—engineer,” he answered sulkily.
“Show your hands to this gentleman,” said
Townshend. “Out with them.”
The man showed his hands to Graham.
“ Has he ever worked?” asked Townshend.
“Oh, yes; he has worked,” said Graham.
“ Perhaps he is a blacksmith.”
“ NOW, my friend, look here,” said Townshend
ﬁnally, with his foreﬁnger out. “If you really are
a blacksmith, and want a job, I’m disposed to be
kind to you. Get on to London as fast as you can;
go to the Fly-on-the-Wheel Inn at Turnham ,
Green ”
“ I know it,” said the man.
“ You know it; very well. Ask for Mr. Nares
and say you were sent by FT, Number One. He’ll


84 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
give you something to do that will be worth your
while.”
“Right you are, sir,” said the man, with ap-
parent heartiness, but his look was sidelong and sus-
picious.
“ Off with you, then,” said Townshend, putting a
half-sovereign into his dirty hand, “and get some
breakfast as soon as you can. Mr. Nares will be
good to you if you go to him.”
“Thank ye, sir,” said the man, and drawing his
coat about him he hobbled off.
Townshend with a frown jumped into his dog-
cart, and Graham followed him.
“ It’s a deuce of a pity! ” he exclaimed presently,
ﬂicking the horse. “And the worst of it is I’ve
made a mistake over it. I should not have stayed
and spoken to the fellow! But—hang itl—a man
cannot always be wise! And this is the one wrong
touch in an admirable performance! Well,” he
added with a smile, “ you must just stick closer and
longer in Oxford.”
Graham said nothing; he only wondered and
was anxious; he wondered why Mr. Townshend,!
evidently a man of some distinction and fashion—-
why he should have intimate relations with a publi—
can, and should send to him a cryptic message, and
he was anxious lest the sinister tramp should sus-
pect presently who he was. He uttered something
of that last by-and-by to Townshend.
“ It’s a new risk, of course,” said Townshend.
“ But I think there’s not much in it: a tramp doesn’t


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR. 85
read the papers, and if he hears anything he won’t
understand.”
And so they drove steadily forward; and neither
guessed that they were carrying with them the
man they doubted, clinging to their axle-bar. Hid-
den by the high hedge he had cut across a ﬁeld
round which the road bent, and had slipped out be-
hind them at the opportune moment. They drove
into Oxford just before morning chapel at the col—
leges; and the man dropped on the road when they
came among houses. Having put up horse and
trap Townshend went to the rooms of his friend in
one of the colleges. The kindly pedant (who had
spent years on the construction of a monumental
work on the Greek Irregular Verbs) received them
with effusion and without a suspicion, and enter-
tained them to a sufﬁcient breakfast. After break-
fast, the scholar, with many apologies that he must
lecture, bade them be at ease in his rooms, and
went his way. Then Graham, having turned the
situation over in his mind, and looked around him,
declared that before many hours he must clear out
of that.
“Why?” exclaimed Townshend. “ What for?
You are in comfort; it must be an agreeable and
extraordinary change; and nobody, not even the
sharpest-nosed detective of them all, would think
of smelling you out here! ”
“ But I have my work to do,” said Graham
quietly.
“ Work?” said Townshend in amazement.


86 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“The man has had his life bust up; he has just
escaped from prison and penal servitude; and his
ﬁrst thought is ‘ work to do!’ What work?
Blacksmithing? Engineering?—like our friend the
tramp?”
“ That, of course,” said Graham promptly. “ But
my great work is to get my valve patented; I’ve
been working on it in the prison—in my head.
When I’ve got it ﬁxed up for this country,” said
he in a tone of resolute matter-of-fact, “I’m going
to take it to America.”
“ Oh, you are, are you?” said Townshend,
screwing his eye-glass into his eye to consider
this phenomenon of a man. “I think,” he
continued solemnly, “you make a mistake, you
know. To return to your old games will be
to tempt discovery. You really can’t afford to do
that!”
“ And how am I to live? ” asked Graham blunt-
ly.
“ I thought,” said Townshend, “that you might
have been agreeable to joining me. I have taken
an enormous liking to you—I have really,” he in—
sisted,quite honestly, doubtless, but with a tone as of
patronage which Graham deeply resented. “ I have
some great schemes on hand; and if you stick to
me, and help me in them—you can help—you will
ﬁnd yourself better off than as an engineer or the
owner of a patent valve.”
“ I am much obliged to you, Mr. Townshend,”
said Graham. “And you will excuse me, but what
f


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR. 87
is the business in which I could join, or help you?
If it is fair to ask, what are you?”
“ I am—er—a free banker,” said Townshend,
with that odd lifting of the heavy moustache which
meant a smile. '
“Oh,” said Graham, “was my father a free
banker, too?—at least, when you knew him?”
“ We had ﬁnancial transactions together,” said
Townshend lightly, as if the question were of no
moment. “It was to ﬁnd the money to meet a
ﬁnancial transaction of his that I accompanied him
that afternoon to your neighbourhood. ‘Hinc illce
lachrymaz! ’ ”
“This is a proper place, I suppose,” said Gra-
ham, “ for such quotation. I understand it, I think.
But the point is, I must thank you very much for
your interest in me, and still keep to my determina-
tion to go as soon as possible.” And he felt for his
watch, but there was no watch there.
“ Oh,” persisted Townshend, “ you are bent
upon going, then? I am certain you make a mis-
take. I’m your luck. Separate yourself from me
and you are done for, I believe. I did think—yes,
by gad, I did !—that we should go on together! ”
Then compunction, and the dread of ingratitude
smote James Graham.
“ But, Mr. Townshend, what can I do with
you?” he demanded. “ I’m not a free banker! I’m
not a banker at all! ”
At that Townshend uttered aloud a sonorous
peal of laughter.


88 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ I think,” said he impressively, “ I could soon
instruct you in the doctrines of free banking.”
“ But,” said Graham, “ I can never bear to sit all
day at a desk. I’d wilt and die of it! ”
“ I’d never think of setting you down at a desk,”
said Townshend ; and again that odd smile lifted the
heavy moustache.
“ I owe you a great deal,” said Graham, “ and I
should like to oblige you; but I should like to go on
and settle my valve ﬁrst. Look here, Mr. Town-
shend; you have heard or read of inventors starving
and dying for their inventions; well, I’m like that.
It may be a small invention, but it’s all I have, and I
must see it produced.”
“Very well, my friend,” said Townshend; “ go
your own way, in God’s name! But—mark my
words l—disaster will come of it! You don’t know
the world as I do! I’m not boasting, but you’ll
come to my view at last. I don’t blame you; what
is the good of blaming any man? He goes like a
wound-up watch; he can’t help himself. But when
you run down think again of ‘Townshend, 25 Jer-
myn Street.’ ”
That night, after dark, Graham and Townshend
stood on the northern railway platform at Oxford.
Graham had a third-class ticket to Birmingham in
his pocket, and two pounds in money; he had re-
fused to borrow any more, though much more had
been pressed upon him. At the last moment, when
Graham was bidding his distinguished and mys-
terious friend “ Good-bye,” neither observed a man


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR. 89
with a burnt scar on his cheek rush from the wait-
ing-room and enter the train.
About a month later James Graham was toiling
up one of the steep and winding roads which lead
over hill and moor from Yorkshire into Lancashire.
He had reached his last shilling. After fruitless
efforts to get employment in and around Birming—
ham, he had tramped from one iron town to an-
other, but nowhere would they have him. He
looked respectable, but he was without tools, he was
without a character, and above all he was without
a society ticket, and no employer dare even give
him a chance Worn with hunger and anxiety, with
sick heart and embittered soul, he was now about to
try his luck in busy, generous Lancashire.
The way was long and stiff, for the wide Aller-
ton Moor lies fair, and high, and fresh, and far above
the din and smoke of both Yorkshire and Lanca-
shire. At the top of the ascent is an insigniﬁcant
village; a mere handful of poor grey cottages, cling-
ing, as it were, by the eyebrows to the edge of the
steep; but it is of some consequence, because it
contains a police-station and a beer-house. W'hen
‘Graham reached the bare, wretched little village he
was thirsty and hot, in spite of the shrewd March
wind; and he entered the beer-house (which was
opposite the police-station) to rest for a while and to
spend a penny on a draught of home-brewed ale.
He had barely sat down by the window of the
little tap-room, with his tipple at his elbow and his


90 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
cheek sadly resting on his hand, when he heard a
man’s voice ordering a pint of ale. There was a
pause which the man seemed to ﬁll with drinking,
for he presently spoke thus :—
“ I say, missus, do folk ever get drunk on this? ”
_ “ Drunk, mon? ” said the woman of the house—
a solid, shrewd old dame. “ Noa; but lots get
brasted (burst).”
Graham was smiling to himself at the answer,
when the man entered and stood before him.
Heavens! It was the tramp with the burnt scar
on his cheek! He had scarcely time to wonder
whether the man would recognise him or no, when
—with a low and scoundredly leer—he spoke, While
he proceeded to light up a very dirty and strong-
smelling cutty pipe.
“A stiff pull up this ’ere bloomin’ hill, mister,”
said he.
“ It is,” said Graham.
“And, by gum, you’ve made it a sweater for
me.”
“How’s that?” asked Graham, with dread of
what was coming ﬂuttering about his heart to
enter.
“Well, when I came acrost you I thought I
knowed you. And now that I’ve come up so far,
nothing could be primer. There’s the station just
exactly opposite; and there’s a bill there on the
board—One Hundred Pounds Reward!”
Graham knew there was; he had already seen
it there as he came in, as well as outside other po—


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR. 91
lice-stations. The man paused an instant, to let
his words have their full effect.
“One hundred pounds is a tidy bit for a pore
feller like me, and I think I could earn it. All I’ve
got to do is to step acrost the road and say I can
put my hand on the cove wot’s wanted. And s’welp
me, but I believe I will!”
He paused again, and looked at Graham; and
Graham looked at him with set face, but without a
word.


CHAPTER X.'
ALONE ON THE WIDE WIDE MOOR!
JAMES GRAHAM for some seconds looked stead-
ily in the sinister face of the tramp. He did not
speak, and the insolent gaze of the man quailed
somewhat. But Graham’s thoughts were not so
ﬁrm or resolute as his bearing suggested; in truth
they were going to and fro like uncertain ﬂame and
smoke in a green ﬁre. The Silence became oppres-
sive. The slow ticking of the old clock in the sand-
ed passage, and the going by of a woman in clogs in
the quiet street sounded loud and threatening.
“You think you know me?” said James Gra—
ham.
“Think, mister!” said the man, evidently re-
lieved to hear him speak. “I never lost sight on
you—never mind how—since that morning I saw
you getting a Shave. Shall I tell yer where all
you’ve been? You’ve been to Oxford, to Birming-
ham, to Wolverhampton, and all about there; and
you’ve been to Coventry; and you’ve been to Shef-
ﬁeld; and you’ve been to Leeds; you’ve been to
Darlington and to Newcastle; and you’ve been back
again at Leeds; and now here you are; and I’ve
92


ALONE ON THE WIDE WIDE MOOR! 93
never had a real good chanst before of having a
word with you.”
“ You think you know my name?”
“James Graham,” said the man; “there it is,”
he added, jerking his ﬁnger over his shoulder at the
“Reward ” notice on the blackboard of the police—
station.
“ I thought you were an honest workman,” said
Graham, changing his note, “that wouldn’t do a
wrong turn to another workman who had got into
trouble.”
“ And so I am, mister,’ said the man uneasily.
“ But ain’t I chivied about all over the place? And
what fur? ’Cos why; I wonst got into trouble my-
self. A feller must live; and to live he must have
the oof.” \
“ Well,” said Graham, “ I’m only a work-
mah ”
“ Don’t yer tell me that, mister.”
“ I’m only a workman; but as you said, I have
rich friends. Look here,” said he, jumping to his
feet, and without hesitation striding from the room,
and out into the street. “ Come on a little way with
me, and we’ll settle something. I can’t wait longer
here. I must be over the moor before dark.”
The man doubted in thought and hesitated in
action. Graham’s promptitude and resolute mo-
tion took him by surprise. He followed him out
without a word—after him into the gusty, sunlit
village street, and alongside of him out of the village
away upon the wide moor—desiring all the while,
!


94 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
but yet fearing, to lay an arresting hand upon Gra-
ham’s arm.
“I suppose,” said Graham, to hold the man in
talk as they went on together, “ that you never
went to that publican at Turnham Green my friend
recommended you to?”
“ Not me! yer see, I ain’t so nobby sure of the
kind intentions of that friend 0’ yourn; and I spent
his half-quid on another lift than that. He’s got
plenty of tin, I dessay? ”
“ Oh, yes,” said Graham; “he has lots of
money.”
“ And, my Gawd, ain’t he got a konk! I don’t
like that konk of his! It ain’t what you may call
friendly—that it ain’t! ”
Spite of his resolute action and its success thus
far Graham was not clear what to say or do next.
Perplexity swung to and fro in his mind like a
pendulum. The man had come out with the expec-
tation of being bribed to hold his tongue. But how
was he to be bribed? Could he (Graham) ask
Townshend to give the man money which would
be repaid as speedily as possible? Yet how could
he ask Townshend to do that? Townshend had
(for some strange reason) shown himself singularly
friendly; but after all what did he know of Town-
shend? Might not Townshend think it impudence
to have such a request urged—especially after the
overtures of friendship and partnership made and
rejected at Oxford? ,
No. He could not ask Townshend to give the


ALONE ON THE WIDE WIDE MOOR! '95
man money. And he had no money himself to give
the man. And, even if the man were bribed to si-
lence with money—that would be of little use.
What kind of warranty would he have that the man
would not appear again, in a"month—-in a week— -
and demand more?
What could he do? What could he 'do? His
mind began to grow tortured and maddened with
the striving to ﬁnd an answer. Had he escaped
prison, and escaped the horrible dangers of his ﬂy-
ing leap from the express train—had he escaped
all to let himself be taken by the ear and given up
by a wretched tramp? Or to be steadily threatened
and blackmailed? And all the while he was ﬁercely
thinking, the man’s voice, harsh, mean, brutal,
sounded in his ear, and the man’s sinister face (he
stole a look at it now and then) became a beastly
offence to him.
“ Now look here, mister,” said the man suddenly,
when they had walked about half a mile beyond the
little village, “ I think I’ve come fur enough. You
do as you promised, and let me go back.”
“What did I promise to do?” asked Graham
grimly.
“ You blooming well promised to give me money
not to peach! ”
“ I have no money, and I made no such prom-
Ise.”
“ You made me believe that you would get
money from your rich chum. And if you’ve got
me out here for nothink, s’welp me, but I’ll follow


96 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
you all the way to Milchester and give you up
there! ”
Rage, desperation and hatred leaped hot and
high in Graham’s heart and head. Fury drove him,
and he sprang straight at the mean rufﬁan’s throat.
“ You miserable scoundrel! ” he growled. “ I’ll
strangle you! You’ll give me up, will you? You’ll
betray another man l—an innocent man!” he cried.
“ Before God, an innocent man !—and all for a dirty
pound or two! You dog! You beast? You low,
sneaking cur! Followed me, have you?—all over
England, to wait your chance! Well, now your
chance has come! Your time has come!”
These words he poured out in a scarcely intelli-
gible ﬂood, while the man writhed in his grasp.
They were but a few yards from the brink of a deep,
forsaken quarry. Towards that deadly edge Gra—
ham in his frenzy dragged the man, who was now
become as nothing in his hands.
“ No,” he murmured to his wretched victim, “ I’ll
not strangle you! I’ll break your neck!” And
then, his eye noting that there was a great pool of
water at the bottom of the quarry, he said, “ No!
I’ll drown you! And God have mercy on your mis-
erable soul—and mine!”
Graham had the wretched creature half bent
over the precipice. He saw that the man was al-
ready tasting the terror and horror of death. His
face was ghastly pale; a cold sweat was oozing upon
it; his features were becoming sharp and rigid; and
his eyeballs were starting from their sockets. The


ALONE.ON THE WIDE WIDE MOOR! 97
eyes suddenly, at the despairing last, turned upon
Graham with the piteous appeal of a dog, and
his throat uttered a cry like the dying squeak of a
rat.
“ No, no!” cried Graham. “ I can’t do it! I
can’t!”
He drew the wretch back from the dangerous
brink, and ﬂung him on the turf, while he himself
sat down a step off, trembling and almost sobbing.
The man recovered quickly, and with a watch-
ful, vicious eye on Graham, drew off swiftly over the
grass. He stood up.
“ All right, mister!” said he. “ Now, ye’re
sorry! All right! Gimme an order for that there
money to that konky friend 0’ yourn, and I’ll ’ook
it back! NO more padding the ’Oof in your com-
pany! NO, thank yer!”
Graham looked at him, his mind half-dazed.
Could it be that the fellow had so little feeling about '
his escape from imminent death as his words would
seem to signify? He wondered—and he yielded in
fear and horror of the base creature. He took a
pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket, and
wrote :—
“ To F. TOWNSHEND, EsQ.,
“ 25 Jermyn Street, LONDON.
“The bearer of this note knows all. He has
followed me ever since I was shaved, and he
threatens to give me up, unless he gets money. I
have none to give him. Will you be so kind as to


98 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
do me this favour? Give him money, and I will
pay you back as soon as ever I can.
“ Yours, JAMES GRAHAM.”
He held out the pencilled note to the man.
“Take that,” said he.
“ Not me! What do you take me for? Here’s
a stone; put it under that.”
He walked away a few yards, and Graham ad-
vanced and put the stone on the scrap of paper to
keep the wind from carrying it away. Then he re-
tired. The man came back and took the note.
“ Look here, mister,” said he, when he had read
it. “ Do me the faviour to put in this scrieve
‘ sender’ instead of ‘bearer.’ There ain’t no sense
in my tramping to London to get the ’oof. Besides,
I ain’t spiling for a squint at Mr. Townshend,
Esquire’s ’ansome konk! Not me! Not much!”
Graham said nothing, but altered the word. The
man returned and took it. He folded it away in his
frowsy waistcoat pocket, sayingz— '
“There you are, my little ’oof-bird wot ﬂies!
Good for a tenner, I bet—and more’n that! And
now, mister, you can go and pumice-stone your
crumpet! Bye-bye! See you again one 0’ these
bloomin’ days! ”
And off he set at a run, back towards the village.
“See you again!” Was the wretch already re-
solved to ﬁnd him out again in a little while and
hold the same threat over him? But even with that
fear upon him, Graham felt nothing but the most


ALONE ON THE \VIDE WIDE MOOR! 99
grateful relief, the purest thankfulness, that he had
let him go. He sat a while and wondered at him-
self—at the madness of his passion, the suddenness
with which he had been tempted to murder a man.
Yes. He who had been proud of his innocence
of the charge of manslaughter in which he had be-
come involved had been on the point of committing.
a murder to escape being taken again on the ﬁrst
charge! He would havecommitted a great crime
to avoid punishment for a less crime which he did
not commit! How absurd and contradictory!
Above all, how humiliating that he could depend on
himself and his temper so little!
“Thank God,” he murmured, with his clasped
hands between his knees, “that I did not do it! I
thank God,” he went on in a sudden burst of rap-
ture, while tears ﬂooded his eyes, “ that I am still
innocent of crime, that I have not cut myself off
from the comfort and joy of all the sweet and beau-
tiful and good and true things in the world! I
thought I was unfortunate before, but how doubly
' unfortunate and oppressed and hunted I should feel
if I had done that. Great God! ” he said, looking
round upon the rugged, solitary, vast expanse of
wilderness, over which the brisk winds wandered,
“ how good it is to be alive and free. God is good,
and beautiful! Let me be grateful, Great God!
And let me always pity the Sick in hospital and the
wretched in prison! Amen. I thank God,” he said
again, after a pause of exceeding comfort and peace
of heart, “ I thank God for this ﬁne, fresh air—the
“I’Sasrm


100 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
free air, and the sunshine, and all this beautiful
world; for the grass, the gorse, the bushes, and the
beasts! ” (A simple, silly rabbit had popped out of
a hole, stood upon its hind-legs an instant, and
cocked its ears at him, and then hopped leisurely
away.)
He got upon his feet, and walked briskly on with
better and braver heart. 'He had not thought of it
before, but now he considered the possibility with
some misgiving: what if the tramp had told the
police that he was there, and what if they were now
on his track? On reconsideration that did not seem
to him very likely; but yet prudence advised him
to hasten his steps, and presently, when the oppor-
tunity offered, to turn away from the direct path to
Milchester.
By-and-by, as he trudged on hour by hour, ease
came to his mind, and thought. It struck him as
wonderful that all the moor which lay around him
had just so looked since the beginning of the world;
that spring and autumn, summer and winter had
come and gone for thousands of years, and found
the moor unchanged except for the living, breath-
ing changes they brought to pass; that the clash of
armies, and the clatter and roar of civilisations had
sounded on the low, inhabited lands and valleys on
either side——Briton and Roman, Saxon and Dane,
Norman and English—but that still the moor had
remained the same. No man had ever dug that soil,
or planted anything; the planting beneath that
dark, desolate, corrugated surface—wrinkled and


ALONE ON THE WIDE WIDE MOOR! 101
scored like a vast, league-long, antediluvian mon-
ster—was Nature’s insidious, subtle and wilful own.
So that he ended with some such conclusion as this:
Man and his works are vain, passing shadows; Na-
ture and God alone endure!
So he trudged on, till Lancashire began to
smoke and steam below him, like a vast witches’
cauldron. Suddenly a dog—a fox-terrier—shot out
from a bush and shook himself almost to pieces
with barking. Graham waited to see an owner ap-
pear, But no one came; the dog was alone.
“Good doggie! ” said he, patting his leg and
tempting it to approach.
The dog condescended to come, and having got
the scent of him liked it, and stuck to him for the
rest of the way in the staunchest and most friendly
fashion. He was a well-nurtured and well-man-
nered dog, wearing a distinguished collar, on which
Graham read the words “ Hepplewhite—Kershaw.”


CHAPTER XI.
A CHANGE or CLOTHES.
A HOPE entered his mind that the dog had come
to lead him to fortune; for “ Hepplewhite and
Poynting,” of Kershaw, were known well through-
out the engineering world as builders of locomo—
tives. If the little dog should belong to Mr. Hep-
plewhite or any of his family, its return might serve
as an introduction; and Why had the creature come
to be wandering so far from home unless to lead him
ﬁnally to the great locomotive works? At any rate
he took the dog’s appearance for a lucky omen and
made much of him; and the terrier, in return, over
and over again offered to raise a rabbit for him.
When the moor was crossed it was much too
late to push on to Milchester and hope to do any
business that night. He therefore prepared to camp
out, as he had often done before, in the shelter of a
hay or peat stack. He bought himself a supper of
bread and milk at a little wayside shop, and having
shared his meal with the dog, he took it in his arms
and began to look about for the kind of bed that
would suit him, and to which he could retire when it
was quite dark.
102


A CHANGE OF CLOTHES. 103
Let us not inquire further into his domestic ar-
rangements, but go forward and ﬁnd him in Mil-
chester next morning. He was there betimes, with
the dog under his arm and the tell-tale collar in
his pocket; for he knew that in the busy city such
a man as he seemed to be, carrying such a dog
wearing such a collar, would be certain to be taken
in hand by the police. The collar, then, being re-
moved, he ﬁrst took the dog to the railway station
from which he must depart for Kershaw, and took
a ticket for it from the “left luggage ” porter.
Then, almost penniless (he could not have given
change for a shilling) he wandered through the
town to compel something to turn up; for he saw
with appalling clearness that, before he could ap—
pear before Hepplewhite and Poynting, if he would
be regarded as something other than a needy was-
trel or tramp—for his month’s wandering and ex-
posure had reduced his clothes to a shocking condi-
tion—and if he would seek work of the kind he
could do best, he must improve his condition and
he must improve it without delay. No more than
a drowning man could he afford to wait; for his in-
stinct told him that when a man has changed his
last shilling, is without credit, and is very poorly
dressed, there is but a step betwixt him and actual
or social death, starvation or crime, and from the
mere thought of crime his experience made him
shrink with such a shuddering horror as might in—
vade a man who had escaped from the embrace of
a python. Moreover, he was driven on as with a


104 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
whip by the knowledge that so long as he looked
disreputable the more likely he was to be suspected
of all, and found of those who were sure to be seek-
ing him.
As he continued his goalless way he found him-
self in the ﬁrst rush of the morning’s business. In
business the Milchester man lacks manners. On
the crowded pavements of the busiest streets he be-
haves like a strong and desperate swimmer in an
adverse current; he shoulders aside obstruction, be
it man or woman, without a “ by your leave.” For
some yards James Graham, being superﬁcially of
no account, seemed the chosen victim of that un-
ceremoniousness. Again and again he was shoul-
dered into the gutter or cannoned against the wall,
till his native stubborness and ﬁght were roused
and he took the offensive. He marched onward,
and shouldered and cannoned with the best and
rudest, till he found he was being remarked. Com-
ing to the conclusion that that was not good for his
safety, and discovering presently that he had arrived
in a humbler neighbourhood than that in which
he had begun his march, he looked out for a coffee-
house and entered. He spent several of his coppers
on a meagre breakfast, and sat for a while and
scanned the “ Wanteds ” in the morning papers of
the town.
He counted it a fortunate coincidence that one
of the ﬁrst his eyes lighted on was from Hepple—
white and Poynting. He made a note of it and
some others, and meditated on making himself pre-


A CHANGE OF CLOTHES. 105
sentable. But no possible method showed itself on
his anxious summons, and he wandered forth very
depressed but very resolute. He was at a loss, but
in no wise daunted; he was cast down, but not in
despair.
He perambulated the streets for an hour or two,
while his eyes roved everywhere in search Of an
opportunity to earn a shilling. He passed the front
of the Theatre Royal. A tall, fashionably-dressed
lady who stood there, with one or two other folk,
apparently theatrical, looked on him with great in-
terest as he passed by; and that cheered him, for
he thought he could not look so very mean and
disreputable if he could thus hold a lady’s atten-
tion. Soon after that came an opportunity which
many would have missed; seizure of which he was
wont to quote in later life in illustration of his fa—
vourite doctrine that the world of prosperity is a
high-walled and jealously kept garden, with one or
two great gates difficult of entrance, but innumer-
able secret doors, the latch Of some one Of which
the adroit and watchful may lay his hand on in any
moment.
As he passed along a certain street a stout, rosy
gentleman came out of a shop rattling change in
his hand. He approached Graham, carelessly
counting the money from one hand into the other.
He was but a step off when he dropped a silver
coin—a half-crown. It rolled on the pavement to-
wards Graham, who tried to put his foot on it; but
it eluded him, took another turn, and dropped down


106 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
a deep basement grating. The gentleman and Gra—
ham looked at each other. -
“It’s yours if yo’ can get it. Yo’ deserve it,
and yo’ look as if yo’ need it,” said the gentleman,
and passed on, fronting the world in his open, gen-
erous way.
Graham noted the grating was outside a restau-
rant of the old-fashioned tavern sort; he knew that
its owner and servants would all be busy at that
hour, and he hesitated.
“ He gave it me; it’s mine,” he said to him-
self and entered.
The ﬁrst person he met was a ﬂorid lady who
seemed the mistress of the house; for she stared
on him in forbidding wonder.
“Can’t do anything for you to—day, my man,”
said she, and placed her person in the way of his
further progress.
Graham felt the foolish, heavy blood of stung
pride rush to his cheeks.
“I’m not a beggar,” he said curtly. “I beg
your pardon ; you may be excused for thinking so,”
and he glanced down at his coat. “ I’ve lost a half-
crown down your grating; can I get it back?”
She considered him a moment, and evidently
did not dislike his look. “ You can go and see,”
she answered, and led the way below. “John,” she
said to a servant in the kitchen, “show this man
the way to the area; he’s dropped some money
down our grating.”
John cast upon the intruder a glance of scorn,


A CHANGE OF CLOTHES. 107
but obeyed his mistress. He showed the door of
the area nailed up with a strengthening board
or two.
“You’ll need a saw or a haxe,” said he.
“A cold chisel would do,” said Graham, after
viewing the obstruction.
“Oh,” said John satirically, “yo’re sure yo’
wouldn’t like it ’ot? ”
“ Or a poker would do,” said Graham steadily.
“ Get me something, there’s a good chap.”
John stared and grumbled at his assurance, but
went and brought him a crowbar and an end of
candle. “ Yo’ll need a light in there,” said he, and
returned to his proper duty.
In a little while the obstruction was demolished
and the door stood open. Graham lit his end of
candle and entered. It did not take long to ﬁnd
the shining half-crown, and his thought being set
free by its acquisition he considered that under so
busy a pavement that must be a very trap for coins,
of which none could have been recovered for a long
Y time, as the securely fastened door bore witness.
At once, therefore, he set himself to plough up and
search through the accumulated dirt and rubbish;
and in a few minutes he had possessed himself of
about two pounds sterling in silver and copper.
There might be more still in the dirt, but he thought
it unwise to provoke any suspicion by staying un-
duly long in the place. With a strong sense of
conﬁdence and gratitude he sought John and said
that if heé would ﬁnd him a screw-driver and


108 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
hammer he would mend the lock of the door and
fasten it more securely than before. John brought
him an old box of empty tools, and presently it was
the wondering gossip of the kitchen that so sus-
picious-seeming a tramp should prove so skilful a
workman. Finally, the mistress heard of it, and
came and looked at the smoothly working lock and
the movable cross-bar which the stranger had ﬁxed.
She offered him a meal in reward for the work he
had done; but he astonished her by declining her
benefaction.
“ I didn’t do it,” said he, with a confounding
blush, “in expectation of anything of the kind;
but only because I am obliged to you for letting
me come down to ﬁnd the money.”
So he went on his way dinnerless, but full of
hope and animated with the sense of defence against
the attacks of chance, such as he had not known
for a very long time. He had money again! And
only those who have ever been moneyless and des-
titute can understand the ﬁerce joy and the exag-
gerated sense of life and power which the posses-
sion of even so little as two pounds can impart.
With his two pounds (almost) Graham saw himself
re-established as a respectable member of society,
properly dressed, and housed, and occupying a situ-
ation which was to be had for the asking by such
as he was. As the world wags, his two pounds,
laid out as he intended, would be a far better pass-
port to the future than would have been the best-
writ certiﬁcate of character from the kingdom of


A CHANGE OF CLOTHES. 109
heaven. He did not complain of that: he merely
noted it as a fact. In spite of what he had endured,
there was no bitterness in him; for he had the
peaceful assurance that he had suffered for the sake
Of another, and, just as love of self is the most cor-
rosive inﬂuence in the world, so love Of another is
the best corrective of acidity Of the soul.
For thirty shillings he bought a wardrobe suﬂi:
cient for his purpose, and there remained to him
about ten to rent a humble lodging and to purchase
food for a week ; for he did not doubt that he would
be at work on the morrow. He was resolved to
call that day on Hepplewhite and Poynting, and he
cast about at once for an opportunity of changing
his clothes without drawing suspicion upon him-
self. He went into a small barber’s shop to get
shaved, with the intention of also asking leave to
change his clothes; but the barber looked so vil-
lainous and his wife so forbidding that he merely
got shaved and went his way.
“I’m wasting time,” he said to himself in all
anxiety, “ and I shall never do anything if I wait
to get dressed! I’ll make for Hepplewhite and
Poynting’s and trust to ﬁnd a chance Of changing
on the way.”
The works Of Hepplewhite and Poynting were
some two or three miles from Milchester; and Gra-
ham had discovered that the quickest way of
reaching them was by train. He bought a penny
loaf for dinner, and set Off with his bundle Of new
clothing to the station. He reclaimed the dog, and


no PURSUED BY THE LAW.
then, in the waiting-room, he unexpectedly found
an opportunity of reclothing himself. He cast his
slough and left it there, wrapped in paper, and went
forth and passed the barrier and entered the train
for Kershaw, a new man.
In a few minutes he was walking down a sub-
urban road towards the great gates of the Hepple-
white and Poynting locomotive works. It was a
ﬂat, untidy and depressing region. It spoke of dull,
sordid, semibarbarous lives passed in servitude to
machinery. Spring was decking the country with
her virgin green, but there was little sign of spring
there; the rank wayside grass was begrimed with
dust from the black cinder-road, and the few fresh
shoots which the stunted, half-dead trees put forth
were piteous to see in their meanness and hopeless-
ness. There were formal, hard-featured cottages in
barrack-like rows which were not even picturesque
in their untidiness. They were built of a dirty,
pudding-coloured brick, and roofed with slates, and
there was nowhere a redeeming touch of ﬂower or
bright paint. All was utilitarian of the barest,
ugliest kind; and as these things caught Graham’s
eye and affected his sense, he wondered if the pro-
prietors of the locomotive works were of a character
with their surroundings. And suddenly a depress-
ing change came over him, and he longed with an
unspeakable and unusual longing for the wide-
spread green, the loneliness and the freedom of the
moor which he had crossed yesterday. He found
his conﬁdence and courage sinking like lead to his


A CHANGE OF CLOTHES. 111
feet, and oozing out at his ﬁngers and the top of
his head, and alarm taking their place throughout
his whole being. He was amazed at himself, but
he could not shake off the terrible change. Why
had it come upon him? He looked at himself; he
was no longer the disreputable—seeming tramp; he
was decently clothed in a sober tweed suit. He
turned his eyes within; he was conscious of being
a good workman; ah, but should not a good honest
workman have written credentials. with him? He
had none; and fear again seized him. He meant
to call himself by another name than his own—by
his mother’s name Leighton—and that appeared to
him criminal. He had conned over these neces-
sities before and had been unmoved. WVhy did
they now affect him with panic?
“ I suppose,” he answered himself, “that this
month of useless trying has taken more out of me
than I thought, and has made me timorous.”
He could not continue his direct way to the
ironworks; he turned aside down a narrow lane
to recover himself. The process of recovery was
slow, and precious time was being lost.
“ Oh, heaven! ” he cried inwardly in his trouble.
“Let me be strong, for Nelly and my mother’s
sake!”
Just then a pleasant—looking, grey-haired gen-
tleman of middle age came briskly towards him.
Graham thought he would pass; but instead
he stopped and looked with a shrewd grey eye
from under bushy grey pent—houses of eyebrows


112 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
——ﬁrst at Graham, and then at the dog under his
arm.
“ Do you want to see any one in connection
with the works?” he demanded. Graham stared.
“Because,” he continued, “this road is private.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Graham, and turned
back at once.
“ There’s a notice up,” continued the gentleman
with another shrewd look: “ ‘ Private Road. No
Thoroughfare.’ ”
The gentleman was about to pass briskly on.
Graham looked at him fully: he did seem frank,
pleasant and trustworthy, and had an air of pro-
prietorship. What if he should be Mr. Hepple-
white himself !
“ I was going,” said he hurriedly, “to see Mr.
Hepplewhite; I just turned down here a minute
before going up to the gate.”
The grey-haired gentleman stopped at once.
“ You want to see Mr. Hepplewhite, do you?”
And he considered Graham with searching scrutiny
up and down. “Well, young man, I’m not Mr.
Hepplewhite; but if I’m not the rose, I’m very
near it.”
“You mean,” said Graham, “that you are Mr.
Poynting? ”
“ That is exactly my meaning. Can I do any-
thing for you, or is your business private with Mr.
Hepplewhite?” And again he considered closely
both the man and the dog.
The abruptness both of the revelation and of


A CHANGE OF CLOTHES. 113
the question disturbed Graham’s already troubled
wits. He was alarmed, scared an instant, and then
by a strong effort of will he recovered himself.
“ You advertised this morning,” said he,
“ for——”
“ I’ve advertised several mornings," interrupted
Mr. Poynting, “ but the man I want is difﬁcult to
get.”
’
“ SO I suppose,” assented Graham.
“ And did you think you would do? ” demanded
Mr. Poynting.
“I did,” answered Graham boldly, nettled by
the touch of incredulity in eye and voice.
“ It’s a position of trust and responsibility, you
know,” said Mr. Poynting, as if threatening him
tO beware.
“Hallo!” cried a voice with a very distinct
notable twang. “ Is that ma Toby that chap’s
got?”
At the sound of the voice the dog wriggled from
Graham’s hold and frisked barking with delight
towards a big, grey-whiskered, ruddy gentleman,
who stooped over him with caresses and cries Of
“ Thoo’rt beawn to coom back, thoo monkey!”
“Ah,” said Mr. Poynting, “ here is Mr. Hepple-
white.” .


CHAPTER XII.
THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN.
WHEN Mr. Hepplewhite stood erect again Gra—
ham recognised him as the ruddy, good-natured
gentleman whose half-crown, dropped through the
grating, had brought him thus far, clothed and in
his right mind. And clearly after a glance Mr.
Hepplewhite recognised him.
“ Thou’rt th’ chap that I saw this mornin’ out—
side th’ Lancaster, artna? ” he demanded.
Though he feared that to be recognised as a
person who had seemed no better than a tramp
would operate against his chance of employment,
Graham thought frankness best.
“ Yes,” he answered; “I remember now meet-
ing you there.”
“ Eh, lad,” said Mr. Hepplewhite, scanning him
with a humorous eye, “but thou’st jumped up in
th’ world in an hour or two! And thou’st been
through th’ honds 0’ th’ tailor and th’ barber. Hap—
pen thou’s come into a fortune i’ th' time? ”
Graham smiled.
“I have,” he answered. “And you began it,
sir, with the half-crown you dropped.” And in a
n4


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN. 115
few words he set forth how his search for the half-
crown had produced a small fortune of two pounds.
“Ah, good for thoo! ” said Mr. Hepplewhite,
slapping him on the shoulder, while Mr. Poynting
smiled and looked at him with close consideration.
“And now,” continued Mr. Hepplewhite, plunging
his hand into his pocket, “ I suppose thoo expects
summat for bringing this danged pup whoarn?
But wheer didst ﬁnd him? He was lost on th’
Allerton Moor.”
“ It was there I found him, yesterday after—
noon,” answered Graham. “ But,” he added hur-
riedly, seeing a handful of money produced, “ I had
rather not be paid for ﬁnding him, sir.”
“ Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Hepplewhite, shutting up
like a trap. ' J
“ He has come after the place we’ve advertised,”
said Mr. Poynting. I
“ Well, what can he do?” said Mr. Hepplewhite
promptly.
“ He has come after the place we’ve advertised,”
said Mr. Poynting drily.
“ But that’s a conﬁdential post! ” exclaimed Mr.
Hepplewhite. “That’s your affair, however!” he
added, turning half away, as if excluding himself
from the rest of the interview.
“ I have held,” said Graham, “ a similar position
for three years in an engine works on Thames-side.”
“Oh? Whose‘works?”
Graham hesitated. He felt his position as on
-a giddy wall, liable to fall this way or that.


116 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“I can’t tell you,” he answered slowly.
“ What? You mean you don’t know?”
“ Know? Of course I know; but I regret I can-
not tell you.”
“Oh!” Mr. Poynting’s face, good-humoured
before, became cold and hard. “ Well, good-after-
noon. I am wasting my time.” And he turned
to march off.
“One word, sir!” said Graham, putting out a
hand to detain him. “ Mr. Poynting, if you buy
a horse you don’t ask who was his last driver, you
don’t demand credentials with him!” Why he
made that appeal he hardly knew; except that there
had been something kindly in the ironmaster’s eye.
“ If he is a high-priced horse I do.”
“You are right, sir,” answered Graham. “I
admit my mistake. I wished to be high-priced.
I should not have asked for a trusted position,
though I have occupied one. I will take anything
to do you can give me.”
Mr. Poynting turned again. “What can you
do?”
“Anything,” he answered. “I have learned
everything that has to do with the making of an
engine; and I am a workman.”
“ Let me look at your hand. You don’t refuse _
to do that, I suppose?”
For answer Graham held his hand out. Mr.
Poynting took it in his own, perused it, bent the
thumb, considered the ﬁngers.
“ Umph!” he exclaimed. “A good hand, and


118 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ing. “It has stopped. Find out what’s wrong
with it, and set it going again. You’ll ﬁnd tools
there. I’ll be back in an hour.”
He disappeared promptly, and Graham with a
devout “ Thank God! ” took off his coat and set to
work. In less than an hour the engine was in
order again and thumping away at its duty, while
Graham set himself to ﬁnish the making of a ﬁne
screw which was in one of the turning-lathes driven
by the engine.
“ Oh, you’ll do,” said Mr. Poynting, suddenly
appearing at his elbow. “You can begin with six
shillings a day, counting from to-day. Will that
suit you?”
“ Suit me very well, sir,” answered Graham.
“ To-morrow morning at six. \Vhat's your
name, by the way? ”
Graham hesitated an instant, while Mr. Hepple-
white appeared again.
“ it, sir! you must have a name!” ex-
claimed Mr. Poynting. “We can’t have a Great
Unknown among our hands! I don’t suppose
you’re Peter the Great redivivus, are you? ”
“ Not big enough,” put in Mr. Hepplewhite.
Graham smiled. “ I should like you to call me
James Leighton,” he answered.
“ Very well, Leighton. The name will be given
to the porter. Good-afternoon.”
Graham (or Leighton), in an impulse of joy
and gratitude, held out his hand. Mr. Poynting
touched it lightly with an indulgent smile.


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN. [19
“ Good-afternoon, sir,” he repeated, bowing and
speaking with a distant and formal politeness.
“ Gi’e me thy hond, lad!” cried the generous
Mr. Hepplewhite. “Dang my buttons, but I be—
lieve thou’rt a good lad! And I trust tha, what—
ever.” And he laid his hand again on the young
man’s shoulder. -
There was a sparkle of sympathetic wet in his
eye, which, with the impulsively hearty words and
tone, provoked a grateful gush of emotion in Gra-
ham’s heart, and also bedewed his eyes.
Thus, almost as if by the direct intervention of
Providence, Graham was established in employ-
ment. He went out from the presence of the iron
partners, brimming with gratitude and hope. He
found a lodging not far off, and at once sat down
to advertise Townshend and Nelly of his good for-
tune, counselling the latter to prepare herself and
his mother for a speedy removal to Milchester. It
was a risk to have Nelly and his mother and old
Liz near him, for they were all three recognisable
as belonging to him; but the risk must be run,
because his mother, now convalescent, but utterly
oblivious of all that had happened, was incessantly
calling for her son, and, moreover, the money he
had left to keep his forsaken household going was
nearly all spent, and it was necessary that they
should assume a cheaper mode of life. It was ar—
ranged, therefore, between him and Nelly that he
should ﬁnd for her and his mother an unfurnished
lodging about Milchester (rents were much lower


120 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
in and around Milchester than in London), and that
they should send on before them sufﬁcient of their
household goods for furniture of the lodging.
He found a sufficient lodging on the side of
Milchester remote from Kershaw. By putting such
an interval of space between his lodging and theirs
he reckoned to lessen very much, if not altogether
banish, the risk of any discovery of their connec-
tion. And then he made ready to receive the fur-
niture; and that was when he had been settled in
Kershaw a fortnight or more. But before the fur-
niture, there came to him an alarming little letter
from Nelly :—
“ MY DEAR, DEAR JIM: I don’t know whether
it’s my fault or not. Perhaps it is. I suppose I -
should have counted on more people being inter-
ested in our movements than I could think of. I
thought of the police, and was careful of them; but
how could I think of your man with the burnt scar
being about here? I believe I have seen him; and
I believe he knows who we are. The things were
all packed, and the railway van was at the door.
The railway man was carrying out a big case on
his back, and then a moment after when I turned
round again there was a shabby creature helping
the driver to shove the case into the van. I dis-
tinctly saw him look close at the label with the
address, and then I noticed he was dark, with a
burnt scar on his cheek! I was horribly fright-
ened. I ran out, and cried: ‘ You man, leave that


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN. [21
case alone!’ He left it alone and looked at me
and said: ‘All right, miss.’ And then he said to
the driver: ‘S’welp me! That’s all the thanks a
bloke gets for trying to give a ’elping ’and! ’ He
went away, though; and I came in at once to write
this tO you. Oh, Jim, Jim! I’m afraid to think
what may come of it. If he knows who we are, and
the address we are going to, I shall never forgive
myself if I who love you so, my dear—my dear—if I
should have brought more trouble and danger upon
you!”
That letter plunged Graham into a great de-
pression. For weeks he had been on the strain,
hunted and haunted by the dread of discovery and
rearrest; a respite, a period of rest, a time of hope
and renewal of strength had come; and now was
that sweet change to change again so soon? Was
he to begin all over again that life, in which to
walk steadily along a pavement and pass a police-
man was as hard a trial of courage as it might be
to walk up to a cannon’s mouth?—in which he
had been so possessed by fear and horror of cap-
ture that he would start awake in the dead of night,
with the feeling as Of the hand of the law upon
him again, and a grim voice in his ear, “James
Graham, I arrest you.” If that abominable tramp
discovered him again, and he seemed to be cunning-
ly preparing to do so, what would his life and liberty
be worth, even if he purchased them at the cost Of
a heavy blackmail? The tramp, he knew, had got


122 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
£10 from Townshend. That sum was probably al—
most, if not quite, spent, and he was likely to set
himself to get more.
But to give way to depression and despair would
be ruin. He would trust in God, and in his own
innocence and good conscience, and keep a stiff
upper lip. Let him think round the situation.
“If the brute has money'to travel with,” said
Graham to himself, “and is as cunning as I think
him,.he can easily be at the address before the
furniture! And I must go to receive the furniture!
If I go—and I must—he may be waiting to see
me! And so I am in his hands again! Money
from me and I have no money !—to hold his tongue,
or he calls a policeman and claims the £100 re-
ward!”
It was a terrible ﬁx! Think of it! Graham
thought of it till he perspired with agony—thought
of it with ceaseless and useless labour, pacing the
room the greater part of the night—grinding his
teeth, smiting and grinding his hands. He must
go the next day to receive the goods, and face the
tramp if he was there. And yet, was there no way
of accomplishing that without appearing himself?
After hours of anxious toil in thought, backward
and forward, it suddenly ﬂashed on him, like a
beam of light from heaven: Mr. Hepplewhite,
though he had a rather rough and prickly business
exterior, was made up of kindness and sympathy
within, and he had already shown much liking and
favour to Graham, would it not be Wise to tell him


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN. 123
all, and ask for counsel and help? That sugges-
tion he determined to follow, and the resolution
so cheered and soothed him that he was able to
go to bed in peace and sleep for the remainder of
the night.
His interview with Mr. Hepplewhite next morn-
ing was equally soothing and cheering. He told
the old man the whole truth—who he was, his
mother’s and his terrible life with his father, the
sudden reappearance of his father, the tragedy that
ensued, his surrender of himself to save his mother,
and then the discovery that death had probably been
dealt by a mysterious hand, and so on, ending with '
his discovery by the tramp on the moor, and the
present jeopardy in which he stood.
“We’ll dish him, lad!” said Mr. Hepplewhite.
“ We’ll dish the beast! Thoo needna Show thy face
in th’ business. My coachman—coachman and
gardener both he is, tha knows—and tho’ he is a
canny, steady, respectable lad,_and I con trust him
through thick and thin, I’ll not name your name
in th’ business: he doan’t g0 brastin’ hissen wi’ ale,
and he’ll go thro’ this job like one o’clock, and wi’
ne’er a cheep to a living soul. Thoo gi’e me th’
address and a’ th’ instructions, tha knows, and I’ll
get them into him, wi’ strict orders that he’s to
confabulate wi’ nobody. And then, seetha, lad,
thoo can slip over after dark, and help unpack some
things ready for thy mother, poor soul! ” '
As he said, so it was done. When the man—a
heavy, stolid fellow—returned from his task, Gra-
9


124 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ham met him in company with Mr. Hepplewhite.
All had been accomplished according to instruc-
tions. Had he seen anybody in particular about?
There was “ a bit of a man ” came wanting to help
to carry things in.
“Thou never let him?” said Mr. Hepplewhite.
“ Not ah,” answered the man, in a slow, boom-
ing tone.
“ What did’st say?”
“ Nowt.”
“ What did’st do, then?”
“ Ah put out ma foot.”
“ Oh! And what did he do?”
“He just lay on his ﬂat in th’ gutter.”
Mr. Hepplewhite laughed loudly.
“Did you notice what sort of man he was?”
put in Graham. “ Was there anything about him? ”
“There was a mark like as fro’ th’ smack o’ a
whip on his cheek-bone.”
Evidently the tramp, on the watch!
Graham went that night to the lodging being
prepared for his mother and his sweetheart. He
travelled from Kershaw into Milchester by train,
and then through Milchester on the roof of a tram-
car, all the while being closely mufﬂed up. He
entered the lodging, seeing no one around. He
began to unpack certain of the things, and to set up
bedsteads, while the Venetian blinds were drawn
closely down. Before he ventured forth again to
return to his own lodging, he turned the lamp well-
nigh out, and peeped thro’ the blind; for a late


THE MAN WITH THE BURNT SCAR AGAIN. 125
moon riding high in the heavens made everything
almost as clear as day.
His heart sank, and rose again with a ﬂutter;
on the other, the brighter side of the street, loung-
ing quite openly was a man whom he recognised
after a glance or two as he turned this way and
then that—recognised as the baleful tramp. With
a sudden bound of the pulse, he remembered that
among the things he had unpacked was his own
air-gun which had already wrought such mischief.
The street was deserted save from the watchful
tramp. The window, he found, was a little bit open
at the bottom. It needed, therefore, but the gentle
raising of the blind a little space, and the thrusting
of the muzzle of the air-gun through the opening,
and the tramp and his fear Of him would cease to
exist altogether!
He went and found the gun in the dark, and
returned with it to the window.


CHAPTER XIII.
A GOLDEN HAIR.
WHEN he had raised the blind a little, and
looked out, he saw the man standing blankly facing
the house, as if to receive the shot of death. Sud-
denly a picture of the moor came before Graham’s
eyes, and of his terrible temptation then to be rid
of that vile man; he remembered the heartfelt
prayer of gratitude he had put up then for having
been delivered from crime, and he shuddered at
himself, and leaned against the window-side, and
wept. While that outburst weakened, it consoled
him.
“The Providence that has kept me from crime,
hitherto, and has preserved me through all dangers
will still keep me. I shall still maintain my inno-
cence, come what will, and trust in God and wait! ”
He laid aside the gun in the corner, and then he
again looked out. The tramp was still there, but
he seemed uncertain whether he would remain;
probably the darkness of the room where he had
seen the light puzzled him. For greater security
Graham resolved to remain there for some hours,
and to return to Kershaw in the small hours of the
126


A GOLDEN HAIR. 1 2 7
morning. So, at once he went into the bedroom,
wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down to sleep.
He had slept some time, when he started wide—
awake, thinking he had heard a knocking. He
sprang to the ﬂoor in the dread that the police had
come to arrest him. He listened; but there was
no sound save that of a train in the distance, and
the long-drawn and stertorous snore of a sleeper
not far off. Could the tramp, he asked himself,
have contrived to enter the house, and fallen asleep,
as it Were on guard?
He peeped from the window; the world was still
White with moonlight, but the length of the Shadows
showed that the moon was sinking. He had no
watch to tell him the time; that had long since
gone into the hands of his “uncle” to get food.
He guessed, however, that all the world was now
a-bed—all except those whom duty, or pleasure,
or crime kept awake--and he prepared to return to
Kershaw. With his boots in his hand, he slipped
out (taking care there was no sleeping form lurking
on the threshold), locked the door of the rooms,
and deposited the key in its expected place, and,
still unshod, reached the ground ﬂoor. Still, for
security’s sake, he tried to ﬁnd the back door; found
it, undid it, put on his boots, and escaped through
a little back yard and over a low wall into a solitary
back lane.
He had to face the few weary and open miles
which lay between him and Kershaw on foot; for
there were neither trains nor trams at that hour:


128 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
the ﬁrst public clock he saw told him it was on
the stroke of three. He made his way across Mil-
chester by unfamiliar streets. He believed he was
making mistakes; but he could not face a police-
man to ask to be set right. And how many police-
men there seemed to be to his suspicious imagina-
tion! A whole procession of them seemed to line
his route, and to watch him narrowly as he stepped
quickly by! But none of them stopped him or
spoke. At length he became so familiarised with
the sight of them that he ventured when well out on
the Kershaw Road to cheerily say “ Good-night ”
to one; but he answered so surlily, “ Neet! ” and
seemed so astonished at the greeting that he greeted
no more. Moreover, when he heard his own ac-
cent, compared with the policeman’s, he noted that
it was not of Lancashire, and he feared the police-
man might have noted that too!
He reached his own lodging in safety, dropping
with sleep and fatigue, and ﬂung himself on his
bed for an hour—till the voice of the siren of the
Locomotive Works should summon him to the
work of the new day.
In the afternoon he received a telegram from
Nelly announcing the arrival of her party, and
adding: “That man’s about. Had you better
come?”
Spite of this warning he went after dark; but
made for the little back lane. He climbed over
the wall, and then undid the door in the wall, that
he might give a plausible explanation of his en-


A GOLDEN HAIR. 1 29
trance if he should meet any one. But he encoun-
tered no one on his way to the rooms he had pro-
vided for his mother and his sweetheart.
What a meeting it was between them! The
last time he had seen his mother was when he had
helped her up to bed on that fatal afternoon. And
the last time he had seen his dear and faithful Nelly
was in the prison at Wormwood Scrubs. How
they hugged and kissed each other in silence! How
fondly they gazed on each other, and wept over the
visible changes and ravages made by trouble, illness
and anxiety! The talkative but faithful old Liz
was the ﬁrst to exclaim.
“Eh, Mr. James!” she cried with hands up.
“But it can never be thoo! W’hat’s gotten tha?
Lord-’a-mercy, wheer’s tha beard? Eh, good—
sakes-alive, I canna lOOk at tha. Thoo’rt the most
terrible grim-grizzle o’ a man I iver could ha’
thought.”
The sight of his mother brought tears to Gra-
ham’s eyes. She was feeble and pale—Oh, so very
pale—and her hair was become dead white! And
he was a greater astonishment to his mother; for
she did not know any reason for the change in him.
She had last seen one who was little more than a
ruddy youth: now she saw a pale, grave man, with
a sadness and thought in the ﬁne blue eyes which
she had never noted there before.
“ Is it you, indeed, James?” she murmured,
clinging to him, and trembling and gazing on him,
her eyesight blurred with tears. “ It’s your beard,


130 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
James! Oh, what have you done with your nice
beard?”
“ I’ve shaved, mother; that’s all,” said he.
“Oh my boy, my boy!” she moaned. “You
are so changed! ”
“Not really changed, mother,” said he. “At
least not changed to you! ”
“ Ah, James,” said she, “ Nelly tells me you are
not going to live with us here? Why, James? I
doubt you’re growing tired of your poor old
mother!”
“ Why, mother,” said her son, ‘ you’re a silly
old goose! You need as much making up to
as a girl! Tired of you? How can that be? I
can’t live here with you, mother, merely because
I must live close to my work, and that is in such
a neighbourhood as I would never think of taking
you to live in. That’s all, mother,” said he. “ Be—
sides,” he added in a lower tone, “there’s Nelly’s
position to be thought of.”
“ I know, my dear—I know,” feebly moaned his
mother. “ It’s all owing to our old trouble! Many
changes, but the old—old trouble! It will end
some day—with the last change I’ll make—when
you put me in my cofﬁn, dear! ”
“Come, mother,” said her son cheerily, “you
mustn’t talk like that. You’ve never been in Mil-
chester before, and it’s not a bad place.”
“ It’s not just the Bad Place thoo means, Mister
James!” said old Liz, who was occupied close at
hand. “ I know Milchester, I do! ”
l


I32 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Yes, Jim,” said she, clinging to him tenderly
and soothingly, “ there is. We must believe there
is. There must be. But, oh, my dear, my dear, if
I could only protect you with my arms. If I could
only take some of this trouble and danger that
comes all on you, my love, my love.”
So they talked soothingly and lovingly together,
and found strength and consolation in each other’s
love.
“ There’s no use,” said he, “ and no need for us
to be in a panic, in spite of this beastly tramp. I
must stay on where I am, to get the patent all ready
and out. I must do that, because that means
money, and a big sum of money is our only good
prospect. I must get that done, and that will take
two or three months. But after that, my dear, we’ll
sail for America with a full purse, and settle down
quite comfortably there.”
“Oh, I hope, Jim, dear, I hope with all my
heart that that may turn out all right. But I am
terriﬁed at the length of time you want. Every
new day that comes I am afraid something may
happen to you—to you, my own dear.”
“ Nelly, dear,” said he devoutly, “ there’s a
Providence that watches over the fall of a sparrow.
I’m more than a sparrow, and I believe—I must
believe, that I am watched over. I must tell you
something, Nelly; did you notice that—that needle—
gun, that horrid invention of mine, was left about? ”
“Yes,” she answered, “I did. It’s over there
now,” pointing to a corner of the room.
f


A GOLDEN HAIR. 133
“Well,” began he—and told her all about his
temptation the night before to shoot the tramp,
and going back he told also of his temptation on
the moor. ’
“ You are my own sweet, good, patient dear! ”
said Nelly. And after a pause: “I’m afraid I’m
not as good and patient as you, Jim; I think I
should have killed the brute both times! Ugh!
What a beast he is! ”
When it was time for Graham to return to Ker-
shaw, they peeped through the corner of the blind
to see if “the beast ” was on the watch: he was——
lounging up and down as he had been the night
before.
“ The man’s an ass,” said Graham. “ Doesn’t
he know that the house has a back to it?”
“ Perhaps he does,” said Nelly, and ﬂew into the
bedroom to look from the back window.
There was no one to be seen from there; and by
the back way Graham departed, as he had gone
the night before.
When he was gone, NellyT—having satisﬁed her-
self with a peep that the tramp was still before the
house—sat for a minute possessed with a daring
idea. She would not commit the smallest crime to
beneﬁt herself; but she would commit any crime-—
she would sell her soul—to beneﬁt Jim, or to save
him from one pang Of the trouble that so closely in-
vested him. She had no pity for the abominable,
mean, cowardly creature outside! She loathed—
she hated him! Why should she not shoot him,


134 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
and release Jim from his threatening at last? Did
she dare? She would dare anything for his sake.
She went resolutely to the corner where stood
the needle-gun, and without a' tremor—with nerves
set like steel-wire—she took the weapon in her
hands. She brought it to the light, because she
was not clear about its method of working. The
two locks were still down: the one that had ﬁrst
fallen and killed Jim’s father, and the other which
had been operated on by the detective. In ﬁnger—
ing the ﬁrst lock, to try its working, her sensitive
woman’s ﬁnger felt something which her sense told
her was a hair.
She held the gun nearer the lamplight; certain—
ly there was a hair entangled with the lock and
caught under its nipple. And the light glancing on
it showed her it was a golden-coloured hair!
She paused a moment, and considered, her mind
almost affrighted to take hold of the likely meaning
of that discovery. Jim’s hair was not golden; nor
was his mother’s, nor her own, nor Liz’s, nor any-
body’s that could have handled the weapon. Was
the detective’s who had ﬁred the second shot? But
the hair was caught in the grip of the ﬁrst-fallen
lock! Therefore it must have been there before,
or just when it fell!
Suppose the hair had been clinging to the hand
that had ﬁred the ﬁrst shot?
With eager ﬁngers she turned again to the locks
of the gun, and undid—carefully, so that it should
not be broken—the golden hair from its entangle-


A GOLDEN HAIR. 135
ments. Then came another discovery on her, like
a stunning clap.
The hair was from a woman’s head: it was too
long to be anything else!
Then she sat down, trembling and wept—she
knew not Whether it was for joy or not. But she
saw an enormous possibility of action for herself.
She would not say a word about it to Jim, lest he
should be unduly hopeful; but all by herself she
would clear her beloved; all by herself she would
discover the person who had killed Jim’s father!
And She twined about her ﬁnger, and thereafter
put carefully away in a scrap of paper, the singular
' clue she had found.


BEN KNOTT’S LAD. 137
Milchester Post Ofﬁce. She applied, was found
proﬁcient, and, as luck would have it, she was sent
as temporary telegraphist to Kershaw.
About the same time also Graham, being found
constant in duty, efﬁcient, and clever beyond com-
mon, was advanced by Mr. Poynting, unsolicited,
to that conﬁdential position for which he had at
ﬁrst applied; and that brought him in about a
pound a day in place of six shillings. Then he told
his employers about his valve, and showed them
his plans. They listened with eagerness, and read—
ily agreed to buy from him the working of his in-
vention when it was perfected and patented; and
so he was engrossed with work, and in that he found
his chiefest consolation.
And all this while nothing more was seen or
heard of the tramp. The furtive sense Of being
hunted and sought for died from Graham’s mind-—
although still in the dead of night he would dream
sometimes (as he had constantly done in the earlier
weeks) horrible dreams of pursuit and capture, and
he would wake in an awful damp, trembling with
the terrible sensation again of gyves upon his
wrists. But all these horrors fell away from him
with the night, and by day he was cheerful and busy.
Thus the time passed, and ample occupationlbe-
gan to breed a chastened kind of contentment in
both Nelly and her lover; for not even in the worst
circumstances that ever were known can mortal
creatures incessantly pine and long, and go wretched
and terriﬁed. Nature protects the workman’s hand


138 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
by thickening the skin; and Nature also shields the
much—tried soul by deadening it to a sense of danger.
Nothing happened,_except in the ordinary round of
life and duty; the days grew longer and warmer,
and even in ﬂat, ugly, industrial Kershaw the spring
made itself felt, and stunted trees and bushes, and
bedraggled hedgerows opened out in greenness and
bloom.
Everything tended to lull Graham into an agree-
able sense of peace and security when suddenly he
was startled awake, and watchful again. There came
to him a short, signiﬁcant note from Mr. Town-
shend, with whom he had corresponded since his
settling at Kershaw, and to whom he had already
repaid the money given on his account to the tramp.
This is what Townshend wrote :—
“I expect our friend, the owner of the burnt scar,
will do his utmost to resume the pleasure of your
acquaintance. Rather more than a week ago, hav—
ing evidently blewed the £10 Isent him at your re-
quest, he sent me another demand. I begged him
to do me the favour to call on me. He does not
seem to have appreciated the invitation; for I have
not seen him, nor heard any more from him. His
letter bore the Milchester'postmark; so he must be
near you. He is a mean, cowardly hound, but
hunger (or thirst) may give him courage and fe-
rocity, and also scent. He may ﬁnd you out.”
Graham was almost tempted to ignore that
warning. The tramp had evidently been about Mil-


BEN KNOTT'S LAD. 139
chester all these weeks, and yet had not found him.
Perhaps, however, he would have a sharper spur
to effort; his money was probably now all spent,
and (as Townshend said) hunger and thirst might
urge him to more enterprise and acuteness than he
had yet shown. What if the man should set him—
self to a systematic observation of all the iron works
about Milchester? Then Graham saw something
of the disadvantage of being more than an undis-
tinguished workman: as a workman he might es—
cape discovery in such a search for a twelvemonth
and a day; as What he was he could not hope to
escape a month.
“ But,” said he to himself, “forewarned is fore-
armed.”
And he determined to renew all possible Precau-
tions against discovery; and yet discovery came,
like a shower of rain, when least expected.
One morning he went with Mr. Hepplewhite
into Milchester on business. The old ironmaster
was a familiar ﬁgure in the business streets of the
city, and at every turn he was greeted with a smile
or a nod, or a handshake, or (by the humbler pas-
ser-by) with a doff of the hat, while he lightly passed
on with a “ How do, John?” or an “ Art tha, Joe? ”
He was a great talker, and he hardly ceased all
through the streets talking in a voice as open and
generous as his mind, and as little subdued or re-
served as if he were talking in his own dining-roOm,
leaning his hand the while on Graham’s Shoulder,
who was shorter by half a head than he. Suddenly
IO


14o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
he stopped in one of the busiest business streets, and
pointing openly across the way said in a voice loud
enough for all passing to hear:—
“ Dost see that man—th’ young chap in th’ spats
and eye—glass—over there? He’s Ben Knott’s lad.
Ben Knott kept a rag and bottle shop i’ th’ Dew—
gate,—and there was summat o’ a suspicion he was
a fence—receiver o’ stolen goods, tha knows.
But Ben was a Radical—as hot a Radical as ever
was known; but that lad o’ Ben’s is a Conservative.
I always say if you want to ﬁnd a regular, out and
out, high-toned Conservative—a kind of nonpareil
and ne plus ultra chap 0’ that persuasion—look yo’
out for the son 0’ a ragged-breeched Radical.”
Then he walked on amid the smiles of those who
had overheard him, serenely saluting as he went
with his “ How do, John? ” and his “Art tha, Ben? ”
But amusement died down in Graham’s breast.
On the other side of the street he saw a shabby
man with a burnt scar on his cheek—a man whom
he recognised without difficulty and with a horrid
sinking of the heart—saw him look attentively
across, and then quickly turn to a passer—by as if
to ask a question. Graham guessed what the
question must be; who was the tall, oldish gentle-
man who was talking so loudly as he went along?
He could not but believe that the man would be
answered readily enough that that was the great
and odd Mr. Hepplewhite, the famous ironmaster,
Graham’s ﬁrst instinct was to disappear down an
alley and escape; but a moment’s reﬂection showed


BEN KNOTT’S LAD. I41
him that disappearing and dodging would be of no
avail if he had been recognised, and if his com-
panion’s name and condition were known. Still,
precaution is prudence.
“It’s th’ very same in religion,” continued Mr.
Hepplewhite, as he paced along. “ Ma feyther and
ma mother was Primitives, but my lasses is all for
curates and High Church—and what I am, in be-
tween, I doan’t know,” he laughed.
“Would you mind turning in somewhere at
Once, Mr. Hepplewhite?” asked Graham. There
was no mistaking the anxiety and urgency of his
tone.
“ Eh?” said Mr. Hepplewhite. “ Dost feel
bad?”
“No,” said Graham. “Only I’ve seen some
one who knows me—the tramp I’ve told you
about!”
“Where?” cried Hepplewhite, turning boldly
round.
“ He’s gone! But I doubt he saw me. Let us
turn in here.”
They plunged into a great corner building—a
kind of club and reading-room, to which Graham
knew that Mr. Hepplewhite belonged, and to which
he also knew there were several doors. Once with-
in the building he explained to Mr. Hepplewhite
how he had seen the man look as he was pointing
out Ben Knott’s lad.
“ It’s a bad job,” said Mr. Hepplewhite. “ But
if he comes upon tha, thou’d best pay up again,


I42 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
till we can hit on some gate 0’ getting rid on
him.”
Graham thought so too; but, since their busi-
ness was done, he conceived there was just a remote
chance of escaping the man’s notice by slipping
away by himself, and returning to Kershaw alone.
As for deserting his post and ﬂeeing away into the
unknown again—that notion never entered his head.
But all he did was only like the wriggling of a
hooked ﬁsh. Next morning he found he was
caught. As he passed into the works at six o’clock,
amongst the row of depressed and anxious men
waiting for a chance to be taken on as labourers,
he saw the sinister visage with the burnt scar on
the check. As he passed, he could not help letting
his eye light on the man, and the man palpably
winked at him.
When he went home to his lodging to dinner,
he found the man lingering outside the door. He
entered without taking any note of him, but he
was barely in when his landlady came to say that
a man wished to speak with him. The man was
behind her, and came in, and Graham closed the
door. He looked at the scoundrel a moment with-
out speaking, and he could not have guessed how
much of hatred and mischief his look expressed, had
he not remarked the uncertainty and furtive and
fearful watchfulness depicted in the man’s ugly
countenance. The table was laid for Graham’s din—
ner, and in absence of mind he began moving about
—placing, and shifting, and replacing the knife: a


BEN KNOTT’S LAD. 143
disturbing action which made the man hold himself
carefully together.
“ I have no time to wait,” said Graham suddenly.
“ You want more money, I suppose.”
“You’ve hit it, mister,” said the man. “Ten
quid don’t pan out much, and I’m a misfortunate
bloke wot can never get a job that’s worth a cuss.”
“ Never mind excuses. How much do you
want?”
“A tenner will do, guv’nor.”
“ Impossible,” said Graham. “ I haven’t got
one.” And again he busily moved the knife on the
table.
“Ain’t yer, mister? You seems to be all right
in there,” jerking his thumb towards the Locomo-
tive Works, “ and you’re just proper and chummy
with the old boss, I could see yesterday morning.
Yer must be on the make, guv’nor: ﬁve or six quid
a week, I bet, if a tanner. S’welp me, some coves
is lucky! An’ a pore bloke like me—’ard workin’
when I get the chanst, if ever there was a ’ard work-
in’ bloke! I can’t git not a bloomin’ job; no nor a
bloomin’ bob give me!”
“ Do you want a job?” asked Graham.
“ Course I do! Not a labourer’s job, tho,’ mis-
ter! I’m a mechanic, I am—not a labourer—never
mind if I ’ave lost my union ticket! I daresay you
ain’t got your union ticket, neither, if the rights of
it was knowed! ”
“If you come to the works again to-morrow
morning I may be able to get you something to do.”


144 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Thank ye, guv’nor. Your faviour to ’and.
But, fust, wot about that tenner?”
“ I told you, I haven’t got so much.”
“ You can borry, I daresay, mister.”
Graham shook his head.
“ All right. I’m keeping your grub waiting.
I’ll just take a walk down to the police-station, and
by the time you’ve ﬁnished your grub there’ll be a
copper or two knocking at the door.”
Graham stood, strung tense with hatred and
desperation, and putting all the while a ﬁerce re-
straint upon himself. .
“ You low, mean scoundrel ! ” he growled
through his set teeth, while he gazed ﬁxedly at the
man. “ And how long is this to go on? I give you
what you demand, and in a week or two you come
back for more. When that’s spent, you come back
again. How long, do you think, can I stand that?
I believe I’ll end yet by killing you!”
The man fell back a step, ghastly pale, and
cast a fearful glance over his shoulder at the door.
“ Look ’ere, mister,” said he. “I’m not a ’ard
chap, when all’s said and done! I’ll take a ﬁver——
on account! ”
“Come here, then, to—night about nine o’clOck,
and I’ll give it you.”
“ Oh, no, mister!” said he, laying his ﬁnger to
his nose. “ Not for Joe! As you come home from
the works this arternoon you jest slip the ﬁver into
my hand; I’ll give yer the chanst.”
“Very well,” said Graham. “ Now you can go.”


BEN KNOTT'S LAD. ' 145
“ I don’t think much 0’ that Mr. Townshend,
Esquire, for a friend,” said the man, pausing with
his hand on the door. “ ’E wouldn’t stump up the
’oof again without my goin’ to see him. Not me.
I’ve ’eard too much on him. “’E’s in with too
many coves of all sorts. Everybody knows Town-
shend, Esquire, ‘ the Markis.’ P’r’aps you knows
him well; p’r’aps yer don’t. E’s a swell bookie-
that’s my belief. And I fancy he’s a bit barmy on
the crumpet. He’s a devil. I ’ate him.”
And he opened the door and went.
When he had gone one half of the folding-door
communicating with Graham’s little bedroom was
softly opened, and there stepped out Mr. Town—
shend.
“ Don’t trouble yourself about that fellow,” said
he, while Graham looked at him in silent amaze—
ment. “ I’ll settle him for you.”


CHAPTER XV.
A LADY FAIR TO SEE.
“ WHERE do you come from?” exclaimed Gra—
ham.
“‘From going to and fro on the earth, and
walking up and down in it.’ That’s quite a proper
quotation for me, being a kind of devil, according
to our friend who has just gone.”
So saying Townshend sat down at the table, and
cut himself a piece of bread from the loaf set ready.
“ You’re going to have lunch, aren’t you? You
won’t mind letting me have a morsel, I’m sure. I’m
ravenous. Let me begin with a slight hors
d’azuvre.”
He thickly spread with mustard the slice of
bread he had cut, folded it, and ate.
"‘ That certainly looks very ﬁendish,” said Gra-
ham, with a smile. “ It must be devilish hot.”
“Wholesome,” said Townshend. “ A slight
stimulant to the stomach to prepare for what may
follow.”
Graham tinkled a little hand-bell on the table.
“ I’m afraid,” said he, “there’s not much.”
“Anything will do,” said Townshend. “ Bacon
146


A LADY FAIR TO SEE. 14]
and eggs, or bacon without eggs, or eggs without
bacon.”
Graham’s landlady entered, and set on the table
a dish containing two fried chops.
“ This,” said Graham, “ is my excellent landlady,
Mrs. Talkington.” >
“I’ve seen th’ gentleman already, sir,” said the
landlady.
“ Yes,” said Townshend, with a bow to her, and
his singular ﬂutter of a smile beneath his moustache,
“Mrs. Talkington let me in, and on my saying I
did not wish to see the person who was interviewing
you she put me into your bedroom. She did not
act up to her name, though; she said very little.”
The landlady did not perceive the joke, but
solemnly laid for him a knife and fork, and with-
drew when her lodger had asked her to prepare an-
other dish of something.
“ Your excellent landlady,” said Townshend,
eyeing the chop on his plate, “ would be more excel-
lent if She did not fry chops. The chop is an ad-
mirable institution, handed down by our forefa—
ther’s, but it Was meant to be grilled. A fried chop
is an abomination.”
“Won’t you wait, then, for something else?”
said Graham, somewhat put out.
“Oh, thank you, Leighton,” said Townshend
nonchalantly, “I can eat it. I only feel bound to
protest as an Englishman, who is sorry—dev’lish
sorry—to see his country on the downhill grade.”
“ Downhill?” said Graham. “ How?”


I48 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“My dear fellow, the worst Sign of decay in a
race is its neglect of cookery; and when a country
has good and abundant food, and is too stupid or
- too careless to treat it properly, it is fast rushing to-
wards degradation and subjection. We can’t work
well nor ﬁght well when we don’t eat well.”
Graham glanced at his companion and smiled;
he certainly was very odd.
“ I never trouble abOut what I eat,” said he.
“ I’m sorry to hear it,” said Townshend; “you
make a great mistake. Now you shall come and
dine with me to-night, and I will present you with
some things to eat.”
“ If I’m not in the hands of the police,” said Gra—
ham, with an anxious smile.
“ Don’t anticipate such a' contingency,” said
Townshend lightly. “ I’ll dispose of our friend for
you.”
Something in the tone and the use of the word
“dispose” alarmed Graham.
“ Let me ask how you mean to dispose of him?
I can’t be any party to violence,” said he, “ or foul
play. I refuse to beneﬁt by it,” he protested with
energy.
“ It’s that low cur that’s playing foul," said
Townshend, pausing in his meal, and looking
straight across at Graham, while his eye-glass
ﬂashed. “The easiest and shortest way with him
would be something of this sort.” He was balanc-
ing his knife on his little ﬁnger. “ But you don’t
like it, I can see.”


A LADY FAIR TO SEE. I49
“ I have a horror-of taking life! ” said Graham.
“ I almost took his—on the moor—and since—but
I repented of it.” And he shuddered at the recol-
lection. ‘
“Ah!” murmured Townshend. “A pity! I
have no compunctions that way. Why should I?
I would kill a rat or a cockroach without thinking
any more about it. That man is a human rat or
cockroach, and I would get him put to a painless
death without qualm or scruple.”
“ He is a rat,” said Graham, “but he’s human,
and he has a soul! ”
“ Perhaps,” said Townshend. “ But we won’t
discuss theology. And since you don’t like it, I
won’t get him put an end to; in fact, I did not mean
tO do that. But he shall be disposed of and made
quite harmless.”
“ No violence,” repeated Graham.
“Very well, no violence.”
Then it struck Graham as singular that he should
accept Townshend’s easy offer Of deliverance with-
out question. What extraordinary faculty Of sug-
gesting his power and inﬂuence was it that he pos-
sessed?
“ What will you do?” he felt impelled to ask.
“ I have come down here on business for a few
days,” said Townshend, “ with two or three people.
They are not of a very scrupulous sort, and they
are quite at my service. They will manage the af-
fair under my directions. Don’t you give a thought
tO it or to him any more.”


[SQ PURSUED BY THE LAW.
Graham felt the odd attractiveness and power of
Townshend, but yet he was anew invaded by won-
der and doubt. Townshend had been an extra-
ordinarily good friend to him, but after all, what did
he know of him? “ Marquis ”—“ Swell bookie”
—“ in with too many of all sorts.” These words
and phrases of the tramp came back upon him, and
still he wondered who Townshend could be. And
again with fresh insistence the old question arose in
his mind: Why on earth should Townshend take
such trouble to befriend him?
In a little while the warning scream of the siren
made Graham rise from table to prepare to return
to his duty at the works. He saw Townshend slip
away from the house by the back entrance, lest he
should be seen and recognised by the tramp, and
then he himself set out.
Trusting to the fulﬁlment of Townshend’s prom-
ise, he left the works at the end of the working day
with no money in his hand; and he passed on his
way to his lodging with a great and lurking anxiety.
But neither in the more public, nor in the more
lonely, parts of the road did he see anything of the
tramp, and he reached his own door with a devout
“ Thank God! ” When he entered he found Town-
shend with the landlady, gazing sympathetically on
a fearful and wonderful portrait of her deceased hus-
band.
“ He must have been a ﬁne ﬁgure of a man, Mrs.
Talkington,” he was saying.
“ And that he was, sir,” said Mrs. Talkington,


A LADY FAIR TO SEE. 15!
“though I say it what shouldn’t. He was bed—rid
for three year, and when it came to th’ end he just
slummered off in my arms like a babby! ”
“The blessed man!” said Townshend, with
sympathy.
“ But now I mun get th’ tea,” said she, when she
saw her lodger.
“For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Talkington, no tea——
or only a weak cup!” exclaimed Townshend.
“Mr. Leighton is coming up to town with me to
dinner.”
“ Sakes alive!” exclaimed the woman. “ Didn’
he have his dinner?”
“ He’s going to have another,” said Townshend.
Then, when the astonished woman was gone, he
said: “ What a people we are! We think ourselves
the pink of commercial wisdom, and we let the
Germans steal our trade, and we ruin the di-
gestion of the whole nation with cheap tea and
cheap bread! And all in the name of commercial
wisdom!”
“Ah,” said Graham, with a smile—a new smile
of relief—“ I can’t follow you into these matters.
But you’re not in Parliament, I think?”
Graham said that quite seriously; but Town-
shend would regard it as a joke. He looked closely
at Graham, and his moustache lifted with his char-
acteristic smile, while he tossed his drooping crest
of black hair back with his hand.
“You’re better. I can see; or you wouldn’t
have said that; it’s too funny!” and he laughed,


152 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
aloud. “You didn’t meet our friend, the tramp.
N 0.” He pulled out his watch.
“Thanks to you,” said Graham fervently.
“ By this time,” said Townshend, looking at his
watch, “our friend, the tramp, who has been very
drunk, indeed, is waking up in a place quite strange
to him, but not very far off; and in a little while he
will be very much astonished. Don’t trouble about
him.”
“ I am much obliged to you,” said Graham.
“Your acquaintance and your inﬂuence are both
wide and wonderful. If it is a fair question I would
like to ask how you have so much inﬂuence?”
“I may, perhaps, answer you to-night: we’ll
see. At least,” he continued, “ I shall introduce you
to a very interesting acquaintance of mine,—who
has heard about you and wishes to see you.”
“ Oh,” said Graham. “ May I ask ”
“No, you may not!” exclaimed Townshend.
“Don’t be always asking something!” And he
laughed again, with some loudness; he was clearly
in a very good temper. _
In half an hour they were travelling together
into Milchester, in a ﬁrst-class carriage—a luxury
in which the hard-living Graham had never in-
dulged himself—and some hour or so later they
were sitting down to dinner in one of the best-ap-
pointed but not the most gorgeous of the Milchester
hotels.
It was a well-chosen feast of Lucullus which
Townshend arranged, and Graham was more than


A LADY FAIR TO SEE. 153
pleased; he was dazzled. The meats were excel-
lent, but he preferred not to look at the menu to
read their outlandish names ; it was better, he
thought, to remain ignorant on that score. But
what interested and amazed him most of all was the
ﬂavour and variety of the drinks. He ﬁrst drank a
glass of wonderful sherry with his soup; next he
drank white wine with his ﬁsh; then came red wine
—some kind of claret, Townshend said—with some
following meats; and after that iced champagne
ﬂowed and frothed in a stream. Last of all came
coffee and a cigar, though he refused the cigar, be-
cause he did not smoke, but accepted the liqueur
cognac to go with his coffee. Then with an active
brain, in which all kinds. of brisk and tripping tunes
seemed to go to and fro, he felt expansive and
genial.
“ Mr. Townshend,” said he, “for the life Of me
I can’t make out why you go to all this trouble and
expense for me—besides the other things you have
done of the most friendly kind. But for you I
should be—you know where—eating my heart out
and wearing a horrible livery; that’s a fact. Now,
you know, it seems to me a most extraordinary thing
—most extraordinary !—that though you have done
so much for me, I don’t know in the least who you
are! I don’t really!” _
“I am a Master,” said Townshend, with that
portentous manner which he knew how to as-
sume, “in search of a Worthy Disciple; you
appear—have always appeared—to me such a dis-


154 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ciple, if I could only win you. I wish to win
you.”
“ Riddles again, Mr. Townshend,” said Graham
—“ conundrums.”
Townshend considered him; and Graham,
whether from a merely lively imagination or from
the potency of the wine, laughed softly; for the ap-
pearance of Townshend seemed to change from
moment to moment—now being most distinguished
indeed—absolutely the most distinguished and com-
manding person he had ever seen—a truly eagle
head and crest; and again seeming Withdrawn a
long way off and become grotesque—the fell of
black hair tossing disordered, the nose lengthening,
and the neck elongating and growing thinner, till
he looked like a strange kind of fowl!
“ I am compelled to talk in riddles,” said Town—
shend—“ in parables—because I don’t know how
you would stand the bare, naked truth. Do you
like this dinner?” he asked suddenly.
“ Very much, thank you,” said Graham.
“ Well, I‘ can put you in the way of enjoying
such a dinner every night, if you like, and of hav-
ing the ﬁngering of thousands of pounds—four
or ﬁve thousand a year—if you will put your-
self in my hands—join me—be my worthy dis-
ciple! ”
“ ‘ All these things will I give you, if you will fall
down and worship me,’ ” quoth Graham. “I be-
lieve, Mr. Townshend,” he added with a laugh, “you
are really the devil.”


A LADY FAIR TO SEE. 155
“ Well, what then?” smiled Townshend.
“ I will only say: ‘ Let me get my valve out, and
then I’ll answer you.’ ”
“ Oh, your valve!” said Townshend. “That
valve will let in ruin upon you. But come,” he add-
ed, he had ﬁnished his cigar, “ I want to take you to
the theatre to see some one.”
Townshend took a cab to the theatre. When '
they got out Graham recognised it to be the same
theatre as he had passed on the ﬁrst morning of
his acquaintance with Milchester, when he was
ragged, unkempt, desperate and forlorn, and in
possession of only a few pence. Within the theatre
he presently made another discovery.
Townshend marched in in very lordly fashion,
presenting no ticket and paying no money, and be—
stowing merely a “ How-de-do ” on a very superb
gentleman who bowed graciously to him and con-
ducted him to the stalls.
The play, a comedy, was in process before a fair-
ly full house. There came upon the stage an
actress who was received with great applause. She
bowed her acknowledgments, and Graham noted
her. She was tall, fair, handsome, thirty or there—
about, What many men would call “ a ﬁne ﬁgure of
a woman ”——and when she spoke her voice was as
clear and pleasant as a silver bell.
“ Well, what do you think of her?” asked
Townshend, when the act was ended.
“ She seems to me very good—though I don’t
know much of acting.”
II


156 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Oh, acting! I mean what do you think of her
looks?”
“She is very good-looking. I think she is the
handsomest woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, that’s her.”
“ Her? Who?”
“The lady who wishes to know you. She has
fallen quite in love with you, with all she has heard
about you. Oh, don’t be alarmed; it is just a
friendly, Platonic attachment. She will not em-
barrass you with her attentions.”
“I am very highly ﬂattered,” stammered Gra—
ham.
After the performance he went behind the scenes
with Townshend,~and was introduced to the lady,
named Miss Bolsover. He saw her in her walking
dress, and then he recognised she was the same
fashionably arrayed lady as had looked on him with
interest from the steps of the theatre on that ﬁrst
morning in Milchester.
Townshend, it appeared, had invited her to sup-
per, and the three departed together. Over the
oysters and Chablis Graham was almost silent. He
was constrained by what had been told him of Miss
Bolsover, and left the conversation to her and
Townshend in the main. But She continued to look
at him, and to refer questions to him.
“You are a kind of Tubal-Cain, Mr. Leighton,
are you not?” she said at length. “I mean you
are like the ﬁrst worker in metal; you can do any—
thing you like with a bit of iron, I suppose—make


A LADY FAIR TO SEE. 157
anything Of it. It would‘be very good and sweet of
you if you would come and look at my iron cur-
tain.” \
“ Ho! ho! ho! ” laughed Townshend, while
Graham looked bewildered.
“For heaven’s sake, Fred,” begged Miss Bol—
sover, “don’t laugh like Sanger’s hyena at Mar-
gate. Do cultivate a more human and becoming
laugh, there’s a dear! I know why you laughed,”
she went on quickly. “ You don’t understand what
I mean, Mr. Leighton, by my iron curtain. It’s the
pride and joy of my life as lessee of the theatre, you
know, but I can’t do anything with it. It’s like a
monkey up a tree; it won’t be reasonable and come
down, and if ever we have a ﬁre we might as well not
have a beautiful iron curtain for all the good it will
be.”
- “Oh, I understand,” said Graham, “the iron
curtain is on the stage.”
“ Of course it' is, child!” exclaimed Miss Bol-
sover. “Where did you think it was?”
“ Ho! ho! ho!” again laughed Townshend.
“ Please don’t! ” begged Miss Bolsover. Then,
turning again to Graham, she said: “ DO come and
look at my iron curtain for me! ”
“ I will with pleasure,” said Graham.
It was arranged that he should go tO “ lOOk at ”
the curtain the next evening by six o’clock. And
then they saw her into a cab and bade her “ Good-
night.”
“ I should like your company for half an hour
I


153 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
longer,” said Townshend to Graham. “ I have
something else to show you.”
He called a cab, and they were driven into a
part of the city which Graham had not yet seen. In
about a quarter of an hour Townshend stopped and
dismissed the cab, and walked on a little way. He
halted before a large, solid, old-fashioned house, and
rang the bell in two quick jerks. The door was
speedily opened by a man, and Townshend entered
and passed him without a word, taking Graham
along with him. He sprang up the wide, heavy-
balustered staircase, and opened the door facing
him on the ﬁrst ﬂoor.
There was revealed a well-lighted, well-furnished
drawing-room, Where lounged ﬁve or six men smok-
ing and talking~while in a corner, bound in a chair,
with one arm exposed to the shoulder, sat a
wretched, frightened creature, whom Graham
recognised readily as the Man with the Burnt Scar.


CHAPTER XVI.
THE IRON CURTAIN.
TOWNSHEND exchanged some words in French
with a dark young man, and then in German with
a tall, broad-shouldered, square-headed, fair young
man. Afterwards he turned to the wretch bound in
the chair.
“ So, my blackmailer,” said he, “ I hope you are
taking to heart the indelible lesson my friends have
been impressing on you.” He stepped up to the
man, and turned his left arm so that Graham should
see on its upper part the letter “ S ” newly branded,
and oiled over. “He now bears our trade mark,”
said he, but condescended to explain no further.
“You understand clearly,” he then continued to
the wretch, in his most commanding and sonorous
tones, “ that now you will be known to all my friends
and agents—and I have friends and agents every-
where. You are marked, and your photograph is
here” (laying his hand on a photographic slide),
and if you repeat any of your very agreeable
tricks on this friend here” (taking Graham by the
elbow) “ you will at once be wiped out. I have no
conscience or scruple about killing human vermin
I59


16o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
like you. If anything happens to this friend of
mine, at once—understand, at once—you say
‘ Good—night’ to this world. And that you may
have no excuse, when my friends dismiss you from
this in three days you Will get one pound and the
chance of earning a living; you have said you are a
blacksmith, but are hunted about because you be-
long to no union.”
“And that’s a fact, sir!” the wretch blurted
out. “ I’m an engineer.”
“ Very well, you Shall have a member’s ticket of
the union provided for you, and with that you should
get into work. Remember, you don’t know this
friend of mine ”—again taking Graham by the
elbow—“his name, nor anything about him; as
soon as you pretend to know anything, as sure as
you are alive now, you will be dead then! Try no
tricks: I am not to be triﬂed with. There will be
noescape for you. My friends and agents have
eyes everywhere. Your death will make no noise;
it will be silent, but certain! ”
These sentences, each one, he emphasized with a
pointed foreﬁnger, and his remarkable head and face
looked so threatening, terrible, and Rhadamanthine
that Graham Shuddered at his aspect, and his ﬂesh
crept. As for the tramp, he uttered no word, but
he turned green with fright, the scar on his cheek
standing out drawn and purple on the expanse of
green. AS Townshend turned away, however, he
shot a vicious, ferrety, vindictive glance at him,
which suggested that he was not completely cowed.


THE IRON CURTAIN. 1 161
Townshend and Graham .then passed in si-
lence from the house, and when they stood again
on the pavement Graham had the impression
merely of having been in a disagreeable dream; so
swiftly and smoothly had the whole experience
passed.
“You have to be up early,’ said Townshend,
with great consideration, as they walked away.
“ You had better take a cab as soon as we come
upon one and get home that way; there will be no
trains for you at this hour.”
Soon they passed by a railway station, where
cabs were waiting. Townshend hailed one, saw
Graham enter it, and insisted on paying the cabman.
Graham protested, but Townshend would have his
way.
“ You must permit me,” said he; “ the whole of
this evening is my affair. Good-night. Let me
know how the valve progresses.”
On that drive to Kershaw, in a condition be-
tween sleep and wake, Graham’ was much exercised
in mind by the strange manifestations Of Townshend
—above all, by that last display of his extraordinary
secret inﬂuence. What did it mean? Who could
he be? And who could those foreigners be who
seemed his active and obedient agents? What
bound him and them together?
Then, as he thought, a new, terriﬁc suspicion
rose on him like a cloud. Townshend was “ not to
be triﬂed with,” that was plain; he had no scruple
about killing human vermin; that seemed very like-
7


162 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ly; he dealt out punishment, even death, silently
but surely!
“What,” he asked himself, “ what if my father
tried to triﬂe with him? What if his death was,
therefore, caused—silently but surely—with my
own gun?”
These disturbing reﬂections made him sit up,
wide-awake. Did not that seem the clear and plain
explanation of several things that otherwise were
inexplicable? The nearness of Townshend at the
time of his father’s death—and his remarkable in-
terest in Graham ever since! Why should that last
be so strong, generous and constant, but that
Townshend, who certainly was a generous and
courageous man—whatever else he might be—was
smitten with sorrow and compunction for having
brought such grievous trouble on him—Graham—
for a deed he himself had caused or committed?
That opened such a Wide turmoil of feeling and
speculation that Graham could come to no clear
conclusion on it, and he went to bed With his mind
engaged in the Whirl of it. _
In the morning all seemed more ordinary and
commonplace. He began to doubt the truth of his
speculation and suspicion; he began even to think
that the scene he had shared in with the tramp in the
strange house must be a dream; for he recalled that
he had dined the night before—not wisely per-
haps, but certainly well.
That evening, when his duty at the works was
over, he made haste to wash and array himself for


THE IRON CURTAIN. 163
his promised visit to Miss Bolsover at the Theatre
Royal. She was a remarkably handsome, a won-
derfully clever, and an exceedingly amiable woman,
who (according to Townshend) had expressed some
kind of admiration of him; and though she had
made no allusion to that the evening before, she
might when they were alone. That, therefore, gave
a peculiar piquancy to his expectations, for even
a man in trouble, and already in love with a faithful
sweetheart, is pleased and ﬂattered (I may even say
“cockered up,” though it sounds vulgar) by the
preference of any lady.
When he reached the theatre he found (as he
had been instructed) the stage-door, and through
that he was conducted to the presence of Miss Bol—
sover in a prettily appointed parlour; such a parlour
as he, in his ignorance of theatres, had not con-
ceived it possible could exist in the neighbourhood
of the stage. He went with her upon the stage it-
self to attend to the ailment of the iron curtain; but
he found so little the matter that he was almost
I tempted—in his secret, suspicious heart—to wonder
whether the iron curtain had not been merely an
excuse to get him there.
In less than a quarter of an hour from his ﬁrst
introduction to it the iron curtain was rolling up
and down quite smoothly and obediently. And
then they returned to the little parlour.
“ May I give you a cup of tea, Mr. Leighton?”
said Miss Bolsover. “I am just having one; do
be nice and share one with me! ”


164 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Thank you,” said he, “ I will.” .
“We’ve had a morning performance to-day,”.
she said, “ and between that and the evening I don’t
trouble to go to my lodgings, but just sit here and
make tea. It’s so like what we used to do on Sun-
days.”
“On Sundays?” he queried.
“ Yes,” said she. “Perhaps you never taught
in a Sunday school. I did. After school there
might be a meeting of some kind—committee or
something—and then there was no time for me and
some of the others to go home and get back to even-
ing service. So we stayed and made tea, and had
larks. Oh, yes, I ‘wallered’ in Sunday schools,
like Mark Twain’s dear Tom Sawyer!”
Graham, who was not much of a reader, was
unacquainted with Mark Twain’s hero; and there-
fore he said nothing to that revelation about Sun-
day schools.
“ Perhaps you think,” said Miss Bolsover, “ what
an extraordinary thing for a Sunday school teacher
to have become an actress!”
“Is it more extraordinary,” said he, “than if
an actress became a Sunday school teacher?”
“ Now, it’s very sweet of you to say that! ” ex-
claimed Miss Bolsover. “I don’t think it is so
extraordinary; but most people don’t agree with
me. But the fact is, all the tricks and little wick-
ednesses I’ve ever known I learnt at Sunday
school.”
“ Really?" said he.


THE IRON CURTAIN. 165
“ Truly and really! ” said she.
That seemed a strange confession; but it pre-
pared for an easy and conﬁdential footing.
“But now tell me about yourself,” said Miss
Bolsover, after they had thus talked a little at large.
“ I mean—how are you getting on in this place?”
Graham stared; it was rude, but he could not
help it.
“ Oh, I forgot,” said she, with a beautiful blush,
“ that you don’t know I have all your story by heart
——and that your real name is James Graham.”
Graham started; he was very much disturbed.
“ No,” said he, “ I certainly did not know you
knew that! ”
“ Oh, I really beg your pardon if I ought not to
know it! ” said she. “ But—pleasel—pleasel—
look upon me as a friend you can trust with any-
thing—and who would dO anything in the world I
can for you! ”
She said that with such a passion—or, apparent
passion—of earnestness, that Graham was still more
astonished.
“Oh,” said he, with the faintest touch Of con-
straint, and with some perfunctoriness of tone,
“there can be no harm in your knowing; at least,
I don’t believe you would do me any harm.”
“I? Do you harm?” she exclaimed. “Ah,
you little guess, child, how much I would give to
be able to help you, instead of-doing you harm!”
Actually there were tears in her eyes; and Gra—
ham’s heart warmed and gushed with emotion at


166 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
the manifestation of such obvious and delightful
sympathy.
“ I feel certain,” said he reassuringly, “ that you
will keep my secret tight locked up. But how did
you know about me? I suppose Mr. Townshend
told you? ”
“ Yes; Fred—Mr. Townshend—told me,” said
she; “told me all about your noble conduct in
taking that horrible business on yourself, all to
save your mother! It was that, you know, that
made me admire you! I do admire, you know,
courage and self-sacriﬁce so much! I don’t think
I have a scrap myself! But I do admire them so
much in others! So mean and merely sentimental
that, isn't it?” So she ran on, as if, like Tenny-
son’s Brook, she would “ go on for ever.”
“ I suppose,” said Graham, presently dashing
in upon that stream of talk, in the hope that he
might learn something that would reassure his trou-
bled mind about Townshend, “ I suppose you know
Mr. Townshend very well? ”
“Oh, yes, I know him very well,” said she
lightly. “You don’t, I suppose; not very well
yet, but you will. He is very fond of you—awfully
fond! He thinks you so courageous and so clever;
and above everything he admires courage and clev-
erness. Ah, but he admires more than them! Ah,
yes, he is a dear! He is truly—and he does think
so much of you! ”
“ But why? ” blankly asked Graham.
“Why? Oh, my dear child!” exclaimed the


168 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
man, with a remarkably comic countenance, and
with an extraordinarily Shy, hesitating manner. His
face was round and plump, and small-featured and
smooth as that of a Japanese doll. Graham, to his
amazement, and somewhat to his embarrassment,
recognised him as young Poynting, the only son
of Mr. Poynting, and with equal readiness he recog-
nised Graham._ ‘
“What? Mr. Poynting? ” said Miss Bolsover,
evidently not too well pleased with the young man’s
visit. “I did not expect you. Let me introduce
you to my friend Mr. Leighton.”
“ How-de-do, Leighton?” said the young man.
“ Didn’t know you were interested in the theatre.”
“Oh, Mr. Leighton is an old friend of mine,”
said Miss Bolsover, compelling Graham with a
forcible look to acquiesce in her statements. “ But
you know each other? ”
“ You forget,” said Graham craftily, “ that I
am employed with Messrs. Hepplewhite and Poynt—
ing.”
“ Of course!” said Miss Bolsover.
“ Yes,” said young Poynting, beginning to chew
the top of his stick. “Jolly weather, isn’t it?—
awfully jolly, I think.”
“'But how have you managed to get in? ” asked
Miss Bolsover, not yet accepting his presence with
resignation. “ I told the door-keeper to say I was
engaged.”
“ I—didn’t see the door-keeper,” said young
Poynting. “ I think I just twigged him slipping


THE IRON CURTAIN. 169
round the corner—don’t you know ?—for what they
term half a pint. And so I walked in at the open
door.”
“ Well, I’m very sorry,” said she, “ but I must
send you both away now, because the company
will be arriving to dress in a few minutes. Good—
bye, Mr. Leighton,” said she. “ Come and see me
again soon. I’ve lots of things to talk about with
you. And next time you give me a call, Dolly,
don’t wait to take advantage of the door-keeper’s
back being turned.”
“ Oh, really, Miss Bolsover!” exclaimed Dolly.
“ Really! I never heard such an accusation before
-—don’t you know? I never did, really!”
“Well,” she said, “ I’ve heard of it being done,
and now I believe I’ve seen it'. Now run along
with you; and manage more cleverly next time.”
And that is how the iron curtain brought Gra-
ham and the actress together.


CHAPTER XVII.
“STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.”
GRAHAM and young Poynting passed out of the
theatre together in silence; Graham did not know
what to say of his acquaintance with Miss Bolsover,
since she claimed him as an old friend, and Poynt—
ing was evidently jealous and sore.
“ Good—bye!” said Poynting, as soon as they
were out; " I’m going this way.”
“ Good—bye! ” said Graham.
And so they parted.
Graham being thus in town, and no longer in
dread of the tramp, went and paid a dutiful visit
to his mother, and thereafter made haste to meet
Nelly Clemance on her leaving the Kershaw Post
Ofﬁce at eight o’clock.
In the meanwhile something had happened—
something, one would say, the least likely, and cer-
tainly by Graham the least expected—to cause a
profound and unusual disturbance in Nelly’s mind.
Ever since Nelly’s occupation at the Kershaw
Post Office she had noted young Poynting as a
daily visitor to her counter. Often he was in more
than once a day, and always to send telegrams—
I70


“STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.” I71
and telegrams invariably addressed to the same
person—one named “ Bolsover,” who sometimes
seemed to be at the Theatre Royal and sometimes
in a private house. These telegrams were com-
monly handled by Nelly; but, being expert at her
business, she needed to give them only the surface
of her attention, and she had telegraphed several be-
fore she was struck with their unbusinesslike same-
ness. Then she read them attentively, understood,
and—having a merry sense of humour—she
laughed, and observed their progress with growing
interest. _
This is the kind of telegram the young' man
would march in with in the middle of the morning;
having tabled it with Sixpence, he would march out
again without a word :—
“To Bolsover, Theatre Royal.——She is sweeter
than all shape of sweet.”
There was neither word nor hint of who was the
sender.
In the afternoon he would appear again with
this: “ To Bolsover, 12 Park Terrace—Faint heart
never won fair lady. You understand.”
By looking at an advertisement of the Theatre
Royal in the local daily paper Nelly discovered that
Bolsover was a lady. It then became plain to her
that the young man had chosen this singular,
scrappy, remote, and shy way of making love to the
lady. She continued to observe the progress of so
original a courtship, and her interest and amuse—
ment at length caught young Poynting’s attention.
12


172 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
He lingered to talk to her, but made no allusion to
the meaning or purpose of his telegrams, till she
compelled him to do so.
One morning he handed in the following tele-
gram, with his regular sixpence, and disappeared in
haste: “ To Bolsover, Theatre Royal.-—‘ Daughter
of gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair!”’
The ﬁrst phrase she corrected with her pencil to
“ A daughter of the gods.”
“ Mr. Poynting,” said she promptly, when the
young man appeared next day, “you owe me a
penny.”
“'A penny?” he inquired. “What for, Miss
Clemance? Not for a stamp, eh?”
“ No,” she answered. “ For two words omitted
in your yesterday’s telegram that I had to ﬁll
In. ’
“ Two words—to ﬁll in?”
“ I can’t allow you to misquote poetry to a lady,
not even to save a penny. You wrote, ‘ Daughter
of gods,’ which is silly, instead of ‘ A daughter of
the gods,’ which is correct.”
“ I’m awfully sorry,” said he, handing over the
penny to the smiling Nelly with some awkward-
ness, “ but I was in a hurry, don’t you know ?—and
I thought it didn’t matter. I suppose a fellow
ought to quote correctly, though. But, I say, Miss
Clemance, how did you know that I sent them to a
lady?”
“ I’ve seen about Miss Bolsover in the paper,”
answered Nelly.
,


“STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL." 173
“ Have you really? But she might have a
brother or—or a father,” said the young man.
Nelly laughed. “ Would any young man send
love messages like yours to a brother, or a father? ”
“ But how could you tell they were l-love—mes-
sages? ” he demanded.
“ Oh,” said she with a toss, “what else could
they be? ” '
“Yes,” said he, “ what else? Of course! But
I didn’t think you would spot them, don’t you
know? And she can’t make any mistake about
what they are, either, can she? ”
“She must be very stupid if she does,” said
Nelly.
“That’s spiﬂing! ” exclaimed the young man.
“ I’m awfully gone on her, you know! I don’t
think I can live without her! ”
“ Why! The ideal” exclaimed Nelly. “You
are only a boy! ”
“ A boy!” he said, with a hurt accent. “ That’s
what everybody thinks me! How old do you think
I am, now? ”
“ Oh,” said she, considering him, “sixteen or
seventeen—but big for your age.”
“,I’m one and twenty! ” said he in triumph.
“And how old is Miss Bolsover? ”
“ I suppose,” said he, “ she must be quite as Old
as me; but she looks younger, and she is younger,
don’t you know ?——in mind, and feeling, and all
that.”
“I don’t think,” said Nelly, “it would be pos-


" STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL." 175
“ I should rather think it is! ” said the desperate
young man. “ I’ve more than that to say; I
haven’t ﬁnished yet by a long chalk! ”
“ But what, has gone wrong?” asked Nelly.
“Everything’s wrong, Miss Clemance! What
do you think? I dropped in to see her this after-
noon, and who should I ﬁnd there but another fel-
low, taking tea with her, quite cosy! I saw I was
de trap at once; one too many, don’t you know!
An old friend, she said! I don’t believe it! A
fellow, Leighton—come lately into our employ—
ment! ”
“ Leighton?” gasped Nelly, feeling herself turn
pale and then red to the ears, while her emotion
almost sank her to the ground.
“ Oh, yes, by the way,” said the young man, “ I
forgot that you would know him! I remember
now seeing you speak to him! You do know him,
of course,” continued he, considering Nelly’s agi—
tation. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it if I had
remembered! But, ’pon my word, he was not do—
ing anything wrong! And perhaps he was an old
friend!”
“ But all that has nothing to do with me, Mr.
Poynting,” said Nelly.
“ Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said the
young man.
It was immediately after that scene that her
lover met her. She looked very pale and wistful,
and a triﬂe hard and unresponsive.
“ Are you not well, Nelly?” Graham asked.


176 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Not very,” she answered. “ I have a head-
ache.”
“ Would you rather walk a little way or take the
train at once? ” asked he, solicitous for her.
“ I’d rather walk,” said she.
“ Well, Nelly,” said he, “ I have a great deal to
tell you.”
“Have you, Jim?” said she, looking at him
with an unconsciously hard suspicion in her eye.
He wondered why she looked like that; he laid
it to the account of her headache, and plunged into
his story. He had not seen her, nor had had any
great opportunity of communicating with her for
three days—even if he had desired to do so under
the circumstances—and therefore he had the whole
story to tell of his discovery by the tramp in Mr.
Hepplewhite’s company, and of all that had hap-
peried since.
“ And Mr. Townshend insisted on taking me to
dinner,” said he: “and after that he took me to
the theatre and introduced me to an actress, Miss
Bolsover.”
“ Mr. Townshend knows her, then?” said
Nelly.
“ Of course,” he answered. “ And She asked me
to go to-night to look at an iron curtain for the
stage that wouldn’t work; and then she talked to
me a little and I found she knew all about me—
had heard it from Mr. Townshend.”
“ Is she very nice? ” asked Nelly.
“ Oh, yes,” answered Graham, with some fer-


“STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.” 177
your; “ she is awfully nice, bright and clever, and
very handsome.”
“ How Old do you think she is?” she asked.
“ Oh,” he answered, “she must be over thirty.
But that,” he laughed, “is considered to be the
most dangerous age Of all.”
“Jim,” said she, “ I think I can’t walk any far-
ther.”
He convoyed her home, and she asked him no
more about Miss Bolsover. And he told her no
more, then or afterwards, although he continued
to see Miss Bolsover pretty frequently. The reason
of his silence concerning these visits you shall hear.
It was but the second day after he had gone to
attend to the iron curtain that he received an urgent
note from Miss Bolsover, begging him tO go and
see her at her private address. He went, and found
her in much agitation. She had just heard, she
declared, from Mr. Townshend before his return to
London, how Graham had been threatened and
pursued by the tramp, and she begged him to give
up his present place and occupation, and do any-
thing rather than run the risk of discovery.
“ But the danger from the tramp is over, thanks
to Mr. Townshend,” said Graham.
“ Oh, you don’t know !—you don’t know! ” she
exclaimed. “I should not reckon myself safe for
a moment! How can you go on living quietly
over a volcano! For you might just as well be
doing that! Think of it! If you are taken again!
It is too terrible to imagine! ”


“STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.” 179
. cannot accept anything of the kind.” And again
he blushed.
“You foolish child! ” said she, with a catch of
a hysteric laugh in her voice. “ I’m not proposing
to go to America with you. Did you think I
was?” For answer he blushed furiously.
“ Oh, my God! ” she exclaimed in an anguish of
voice which Graham was convinced was very real.
“ Can you not believe in my—my admiration and
my affectionate anxiety for your safety? Can you
not believe it would be a death-blow to learn that
you were taken again and sent to fulﬁl your sen-
tence? Oh, horrible!” And she palpably shud-
dered—not a stage shudder, but a genuine shudder
of horror.
“ It seems very strange,” said he.
“You will compel me to tell you the whole
truth,” said she; and he ﬁxed his eyes on her, won-
dering what “the whole truth” could be. “I
loved your father; loved him madly—but not blind-
ly. No. I knew all the While he was a bad man,
but that did not affect the passion I had for him,
nor the fascinating inﬂuence he had over me! It
is a strange thing,” said she, with another self-
derisive catch of a laugh, “ that I have always fall-
en in love with blackguards! But when I knew
of you I loved you like a mother! I understood
you were as good as he had been bad, and I loved
you all the more for that. A woman’s heart is a
strange thing in its contradictions. I loved your
father, though he was a blackguard., I have the


180 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
strongest affection for you because you are his son
—and it is the stronger because you are not a black-
guard!”
To Graham that was an extraordinary, an over-
whelming revelation; it gave him a new interest
in Miss Bolsover, but he was resolute to accept no
assistance from her.
Thinking the matter over he came to the con-
clusion that a secret thus wrung from a woman in
a moment of great emotion was not his to blab
about. Therefore, he locked it in his breast; and
he said no word to Nelly, nor to any one of that or
of any later visit to the actress.
But Nelly was all the while casually and indi-
rectly—from the hints and actual statements of
young Poynting—hearing of such visits, and jeal-
ousy ate more and more into her heart, and she
would weep and sob bitterly in the night, and she
could endure it no longer, and she rose in the
Strength of a great resolution.


lgz PURSUED By THE LAW.
marry some one cleverer, richer, more distin-
guished, “more of a lady” than his faithful Nelly
—though (she thought with a bitter sob) no one
could ever love him more truly than she.
“You haven’t been looking well lately, Nelly,”
said he suddenly over supper one evening. “ She
hasn’t, has she, mother? ”
“ I am all right,” said Nelly. “ I am quite well.”
“You haven’t been looking well either, my
boy,” said his mother, “not for a long time; not
since you shaved, I think! ” g
“ Oh, I’m well enough, mother,” said he, with
an enforced gaiety. “A little overworked, that’s
all. But it will soon be done!” he exclaimed in a
burst of spirits. “And then we’ll all go away-—
away—away! ” he cried, stretching his arms.
“What? Away again, James?” wailed his
mother.
“ Yes, mother!” said he resolutely. “ Milches-
ter air does not suit any of us. Far, far away!
You remember the hymn you used to teach me,
mother: ‘ There is a happy land, far, far away!’ ”
“ Oh, James, dear,” complained his mother,
“but that means heaven. And though it’s time
for me to think of that change, it’s not for you—-
nor Nelly! ”
“ Isn’t it, mother?” said he lightly. “ I thought
it was never too early to think of heaven! And I
certainly think I should like to ﬂy far, far away,
and be at rest! ”
At that Nelly rose suddenly from her chair,
\I


THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 183
burst into tears, and escaped into the bedroom!
Graham and his mother looked at each other,
amazed and shocked.
“Her nerves are overstrained somehow, poor
girl!” said Graham. “ Go to her, and see what’s
the matter, mother! ”
“ Surely I didn’t say anything to upset her, did
1, James?” said Mrs. Graham, looking very much
hurt.
“ No, mother, no,” said he. “ But go and speak
tq her! ”
Mrs. Graham went out. Presently she returned,
looking no wiser, but rather puzzled.
“She has gone to bed,” said she. “She says
there’s nothing the matter except a headache. She
bids you good-night, and says you are not to bother
about her! ”
Somewhat bewildered, but yet thinking there
could be nothing seriously amiss, Graham departed
for his lodgings in Kershaw.
By that time, I should intimate, Nelly had been
removed from the Kershaw Post Oﬂice, and had
been some days doing duty at one of the head
offices, by the Town Hall in Milchester. Gra-
ham had, therefore, no opportunity at all of see-
ing Nelly during the day, and when next even-
ing he revisited the town lodging to inquire
after her, he was met by an astounding announce-
ment.
“How’s Nelly?” he asked of old Liz, who
opened the door for him.


I84 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
l” exclaimed Liz. “She’s
“ Eh, sakes alive
gone, Mr. James! ”
“ Gone?” he cried, struck motionless on the
door—step.
“ Nobbut gone, Mister James,” said the old
woman, with a touch of her native rude irony, “ wi’
some kind 0’ maggot i’ t’ead! But coom in; hap-
pen thou’ll oonderstand a’ about it! There’s a let-
ter for tha! ”
He entered at once.
“Oh, my dear boy,” wailed his mother, wring-
ing her poor thin hands, “here’s a strange to-do.
It’s quite a mystery to me! ”
“ High strikes! ” broke in Liz. “ Nobbut that’s
t’matter! Thoor’t over long about thy courting,
Mister James. Should ha’ been wed long ago!”
“ Where’s her letter? ” said Graham.
It was given to him. He opened it and read :—
“MY DEAR JIM: I am certain you have got
tired of me. You don’t love me anymore, and
yet you don’t like to give me up, because you feel
bound to me. I have always loved you too dearly
to cling on to you when you don’t want me—or
to become a drag or a burden to you. You are
getting on and want somebody better, and more
distinguished, and more showy than me. I give
you your liberty—as much of it as I have to give——
and wish you always well and happy. I have gone
away because I can’t bear to see you any more—-
not for a long while at any rate—but I haven’t gone


THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER. 135
far, because I want to be able to look after your
poor mother a little still. Poor dear! I think she’ll
miss me, even if you don’t. Please, please, don’t
try to see me and speak about it. You have really
a good heart, and I know you’ll be sorry; but it is
best as it is. And it would only make me ill to
talk about it.
“Your sincere friend,
i “ NELLY CLEMANCE.”
“ P. S.—The presents you have given me are in
one of your mother’s drawers.”
_“ But what does she mean?” exclaimed the be-
wildered young man. He handed the letter to his
mother.
“Oh, James!” said she, when she had read,
“surely you have not been making up to some
other young lady?” '
“ I? No, mother! ” he answered promptly, and
without reserve.
“ But you know Mr. Hepplewhite’s daugh-
ters? ”
“ Of course I do,” he answered.
“ And perhaps, James, you have spoken to
them!”
“ Spoken to them? Certainly,” he answered,
with a touch of temper. “ But can’t I speak to a
young lady without being thought in love with
her?”
“Oh, don’t be angry with me, James; but I
can’t make it out any more than you.”


188 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
distress it caused Nelly to speak, he drew up, say-
ing:—
“ Very well: I am in the dark—till you choose
to enlighten me!” He turned away and marched
quickly off.
She turned after him an instant, her hand still
clinging to the railing. She had it in her mouth
to call after him, “Jim!” and to humble herself
and fall into his arms and say, “Oh, my dear, you
surely don’t love that creature more than me!”
But she uttered no sound, and next instant he was
gone. And she turned and entered the door of
the strange house where she had taken a lonely
lodging.


CHAPTER XIX. '
CAUGHT IN A TRAP.
HUFFED and sore, proud and bewildered, Gra-
ham for some days made no further attempt to come
to any understanding with Nelly. And before many
days had passed a crisis had come in his condition
which effectually prevented him.
We must go back a few weeks tO account for it.
Some days after he had parted from Mr. Town-
shend, Graham was occupied in his dinner-hour
much as we saw him at the opening Of this story,
when a boy came and said that a man wished to
see him.
“ What kind of a man is he? ” asked Graham.
“ A hugly chap,” said the lad. “And he said:
‘ Tell Mr. Leighton that it’s the man he met on th’
Allerton Moor.’ ”
The tramp!
“ All right,” said Graham; “let him come here.”
All was quiet there and around. There was no
one about in the dinner-hour. He might, there-
fore, as well have his interview with the man there
as anywhere.
189


190 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“Well,” said Graham, when the man stood be—
fore him, “ what do you want this time? ”
“Don’t be ’ard, Mr. Leighton,” said the man.
“ I’m as down on my luck as any poor bloke ever
was. I think Mr. Townshend’s cuss is on me.
My Gawd! he’s ’ard and arbitrary if yer likes!
Chucked out 0’ that there ’ouse I was, late at
night, wi’ a rag about my peepers, and took away
by the ’and like a blooming kid! And now ’ere I
am, s’welp me!”
“Well, and now What do you want?” asked
Graham.
“My Gawd! I want to get work. Anythink
will do, Mr. Leighton. They give me a union
ticket in the name 0’ Corbet—John Corbet o’ Wal-
sall—but, s’welp me, not a blooming job can I fall
acrost. I’ll be chivied, I know, from pillar to post
ag’in, and wi’ his cuss on me. Do gi’e me a chance,
Mr. Leighton. No larks, I take my bloomin’ oath.
No niggly gouge about it, s’welp my never. I’m
too much afraid of he’s cuss, ’im ! ”
“It is queer you should come to me to get
work,” said Graham.
“Yes,” said the man, stroking his cheek, “it
is queer—ain’t it? But I thought, thinks I, ‘ He
won’t bear no animosity for what I done.’ After
all, What ’ave I done? Nothink ! Only tried to pick
up a quid or two, because I was stoney—broke!”
“ But I mean,” said Graham, “ I can’t give you
work. I’ve no power to take you on here.”
“ No, Mr. Leighton,” said the man, stepping


CAUGHT IN A TRAP. 19!
closer and speaking in conﬁdence, “but you can
say a word for me Wi’ the guv’nors. A word from
you ! I know!” Seeing Graham hesitate he
continued to urge his plea. “ You think I might
try the old game on again? Not me! I tell you
I’m too much afraid! Look ’ere, mister! I'll
swear it on the ’Oly Bible! S’welp me Gawd; kiss
the Book!”
“ I don’t want you to swear,” said Graham. “ I
know you’d break your oath when it suited you.”
“ That’s very ’ard! ” said the man. “ When a
bloke wants to repent and turn over a leaf, you
just say ‘ Chuck it! None 0’ that lay!’ There’s a
want of conﬁdence between man and man, I may
say! ”
“There is,” said Graham. “ But I do believe
you’re frightened of being caught by Mr. Town-
Shend’s people.”
' “ My Gawd! ” exclaimed the man. That was
all, but its shuddering horror satisﬁed Graham.
“ Well,” said Graham. “ I’ll see what I can do.
Come to-morrow morning at six, and then you’ll
hear if you are to be taken on.”
“ Right you are, mister. I’m ’eartily obliged to
you. S’welp me Gawd, I am! ”
Graham put the matter that afternoon to Mr.
Hepplewhite, telling him frankly who the man was,
and how Townshend had frightened him.
“ I don’t care to have that kind 0’ man about,”
said Mr. Hepplewhite. “But there’s this to be
said: if he’s here he’ll be under our eye, and can’t


192 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
do you any harm without our putting a pinch 0’
salt on his tail in a jiffey.”
“ I won’t anticipate anything of that sort, sir,”
said Graham. “ I prefer to think the man means
to change and work. Poor devil! Perhaps he
drifted into the shiftless life at ﬁrst through want
of work ! ”
“ I don’t believe in that kind 0’ excuse for the
sort 0’ thing he is. No. He’s a bad lot. He mun
ha’ been bad at the ﬁrst, and he’ll be bad at the
last. I think I’d ha’ nought to do wi’ him.”
“Poor beggar!” said Graham. “They don’t
seem to like the look of him anywhere! What is
he to do? If he has no work, is he not more likely
to do desperate things?”
“ All right, my lad,” said Mr. Hepplewhite, “if
thou can put up wi’ him, for sure I can. But,” he
added, laying a kindly hand on Graham’s shoulder,
“ ’ware vipers! Keep away from ’em; if yo’ conna, '
down wi’ your boot-heel or a heavy stick! Don’t
yo’ warm and nurse ’em in your bosom! And, by
the way,” said he, returning, after he had gone a
step or two off, and taking the young man by the
button, “ that Townshend seems a mysterious sort
0’ chap. Dost think that among all th’ things that
he knows he may by chance know how thy father
got that there shot into him?”
“ I have wondered that,” said Graham.
“ I’d do more than wonder if I were thou,” said
the old man.
The tramp, then, was taken on next morning as


CAUGHT IN A TRAP. 193
a workman, under the name of John Corbet. In
spite of his unattractive and sinister looks he
speedily became something of a favourite with his
fellows: he was lively and good—tempered, and his
low London speech and his low London stories
were a constant well'spring Of joy to them. So a
week or two passed with promise, and Graham
ﬂattered himself he had helped to do a good deed,
and to raise a fellow-man from the slough of despair,
want and crime.
But that fair show gradually and insidiously
changed. Graham (or Leighton, rather) who had
been a favourite with all, began to be received in
silence, and regarded with sour looks. Consider-
ably troubled by the change, he inquired the
meaning of it from a foreman Of middle age and
great friendliness.
“What have I done,” he asked, “that every-
body now looks at me so queerly? ”
“ It’s nought thou’st done, Mr. Leighton,” an_
swered the man; “it’s what thou art. Somehow
or other it’s got about that thou’rt not a member
0’ th’ society; and th’ chaps don’t like it.”
“ But,” said Graham, “ I don’t occupy a work-
man’s position; what does it matter whether I’m
a member of the society or not? ”
“ Ah, but it does, Mr. Leighton,” said the man.
“ Thou’rt not a workman now, but thou com’d in
as a workman; there’s no getting over that. And
they say that if thou’rt not a.society man thou
should’st never ha’ ben ta’en on; and if thou’d


CAUGHT IN A TRAP. 195
“If they will not accept my word, I deny their
right. I’m not a workman.”
The next development was something of a con-
cession. If “ Mr. Leighton ” would show his ticket
to the friendly foreman, that would be regarded as
satisfactory. But that “ Mr. Leighton” refused to
do also; and his refusal was taken as the strongest
conﬁrmation of the suspicion that he was not a
member of the society.
Thinking over the whole of this awful predica-
ment—for as yet it appeared to him no more than
a predicament—Graham could not but suspect the
tramp of being the fount and origin of the suspi-
cion; for, if he were not, how was it that the suspi-
cion had not arisen before? He was too proud,
however, and too scornful of the tramp to let him
know that he was concerned or anxious about the
suspicion; moreover, if be taxed the tramp with
having provoked it, what beneﬁt would come of
that? The man would be sure to deny it; and then
Graham felt he would be committed to silence or
’ to a foolish and useless wrangle with the man. So
he went on his usual way and said nothing.
One day, however, the tramp—John Corbet—
put himself in his path, and spoke :—
“M‘r. Leighton,” said he, in an injured depreca-
tory tone, “ I can see wi’ ’arf an eye that you think
—-thinks you—~‘ ’E ain’t been acting on the square.’
I can see it, guv’nor, I ain’t blind, nor I ain’t a
bloomin’ muff neither! And I feels it ’ere, in my
’eart! ”


196 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Oh! ” said Graham. “ What do you feel? ”
“I feels it, guv’nor, that you think as how it’s
me as set off this start about your not being a mem—
ber of the union.”
“John Corbet,” said Graham, trying to ﬁx the
eyes which refused to meet his, “you make me
think of something that happened when I was a
little boy. I put a lump of fat on the kitchen ﬁre;
it blazed up, and set the chimney alight. There
was a great to-do, and my mother kept wondering
how it had happened; I stood by, but I couldn’t
hold my tongue. ‘ It wasn’t me, mother,’ I said;
‘ I never put fat on the ﬁre, mother! ’ ”
And having said that, Graham walked off.
“Well, I’m jiggered! ” was all the man could
ﬁnd to say. “ S’welp me! ”
The next step in the development of the situa-
tion was a revolt. A formal, written request for
an interview on a question of importance was
received in the office of Messrs. Hepplewhite and
Poynting. The document seemed portentous; it
was signed by representatives of the Skilled work-
men and of the labourers; and an interview
was therefore granted at the close of that very
day.
The representatives of the men appeared in the
office as soon as the dismissal was sounded—ten
of them; six for the skilled, and four for the un-
skilled.
“Well, now, what’s the matter, lads?” asked
Mr. Hepplewhite brusquely, while Mr. Poynting sat


CAUGHT IN A TRAP. 197
silent and watchful. “ What ha’ yo’ got to com-
plain o’ ? ”
The spokesman of the party stepped forth and
began to state the case of grievance. Mr. Hepple-
white interrupted him.
“It has- got to do wi’ Mr. Leighton, has it?
Well, we’d best ha’ him in—if he isn’t gone
whoam.”
NO, Mr. Leighton was not gone, and in a
few seconds he entered. He heard the case de-
tailed against him, and the grievance set forth—
that, though he declared he was a member of the
society, he refused to satisfy the committee that
he was.
Mr. Hepplewhite exchanged a look with Gra-
ham; he understood the reason Of refusal.
“Well,” said Mr. Hepplewhite to the deputa-
tion, “ what dost want us to do? ”
“ Prevail,” was the answer, “ on Mr. Leighton
to satisfy the committee, for the sake of peace and
for the sake of the society.”
“ That be —! ” exclaimed Mr. Hepplewhite.
“ Who’s going to break th’ peace? If Mr. Leigh-
ton, of his own motion, likes to satisfy th’ com-
mittee, well and good—let him; but we won’t per-
suade him. Eh, Mr. Poynting?” Mr. Poynting
assented with a nod.
“I refuse, sir,” said Graham, answering a look
from Mr. Hepplewhite. “ I’m not a workman. To
satisfy the committee would be to set up a bad and
tyrannous precedent. Why, sir, they may ask you


CAUGHT IN A TRAP. 199
of the employees of Messrs. Hepplewhite and
Poynting.
“ I had better go,” said Graham bitterly;
“ there’s no worse enemy of the workman than the
workman himself.” He was all the more bitter and
broken that his misunderstanding with Nelly Clem-
ance had just then occurred.
“Thou go?” cried Mr. Hepplewhite. “ Never!
Am I to knuckle under to tyranny like that? Let'
them strike! It’ll gi’e th’ machinery a rest. But
I doubt, lad, thy converted tramp is at th’ bottom
0’ this!”
“ I doubt he is,” assented Graham.
“Well, we conna help it. Nought would be
mended by sending him packing now; But ’ware
vipers, lad.”
No notice was taken of the threat to strike, and
the strike did not come off. There appeared to be
a large party among the men that did not approve
of it.
For some time an ominous calm enveloped the
situation. Graham suspected that the calm was
charged with storm.
“ Only let me get the arrangements for the pat—
ent ﬁnished,” said he to Mr. Hepplewhite, “and
then I’ll go and so put an end to the danger of a
strike.”
The arrangements for patenting Graham’s valve
were hurried forward. Mr. Poynting had charge
of the public and documentary part of the business,
and at length “ Hepplewhite and Poynting’s Patent


CAUGHT IN A TRAP. 20!
the impulse Of alarm and of affection for his senior
employer, Graham started off in its direction
through the dusk.
By the road it was a good half-hour’s walk to
Mr. Hepplewhite’s house; but there was a short
cut thither which took little more than half that
time. The path skirted the back parts Of Kershaw,
shot across a lonely ﬁeld or two, plunged into a
still more lonely clough, or wooded ravine—fre-
quented only by rare and casual couples of lovers
-——and out of the clough led on to Mr. Hepple-
white’s house, the which'stood, an old, rambling
mansion, on the slope of a steepish brow, and over-
looked a quaint little village that was outside the
great swarm of Milchester business and Milchester
modernness.
Graham quickly got clear of Kershaw, and
mounted the ﬁeld path at a good pace. He won-
dered what Mr. Hepplewhite’s accident could be,
and wished he had held the breathless messenger
an instant longer to ask him. Leaping a stile, he
was out of the ﬁelds, and on the brink of the clough,
which was ﬁlled with starveling trees, chieﬂy
birches, and a tangle of undergrowth Of coarse
bushes, and bramble and briar. He plunged reck-
lessly downward, and descended almost headlong to '
the bottom, where the path wound along by a mis-
erable driblet Of a stream. He had just torn
through some undergrowth, and was taking a long,
leaping stride or two to reach the level, when his
foot caught in something, and he fell all his length,


CHAPTER XX.
1N STRANGE COMPANY.
LEIGHTON (or Graham) did not appear at the
works next morning. Of his absence no notice was
taken, however, until the arrival of Mr. Hepple—
white and Mr. Poynting; Mr. Hepplewhite looking
as hale and hearty as usual, and exchanging no
word with his partner, nor his partner making any
inquiry concerning the reported accident of the
night before, which seems strange considering what
is supposed to have happened.
“ He meant to stay here till late last night,” said
Mr. Hepplewhite. “ Happen he’s feeling poorly:
he’s been overdoing it.”
They heard from the night watchman that Mr.
Leighton had left the works at nine o’clock, and
seemed well enough then. He would probably
turn up after breakfast they thought; and so they
left it without anxiety. But he did not turn up
after breakfast; and then the partners sent to make
inquiry concerning him at his lodging.
He had not been home all night!
That news compelled Mr. Hepplewhite himself
14 203


204 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
to go to his lodging to inquire in person; but he
made no more of it.
Then he was seriously disquieted. He loved the
young man; and he knew the dangers that hung
waiting around him. There was the risk of sudden
discovery by the law, and the danger of sudden
betrayal by the tramp—the man who was known
as John Corbet. Mr. Hepplewhite satisﬁed him-
self that John Corbet was at his usual occupation
in the works; and that eliminated him from all
present suspicion.
If Leighton (or Graham), therefore, had not
been seized and abducted by the law, there was but
another alternative whereby to account for his ab-
sence: he had gone to see his mother or sweet-
heart, and had been taken ill. Mr. Hepplewhite
knew that Graham’s mother and sweetheart were
in Milchester; but there his knowledge stuck in-
effectual, for he had no inkling of their address.
But he thought with hopefulness if he were lying
ill at their lodging they would ﬁnd some means
of communicating the fact; for they could not be
ignorant that Graham was employed with Hepple-
white and Poynting. »
The partners waited, and one day and another
passed, but no word came, no Sign was given to
signify if Graham was ill or well, alive or dead.
And they did not dare to communicate with the
police. They were, therefore, compelled to remain
in an impasse of the most desperate anxiety. And
all the while their workmen seemed unconcerned


IN STRANGE COMPANY. 205
at the disappearance of the young man who had
well-nigh provoked the destructive crisis of a strike:
their unconcern being plainly and intelligibly due
to their belief that he had silently gone away—
“ like a good chap ”——to save the situation.
On the fourth day, however, an Odd thing hap-
pened. When Mr. Hepplewhite went home he
found his family—his wife and his two daughters—-
in an unusual condition of excitement. Toby—
the little fox-terrier that Graham had found on the
Allerton Moor—had come home after a longish
absence tO his mistresses with a more than usually
alert look, and a more than usually businesslike
wag of his docked tail. After some perplexity and
examination they had discovered the dog carried
on the inner side of his collar, bound there with a
thread which plainly had been ravelled from a gar-
‘ ment, a strip Of paper. On the strip of paper was
written in pencil the following words :—
“ I am ill and starving. I don’t know where I
am. I seem to be in the cellar of a large house.
The night I disappeared—I don’t know how many
days ago it is—I was misled by a man telling me
that an accident had happened to Mr. Hepplewhite
near his own house. I set Off by the short cut to
see him, and was overpowered, beaten, kicked and
made insensible by three or four rufﬁans in the
Clough. When I came to myself I found myself
here. The tramp is at the bottom Of the business.
He comes here now and then, and brings me bread


206 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
and water. Blackmail is what he wants—and what
I won’t give him. He demands a ransom of £200.
He thinks I can easily stand that, having got my
patent out. For God’s sake, send this at once to
F. Townshend, Esq., 25 Jermyn Street, London, W.
He will know what to do.”
You may imagine the astonishment, excitement,
and anger of Mr. Hepplewhite, whose concern and
rage were all the stronger that the young man had
been entrapped by a false report concerning him-
self. He did not let his anger carry him away,
however. He saw he could not afford, for Gra-
ham’s sake, to make a public fuss. He, therefore,
enjoined the strictest secrecy upon his women-folk,
set a watch upon the out-of-hours movements of
the man called John Corbet, and posted the above
scrap to Townshend, with a line or two from him-
self.
Also, he himself watched, and instructed his
daughters to watch the movements and wanderings
of Toby. But Toby was too discursive, perhaps
also too inconsiderate of their purpose, and cer-
tainly too cunning to permit his perambulations to
be studied and followed with any effect for some
time—a time during which Mr. Hepplewhite anx-
iously awaited the coming of Townshend—with a
belief in whose ability in such a matter Graham
had indoctrinated him.
Meanwhile a storm was gathering in London
to descend swiftly upon Graham in Milchester.


IN STRANGE COMPANY.’ 207
That fact became evident to Townshend in this
wise.
Townshend’s range of acquaintance was, like
Sam Weller’s knowledge of London, “extensive
and peculiar.” He was friendly with ﬁnanciers and
South African millionaires, he was intimate with
solemn Church dignitaries who frequented the
Athenaeum Club, and he was also hand—in-glove
with officials of Scotland Yard—which seems odd,
to say the least. On a certain afternoon Town-
shend, while lounging up Northumberland Avenue,
met one of these latter—Detective Inspector. Lit-
tlejohn.
“Ah, Littlejohn,” said he, with the lofty and
airy politeness which distinguished him; “haven’t
seen you for more than a week of Sundays. How’s
business?”
“Only so-so, Mr. Townshend,” said the in-
spector, pursing his mouth and rubbing his cheek.
“Nothing much on. By the way, is Monsieur
Bonnemain any friend of yours? He’s been doing
some hanky-panky at the Paris races, and we’re
warned that he’s come over here.”
“If you love me, Littlejohn, no secrets in the
street,” said Townshend. “ If you’re not too busy,
come up to the Grand and have a drink.”
“I’ve no objection, Mr. Townshend,” said the
inspector.
It was noteworthy that they made for the Grand
Hotel, not in company, but on the opposite sides
of the street—which would seem to suggest that


IN STRANGE COMPANY. 209
saw him yesterday; he thinks he’s got a pinch of
salt to put on that young Graham’s tail.”
“ How very clever of him!” said Townshend.
“ I should like to know Wormall. Is he—er—ac—
cessible?”
“ .I can’t say, Mr. Townshend,” said the inspec-
tor. “ We might see.”
“ Do you know him well?” asked Townshend.
“ Pretty well.”
“ Can you dine with me tO-morrow night?”
“ I—I think so,” said the inspector, his eye
sparkling and his cheek ﬂushed with pleasure. “ In
fact,” he declared, after a show of consulting his
notebook, “ I’m sure I can.”
“Bring Wormall with you if you can. Give
him my compliments,” said Townshend in his loft—
iest and lordliest manner; “say that I have heard
of his talents, and that I desire to make his acquaint-
ance. And we’ll have a good dinner, Littlejohn.”
“ I know, Mr. Townshend. The kind of dinner,
with things to drink, that only you can order.”
“We’ll meet,” said Townshend, “at the Café
Royal, at seven O’clock, and have an absinthe; and
then we’ll move to Verrey’s. Or, no, the grave
and exquisite simplicity of Verrey’s would prob-
ably be wasted on the young and ardent Wormall.
We’ll show him the magniﬁcence of the Hotel
Cecil.”
“That will be the thing, Mr. Townshend,” said
the inspector, rubbing his hands gently and lux-
uriously.


210' PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“And cheaper, too,” said Townshend, smiling
with his characteristic lift of moustache.
“Is it indeed, now?” said the inspector, deeply
interested.
“ Yes,” said Townshend. “ But usually I prefer
to pay for what I eat and drink, and not for the
decorations I look at.”
“ It’s a funny thing, Mr. Townshend,” said the
inspector in a burst of conﬁdence, “ but I wouldn’t
have believed there was so much in ordering a
dinner!”
“ N o? ”
“Till I tried,” said the inspector with a blush.
“After that last time you took me to Verrey’s I
thought I’d have a turn by myself, regardless. I
had some soup, but couldn’t get no farther! They
showed me their list, but law, bless you, I gave it
up. I went off and had a steak and chips.”
At that Townshend smiled softly and sadly.
“ It took me,” said he, “a good many years’ at-
tention to learn how to order a dinner, and I’m still
learning.”
The inspector looked With admiration on Town-
shend. He ﬁnished the champagne in his glass, and
they departed.
Next evening they met, as arranged, and went
to dine at the Hotel Cecil, Townshend having been
introduced by the inspector to Wormall as “my
distinguished friend, Mr. Wilkins.” Townshend in
his evening dress, with one great sparkling dia—
mond in his shirt-front, and with his lordly and


IN STRANGE COMPANY. 211
distinguished manners and bearing, looked and
moved as if quite at home with the splendours of
the great Cecil place of entertainment. Compared
with him, his guests seemed conscious and un—
comfortable intruders; not that they were notably
humble or awkward, but that he seemed to take
possession of the entire place for his own.
Over dinner, he was very attentive to the young
detective, John Wormall, and very observant of all
he did and said, without appearing to watch him
closely. He never let conversation flag, and he
tempted the young man to hilarity and conﬁdence.
Wormall, on his part, believing he was in high and
friendly company, let himself go with little reserve,
all the more that Townshend ﬂattered and still con-
tinued to ﬂatter him most carefully and insidiously.
“ There’s nothing in the world I should like so
much,” said Townshend, “ as to be a detective.”
“ And a slap-up detective you’d make, Mr.
Wilkins,” said Inspector Littlejohn. “ I often
think it would be a good thing to have two or three
real tip-top gentlemen in the detective force.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of it,” said
Townshend. “I shouldn’t know how to begin.
How do you begin, Mr. Wormall?”
“ Well, Mr. Wilkins,” said Wormall. “ I can’t
exactly tell you how I begin; I just feel about for
a beginning.”
“ I see,” said Townshend. “ But now in that
Graham affair, the young man escaped—didn’t he?
-from the train, and you’ve come on no trace of


IN STRANGE COMPANY. 2 I 3
“That’s how it is here. I’ve sent a telegram to
the chief constable of Milchester—I believe that’s
what they call the head of the police there—
saying: ‘ Send name and description of man who
really invented patent valve of Hepplewhite and
Poynting.’ ”
“ The deuce you have! ” exclaimed Townshend.
“ That was certainly clever of you! Well, have you
got any answer? ”
Wormall, with great pride, and with a slowness
which he meant to be impressive, took from his
pocket a telegram, and handed it over open to
Townshend.
“Leighton,” he read, “young, dark, strong,
middle height, close-shaved, good-looking.”
“ Is that at all like Graham?”
“I should just think it was!” said Wormall.
“ All the liker that this man is shaved and Graham
wasn’t.” ,
“ And what are you going to do? ” asked Town-
shend.
“VVe’ve telegraphed to the chief constable to
keep an eye on Leighton till I come,” answered
Wormall. “ I’m going down to-night.”
“ Here’s all the luck to you that you deserve!”
said Townshend, raising his glass. “You won’t
want to see the night out here, then,” he added
presently. “We’ll have coffee, and then we’ll
part. I have some business to look after myself
to-night.”
“ Well, Mr. Wilkins,” said Wormall, raising his


214 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
half—ﬁnished glass, “ here’s to our next merry meet—
mg,”
Townshend accepted the compliment with a
bow. They withdrew to the smoking-room for
coffee. On the way thither, Townshend took the
opportunity to Whisper to Inspector Littlejohn,
“He’s too clever by half. I’m interested in this
case. He mustn’t travel to—night. Make him
drunk; do anything; but don’t let him travel till
to-morrow.”
In a quarter of an hour they said good-bye in p
the courtyard. Townshend entered a hansom to
drive to Jermyn Street. Once out in the Strand
he raised the trap in the roof.
“ Double fare,” said he to the driver, “for top
speed.”
“ Right, sir! ” said the man.
In less than ten minutes he was in his rooms.
Mortimer handed him a letter; it was that from
Mr. Hepplewhite, enclosing Graham’s extraordi—
nary scrap. His face as he read became very
terrible with anger, and his crest of hair seemed
to rise.
“ Mortimer,” said he, “have you ever known
any man defy me and not suffer? ”
“ Never, sir!” answered Mortimer.
“ Here’s a tramp—a wretched tramp—trying
that on! ”
“ Well, I never!” exclaimed Mortimer. “Oh,
he’s a hass, sir! He don’t know you ! ” _
“ Pack my gladstone, Mortimer; you know what


IN STRANGE COMPANY. 215
I want. And, Mortimer, put in a couple of revol-
vers with a supply of cartridges while I look out a
train.”
“ Travel to-night, sir? ”
“ TO-night? Of course. In ten minutes, if
possible!”


CHAPTER XXI.
THE TERRIBLE TELEGRAM.
THE necessity of setting all these circumstances
properly before you takes the story back to Nelly
Clemance.
Poor girl! during those days She was depressed
and broken in spirit. She had been very unselﬁsh
and heroic in cutting herself off from Jim (for the
painful operation was like cutting), and it made her
very sad and bitter to think that Jim had not ac-
cepted the separation with thankfulness, that he had
pretended to be offended by it, pretended even not
to understand the reason of it.
She went to and fro to her duties at the Post
Ofﬁce by the Town Hall with a stiff lip. You
would have thought she was cold and obstinate,
but in truth her mind was as doubtful and waver—
ing as a ﬂame in the wind. She had banished
Jim; she had begged him not to attempt to see her,
not to seek to explain; and yet, when she per-
ceived, as day after day passed, that he took her
exactly at her word and neither sought to see her
nor to explain anything doubtful to her, she was
saddened all the more, not to say surprised and
216


THE TERRIBLE TELEGRAM. 217
shocked. SO contrary and contradictory, so absurd
and illogical does the sway of mere jealous feeling
make even a sensible and true-hearted girl like
Nelly Clemance.
She dutifully paid a visit every other day to
Mrs. Graham, but there she got no comfort; for
both Jim’s mother and old Liz were in their way
offended with her. They said nothing, but they
behaved with severity to mark their opinion of her
conduct. The old servant sniffed impatiently, even
contemptuousl'y, sometimes, and Mrs. Graham was
alternately lofty and lackadaisical. Such behaviour
had only the effect on a ﬁrm nature like Nelly’s of
making her go on more determinedly in her own
course. It might, however, have also had the effect
in a little while of making her refrain from the
company Of those who made her so little welcome,
if there had not come a crisis.
One evening she went in, as usual, to Mrs. Gra—
ham’s lodging. Liz opened the door, but stood
blocking the opening.
“ Thou cannot come in!” said she. “ T’missus
is overset; she cannot see nobody.”
“ Oh, nonsense, Liz,” said Nelly. “ Mother will
see me.”
“ Moother, say’st tha? ” sniffed the old servant.
“ Humph! A rare and ﬁne comfort 0’ a daughter
thou’st been: skipping Off and running about like
a silly sheep wi’ a maggot i’ t’head! Thou’rt mak-
ing a deal 0’ trouble about nought, ma lass! ”
“ Hold your tongue! ” exclaimed Nelly, intense-


218 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ly angry, but also intensely quiet. “ How dare you
speak to me like that? Open the door at once,
and let me in.”
“ Sakes alive!” exclaimed Liz, and fell back.
She was as much astonished as if a pussy-cat she ,
had been in the habit of petting and loving and
hustling and scolding had suddenly rebelled, and
asked her what she meant by her absurd conduct.
Nelly brushed past her, into the presence of
Mrs. Graham, who sat looking sad, tearful and for-
lorn, with a glass of water at her elbow, and a bis-
cuit crumbling in her ﬁngers; she was the weak
kind of lady who when she feels sore and neglected
makes a cheap and harmless martyr of herself.
“ Liz tells me,” said Nelly, “you are not well
to—night.” After Liz’s rebuke she dropped out of
her speech the usual vocative “mother” for cer-
tainly if Jim and she were for ever parted what
right had she to speak of Mrs. Graham as “ mother ”
in prospect?
“ No, Nelly,” said Mrs. Graham, picking up a
crumb of biscuit and speaking with the coldness
and severity that had lately marked her. “I am
not well. But what does that matter? And I
doubt I’ll be worse before I’m better. And that
will be a good job; for then I’ll be out of the way
of everybody! ”
“Oh, don’t—don’t say that!” exclaimed the
warm—hearted Nelly, bending over her, and hugging
and kissing her. “ There’s nobody wants you out
of the way! ”


220 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
and that whatever there was between her and Jim
must really be nothing.
Now the next day happened to be the very day
of Townshend’s meeting at the Hotel Cecil, in Lon-
don, with the young detective Wormall. Down in
Milchester Nelly Clemance was up bright and early,
eager to forgive her Jim (she scarcely knew for
what) and to be reconciled to him. She felt so
cheerful, that she could not believe anything had
happened to him. She assured herself that he had
not been to see his mother because he was busy
and sad—sad and busy. She could not stir a foot
to meet him till the evening, but then, she promised
herself, she would go to encOunter him at his lodg-
ing. She would ﬁnd a boy to send to him with the
message that a lady wished to speak to him, and
she blushed and smiled to herself as she pictured
Jim’s sad and absent look brightening and quicken-
ing when he should discover who she was and
should exclaim, “ Nelly! ”
Whilst she was gone to her dinner there came
and was sent out to the chief constable at the Town
Hall, a telegram which, had she seen it, would have
sent all her fears ﬂuttering and ﬂying forth like a
ﬂock of birds in the greatest alarm. But when she
was again at her post of telegraphist in the after—
noon there entered an ofﬁcial from the police-ofﬁce,
and handed in the following to be telegraphed :—
“ To Wormall, Scotland, London—Leighton,
Kershaw. Young, dark, strong, middle-height,
close—shaved, good—looking.”


THE TERRIBLE TELEGRAM. 22 I
Nelly read the message over while the ofﬁcial
waited. “Wormall” suggested nothing to her,
nor did “Scotland.” At “Leighton, Kershaw,”
she wondered and doubted, and doubted and won-
dered again; but the Ofﬁcial was leaning on the
counter, waiting to see the words telegraphed, and
she went to her machine and set the needle click-
ing. Still wondering and beginning to fear, but
unable to think, to do anything but act, she clicked
and worked each word off, letter by letter—wove
them into the terrible net of Fate—till the message
was completed and the ofﬁcial departed. Then she
ﬁled the telegraph form and stared and trembled,
afraid to suspect what the meaning of the message
might be.
That message, as we know, was the one which
the young detective triumphantly exhibited to
Townshend.
A little later her machine clicked to receive
a message, which roused up all her fears and
all her wits. The very ﬁrst words—the words
of address—alarmed her suspicions: “To Chief
Constable, Milchester.” But the following mes—
sage, as the needle clicked it off, letter by letter,
mechanically and carelessly, as if it were any com-
mon message, proved too terrible. She had the
quick thought to write it ﬁrst on a scrap of
paper, and not on the proper form which would
be copied through on a counter-foil. Letter by
letter it came, and with trembling pencil sh
wrote :— ‘


THE TERRIBLE TELEGRAM. 223
and sent to the chief constable. She knew that
the chief constable would ask for the message to be
repeated or explained, and that speedily—but in
the meantime She had gained a respite. Then she
was face to face with a new anxiety: What could
she do with the respite she had gained? She would
not be released from her duties till eight o’clock,
and it was then barely six. She had conceived the
desperate alternative of saying she was ill—and in
truth she looked Sick enough—and so getting away
and hastening to Kershaw to warn Jim, when her
friend, the young Mr. Poynting, entered with a
telegraphic form in his hand—one of his usual mes—
sages, no doubt, to the actress, Miss Bolsover.
Nelly went to him at once and spoke in desperation
and haste.
“Mr. Poynting,” she said, “you have often
asked if you could do anything for me. You can
now.”
“Delighted I’m sure,” said the young man,
smiling.
“Oh, do be serious!” said Nelly. “Listen!
You know Mr. Leighton at Kershaw, in your fa-
ther’s works; he is a special friend of mine; take
a message to him, will you?”
“ Certainly.”
She seized a bit of paper and wrote: “ I ﬁnd
'you are discovered. I know from a message here.
The London people are after you. Get away at
once—anywhere that you think best—NELLY.”
“ That,” said she, hurriedly thrusting the paper


224 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
into an envelope, and gumming it down; “give
him that.”
“ I will,” said he, taking the note and pushing
his own telegram nearer. “ I’ll be toddling home
in about half an hour, and I’ll go to him straight.”
“Oh,” gasped Nelly, “you must go at once !—
at once! It is life or death! ”
“ By Jove!” said be, worried by her impetuous
distress.
“ Oh, do go this moment! ” she pleaded. “ And
take the fastest conveyance you can! Do believe
me it’s life or death !—life or death!”
“ All right, Miss Clemance,” said he. “ I’m off
this instant! Don’t worry! I’ll tell you in the
morning how I got on.”
“ Oh, thank you! ” said she fervently. “ Thank
you so very much.”
“ Not a bit of it. There’s my sixpence,” said
he, and went off.
Of course, as Nelly had foreseen, there was
speedily brought to her, to be telegraphed to
Wormall, a message from the chief constable: “ Re-
peat last telegram; cannot understand.” That she
telegraphed, and waited with trembling for an an-
swer. But no answer came—because (as we know)
Detective Wormall was occupied with his dinner
in the company of Townshend and Inspector Lit—
tlejohn.
It was nearly eight o’clock when young Mr.
Poynting entered the Post Ofﬁce and came direct
to Nelly, looking unusually warm and rumpled.


THE TERRIBLE TELEGRAM. 225
“ By Jove!” said he, wiping his smooth brow
with his handkerchief, “ I am hot! I have made
haste, I can bet you, Miss Clemance.”
“ Well? ” said she.
“ Leighton has disappeared; hasn’t been seen or
heard of for three or four days! SO, you see, I
couldn’t deliver your note,” and he handed it back.
“ Gone!” she gasped, and then was dumb with
amazement and dread. She crumpled and twisted
the note, while she gazed blankly at the young man,
with her mind in a whirl.
“ I say,” he murmured, clearly uncomfortable in
presence of her extraordinary distress, “ you’re hard
hit! Don’t take it like that! If there’s anything
else I can do, you know ” Nelly shook her
head. “Well, if there isn’t, I must toddle. I’ll
look you up in the morning. By the way, you
sent my telegram?”
“ Yes,” said she; “ I sent it.”
“ That’s all right. Bye—bye.” And he went Off.
Nelly felt deserted, forlorn and amazed. Jim
had gone away—days ago—before, therefore, this
present alarm could have touched him. Out of
the babble of young Mr. Poynting there stood forth
as important the mention of his telegram. That
reminded her of the actress; and then she saw, as
in a story that had been told to her, that Jim’s dis-
appearance was on account of that woman. Men
did those things. In a mad infatuation for that
kind of person they forgot all former ties of honour,
aerction and gratitude. The actress was not gone


226 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
yet, or else Mr. Poynting’s telegram would have
come back; but Jim was gone to Liverpool, or
some such place, to take the long-talked-of passage
to America, and the actress would presently join
him! While there was yet time, she would go to
the actress, and—and speak to her.
At eight o’clock Nelly put on her hat and fas—
tened her jacket with trembling ﬁngers, and went
out to make her way to the theatre.


228 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ You are quite mistaken,” said Nelly, angered
and rather frightened by the man. “I have not
the slightest desire to be an actress. And my busi-
ness with her is private and urgent; want to speak
to her about a mutual friend.”
At that the man’s manner changed. He became
polite, not to say deferential.
“In that case, miss,” said he, “you’d better ap-
ply at the stage door-—just round the corner to the
left. But I’m afraid that’s no go, either. Miss Bol—
sover, you see, is ‘ on ’ in every act, almost in every
scene, and she’ll be engaged up to the end of the
performance. But you can ask—no harm in ask-
7!
mg.
So Nelly went round the corner to the left, found
the stage door, and inquired of a man who was on
the watch in a kind of sentry-box, with an eye of
suspicion on all visitors, if she might see Miss Bol-
sover. '
“What name?” demanded the keeper of the
door.
“ My name doesn’t matter,” said Nelly. “Miss
Bolsover doesn’t know my name.”
The man shook his head. “ ’Tain’t no use, miss.
Miss Bolsover won’t see nobody here—not till the '
performance is over, at any rate.”
“ But it is a matter of great importance,” said
Nelly. “ You can at least ask her.”
“ Daren’t, miss. It’s more than my place is
worth to go to her, or to send to her, just to say
somebody wants to speak her.”


NELLY AND THE ACTRESS. 229
“I want to speak to her,” urged Nelly, “about
a—a friend of hers; it is really of the greatest im—
portance.”
“What’s the name of the friend?” asked the
man. ,
Nelly reﬂected: she dared not name the friend.
“ The name is a secret,” said she.
“There you are again!” said the keeper Of the
door. “What’s the use Of my going to her and
saying, ‘ Somebody wants to see you about some
friend 0’ yours?’ I daren’tl ”
What could she do? Difﬁculty and opposition
were only making her more set upon seeing Miss
Bolsover. It occurred to her she might use the
name of young Mr. Poynting.
“ Mention Mr. Poynting to her,” said Nelly.
The face of the keeper of the door broke into
smiles, and he stood upon his feet, ready to bear
her message.
“ Oh, him!” said he. “ Well, she may see you,
and she may not—you understand. But I’ll tell her
you come from Mr. Poynting.”
Nelly did not correct that way of putting it, and
the man went off, after asking her to wait there a
moment. He speedily returned.
“ This way, please, miss,” said he. “ Miss Bol-
sover will see you in a few minutes, if you don’t mind
waiting till the end Of the act.”
She was shown into a neatly furnished little sit-
ting-room, much to her surprise; for she had the
common, ignorant notion that a theatre consists,


23o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
behind the scenes, of the stage and the cupboards
Where the actors and actresses dress—and no more.
Now that she was on the verge of an interview with
the actress she almost repented of her persistence
in seeking to see her. What should she say? What
should she do? Had there been any chance of re-
treating she might have retreated. As it was, she
sat upon the chair placed for her, and gazed around
upon the pictures of celebrated actors and actresses,
and old playbills in frames, till the door swung open,
and a stately lady, in a big powdered wig and a
splendid eighteenth century costume, swept in upon
her.
“ You wanted to see me?” said the actress in a
clear voice, somewhat loud and angry.
“ Yes,” said Nelly in a nervous ﬂutter. “ I have
taken the liberty ” i
“I wish to goodness,” broke in the actress in
loud impatience, “ you would take him! He both-
ers my life out! Every day there’s one or two ab~
surd telegrams from him; and I’ve got to open
them, because they might be from some one else!
Look at that! ” And she pointed to a tall spike on
a stand—the kind of thing on which book-keepers
and housekeepers are wont to skewer bills—and
called attention to the pile of telegrams impaled
thereon. “ They’re all his! If you have an interest
in him at all, or any inﬂuence over him, persuade
him to ﬁnd some other amusement!”
“ I—I think you are mistaken,” said Nelly.
“About what? You come from Mr. Poynting


NELLY AND THE ACTRESS. 23[
—do you not—or, at least, on his account?” asked
the actress, noting something unexpected in Nelly’s
demeanour; her nervousness and her evident care-
lessness about what she said of Mr. Poynting.
“ No, I don’t,” said Nelly boldly. “ I know him,
and I know you know him, Miss Bolsover; but I
only used his name because I could not get to speak
with you on any other pretence. I hope you will
excuse me.”
“What is it you want, then?” demanded the
actress hastily, and with a cold and curious eye on
the girl. “ You must be quick, because I must be
on the stage again in two or three minutes.”
“ You know Mr. Leighton,” said Nelly, and her
heart well-nigh fainted as she uttered the name.
“Mr. Leighton?” repeated the actress. “You
mean ”
“ I mean,” said Nelly, “ him whose true name is
Graham.”
“Ah, then, you must be his sweetheart?” ex-
claimed the actress.
“ My name is Clemance,” answered Nelly with
a deep, resentful blush.
“ And you want to speak about him? ” said the
actress. She looked at Nelly and Nelly returned
her gaze bravely. Clearly the actress did not un-
derstand. She turned and looked in the mirror to
assure herself that her bodice and her wig were set
aright. “ You have a good deal to say, I imagine,”
said she. “ Do you mind waiting here till the end
of the performance? There’s only another act of


NELLY AND THE “ACTRESS. 233
showed a tolerable amount of fair, golden hair. It
struck Nelly that Miss Bolsover, seen thus, was
Older than she had expected to ﬁnd her, and that,
indeed, she must be some points past her thirtieth
year.
“I am sorry to have kept you so long, Miss
Clemance,” said Miss Bolsover, taking a chair and
at once placing herself over against Nelly. That
proceeding somewhat disarmed Nelly, for it seemed
as if the actress were thus setting herself openly for
examination. “ Now tell me what is the matter;
though I can’t guess,” said she with a smile, “why
you should have come to me about it.”
“ NO,” said Nelly; “it is true that we meet for
the ﬁrst time—”
“ The second time, I think,” said Miss Bolsover,
smiling again. “ Some months ago we passed each
other on Mr. Townshend’s stairs in Jermyn Street;
at least when I went in he told me you had just gone
out.”
“ I remember,” said Nelly, still more softly in-
clined to Miss Bolsover by the reminiscence.
“ That was just at the beginning of this trouble.”
“ Then,” said Miss Bolsover, “ you took it to Mr.
Townshend? ”
“ That was different,” said Nelly sadly, reluctant
to break the matter to the actress.
“I remember,” said Miss Bolsover, “how full
Mr. Townshend was Of Mr. Graham’s brave sweet-
heart.”
“ Please don’t call me that! ” cried Nelly, almost


234 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
in tears. “ I’m not that any \more. And you ought
to understand why.”
The actress gazed at her and shook her head.
“ I don’t understand a bit—not a little bit,” she
said.
“He has been with you often enough,” burst
forth Nelly.
“ Been with me?” cried the actress in a rush of
amazement and anger. “ Has he said that kind of
thing to you? He can’t have!”
“ He has told me nothing,” said Nelly. “Not
a word! ”
“Well, then,” cried the actress, “don’t be a
little fool. Don’t be a goose! You are just as bad
as he! The mistakes one may make! It seems
very extraordinary that you can’t show any kind-
ness to a young man without having love talked
about.”
“ He did talk about love, then?” cried Nelly, in
a violent access of jealousy. “I was sure I was
right.”
“Indeed,” said the actress promptly, “you are
quite wrong—as wrong as you can be. He was
afraid—terribly afraid I was in love with him.
‘ And are you?’ I can see you would like to ask.
No; I am not. I like him and admire him very
much, and I am deeply interested in him.”
“ People,” said Nelly, paciﬁed somewhat but not
convinced, “Often deceive themselves about that,
don’t they? They misunderstand their own feel-
ings.”


236 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
neck of her jacket, as if she were choking, and gaz-
ing wildly around her, without any eye to the girl
listening to her strange story. “ But,” she declared
in a clear, hard, ringing voice, “he behaved to me'
shamefully !—iike a perfect sweep! I cannot tell
you what he did; but it is not nice to remember it! ”
She rose, and moved aimlessly here and there
—looking at a stale ﬂower, moving a newspaper on
the table, or an ornament on the mantelshelf, and
at last glancing at herself in the mirror, an act which
seemed to restore her self-possession.
“ I am sorry,” said the astonished and pitying
Nelly, “very sorry that I have made you tell me
that! Those things must be very painful to remem-
ber! ”
“ They, are!” said the actress, with a smile.
“ But now I hope you understand the kind of in-
terest I have had in Mr. Graham. And you mustn’t
be a silly, jealous girl any more; but go and make it
up with him, if you have quarrelled, as I guess you
have.”
“ I—I don’t know where he is!” said Nelly, in
blank fear of the situation in which she was left.
She turned pale at the look of terror—for terror it
seemed—that came upon Miss Bolsover’s face.
“ Not know where he is?” the actress gasped.
“ Do you mean he has disappeared?”
“ Nobody has seen him for four days!” cried
Nelly. “ He has not been at the works for four
days! That’s really why I came to you! I thought
you would know! ”


NELLY AND THE ACTRESS. 237
“Thought I would know!” scornfully exclaimed
the actress. “You little fool! You absurd idiot!
I suppose you know what may have happened?”
“ I do! I do! ” said Nelly, clasping her hands.
“ Two or three weeks ago I urged him to be off
at once to America! And I daresay he would have
gone—if you had not behaved so absurdly!”
“ I think,” responded Nelly, “you are wrong in
that.” And she told what she knew of Jim’s reso-
lution to get the business Of his patent put com-
pletely through before he stirred. “And really,”
she continued, recovering her wits, “ I can’t believe,
Whatever has happened to him, that he has been
taken by the police.” And she related the story
of the telegrams.
Miss Bolsover listened with manifest admiration
and approval of her conduct.
“ You are a dear, brave girl said she, going
to her and seizing her hands in embrace. “ You
must forgive me for calling you names just now!
But we must ﬁnd him and keep him free! ”
“ I don’t know what to do!” cried Nelly.
“ And it has been all my fault! ”
“That’s nonsense!” said the other. “Let us
think!” And she clasped and caressed Nelly’s
hands. “ Oh,” she exclaimed, “the plain thing to
do ﬁrst is to telegraph to Mr. Townshend! Come,
it’s not too late for the head Ofﬁce! We’ll go to-
gether! ”
They went out; Miss Bolsover told the stage—
doorkeeper to call a cab, and they rode off in com—
'7!


238 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
pany. This was the telegram they sent to Town-
shend between them, never guessing that he was al-
ready on his way to Milchester: “Come at once.
He is missing.—BOLSOVER and CLEMANCE.”
“I daresay,” said the actress, “ he will remem—
ber your name.”
Then, the hour being very late, with a promise
to meet again on the morrow, the actress went
home in the cab, and Nelly ran off to her lodging
on foot.
When she was taking her jacket off in her own
room she found clinging to her arm a long golden
hair; it must, she thought, be a hair from the ac-
tress’s head. That recalled to her the golden hair
she had found twisted about the lock of the air—gun;
and instantly her mind was ﬁlled with a sickening
suspicion, which came upon her like a gust of smoke
from a chimney into a room. '
The actress had confessed she had been in love
with the man whom that gun had killed, and had
confessed also that he had treated her shamefully;
and such a hair as hers had been found about the
lock of the gun. What then? Nelly saw, as if afar
off, the conclusion she feared to draw.


CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MAN AND THE DOG.
THE telegram from Nelly and Miss Bolsover did
not come into the hands of Mr. Townshend, for by
the time it was delivered in Jermyn Street he was
humming along in an express train to Milchester,
where he arrived about three in the morning. He
calculated that he was but ten or twelve hours
ahead of the detective Wormall, and he was resolved
to make economic use of those hours. Apart from
the fact that he was sincerely interested in Graham
(or Leighton), it was a point of honour and pride
with him to defeat the detective’s design. He had
telegraphed from London to Mr. Hepplewhite that
he was travelling by such and such a train, and,
though he had expected no such result, it gratiﬁed
him to ﬁnd on arriving at the Milchester station that
Mr. Hepplewhite’s own brougham was waiting for
him. That showed him that Mr. Hepplewhite also
was impressed with the value of the hours.
By four o’clock he arrived at the house of Mr.
Hepplewhite, and then it was daylight with a bright
sun rising. He found the master of the house wait—
ing on the steps to receive him. They closely
239


THE MAN AND THE DOG. 241
hinder yo’. What can I do to help yO’? Is there
aught?”
“ If you could get a cup Of coffee ready for me,
while we talk, Mr. Hepplewhite, I should be in-
ﬁnitely Obliged,” said Townshend. He had pro-
duced from his pocket a pouch Of tobacco, and was
rolling himself a cigarette, which Hepplewhite
watched with interest—an operation he had never
witnessed before.
“ To be sure,” said the Old man. “ Th’ coach—
man ’11 manage to do that for us.”
These preliminaries over, they entered the house,
and Townshend heard all that Mr. Hepplewhite had
to say about the disappearance of Graham. He had
no more news of him, and he had made no dis-
covery. Townshend smoked cigarette after ciga—
rette and drank the cup of coffee when it was
brought, but said almost nothing.
“Now, what do yo’ think of it, Mr. Town—
shend? ” said the old man with involuntary defer-
ence. “It beats me.”
“ Our tramp~your workman—John Corbet—is
the one man that we are sure knows where our man
is. I must get hold of Corbet.” .
“That’s the ticket!” said Mr. Hepplewhite.
“ Shall I send for th’ chap?”
“ Well, Mr. Hepplewhite,” said Townshend,
polishing his eyeglass with his handkerchief, and
speaking with great deliberation, “ I think it will
be best if you don’t appear at all in this business.
You see I have only a few hours—no time for using


242 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
very subtle or reﬁned methods of doing the busi-
ness: I fear it will be necessary to be rude to the
man Corbet—I may even need to break the law to
gain my point—and, of course, with law-breaking
you can have nothing to do.”
“ That’s true,” said Hepplewhite, considering
the sang-froid of his guest with some wonder.
“Yes,” continued Townshend, “you had better
know nothing about it; I am neither particular nor
nice at such a time.”
“Oh!” murmured Hepplewhite merely, but he
wondered a great deal what kind of a man this
Townshend was.
“Of course,” continued Townshend, “you can
send somebody to show me where this Corbet
lodges?”
“Joe can go, th’ coachman, tha knows. Thou
can trust Joe. He’ll ask no questions and thou
con tell him what thou likes.”
“ And, I suppose, you won’t mind lending me
the little dog you tell me about? Yes,” said he,
rising to his feet, “ I see my way.” He took out his
watch. “It’s after four. The mills and works, I
suppose, all begin at six. There’ll be nobody about
till half-past ﬁve, will there?”
“Nobody to mention,” said Mr. Hepplewhite;
“ tho’ they begin to turn out, partlins what, at ﬁve.”
“ I think I can manage,” said Townshend, “ with
the help of your man and your dog, if you Will be
so good as let them know I’m ready for them.”
And he smiled again in his characteristic fashion.


THE MAN AND THE DOG. 243
Mr. Hepplewhite went out to tell the coachman
what was expected of him, and returned to ﬁnd
Townshend scribbling a line or two in pencil upon
a leaf from a pocket-book. His glance spoke of
quick curiosity.
“Don’t ask me what I’m going to do,” said
Townshend, again lifting his moustache with a
smile. “ I’m almost ashamed of the simplicity of
what I intend. But I hope to succeed. And it’s
neck or nothing.”
“Well, good luck to yo’,” said Mr. Hepplewhite
cheerily. “Jim and the dog are ready—tho’ I’m
bound to wonder what yo’ll do wi’ them. But yo’ll
bring th’ lad here when yo’ve found him.”
“I don’t think I will, Mr. Hepplewhite,” said
Townshend; “ you see, that also might compromise
you.”
“ Oh, that be d d for a tale, Mr. Townshend!
I’m fair fond 0’ th’ lad; yo’ bring him here, if it
suits yo’; though there yo’ are, of course. I’m not
at the boddom o’ What yo’re going to be at.”
“ I’ll leave my bag in your keeping,” was all the
reply Townshend made, “if you will let me. Will
you give instructions that it may be given up by
any of your household if I need to send for it in the
course of the day?”
Thus they parted, with a shake of the hand, Mr.
Hepplewhite again wishing his incomprehensible
visitor “ Good luck.” >
Townshend passed from the house, and out to
the gate by the gravel-sweep. There he was joined


244 ' PURSUED BY THE LAW.
by Joe the coachman, who was out of livery, ac-
companied by the fox—terrier.
“ Oh,” said Townshend, “that’s the dog, is it? ”
“ Yea,” boomed Joe.
“ Is it far to the place where this man Corbet
lodges?” asked Townshend.
“ Noa,” droned Joe. “It’s at th’ bottom 0’ th’
brew.”
As they descended from Mr. Hepplewhite's
' house, Joe’s attention was attracted by a man who,
having sprung apparently from nowhere, was plain—
ly dogging them.
“ There’s a chap follerin’ dost see?” he said to
Townshend, in his deep, even tone of unconcern.
“Yes, I see,” answered Townshend. “It’s all
right,” he condescended to explain, for he wanted
something out of Joe. “The man’s attending on
me. I know him; he’s been sent. I telegraphed
for him from London.”
“Sayst tha!” boomed Joe, in solemn respect
and surprise. -
“The man Corbet has a landlady, I suppose?”
said Townshend.
“Yea,” said Joe.
“ Do you know her?” asked Townshend.
“Yea,” answered Joe.
“ Is she good friends with Corbet? ”
“ I’d lash her if hoo wur,” said Joe “ Hoo’s my
wife.”
“ I’m glad of that,” said Townshend; “it makes
what I want you to do for me easier. I want you


246 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
to a place and a man I want to ﬁnd. I daresay Mr.
Hepplewhite has told you about it?”
“ Yea,” droned Joe.
“Well, I should like you to follow Corbet with
the dog, careless-like and so that he doesn’t notice
you. You needn’t follow him far, but only to give
the dog a start on the same road. I want to see if
the dog will follow the same road by himself. You
understand? ”
“ Yea.”
By that time they were near the foot of the slope,
or brow (“ brew’” Joe called it), and the cottages of
the village were at hand. Joe signiﬁed that his
cottage was just round the corner; so Townshend
separated from him and cast his eye about for a
place where he might hide and at the same time
note the result of his writing to the tramp. At
the turn of the road opposite to Joe’s cottage
was a picturesque old chapel, with an open
graveyard thickly populated with grey tombstones.
Thither Townshend went, and hid himself behind
a stone.
He looked back on the brow; his friends were
nowhere to be seen; they also had contrived to hide
themselves: how was their own affair. He watched
Joe lift the latch of his own door, taking the dog
with him, and then all was still.
“ Suppose,” he thought for an instant, “ that Joe
is really friendly with the trampl—and spoils my
business!”
But he recalled that Mr. Hepplewhite had said


THE MAN AND THE DOG. 247
that Joe was entirely to be trusted; and he waited
with conﬁdence.
All in the village continued quiet. The sun
shone and away up above the brow a lark carolled
high in the air over the soiled green ﬁelds. The
tall Chimneys of the mills and works around were
speedily beginning to smoke and to obscure the
blue of the sky; and in the village itself here and
there domestic ﬁres gave evidence of being lit. Still
Townshend waited and watched, cramped behind
the tombstone, until the glowing sun shone and
burned upon the brass handle of Joe’s cottage door.
Was his note to have no rousing effect on the
tramp? ‘
At length the door swung silently and swiftly
open, and a man, whom there was no mistaking,
stood an instant on the threshold and glanced this
way and that. Standing thus plainly in the sun,
his scar Showed Whiter than usual on his cheek,
while his countenance was at once furtive and
threatening, like that of a hungry, skulking wolf.
Having satisﬁed himself that there was no one stir—
ring, no one to be seen, the tramp stepped from the
house, and softly closed the door. Then he set his
face in Townshend’s- direction and marched smartly
forward.
He passed down a coal-black lane, made of
crushed cinders, and so disappeared from Town-
shend’s view by the graveyard wall. Townshendwas
alarmed: where was Joe and where was the dog?
But Joe, he was presently pleased to discover, had


248 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
some craft. He and the dog came from behind the
cottages, crossed the road and dived under a fence
on the side of the chapel and the graveyard remote
from the cinder lane. Rising erect from his hiding-
place, and passing through the graveyard, Town—
shend then noted that Joe and the dog were moving
across an uneven ﬁeld which overlooked the cinder
lane.
Townshend stood and looked around to under-
stand the lie of the country. Behind him was the
village; below him was the cinder lane, up from
which climbed soiled green ﬁelds, invaded here and
there by cottages and beginnings of streets; before
him opened out a valley, which must have once been
picturesque with babbling stream, waving tree and
green bank. The stream was now black and noi-
some, the trees were bare and dead where they
had not completely disappeared, and the erstwhile
green banks were piled with buildings—small
mills and workshops of one kind or another—or
littered with cinders, broken utensils, and other
refuse. Through this sordid, horrible, industrial
region, the cinder lane, with its narrow, diverg-
ing branches, was the only road; and along that
lane the ﬁgure of the tramp was swiftly passing-—
the only living creature yet to be seen, except Joe
and the dog, who were following along the slope
above.
Townshend sprang forward to overtake Joe.
When he came almost up with him, Joe put out
his hand to keep Townshend back.


THE MAN AND THE DOG. 249
“ Whoa! ” he growled, in a low voice. “ Seetha!
He’s takin’ th’ road!”
They both held back to note the conduct of the
dog. He trotted an instant with his nose to the
ground, and then, as if somehow reminded of an
engagement he must keep, with a short yelp to him?
self, he galloped Off as hard as he could, ventre d
terre.
“ The devil!” cried Townshend. “We’ll never
keep up with him! ”
“ Woa! ” said Joe, warm with excitement. “ I
see him! Stan’ yo’ still, mon! We conna catch
him, so we mun watch him! I con see where he
goes. Eh, mon! He’s leggin’ it, as if he wur out
rabbitin’. Theer he goes. Seetha! Over th’ plank
bridge.”
Joe pointed, and Townshend saw at the same
instant the narrow, unrailed plank bridge across the
stream, and a little white body ﬂash over it and dis-
appear. '
“ N ow,” said he, “ he’s no more use to us.”
“ Nay,” said Joe, “we’ve cotched him! That
theer is a hisland th’ brook runs all round it, and
there’s nought on it but th’ owd mill, and th’ owd
hall! "
“ By Jove!” exclaimed Townshend. “ That
must be the house I want! ”
“Happen it be, mon!” said Joe, with uncon-
cern.
“But look!” said Townshend. “That fellow,
Corbet, has passed by the plank bridge! ”


250 PURSUED BY THE LAYV.
“Happen,” said Joe, “he doan’t know as how
that would tak’ him to Wheer he wants to go. He’s
summat o’ a stranger in these here parts; but we’ll
larn him. He’ll go by th’ stone bridge that’s farther
on.”
“Ah! ” said Townshend. “ Now I see. Is
what you call the old hall a ruined, empty house?”
“ Well,” said Joe, “ it’s a owd, ancient place, wi’
nobbut rats and boggarts about it, if that’s what
thou means ”
“ It is,” said Townshend, and descended with
long bounds to the cinder lane, and Joe followed.
Townshend had spied one of those whom he
called his “ friends.” He held up his hand, and the
man came to him. He said to him a quick word or
two. The man nodded, raised his hand, with a
glance behind him, and set off at a quick pace along
the cinder lane after the tramp.
“ I shall be much obliged,” said Townshend to
Joe, “ if you will keep with me for a little while and
show me where the old hall is.”
And presently there might have been seen two,
four, six men making all possible haste without-
running along the cinder lane. Townshend and
Joe crossed the plank bridge, and the others con-
tinued forward on the track of the tramp.
On the island, upon which the plank bridge
landed Townshend, was an empty, desolate mill,
not exactly. in ruins, but a mere shell of a place,
with broken windows, and without even the hope—
ful notice that it was “ To Let.” Beyond, bunched


THE MAN AND THE DOG. 251
about and half—hidden with stunted trees and tan-
gled bushes, was the old hall. It was the kind of
relic to be' chanced upon here and there in the in-
dustrial parts of Lancashire, a weird and saddening
survival of the days before cotton—mills, bearing wit-
ness how manufacture has overgrown and ruthlessly
smothered agriculture.
Townshend, with Joe some paces behind, ar-
rived in sight of a ruined porch, just in time to see
the tramp whip in at the door, and to hear him hur—
riedly bar and bolt it.
I7


CHAPTER XXIV.
RESCUED, AND YET IN DANGER.
“ Now, where are we?” exclaimed Townshend
in a low voice, halting abruptly, just as his four as-
sistants stepped into view approaching the house.
“ It will never do to make a noise,” said he, address-
ing them as if they had been with him through the
whole business.
Joe looked sharply at the four. They were
dressed like ordinary respectable Milchester arti-
sans, whatever they truly were; and Joe might well
have thought they looked odd fellows to be called
“ friends ” by so notable a swell as Townshend.
But he said nothing, and the four were as laconic as
himself.
“ Our man is here,” said Townshend, “ and our
other man; I must have them both. You under-
stand?” said he.
The four nodded.
He then instructed them to set themselves to
watch all modes of egress from the old house, and
turned to Joe. ,
“ The dog,” said he, “is, I suspect, in the house
252


RESCUED, AND YET IN DANGER. 253
too. Whistle for him, or call him—he will know
your call—and if he comes we’ll see better what to
do.”
SO Joe whistled softly, and called “Toby!
Toby! Toby! ” After being whistled for and called
a few times, Toby appeared, scrambling through a
hole in some old boarding which covered the place
where once had been a cellar window and grating.
' Townshend at once concluded that there was ac-
cess that way to the prisoner.
“ Now, we have him!” he said, and stooped to
tear away the boarding. ‘
With Joe’s aid that was no very difﬁcult task.
When the rotting boards were demolished, Town-
shend thrust in his head, and seeing far within some-
thing Of the glimmer of a candle he leaped down
into the cellar softly but without hesitation. He
could not see the ﬂoor, but he felt it was damp and
slippery. He made for the light, which was in a
farther cellar. He entered that silently, but boldly,
and immediately saw a man holding a candle in one
hand and a knife in the other, and waiting to catch
a sound, with open mouth and attentive ear. The
man was the tramp. Near him on the ﬂoor vaguely
outlined was a form which Townshend could not
doubt was that of Graham. He had but time to
note that there was a door on the right which prob-
ably opened upon the house, when the tramp caught
sight Of him. He uttered a convulsive cry of sur-
prise.
“ Ah-ah. You! Blast yer!”


254 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
Whether involuntarily or of set purpose, the
candle fell and went out. ToWnshend, who had
been on the point of springing on the tramp, held
back and slipped aside to cut off his escape by the
door into the house. He waited, breathing quietly,
for he did not desire to throw himself upon the
man’s knife. He was rewarded by hearing plainly
the scared breath of the tramp, which whistled and
trembled with terror.
It was an awkward situation to be thus in utter
darkness. But if the tramp had the advantage of
possessing a weapon, Townshend made up for it by
self-possession and silence. Stooping low, with his
hand outstretched to ward off the moving and
threatening form of the tramp, he felt in his pocket
for a matchbox. He calculated that the tramp,
when he saw his ﬁgure illuminated and his hands
embarrassed with the striking of a light, would
spring on him, and he did not calculate wrongly.
When the match was struck and the light ﬂashed
up the tramp sprang forward with an oath and with
ready knife. While he was in the act of springing,
Townshend dropped the match, stepped aside to the
right, and drove out with his left ﬁst. He caught
the tramp fair in the wind, and with a loud “ wa! ”
the man doubled up and fell. In an instant Town-
shend was upon him, with his knee on his chest and
his hand on his throat, and his right arm held help-
less.
“ Are you there, sir?” said a voice—Joe’s voice
out of the darkness.


RESCUED, AND YET IN DANGER. 255
“Yes,” answered Townshend. “Strike a light
if you have a match about you.”
Joe struck a light.
“ There’s a candle on the floor,” said Townshend.
“ Find it.”
The candle was found and lit, and at once both
Joe and Townshend turned their eyes on the hud-
dled ﬁgure by the wall. A face IOOked Out on them_
-—the face of Graham, but Graham changed. He
was gaunt and dirty, with stubbly beard and glazed
' listless eye. He said no word but still gazed at
them, as if half in wonder, half in understanding.
“The devil! ” murmured Townshend. “ How
are we going to get him away like that? Call my
friends, will you?” he said to Joe.
Joe called the four, and they entered at once by
the same opening as Townshend had entered by.
“Truss him up,” said Townshend to them, and
surrendered the tramp into their hands. “ I want a
word with you,” said he to Joe, and turned aside a
moment. “ Take a message from me to Mr. Hep-
plewhite—will you? He won’t have gone to the
works yet. Tell him how we have found Mr.—er—-
Leighton,” said he, pointing to the huddled ﬁgure
by the wall, “ and ask him from me if he will be so
good as to lend me a closed carriage to take Mr.
Leighton away from here.”
‘ “Yea; he will,” said Joe.
“ And there is my bag; ask him to give you that.
I daresay you will bring the carriage yourself.”
“Yea,” said Joe.


256 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“And I needn’t ask you,” added Townshend,
“ to tell nobody else of this—nobody at all; a man’s
life and safety depend on you.”
“Nay,” said Joe solemnly. “ I’ll tell nought.
I’m not a clatter-box.”
So Joe departed to return with all proper speed,
while Townshend engaged to meet him at a retired
spot by the bridge.
Then at length Townshend took the candle and.
turned to the prisoner, calling him by name.
“ Leighton, old chap,” said he, “wake up. You
know me, don’t you?”
Graham, who had sunk into a drowse, tried to
rouse himself, and said, with a feeble and uncertain
utterance, “Yes, I know. Goo’ of you to come.”
Having said that, he drowsed off again, just as if
he were helpless and oblivious with liquor instead
of with starvation.
“ I had no idea,” said Townshend to his
“ friends,” who having safely trussed up and gagged
the tramp now stood looking on, “I had no idea
I should ﬁnd him so done up. Have you any
brandy?”
One of them produced a small brandy ﬂask; and
kneeling by Graham and raising him up, Town-
shend put the liquor to the dry, baked lips. Graham
sucked it in, and presently drawing a great breath,
he sat up. He looked at Townshend and the others.
“Thank you,” said he, turning again to Town-
shend. “ I was almost thinking I was done for; but
'you’ve come.” He could say no more: a gust of


RESCUED, AND YET IN DANGER. 257
sobs and tears—the merest weakness of the body——
broke from him.
“ Come, old chap,” said Townshend, “ you must
pull yourself together. Not another word till we
get you outside. Hold the light here,” said he to
one of his “friends.”
By aid of the light and the other friends
Townshend released Graham, who was found to be
attached to an old oak beam by a long rusty chain
that went round his waist. The chain was gripped
and secured about him and about the beam with
a short steel wire, which it seemed impossible to
undo, till Townshend bethought him, all things
considered, the tramp was likely to have upon him
some kind of tool that would avail for such a pur-
pose. He went and searched him, and was re-
warded by ﬁnding a stout pair of pincers. \Vith
some tedious application of them to the untwisting
of the wire Graham was ﬁnally released.
“ You help him out Of this up into the open air,”
said Townshend to two of his “ friends.” “ And you
two,” said he to the others, “can help me to put
that swine in his place.”
They brought the tramp, and notwithstanding
his violent struggles bound him with the rusty chain
exactly as Graham had been bound, and in the same
ﬁlthy sty. On realising that he was thus to be left
alone, bound and gagged, he uttered through his
gag a mufﬂed, inarticulate yell. -
“ Eh?” said Townshend. “ Why, my friend,
you don’t mean to say you object to the same agree-


258 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
able situation as you have kept another man in for
four or ﬁve days? I call that being a coward. You
forget,” said he, emphasizing his words with his
foreﬁnger, “that I gave you full and solemn warn-
ing of this. I always keep my word as far as ever
I am able. You are going to be snuffed out by~
and-by; and in the meantime you are going to stay
there and look Death straight in the eyes, and see
how you like it! ”
The man heard and understood. He could not
speak; he could scarcely cry out; but his action
was eloquent, though his hands were bound behind
him. He dropped on his knees, and looked at
Townshend with the terriﬁed eyes of a brute.
Townshend turned away, half-sickened at the sight.
The tramp struggled after him on his knees: it was
plain that if his hands had been free he would have
embraced and held Townshend’s feet.
“Come!” said Townshend. “ Enough of that.
You’re playing it low. Behave like a Christian, and
not like a Man Friday! ”
With that he strode off, and left the tramp
groaning and grovelling.
In the meantime Graham had been conducted
from his prison and lifted through the breach into
the outer cellar into the open air. When Town-
shend reached him he was sitting on a stone in the
sunshine, looking pale and dazed and incredibly
dirty in person and clothing. His head still bore
the signs of the attack made upon him, when the
tramp and his allies had taken him prisoner. The


RESCUED, AND YET IN DANGER. 259
bruises were still swollen, and the hair was hard
with dried blood. Townshend made no effort then
to get him to talk; all his concern was to get him
away, and Graham seemed satisﬁed to be in his
hands.
It was a task to lead him away; for his legs
trembled and yielded under him. But with an-
other touch Of stimulation from the brandy-ﬂask
and the aid of a friendly arm on either side Graham
contrived to make a Show of marching. He was
led towards the stone bridge, by which Mr. Hepple-
white’s carriage was to come, and step by step his
legs took more kindly to their neglected occupation.
As they left behind the desolate and tangled
neighbourhood of the old hall and approached the
bridge, the “friends” of Townshend, by his in-
structions, fell off from him and followed carefully
and furtively, Townshend alone with Graham ad—
vancing openly. In the sequestered spot by the
head of the bridge where Joe had arranged to meet
him Townshend found Mr. Hepplewhite’s carriage
with Joe Sitting on the box, calm as an idol, as if
nothing of any anxiety had happened.
“ Can we go on now without being seen? ” asked
Townshend. “ Or had we better wait a while?”
“ Nubbot th’ pigs stirrin’,” said Joe. “ All th’
mill bonds are in, and th’ wives bain’t up yet.”
So Townshend beckoned to one of his lurking
“friends,” who came to him, and together they
helped Graham into the carriage. Townshend gave
Joe an exact direction where to drive to in Milches-


26o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ter, said a word or two of instruction to his three re-
maining ” friends,” who were to continue there in
the neighbourhood of the deserted hall, and then he
mounted into the carriage, and Graham and he and
his “friend ” were rapidly driven off.
Thinking that it would be more noticeable to
lead Graham through the streets than to convey him
merely across the pavement from carriage-door to
house-door, Townshend had risked giving Joe the
exact address of the strange mansion where Gra_
ham had seen the tramp branded. In an hour after
leaving the deserted hall, Graham was resting in a
chair in the strange mansion, with a basin of soup
in his lap. Whilst supping that he was so much re-
covered that he sought to talk with Townshend;
but the latter would not have it.
“ No,” said he. “ Our talk and our time are of
great value; don’t waste them. And wait till your
wits are all straight. When you are warmed within
you must be washed without; after that soup a bath
and a shave. After them—when you are clean,
clothed, and in your right mind—we’ll talk.”
“I must say this,” said Graham, with a smile:
“You make me think of myself as David Copper-
ﬁeld when he turned up dirty and ragged at his
aunt’s at Dover. ‘ Do with him? Why, if I was
you,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘ I should wash him! ’ ”
When Graham was washed and clothed (from
the private and mysterious stores of the mansion)
he sat down with Townshend to partake of break-
fast and to talk.


RESCUED, AND YET IN DANGER. 261
“After that warm bath,” said Townshend, with
his Odd smile, “a touch of the douche: can you
bear the shock?”
“ I think I can. What is it?” said Graham.
“The detectives are on the track of James Gra-
ham again; they discovered he is, or was, near Mil—
Chester.”
“Was that the tramp’s doing?” asked Graham,
after a moment’s silence and deathly pallor; the
shock of the douche was almost too much for him.
“ No,” said Townshend. “ It was your own.”
“ Mine?”
“The publication, or whatever you call it, of
your patent valve. The young detective who had
charge Of your case at the ﬁrst remembered that
valve and spotted you. I heard—on the best au-
thority: his own—that he was leaving London to
nab you at Kershaw; and I just managed to get
down a few hours ahead of him. Not later than
three this afternoon he will be inquiring for you at
Kershaw. SO, you see, my dear fellow, that action
is necessary as soon as we are able to act. There
need be no ﬂuster, and at the same time there must
be no delay.”
“ NO,” said Graham; “no delay, certainly.” He
was very much recovered, but not so much as to be
able to bear the shock of Townshend’s revelation
without mentally reeling under it. He paused a
moment to possess himself, and crumbled a piece
Of bread.
“ It’s a facer, I admit,” said Townshend; “ but


CHAPTER XXV.
NELLY SPEAKS.
“ IT’S impossible for you,” said Townshend, “ to
go to them in your present condition, but I will go
and arrange for one or the other of them to come
to you.”
In his weakness Graham accepted that decision.
Indeed, throughout this talk Townshend conducted
himself like a man who completely knew his own
mind. Graham had always found him a clearly
resolute person; but now more than ever—whether
because of his own debility, or because of Town-
shend’s unwavering purpose—he found him strong,
and he leaned on him. A man with a purpose, it
is said, is stronger than ten men without; and
Townshend had a purpose, though it was not yet
quite apparent.
Begging Graham to rest and refresh himself,
since all his wits and all his strength would presently
be needed, Townshend set out, with the information
that Miss Clemance was to be found at the Post
Ofﬁce near the Town Hall. But, though he be-
lieved that he had still a few hours quite free—be—
fore, that is, he need begin to reckon with the pres-1
263


264 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
’ ence and activity of Wormall—he deemed it best to
be careful of showing himself in such a place as a
very public Post Office. He therefore went to the
theatre, and found Miss Bolsover.
“Oh, how good of you, Fred,” she exclaimed,
on seeing him, “to come so quickly!”
“ Well, yes,” said he, “it is good of me, and I
have come as quickly as I could; but—er—I don’t
quite understand.‘ Do you mean that you have
been expecting me?” And he ﬁxed his glass more
ﬁrmly over his eye to observe her carefully.
“ Of course I have!” she answered. “What
did my telegram give you to understand?”
“ Your telegram!” exclaimed Townshend.
“What? More telegrams?”
Then explanations on either side became neces-
sary. In a few sentences he related on what alarm
he had left London the night before, and how he
had found and rescued Graham, and she in her turn
related how Nelly had suspected and manipulated
the telegrams at the Post Office, and had afterwards
come to her in her trouble.
“That girl,” said Townshend, dropping his glass
from his eye, and polishing it with his handkerchief,
“is a brick! If all women were like her, I should
have fallen in love long ago.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t, Fred!” said Miss Bol-
sover, shaking her head. “The people that are
- made for falling in love fall in love with any sort
that comes near them—bad or good.” Then sud-
denly plunging into sadness, She said: “But She is


NELLY SPEAKS. 265
-a brick, as you say. I wish to heaven I could be as
brave and frank and loyal as she is!”
“ Hallo!” said Townshend, considering her.
“ In the dumps? ”
“Dumps!” she exclaimed. “ Dumps isn’t the
word for it. I am mad! miserable! wretched !—to
a degree. But don’t let us waste time. You want
to see Miss Clemance—or, at least, Mr. Graham
wants to se her.” '
They agreed it was best that Nelly should be
sent for; and Miss Bolsover wrote a note (which
was sent by one Of the door-keeper’s acolytes) in-
viting Nelly to come to the theatre in her dinner-
hour. “ I have news for you,” she wrote.
At one o’clock, therefore, Nelly appeared. She
gave Miss Bolsover a queer, straight look of search-
ing and wonder; she was viewing her in the light
of her terrible suspicion Of the night before; but the
sight—the agreeable sight—Of Mr. _Townshend
drew her attention and made her keep in the back of
her mind all her suspicion. Mr. Townshend re-
peated to her all he had told Miss Bolsover. She
was inexpressibly shocked and grieved at the suf—
ferings of her lover, and wished to be gone to him
on the instant.
“ Oh,” she cried, “ I must go to him at once!
And he wants me to go! Where is he?”
“ My dear Miss Clemance,” said Townshend in
his most solemn tone, “I think you had better—-
really—wait till to-night.”
He gave his reasons—as that Graham was weak,


266 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
that positively there was no such great hurry, and
so forth; and Nelly, who had immense faith in the
good—will and the judgment of Townshend, sub-
mitted. In the evening, therefore, it was arranged
that Nelly should seek the address which Town—
shend wrote down for her. '
Then Townshend returned to Graham. They
were no sooner met again than Graham astonished
his deliverer with an unexpected request.
“ I have been worrying for you to come back,”
said he. “ I have a dim recollection of seeing you
fasten up the tramp in my place in the cellar; am I
right?” ’ ,
“Quite right,” answered Townshend.
“ And leaving him there?”
“ I left him there; yes.”
“And what do you mean to do with him?”
“ Do with him?” said Townshend. “ Make
manure of him; that’s all such a creature is ﬁt for.
My three—er—‘ friends,’ left to give an eye to him,
understand their business.”
“ You mean they Will kill him? ” asked Graham,
aghast.
“ Well—if you like to put it that way.”
“ Mr. Townshend,” exclaimed Graham, “ you
are a mystery to me! I know—I am certain—you
can be wonderfully kind and generous; I have had
plenty of experience of that; and yet you can be as
cruel as that! ”
“ If you call my treatment of our friend the tramp
cruelty—well, yes, I can be cruel.”


NELLY SPEAKS. 267.
“Mr. Townshend,” broke out Graham, still so
weak that he was almost hysterical, “ your treatment
of him is all on my account, I know! Therefore, I
think I have a right to say I won’t be a party to it!
I was tempted—I have told you how I was tempted
—to kill ~him once! The recollection of that will
always be a horror to me! I am determined to keep
my hands and my conscience free from murder and
violence—all the more that I have been accused of
them! You must let the man go—you must
really! ” ‘
“ Your leniency is very misplaced. My dear fel-
low, is there a single touch of kindness or leniency
in your treatment of the brute that you have not suf-
fered for and regretted?”
“ No; not regretted,” said Graham. “I shall
never regret keeping a clear conscience! ”
“ Oh, very well,” said Townshend, giving way
suddenly. “It will only be putting off his fate—-
postponing his sentence. So be it. I will send
wOrd at once that he is to be set free. But he is
, one mOre danger let loose, and you will regret it.”
“ I can’t help that, Mr. Townshend,” said Gra_
ham. “ I must take the risk of his continuing in
life and mischief.”
“ Very well,” said Townshend, dropping his eye-
glass and stroking his crest in resignation. “But
we must look spry then.”
Townshend went out, saying he would send a
“friend” at once to release the tramp. Thinking
over the oddity of the situation and the mystery of
18


268 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
the house in which he was, Graham again broke in
unexpected speech when Townshend returned.
“ I think,” said he, “I must go home to my
mother, Mr. Townshend.”
“What?” said Townshend. “And be nabbed
at once by that man Wormall, while you are still
unable to do anything for yourself? No, no, my
dear boy; I don’t take up a job to let it slip from me
in an unﬁnished state! ”
“ But I must be a nuisance and a worry to you
here.” '
“ Oh, make your mind easy; you shall pay the
people here for all the trouble you give them.” And
he smiled that singular, inscrutable smile.
“ Do you mind telling me what sort of house this
is?” asked Graham, truly curious.
“ It is a kind of private hotel,” said Townshend,
polishing his eye—glass; “an old—fashioned sort of
boarding—house for—er—commercial gentlemen of
all nations—for what our French neighbours call
commis-voyagmrs.” And with that vague answer
Graham had to be content.
“But,” said Graham, “I must be making my
arrangements for going to America.”
“What?” said Townshend. “ Still thinking of
that, with all the ports closed against you?”
“What else is there to think of? By the way,
I must have money,” said Graham. “ Mr. Hepple-
white has promised me an advance on my patent
rights. If I write to him, will your friend carry the
note? He’s not gone yet, I suppose?”


27o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
slowly mounting the wide staircase, step by step, be-
side her, plainly seeking to delay her—she looked
at the heavy balusters, and considered the general
sombreness of the old house she had so lightly en-
tered, and then she had a sudden and inexplicable
sense of being in a strange situation and in strange
company. But she was a young lady who knew no
fear. She eyed him with perfect frankness and de-
manded:—
“ What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing, my dear Miss Clemance—nothing,”
answered Townshend, “only to see clearly, and
get Graham to see clearly, that America is impos-
sible. I take a great interest in Graham—I am very
fond of him—and if he will only stick to me he will
be all right. I can put him in the way of making
money and being rich—I may almost say beyond
the dreams of avarice.” And again his moustache
lifted with that odd, inscrutable smile.
Nelly’s frank, simple, and impulsive nature was
touched. She had no suspicion that Townshend
might desire to befriend Graham for his own ends,
she only thought: “ How kind and good of him!
And he evidently so great and distinguished a
gentleman! ”
“He is in there,” said Townshend, opening a
door, “ I will join you presently.”
Nelly entered, without Graham hearing her.
He was sitting deep in an easy chair, stroking his
cheek, and as if brooding on his situation.
“Jim! ” she said, lingering by the door.


NELLY SPEAKS. 271
He jumped from his chair, and turned round.
“Nelly!” he exclaimed, in such a tone of we!-
come and tenderness that she could not doubt that
all offence against her was gone from his mind—if,
indeed, it had been ever there.
“Oh, Jim!” she cried, fluttering forward and
sinking into his arms. “Do you really forgive
me?”
“Forgive you, sweetheart?” said he. “ For-
give you for What? ”
“Oh, Jim, my dear, I have been very wicked!
I thought you had fallen in love with that actress-
woman!”
“ And you went and told her so! ” said Graham,
with a smile and a caress.
“Why, how did you know that?” she de-
manded.
“ How did I know that? Because I know you,
and the kind of thing you are likely to do! You are
a warm-hearted, impulsive, and brave little goose,
and you always behave ‘as sich ’! ”
“ Don’t, Jim!” she murmured, for no apparent
reason.
After a little while a knock sounded on the
door, and the handle was turned.
“ May I come in?” said Townshend, and forth-
with entered. “ Well, have you settled the course
of your earthly pilgrimage?” he asked and smiled.
“ No,” said Graham, “ we’ve settled nothing, ex-
cept that we are still alive. But I must be prepar-
ing to make a move. I suppose, Mr. Townshend,


272 PURSUED BY LAW.
your friend has not come back yet from Mr. Hep-
plewhite? ”
“ Not yet,” said Townshend, carefully consider-
ing ﬁrst Graham and then his sweetheart. “But
what do you propose to do when he comes back?
Is it still America?” And he glanced pointedly at
Nelly.
“ I don’t see anything else for me,” said Graham.
“ And yet,” said Townshend, “ you might as well
walk out to the nearest police-station and give your-
self up! ”
“I have been thinking,” said Graham, “that
with a good disguise I might slip through.”
Townshend shook his head, and looked again
at Nelly. She did not help him, however. She
looked on the ﬂoor and held her tongue. Then
Townshend spoke for himself.
“ You know my view, I think, Graham. My old
offer is still open. Join me, and you will be safe.
And more than that, your fortune will be made.”
“If I said I would join you, Mr. Townshend,”
said Graham, “I haven’t the smallest notion what
I would be promising to do.”
“ Once you say you will join,” answered Town-
shend, “ I will give you every satisfaction as to what
you would commit yourself to.”
“Even then,” persisted Graham, “if I stay in
this country at all, it must be under a disguise, and
as a hunted criminal. And I am beginning to un-
derstand how men give themselves up rather than
endure that—to be like a hunted beast, to have no


NELLY SPEAKS. . _, _273
rights, no voice, not. to be a citizen! I owe you a
great deal, Mr. Townshend, and I would go far out
of my way to show I am grateful, but—l ” He
shook his head.
“You go in for respectability?” said Town-
shend.
“ I go in for respectability,” answered Graham.
“A respectable Englishman I should like to be;
failing that, I must try to be a respectable Ameri-
can.”
“And you think, then, that if you can get to
America,” said Townshend, “ you will cease to be
hunted?” He shook his head, and smiled. “ I
am afraid that, for purposes Of police, England and
America must be counted as parts of the same coun—
try.”
Then Nelly raised her head.
“ May I speak a word?” said she.
“Certainly!” exclaimed Townshend promptly;
doubtless he expected her to back up his urgency.
“There’s a third way,” said she, suddenly going
very pale, “that neither of you seems to think of
now. Jim is innocent,” she continued, lOOking
boldly at Townshend; “ ﬁnd the guilty person!”
“ Ah!” exclaimed Graham hopelessly.
“ Haven’t we tried to do that, and failed, my dear
Miss Clemance?” said Townshend.
“I believe I have found her!” said Nelly.
“Her?” cried Graham and Townshend toge-
ther.
Nelly took her purse from her pocket, and from


274 PURSUED 'BY THE LAW.
J”— J
one of its compartments took a little piece of folded
paper. ~
“ CQme to the light,” said she, unfolding the
paper. 
They moved to get the ughth the window; and
she exhibited a long hair woundlfp into a small
circle. - \q
“ I found that,” said she, “ entangled in the lOCk
of the air-gun your father was killed with! I have
been talking with your mother, and asking her
questions, and now she remembers that the WOman
that came into the passage of the house tha’. after-
noon, and that she thought was Liz, had a much
taller appearance than Liz! That woman used the
gun!” exclaimed Nelly, waxing vehement in her
exposition. “Who was she? What woman is it,
with a tall ﬁgure and hair of that colour, who ’flaS
confessed she was madly, jealously in love will
your father, and who has, ever since then, been 5')
worried and upset by your trouble? ”
“ Miss Bolsover! ” murmured Graham, as if in-
voluntarily, while in his amazement he gazed at
the single hair, and from it at Nelly Clemance.
“ Good God,” exclaimed Townshend, and in his
agitation, rumpling his rebellious crest of hair, he
walked to the window. Suddenly he stepped back.
“ Whether that suspicion be right or wrong,” said
he in a new, brisk, and business-like tone, “ we can’t
attend to it at present! Come here, Miss Clem-
ance. Stand there. You see that man on the other
side looking up at this house?”


CHAPTER XXVI.
TOWNSHEND As A QUICK-CHANGE ARTISTE.
FROM that moment they were as clay in the
hands of the alert and self-possessed Mr. Town-
shend, Graham by reason of his continued weakness
of body and consequent weakness of resolution, and
Nelly by reason of her fear for the immediate safety
of her lover. And as the danger and the necessity
for action increased, so did the politeness of Mr.
Townshend.
“My dear fellow,’ said he to Graham, “there
can be no more discussion now. We are going to
be besieged. If we are not out of this by to-mor-
row morning, in all probability we shall have to
make an ignominious surrender, which is not to
my taste any more than to yours. Have you any
line of action to suggest?”
Graham shook his head. “No,” said he; “I
can’t think of anything at all.”
“ Very well,” said Townshend. “ For the pres-
ent you accept my suggestions?”
“What can I do?” said Graham.I “I am in
your hands.”
“Then,” said Townshend ,' turning to Nelly,
)
276


TOWNSHEND AS A QUICK-CHANGE ARTISTE. 277
“ the ﬁrst thing I must do is to get you out of the
house, my dear Miss Clemance.”
At that Nelly broke down utterly. She had
come there ﬁlled with the gladness of seeing Jim
again, without any shadow Of Offence between them, _
and primed with her strong suspicion against Miss’
Bolsover, and no !
“ Oh! ” she cried, “ this is more than I can bear!
Why must he run away again? Hasn’t he suf—
fered enough? Why should not she squer now?
Why should not she be given up in his place? I
will go to the police myself, and tell them!”
“My dear Miss Clemance,” said Townshend,
“believe me, I sympathise with you! But just
think: suspicion may be strong—~remarkably strong
—-against the lady you signify, but we can prove
nothing. Is Graham going to let himself be ar—
rested—not to be tried over again, remember, but
to be taken to fulﬁl his sentence at Dartmoor—and
all in the very doubtful hope of ultimately proving
this lady the guilty person? Surely, my dear young
lady, that would be the greatest folly and stupid-
ity! ”
“ Mr. Townshend is right, Nelly,” said Graham.
“It’s a terrible thing you have suggested; but, as
he says, we can prove nothing.”
“ I shall prove everything before I give it up! ”
exclaimed Nelly with vehemence, not to say spite- '
fulness. “I am sure she is the person. Why
should she escape and you suffer?”
“Better if we both escape,” said Graham.


TOWNSHEND AS A QUICK-CHANGE ARTISTE. 279
on the door. Townshend stepped forward to
open it.
“ Ah,” said he, turning to Graham, “ here is our
messenger come back. What news? Come in.”
The man—one of Townshend’s “friends,” still
in the guise of a Lancashire artisan—stepped into
the room, and gave a glance at Nelly and another
at Graham.
“For you, I believe,” said he, handing an en-
velope to Graham.
“By the way,” asked Townshend, of a sudden,
“ did you come in by the front door or the back?”
“The back, of course, marquis,” answered the
man.
Marquis? The word provoked a brisk, inquir-
ing look from both Nelly and Graham; but Town-
shend paid no heed.
“ Then,” said he to the man, “ you did not see
that the brute you went to set free is watching the
front of the house? ”
“ Am not surprised to hear that,” said the man.
“ Ah! ” broke in Graham, reading a letter which,
with some bank-notes, he had produced from the
envelope, “the detective has been at the works!
Mr. Hepplewhite,” he continued to Townshend,
“ writes :—
\ “ ‘ You are well out of the way. Keep out of it,
if you can. I’m not sure about America ; but you
must judge for yourself, with the help of your friend,
Mr. Townshend. He can manage for you, I should


280 . PURSUED BY THE LAW.
think, if anybody can. Your other friend, the man
Corbet, turned up when the police were here, and
went off again in confabulation with them.’ ”
“How was that?” asked Townshend, turning
sharply upon the “ friend.”
“I was just going to tell you, marquis,” said
the man. “We did as you told me. I followed
the man when he was let loose. He met some pals
'who were coming either to ﬁnd him or your friend
there.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Graham, “there were
others who knew where I was, besides the tramp! ”'
“ And then,” continued the man, “ they set off as
hard as they could pelt, and me after them, to the
ironworks.”
“ I see,” said Townshend. “ Then you couldn’t
go to Mr. Hepplewhite till the police were gone.”
“ That’s it,” answered the man.
“ Well, now, we’re in for it!” said Townshend.
“We must look very lively, indeed! I see,” he
added to Graham, “ you have got some of the need—
ful; that will be a great help and comfort to you.
And now, Miss Clemance, we must really send you
away at once. Graham and I must go and perform
a very necessary toilette,” he said with a smile.
“ My friend here will lead you out by the back
lane; if you went out by the front door that
brute with the scar might recognise you. And,,
remember, we shall keep up communication with
you.”
“Take that for mother, Nelly,” said Graham,


TOWNSHEND AS A QUICK—CHANGE ARTISTE. 281
cramming into her hand one of the bank—notes
which Mr. Hepplewhite had sent him, “she must
need it.”
He pressed his faithful sweetheart for an instant
to his bosom, and kissed her, murmuring “God
bless you, Nelly!” and Nelly went away without a
word, but with her countenance set in pallor and
sadness.
“ Now! ” said Townshend gaily to Graham.
“ We must begin. This is an adventure completely
to my liking. Let us see. That brute with the
scar evidently thinks he knows the house; he will
have told the police; they will be here soon, we
may be sure, with a search—warrant. Can we get
out before the house is blocked? We must try.
But ﬁrst we must dress for our parts. Simpson,”
said he, addressing the “friend ” who was listening
with admiration, “ there’s a Bradshaw on that table:
look me out the next train to Liverpool from either
station.”
“ To Liverpool? ” exclaimed Graham.
“ Certainly! ” said Townshend. “We may set
out for Liverpool, and not go there, may we not?
It is now,” he continued to “friend” Simpson,
while he looked at his watch, “ a little more than
half-past six, and it won’t be dark till after nine.”
He rose, and putting his arm in Graham’s, led
him out into a neighbouring bedroom. There he
made Graham divest himself of the borrowed gar-
ments he wore, and presented him with others taken
from an extensive wardrobe. They proved to be a


282 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ pilot ” suit of blue serge, of a kind and style com-
monly worn by seafaring men of the better sort.
“Try them,” said Townshend.
They ﬁtted tolerably well, and Graham kept
them on. Next Townshend poured some stuff from
a bottle into a small basin of water, and bade Gra—
ham rinse face and neck and hands in the mixture;
the result of which washing was that he appeared
as brown as if burned by years of a tropical sun,
and blown on by hundreds of sea breezes. Town-
shend murmured his approval, and then produced
and ﬁtted about Graham’s cheeks and chin a black
beard of a maritime profusion, and after that handed
him a wide—awake hat.
“ I think you’ll do,” said he, surveying the result
of his efforts. “ There’s not very much to be done
with you in the way of change; but I think I can
carry you off.”
“ Are all these things yours?” Graham felt im-
pelled to ask, considering the garments he had
donned, and the many others in the wardrobe.
“1 make free with them,” was all Townshend’s
answer. He added: “ Would you mind going into
the other room while I make my change?”
It seemed to Graham that he had barely re-
turned to the other room, and sought to peep from
the window to discover if the front of the house
was still watched by the tramp, when some one
entered behind him. He turned, and saw an old
and somewhat toothless clergyman, with sunken
cheeks and wrinkled mouth and nose, white-haired


TOWNSHEND AS A QUICK-CHANGE ARTISTE. 283
and white-bearded, with a soft felt hat upon his
head, a white neck-cloth about his neck, and the
general air of being in respectable undress.
“Mr. Townshend?” he murmured in amaze-
ment. “ Is that you? ”
“The change is sufﬁcient then?” said Town-
shend, with something of a senile mumble, for he
had scarcely a tooth in his head.
“But what have you done with your mous-
tache? ” asked Graham.
“It is in my bag,” said Townshend; “it is a
well-made false one.”
“ And your head of hair? ”
“ It is under this wig.”
“And your teeth?”
“They are in my bag, too. I mustn’t forget
them. I shall need them to eat with. I had them
taken out long ago, and set like false ones! ”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Graham. “What
for?”
“To be always ready for a quick change like
this. ‘ False, false! all false! ’ ” he laughed. “ As
they say upon the stage when they mean it’s a pack
of lies.”
“What a man you are!” exclaimed Graham,
and wondering very much why he needed to be
“ always ready for a quick change.”
“ Will I do, Simpson? ” asked Townshend, turn—
ing to his “friend.”
“ Oh, yes; you’ll do, marquis,” answered Simp—
son, with a smile.
I9


284 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
Then he inquired of Simpson concerning the
trains, and Simpson told him there was a train in
twenty minutes. _
“ Very well,” said Townshend. “ Just look
from the windows if the coast Seems clear.”
“ Going out the front way, marquis?” inquired
Simpson.
“The front way—certainly. It would never do
for a man of my appearance to be seen sneaking
out of a dirty back lane.”
“ It seems all clear,” said Simpson, when he had
carefully surveyed the street through the window.
With his bag in his hand, and a mackintosh over
his arm, Townshend descended the stairs, followed
by Graham with anxiety in his mind and some-
thing of uncertainty in his limbs. Graham would
not have been surprised if a hand of arrest had
been clapped on his shoulder as soon as he put
foot in the street, and he felt that he was in no
condition either to offer any resistance or to refuse
to follow Townshend. There was no one, however,
to pay any heed when they stepped into the street
and Townshend and Graham walked conﬁdently off.
But in a doorway on the other side they pres-
ently noted the sinister face of the tramp; if he had
been on the watch he could not have missed seeing
from what house they had come. ’
“ Steady! ” murmured Townshend. “ We must
go on as if we didn’t see him or know him! ”
The tramp looked at them with suspicion, but
evident uncertainty; and presently they were con-


TOWNSHEND AS A QUICK—CHANGE ARTISTE. 285
vinced, without looking round, that he was follow-
ing them. Once out in a busier thoroughfare
Townshend called a cab.
“ Now, if I know him, he will hang on behind,”
said Townshend, when they were seated in the cab
and being driven to the station.
Graham considered him; he appeared quite un-
concerned.
“ Is there no way of getting rid of that fellow? ”
asked Graham.
“ Don’t want to, yet,” answered Townshend.
“ Let us put him on a false scent ﬁrst.”
When they reached the station, and found there
were but ﬁve minutes to spare before the departure
of the train, they hastened to the booking-ofﬁce.
But the tramp was there as soon as they were.
“ Two ﬁrsts to Liverpool,” said Townshend,
loud enough for the tramp to hear.
Their tickets got they hastened on to the plat-
form, at the gate of which it was certain the tramp
would linger to see them enter the train. They
entered an empty ﬁrst-class compartment. As soon
as the door was shut upon them, Townshend opened
the door on the other side, and stepped out on
the line.
“ Stoop low, and come along! Quick! ” he said
to Graham.
There was just space enough to move in between
the train they left and another. They had just
ducked between two of the carriages Of that other
train, and come out on the remote side, when the


286 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
whistle sounded, and the train in which they were
supposed to be rolled out of the station on its ex—
press career to Liverpool, in which it would pause
only once. Passing down another narrow lane be-
tween two empty trains, they at length emerged
upon a side door, and left the station without being
questioned or noted.
“ Now,” said Townshend, “we must make up
our minds to sacriﬁce these tickets; and for econ-
omy we shall take third-class next time.”
Graham said nothing, but committed himself to
Townshend’s lead—who summoned a cab and or-'
dered the driver to convey them to the Exchange
Station. There he took third-class tickets to Rua—
bon; he reckoned it best to penetrate no farther
into Wales that night. By good luck, there was a
train almost immediately.
Before seeking the train, however, they went to
the telegraph ofﬁce.
“In fulﬁlment of my promise to Miss Clem—
ance,” said Townshend, showing to Graham what
he wrote: “To Clemance—Poste Restante, Cor-
wen, North Wales.”
Graham added the address, and then they went
to the train, and secured a third—class compartment
to themselves. Once started, Townshend opened
his bag and effected another change in his own
appearance and in Graham’s. With a new beard
and a different set of the hat he made Graham look
like the traditional American, and himself, with a
black stock in place of the white neckcloth, a sweep-


290 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Boy,” said Townshend, taking him by the
shoulder, “ I want my shoes at once.”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy; “what number, sir?”
“What number?” demanded the pretended
military gentleman. “ Two of course. I’m not a
horse.”
The boy smiled and Townshend smiled, and to—
gether they passed on to ﬁnd the shoes; the boy
explaining (which was scarcely necessary) that he
meant what was the number of the military gentle-
man’s bedroom. They came upon a kind of closet,
containing a form and a chair or two, over against
a side entrance to/the hotel, and close to the coffee-
room.
“Ah!” said Townshend, “this will do. You
bring our shoes here.”
He and Graham had no more than entered the
little room, when the sound of steps and voices
came on behind them. At that Townshend whipped
in, drawing Graham with him, and half-closed the
door. A
“ Only an old military ofﬁcer, sir,” said the head
waiter, “ that came in last night with a friend of his,
an American gent, I think, sir.”
These words and no more they heard as the
party—the newly arrived trio—passed the door and
entered the coffee-room, apparently conducted by
the waiter. Though it seemed evident that the
words had not been prompted by the sight of them,
yet they were not reassuring, and they made Town-
shend more anxious to be gone.


THE HUNTING THREE. 291
,7
“ Now is our opportunity, said he to Graham,
“while they are at breakfast. And we must get
away without being seen by that waiter, or else he
may say, ‘ There go the old military gent and his
friend! ’ And that might excite suspicion.”
' The boy brought their shoes and was retained to
tie them, lest he Should wander out and announce
their departure. When they were ready Town-
shend rewarded the boy for his services, and sent
him with a tip to boots. While he was gone they
slipped from the little room and out by the side
entrance. They had gone but a few steps when a
voice behind arrested them.
“ Hi, sir! ”
Swearing ﬁercely below his breath, Townshend
stopped and turned. Boots came running after
them—in gratitude (it seemed) for further favour—-
and panted forth an eager question: he spoke with
a Welsh twang.
“ Wass you going to catch the train, sir? Be-
cause there is no train, sir, for an hour and a half
—if it wass Llangollen, or Corwen, or Bala you
wass going to.”
“Thank you,” said Townshend, “thank you, I
know. But I am going to have a look round
Ruabon.”
“It wass too great a trouble, then, sir,” said
boots, “to carry your bag all about with you in
your hand. I will bring it to you at the train.”
And he held out his hand to take possession Of it.
“ Don’t trouble,” said Townshend. “ It is not


292 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
heavy; and, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll keep it
in my hand.” And with a smile he administered
another tip.
With murmured thanks and beaming satisfac-
tion—for his chief daily purpose in life was gained
—-boots turned back, and Townshend and Graham
went on, with the uncomfortable sense that their
position had been raked for a good minute by some
public windows of the hotel—perhaps by those of
the coffee—room. They hurried off, Townshend
leading in silence, out of sight of the hotel, down
one turning, and then another.
“Where are we going?” asked Graham, at
length.
“ To Corwen,” answered Townshend ; “ you re—
member our telegram last night to Miss Clemance.”
“ I remember,” said Graham. “ But are we
going to walk there, or what? ”
“Well,” answered Townshend, “we can’t take
that ﬁrst train from here, because that might bring
us into the company of people we don’t care to
meet. We have plenty of time before us,” he con-
tinued lightly, “and it is ﬁne. I think we may as
well walk on to Llangollen and breakfast there.”
Grahamcould not even seem to take their anx-
ious and awkward case so lightly.
“What bothers me is how those fellows have
got upon our track,” said he; “and especially how
that tramp comes to be of the company.”
“ Oh,” said Townshend, “for the reward prob-
ably: and because he knows the appearance of us


.THE HUNTING THREE. 293
both very well. But why trouble about that now?
Let us sniff the morning air, and walk on to break-
fast. I hope you feel equal to the walk. We
must try it, because we shall probably have a great
deal of walking before we are done with Wales.”
Without asking for direction, but noting the
position of the sun, they set their faces westward,
got clear of the dirty little town Of Ruabon, and
pursued the high road to Llangollen, about six
miles Off.
It was a lovely summer morning. The sun was
bright, and the air was balmy, and, as they ad-
vanced, the rushing river Dee was enlivening com-
pany.
“ This is splendid! ” said Townshend.
“It would be,” said Graham, “if we did not
know we were hunted.”
“ Don’t think Of that,” said Townshend. “ Re-
member what Shakspeare says: ‘There’s nothing
either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’
Think we’re on a jolly walking trip, and you’ll be
all right.”
“That’s all very well for you,” said Graham;
“ it’s not you they’re after.”
“ NO, my dear fellow, perhaps not—for all you
know,” answered Townshend. “ But remember, it’s
not me that wants to go to America. I’m content
to face and ﬁght my luck in England; and, if you
were wise, you would do the same.”
Graham was silent.
“ I can see your nerve is gone, my dear fellow,”


294 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
continued Townshend, “ with all you’ve goné
through lately.”
“ I think my nerve is gone,’ said Graham.
Townshend considered him closely. “Well, let
us say no more about it till we get to Corwen,”
said he.
So they reached the pretty little town of Llan-
gollen on the banks of the rushing, roaring Dee,
had an ample breakfast at a comfortable inn, and
then about ten o’clock took train to Corwen. Half
an hour later they set foot in the chief station of that
little town.
“It is twenty years since I was in this place,”
said Townshend, “but I think I remember it.
Holloa! The devil! There 'they are again! Let
us step in here out of the way! ”
They entered a little shop of haberdashery and
Townshend asked to look at some handkerchiefs.
While they were being taken from a shelf, Town-
shend and his companion looked through the win-
dow and the glass of the door and viewed those
whose presence in the little town troubled them.
They were the trio who had disturbed their minds
in the hotel at Ruabon: two stood in the street,
while the third was in the doorway of the police-
station.
“ That man,” said Townshend, “ talking to the
head constable, is Wormall, the London man.
What has he to say to the constable? That looks
bad! Thank you; yes; these handkerchiefs will
do nicely.”
’


298 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
come to Corwen, and get out for some letter or
other at the post ofﬁce.”
“ But they’ve gone on! ” exclaimed Townshend.
“ So it seems, sir. That will be news—impor-
tant news—for the London man. Did you happen
to hear any word drop from them, sir, about their
destination? ”
“Let me see,’ reﬂected the pretended military
gentleman. “ I didn’t pay much attention, but I
think I heard Barmouth Junction mentioned, and
Swansea—yes, certainly, Swansea.”
“ Thank you, sir, for your information; it is of
great value. Would you like to see the London
detective, and tell him?”
“ Well, no,” said Townshend, with an easy show
of unconcern. “I don’t think I need trouble him:
you can tell him quite as well as I could.”
“ Certainly, sir. I am obliged to you.”
“ I am obliged to you,” said Townshend.
“What, by the way, did you say was the proper
charge for driving me to Bala? ”
The official repeated his answer, and Townshend
departed. He avoided the post ofﬁce where he
had intended to call, and where, he now believed,
the London detective was on the watch, and made
haste to the Gwydyr. He found a dog-cart and
Graham waiting in the yard.
“We must be off at once!” he murmured to
Graham. A
“Have you been to the post ofﬁce?” asked
Graham.
,


THE HUNTING THREE. 299
“ No,” answered Townshend. “ I’ll tell you why
presently. Jump up! You sit with the driver;
I’ll take the back seat.”
They mounted the vehicle and were driven out
of Corwen and on the road to Bala, without having
received another glimpse of the three.
The greater part of the distance between Corwen
and Bala had been covered, when in a long stretch
of road there appeared behind them another dog-
cart, driven fast, and clearly overtaking them. It
carried four men: the driver, that is, and three
others.
20


A WAvsIDE INN. 30 I
“ Off you go,” said Townshend, jumping down,
followed by Graham. “It’s coming.”
“ All right, sir,” said the driver, whipping up his
horse.
As Townshend and Graham pushed through the
hedge and lay down behind it the clatter and crunch
of the approaching vehicle could very plainly be
heard, while that which they had left careered ahead,
still presenting the appearance of carrying three
people.
But a new danger suddenly broke upon the
senses of the two lying hid by the hedge. Those
who know North Wales do not need to be told that
the ﬁeld into which they had penetrated contained
a bull. Is there any ﬁeld of pasture in Wales that
does not have its bull? The bull of that ﬁeld, a
small, black, watchful beast, had noticed their in-
vasion of his territory, and doubtless suspecting in
his stupid, taurine brain that they had designs upon
his cows, he threatened them with horrid war. He
came slowly and swaggeringly trampling towards
them, bellowing angrily and tossing his lowered
head and terriﬁc horns.
The two men looked at each other.
“We can only keep close to the hedge and
lie still,” said Townshend, “ till that dog-cart has
passed.”
They did so; but the bull did not trust their
paciﬁc attitude. He still advanced slowly, tramp—
ling the ground and tossing his head, and breath—
ing out threatening and slaughter. At length the


302 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
dog-cart whirled past, and clattered and crunched
on to Bala and disappeared.
“ Now,” said Townshend, “ I think we need not
tempt Mr. Bull’s attentions any longer.”
So they crept back into the road. And, since
the hedge was low, and the bull, seeing them re-
treat, appeared to have a more resolute mind than
ever to attack them, even through the hedge, they
stooped low, and scurried along most pusillani-
mously out of his sight. Then they sat down, and
Townshend took his tourist’s map from his pocket.
“ We must get away from this as fast as we can,”
said he. “Suppose they have been chasing us to
Bala—I say ‘ suppose ’; the probability of that we
can discern by—and-by—then if they don’t ﬁnd us
in our dog-cart, and hear of our getting out, they
may turn back to this place at once. They might
easily be back here in less than an hour. So I pro-
pose we cut away across here: it’s a rough and
lonely region; I walked over it twenty years ago.”
He drew his ﬁnger westward along the trend of the
Arennig Hills, which lie between Bala and the slate
quarries of Duffws and Festiniog. “About twenty
miles to Festiniog,” said he, measuring the distance
roughly on the map. “We can get there to-night.
And they’re not likely to suspect us of taking this
route. What do you say?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Graham, his head in his
hands. “ Anywhere! Anywhere! I am already
sick—dead sick—of being hunted like this!”
“ It has its excitements,” said Townshend, care-


A WAYSIDE INN. 303
lessly; “ although it’s not altogether beer and skit-
tles. But we must get along. You’ll enjoy the
mountain walk, and to-night we’ll have a talk and
come to a decision.”
They set out to ﬁnd the road which was marked
on the map along the Arennig. They blundered
and stumbled in the byways, and at three o’clock
in the afternoon they were still but a little way
from Bala (they could see Bala Lake below them),
and Graham, who was still feeling the effects of
his four days’ imprisonment and starvation, was
very much exhausted. In that plight they came
upon a little wayside ale-house.
“ Something to eat and drink is what you chieﬂy
need,” said Townshend. “And here’s the very
thing.”
The outer door was open. They entered, and
knocked at an inner one. It was opened by a
comely young woman with a baby on her arm.
“ Can we have something to eat,” asked Town-
shend, “ as well as something to drink?”
“ The man,” said she, with a pretty difﬁculty in
uttering English, “ is out—away; but you come in,
gentleman, please.”
“Thank you,” said Townshend, “ if you have
bread and cheese and beer, they will do very well.”
“What?” said Graham, who was cheered with
the prospect of food. “An exquisite gentleman
like you will surely ﬁnd it hard to put up with
bread and Cheese? ”
“ My dear fellow,” said Townshend, “some of


A WAYSIDE INN. 307
“Then we must go and leave it,” said Town-
shend to Graham.
At the sight of their attempting to depart the
young man seized the big carving-knife and ﬂour-
ished it threateningly, crying :—
“ Ten shilling! Thief! Come Bala! Police!”
while the old man took the heavy poker from the
hearth and advanced to support his son, murmur-
ing: “ Bala! Police! Ten shilling!”
Whether that meant they had been in Bala and
had heard of them from the police, or merely that
they invited them to go to Bala for the police to
decide the matter, the situation was equally awk-
ward and disconcerting.
“ No! no! ” cried Townshend; and both he and
Graham had to ward off the attacks of carving-
knife and poker, while the young woman looked on
with eyes ﬁlled with wonder, but otherwise appar-
ently unmoved. The attack of the two Welshmen
was so alarming that at last, stepping quickly back
and thrusting Graham behind him with the mut—
tered command, “Open the door!” he drew a re-
volver from his pocket and cocked it. The Welsh-
men, at sight of the deadly weapon, fell back; and
by the door which Graham had opened he and
Townshend whipped out of the kitchen, slamming
the door after them.
But Graham had mistaken the door; he had ad-
mitted himself and Townshend into a small back
room from which there was no outlet, save by a
small window, and that was heavily barred. At


308 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
the same moment as they noted that, they heard
the door locked upon them. They were prisoners!
“ Here’s a pretty ﬁx!” exclaimed Townshend.
“Now those savages will go to Bala and bring
the police! We must get out of this! ”
He produced his tobacco pouch and set himself
to roll a cigarette.
“ Have one? ” he said to Graham.
“ No, thank you,” said Graham, “ I don’t _
smoke.”
“ That’s a bad habit,” said Townshend. Graham
glanced at him. “I mean not to smoke. Even
if tobacco doesn’t soothe the mind, the action of
smoking does, it makes the mind pause and recover
its equilibrium. It has a strong lock,” said he, go-
ing to the door and trying it. “ What we chieﬂy
need is a screwdriver to take it off.”
They looked around the room again; they ex-
amined the window hopelessly, and ﬁnally they re—
turned to the door, by which seemed their only
way of escape. They listened. There was no
sound in the kitchen; it seemed plain that the men
were gone. Townshend had just drawn back to
gather his strength for an attempt to break the door
down, when the longed-for, the necessary screw-
driver was thrust under the door——doubtless, by the
hand of the comely young mother.
Graham took the tool, since he was likely to be
more expert than Townshend at its application; and
in a minute or more the lock, which was of a box
kind, was off and the door swung open. The come-


A WAYSIDE INN. 309
ly young woman was waiting for them with her
baby at her breast. She put her ﬁnger on her lip
in warning, and pointed to the ingle-corner, where
the Old man was asleep in a chair. Swiftly she led
them out of the house, and was smiling an adieu,
when Townshend spoke.
“ We are much obliged to you,” said he; “ but
we do not know the way. We wish to go to Fes—
tiniog.”
“ F estiniog! ” said she, and swiftly passed before
them down the lane. She set them on the high—
road; and again they thanked her and said adieu,
with the feeling that the sweet kindness of the
woman sufficiently atoned for the rudeness and bar-
barity of the men.
“ I hope she will come to no harm for what she
has done,” said Graham.
" Don’t you understand?” said Townshend.
“ She is quite clever enough to deceive those boors.
She will leave the screwdriver in the room and pre-
tend we must have found it there.”


BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA. 311
consumed with thirst, they knocked and asked for
a drink. But the frowsy old woman who opened
the door shut it again in their faces. So they
tramped on, with thirst unquenched, over the re-
maining mile or two to Festiniog, where at length
they found civilised entertainment in one of the inns.
Like all of them, it was tolerably thronged with
tourists, and for that reason they retired early to
their room, a double—bedded one again, and there,
while they still lingered with their candle and a
drink, there came from Townshend his promised
account of his position.
“We must settle to—night,” said he, “ what’s to
be done to-morrow. Let me point out to you ﬁrst,
to make it clear between us, that there are three
courses open. The ﬁrst is to follow up Miss Clem-
ance’s clue and ﬁnd the real criminal—if you can
—and to do that there’s no use tramping about
Wales. Here we can’t even communicate with
Miss Clemance: you must go back to civilisation.”
“And seek out evidence to bring my father’s
death home to Miss Bolsover? To tell you the
truth,” said Graham, “I don’t half like putting
it on her and making her smart, even though that
would save myself.”
“ Very well,” said Townshend, with remarkable
alacrity. “ Say you leave that alone. The next
course is still to try for America. And that, I must
confess, does not look a very promising business,
with the Welsh police all warned, and the three
looking out for us as hard as they can.”


312 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
“ Yes,” said Graham, “ I admit it looks desper-
ate, if not hopeless. It does! I can’t guess,” he
cried helplessly, “how those men have got on our
track.”
“ If you could guess it wouldn’t turn them off,”
said Townshend. “ You admit the prospect of
America looks almost hopeless. Well, there’s the
third course: put your hand in mine, say, ‘ I join
with you freely and completely,’ and to—morrow
morning we clear out of Wales on the side that’s
open to us, and I promise you fortune and freedom
ever after. Stay a moment, I know your objection,
and I’m going to satisfy it.” He paused to roll a
cigarette, and to take a sip from his tumbler; and
then he resumed, with a smile: “I believe once,
when you asked me what I was, I told you that I
was a socialist.”
“A free banker, you said you were,’ said Gra-
ham; “ but I neither had nor have the smallest idea
what you mean.”
“I always mean the same,” answered Town-
shend, “whatever I call myself. I may call myself
a kind of modern Robin Hood; and that would
be as well applied as the other names. I may call
myself the Enemy of Society (with capital letters),
and the Friend of the Poor and Oppressed (also
with capital letters) and these also would be as well
applied as the other names.”
Graham listened with the sharpest attention to
every word.
“ Do you mean,” said he, “that you are a free—
7


BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA. 313
booter? a bandit? a robber? That seems impos-
sible.”
“On the contrary, I am more than these,” an-
swered Townshend, rolling another cigarette. “I
am the head of a devoted society, that wages war
upon wealth and capital. I am their president, sec-
retary, and to a great extent their treasurer. We
conduct our operations in all civilised countries, in
all civilised languages.”
“In plain English, Mr. Townshend,” said Gra-
ham, “ you are at the head Of an international gang
of robbers and thieves.”
“ To establish the application of your plain Eng-
lish, some careful deﬁnition and argument is neces-
sary. First, what is the meaning of ‘ rob?’ ”
“Where is the use,” said Graham, “of going
into that? I think I understand your position well
enough. I am not blaming you: I can never for-
get how awfully kind you have been to me. I only
wonder why you have thought I would be of any
use as one of your people.”
“ Really?” said Townshend. “ Well, your
knowledge of iron and steel and of all kinds of tools
and mechanism would be of the greatest use.”
“I see,” said Graham. “I suppose I ought to
feel ﬂattered, but I am not. You mustn’t be of-
fended with me, please, but I prefer to remain what
I call honest, and‘to try to lead the life of a re-
spectable citizen of my country.”
“ My dear Graham,” said Townshend, “ I’m
afraid you don’t understand your position! You


BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA. 315
the people I am bound to look after and keep go—
ing.”
“May I ask,” said Graham, “ how you ever
began to lead your present life?”
“ How I began? Ah,” said Townshend, becom-
ing again light and evasive, “that would take too
long to tell. There is a story among my faithful
friends that I am a nobleman kept out of my rights;
that I am really the heir to a marquisate; but I
don’t believe it. But now we must settle our order
of action for to—morrow.”
“ It’s awfully good of you,” said Graham.
“ But, really, why should you trouble any more
about me? Hadn’t you better let me go on alone? ”
“ Nonsense,” said the other curtly. “ I am go-
ing to see you through it.”
So the mysterious Townshend turned to the dis-
cussion of further ways and means for the escape
of Graham. And this was the result of their dis-
cussion: In the early morning they would take the
little railway down to Portmadoc, to see if there
was a ship on the point of sailing to anywhere.
If there was not they would turn away to the north
and make for Holyhead, in the hope that it, being
little more than a railway port, might not be
watched.
In the morning, then, they swept round the
mountain-side by the little railway down to the little
seaport of Portmadoc. They could hear of no ship,
not even of a ﬁshing-lugger ready to sail, and there-
fore they immediately took the road to Beddgelert.
ZI


316 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
They went on foot because it was still early, and
they considered it unwise to attract notice by hiring
a vehicle in so primitive a place. They reached
Beddgelert later than they had counted on, and
by the time they had eaten something it was al-
ready afternoon. It was then, and therefore, that
Townshend made a suggestion which proved to be
fatal. “ It occurs to me,” said he, “that instead of
going on to Llanberis for to-night we might climb
Snowdon and spend the night in what is called the
Summit Hotel, which is really only a ramshackle
hut or two. In case the three should be still on our
track that’s the last place where they would think
of looking for us.” .
The suggestion jumped completely with Gra-
ham’s inclination, and they set forth to face the
ascent of Snowdon. The ascent of the mountain
from Beddgelert is counted the most difﬁcult of all
the ascents, and a guide is commonly taken; but
Townshend had made the climb before without aid,
though that was twenty years since, and he thought
he could do it again; especially since they did not
wish to let it be known through the village that
the summit was their destination that night. The
climb was a risk, but they overcame it successfully,
and by sunset they were viewing from the windy
top of the mountain the desirable shore of Ireland,
afar off on the horizon like a bank of cloud. Many
a stream of Carnarvon county, shining in the set—
ting sun like molten silver, had to be crossed, and
many miles of sea rolled between; but there
'I


BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA. 319
of age, and probably broken and imbecile, and with-
out a hold on life! A thousand times to be pre-
ferred to that fate was the risk of death—of being
dashed to pieces down the precipice, which lay
through the little window.
“ I will not be taken! ” he whispered with ﬁerce
energy to Townshend, and he prepared to get
through the Window.
“ One moment,” said Townshend, who seemed
meditating.


TWO FALLS ON SNOWDON. 32!
they had not stumbled far into the darkness, when
a loud halloo and the clatter of feet upon the rock
warned them that their escape had been discovered.
The way from the summit down to Llanberis is the
most used and obvious, and also the easiest; and
that was the way that Offered itself to their stum-
bling feet in the darkness. But their pursuers knew,
that way also, and clattered' on after them.
“ We must turn aside! ” said Townshend.
“ And chance it! ”
They turned off the rude track into a ruder,whieh
wound about among and over dangerous boulders
and rocks. On the surface Of one of these the foot
of Graham slipped and tripped; he fell with a thud,
and lay at the bottom. Townshend heard him
groan, and with careful conduct of his footsteps,
worked himself down to where he lay.
“ I think I have broken my leg,” said Graham.
With the help of Townshend he tried to rise,
but dropped again with a groan.
“ Well, my dear fellow,” said Townshend cheer-
ily, “ there’s one comfort: they’re not likely to ﬁnd
us here, and we must make ourselves as comfort-
able as we can till the morning. It’s a warm night,
and if we creep up close under the shelter of the
rock we shall be quite cosy.”
The experience of that night clinched the grow-
ing affection of Graham for Townshend. The lat-
ter was so cheerful and kind, so strong and stoical
like the best of men, and withal so helpful and ten—
der like the best of women, that he must indeed


322 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
have been a worthless and ungrateful wretch, in-
capable of gratitude, and of any warm emotion, who
could not then have forgotten all the suspicion and
doubt attaching to the character and position of
“the marquis.” He might be an outlaw, but he
was a man. He might have no legal conscience
about robbery or burglary, but he had a human
heart to console and to help. From that night Gra-
ham could neither speak nor think of Townshend
without a warm gush of the fullest gratitude and
affection, and after that night he was wont to say
that Townshend was the truest, staunchest friend
and comrade that any man ever had.
Townshend, who professed to have some knowl-
edge of broken and dislocated limbs, cut open Gra-
ham’s trouser, and examined the leg as well as he
could in the semi-darkness. He believed it was not
broken, but only sprained, and after an attempt to
set it he bound it up.
The dawn came early, with light and healing on
its wings, and showed them again, ﬂoating afar in
haze, the hills of Irish Wicklow. It showed them
also another thing, which proved of more signiﬁ-
cance and consequence. A few yards off, in a cleft
between two boulders, was stuck a newspaper. In
mere vagueness of curiosity, Townshend scrambled
out to get it.
“Haven’t seen a newspaper,” said he, with a
smile, “for three days.”
It proved to be a copy of The Liverpool Post of
the day before, ﬂung away, doubtless, by some vis-


TWO FALLS ON SNOWDON. 323
itor to the summit. In looking through it the fol-
lowing, reported among police news from Milches-
ter, caught Townshend’s eye :—
“ It seems likely that the case of the escaped
convict, James Graham, will be re-opened in a sin-
gular way. It will be remembered that Graham was
tried for the manslaughter of his father at the Old
Bailey, in London, and was convicted and con-
demned to ﬁfteen years’ penal servitude. He es—
caped from the train when being taken to Dartmoor
or Portland. Nothing was heard of him till lately,
when he was discovered in Milchester. Now, it
is said, that there will be a sensational surprise;
and that the police hold evidence that Graham is
innocent of the crime. The police are at pres-
ent very reticent'about the character of their evi-
dence.”
“ That will be Nelly’s doing,” said Graham,
when he had been shown the astounding paragraph.
“ Bless her dear, faithful heart! ” He was affected,
even to tears (for his usual health was not re-estab—
lished), then he sat up, in spite of the pain, and ex—
claimed: “ If that is true, we need not be afraid to
meet those detectives.”
“ The very thing I was thinking! ” said Town-
shend. Then, after a pause, he murmured, “ Poor
Florrie! ” to himself.
“ Who?” said Graham.
“ N obody,’ ’ answered Townshend.


326 , PURSUED BY THE LAW.
the detective should understand Graham was not
likely to run away.
“Ah! ” said Wormall. “ Well, he’s more lucky
than the man that was with us, Mr. T0wnshend.”
“What has happened to him?” asked Town-
shend.
“ He fell from that roof last night right down,
and is broken into little pieces.”
“ Ah, well,” said Townshend, “ he is one of those
that never will be missed. I knew something of
him. He was a miserable sneak, and of no class.”
And no more was said.
As they walked down together to Llanberis,
Townshend discovered that Wormall was frequent-
ly considering him, as if he would say, “ N ow, where
have I seen you before?” but he was careful and
gave no sign. In Llanberis it was necessary to
wait until the post ofﬁce was open. When it was
time for opening Wormall went thither alone, leav-
ing his comrade in company with Townshend~in
charge of Townshend would be the true description
of the fact, though they were too polite for the
occasion to describe it so rudely. They were enjoy-
ing what may be called “a truce of God,” which
would continue unless the report in the newspaper
were proved to be false. Luckily it was conﬁrmed ;
evidently by something which Wormall found
awaiting him at the post ofﬁce.
“ We must go back to Milchester at once,” said
he, when he returned to his comrade, “with or
without our man. Now, Mr. Townshend,” said he,


TWO FALLS ON SNOWDON. 327
turning suddenly, “ will your friend Graham, with
his sprained leg, go back with us quietly, or must
we chivy him again? ”
“ Well,” said Townshend, “ I think I can answer
for him that things being so promising as they are
he will go quietly.”
“Very well,” said the detective promptly, “ we
had better get a vehicle to go up as far as it can
go and bring him down.”


FOR A JUSTICE OF THE PEACE. 329
thus unawares, with a sudden thoughtless fear that
the detective might guess the telegram in her hand
was something of consequence, she crumpled it up
and ﬂung it carelessly into the gutter. He seemed
to pay no attention to her action but looked straight
in her face.
“ You are Miss Clemance,” said he. “ I re-
member you. Don’t be frightened. I mean you
no harm.”
“I’m not frightened,” she answered with spirit.
“ Why should I be frightened?”
“Well,” he smiled, “I only want to say that if
you know .where Graham is—as I expect you do
——you will do him'a good turn by letting him under-
stand it will be better for him to give himself up
than to give us all the trouble of ﬁnding him. He’s
sure to be found, you know, and the more trouble
for us the more trouble for him afterwards. That’s
all.” And he turned to go.
“ He didn’t do it!” Nelly broke out. “He is
innocent!”
“I thought that was all settled at the trial,”
said he.
“ It wasn’t! ” said Nelly. “And I can prove it! ”
Again he smiled, and went down a step. “ It’s
not my business to try the case over again.” So
he departed, and Nelly shut the door.
When the door was closed he pounced upon the
crumpled telegram and walked away reading it.
When he had read it he put it in his pocket, and
set Off at the quickest walk he could accomplish.


FOR A JUSTICE OF THE PEACE. 333
“ She saw a woman? ” exclaimed Miss Bolsover,
and became deathly pale.
“ The only woman who had any business there,”
continued Nelly, “was the old servant; but she
is a little woman, and the woman Mrs. Graham
saw was not.”
“ At least she thought she was not,” said Miss
Bolsover quickly.
“She was not,” repeated Nelly. “ And it hap—
pens that the servant was out at the time. I am
bound to say,” she continued frankly, “that there
is little can be proved yet—and Mrs. Graham is
not inclined to trust her memory very much; but
I am convinced, Miss Bolsover, I could lay my hand
on the woman that ﬁred that shot, and, I am sure,
so could you! ”
H I P I,
“And you could show her,” Nelly went on in
tones that grew impassioned, “ how wicked and how
mean her conduct has been. If I were brave enough
to shoot a man I hated, I hope I should be brave
enough not to let another person suffer for what
I had done! I pity that woman! ’Pon my word
I do—whoever she is! And I wouldn’t have her
feelings for a houseful Of money when she knows
how she has destroyed the life and the prospects
of an honourable, hardworking and kind young
man! the kindest man in the world! How can
that woman go on with her usual life, and laugh
and talk and sleep when she thinks Of what she
has done? I don’t mean shooting the man—but


336 PURSUED BY THE LAW.
ness of love—of the kind of love that I had! I
cannot tell you how he had maddened me. I hope
you and Mr. Graham and his mother will forgive me
for the terrible misery I have caused you. I am
truly sorry. I have always been sorry for that!”
She spoke in short, eager, hurried sentences.
Nelly for answer leaned upon the actress’s hand
and wept.
“ Don’t do that,” She cried, “ or it will be im-
possible for me to go through with it! I must be
hard with myself! I must not give way! ”
A stranger—an old clergyman of severe demean-
our—was introduced into the room by the terriﬁed
landlady.
“ What is the meaning of this?” Miss Bolsover
demanded of her landlady. “It was a magistrate
-—a justice of the peace—I asked you to send for,
not a clergyman! ”
“ I happened to be referred to,” said the clergy-
man, “and I happen to be a justice of the peace,
madam, as well as a clergyman, and therefore I
came. Do you feel in a dying condition?” he con—
tinued. “ Have you a doctor?”
“There is no need for a doctor,” answered the
actress‘with some impatience. “A doctor can do
no good! Will you kindly leave us to ourselves?”
she said, turning to her landlady, who was linger-
ing in engrossed attention.
“ You have something on your mind?” said the
clergyman, when the woman had withdrawn.
“There is a written paper in that drawer,” said


34o PURSUED BY THE LAW.
But Nelly did not stir. She ﬂashed back anger
on the worthy gentleman.
“ I will not go for a doctor!” said she. “ Let
the poor thing die! Why should you keep her
from dying? I would rather die myself than endure
what she would have to endure from the police,
the law, and the prison.”
While she spoke, there was a ﬁerce, convulsive
spasm or two in the limbs of the actress, a groan
and a moan through tightly clenched teeth, and
the form in the bed lay still and rigid, with staring
eyes, and cheeks suddenly sunken and ghastly.
“ May God forgive her! ” murmured the amazed
and horriﬁed clergyman.
“ Amen! ” said Nelly Clemance.


CONCLUSION. 343
had not been for the constancy and devotion, the
bravery and cleverness of the bride.”
That was one of the things said, to which Gra—
ham gave a heart-felt “ Hear, hear!” with emotion
in his voice.
“ It is a great privilege for any man to have a
wise, active, and daring friend like Mr. Town—
shend.”
That was another utterance, which was received
with the greatest approval by all save Mr. Town-
shend himself, who shook his head at it, but said
nothing.
“Let us not forget poor Miss Bolsover,” mur-
mured the bride herself. “ If she did very great
wrong she made a very brave and noble atone—
ment.”
When the time came for the breaking-up of the
party Mr. Townshend stood shaking hands with
the bride.
“ When we are in our own house,” said Nelly,
“ I hope you Will come and pay us a visit.”
Townshend glanced quickly at Graham; but not
even to his sweetheart had Graham whispered a
word of the revelation of his strange and dangerous
mode of life which Townshend had made.
“ Some day I may,” said Townshend then.
“ But not for a long time, I fear. I am going
abroad at once-—on business. But ‘ Townshend, 25
Jermyn Street,’ will always ﬁnd me.”
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APPLETONS’ TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY.


39.
41 .
42.
43.
44 Blind Love.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51 .
52.
53.
54
55 .
56.
57.
58.
59
60.
ii
40 TheRomanceo Jenny arlowe,
A Hardy Noreeman. E. LYALL.
and
Sketches of arilime Life. By W.
C. RUSSELL.
Pascion’s Slave. B R.A8£lE-KING.
The Awakening 0 Mary Fonwick.
By B. WHITBY. ,
Countess Loreley. By R. MENOEB.
By W. COLLINS.
The Dean’s Daughter. By S. F. F.
VEI'I‘OH.
Countess Irene. By J. FOGERTY.
Robert Brmuning’e Principal Short-
er Poema.
Frozen Hearts. By G. W. Amn-
TON.
lfjambek the Georgian. By A. G.
VON SUTTNER.
The Craze 0 Christian Engelharl.
By H. F. ABNELL.
Lal. By W. A. HAMMOND, M. D.
Aline. By H. GREVILLE.
Joost Aoelingh. By M. MAARTENS.
. Katy of Catoctin. By G. A. TOWN-
SEND.
Throckmorton. By M. E. SEAWELL.
Erpatrialion. By the author of
Aristocracy.
Geoﬂ’rey Hampetead. By T.
JARVIS.
Dmitri. B F. W. BAIN, M.A.
Parqulhe perly. By B. WHITBY.
S.
PUBLISHED SEMIMONTI-ILY.
Kill-4
OJ-q 9010! $er
. The Steel Hammer. By L. ULBAOH.
. Eve. By S. BAKING-GOULD.
. For Fifteen Years. By L. ULBACH.
.A Counsel of Perfection. By L.
MALET.
. The Deemeter. By H. CAINE.
}. The Bondman. By B. CAINE.
A Virginia Inheritance. By E.
PENDLETON.
. Ninelle. By the author Of Véra.
. “The Right Honourable." By J.
MCCARTHY and Mrs. CAMPBELL-
PBAED.
. The Silence ofDean Haitland. By
M. GRAY.
. Mrs. Lorimer. By L MALET.
The Elect Lady. B G. MACDONALD.
. The Il€gslery of t “Ocean Star."
By . C. RUSSELL.
. Aristocracg.
. A Recoiling Vengeance. By F.
BARRETT.
. The Siffre)! of Fontaine-la- Uroix. By
. IELD.
. The Master of Ralhkelly. By H.
SMART.
. Donovan. By E. LYALL.
. This Mortal Coil. By G. ALLEN.
. A Fair Emigrant. By R. MULHOL-
LAND.
. The Apostate. By E. DAUDET.
. Raleigh Wealgale. By B. K. JOHN-
SON.
Arius the Hogan.
. Constance, an Galbol‘s Rival. By
J. HAWTHORNE.
We Two. By E. LYALL.
A Dreamer of Dreams. By the au-
thor of Thoth.
. The Ladies” Gallery. By J. MCCAR-
THY and Mrs. CAmELL~PRAEIL
The Reprth qf Annealey. By M.
GRAY.
Near lo HGPPfMBJ’.
In the Wire Graea. By L. PENDLE-
TON.
Lace. By P. LINDAU.
}. The Black Poodle. By F. ANSTEY.
. American Coin. By the author of
Aristocracy.
. Won b Wailing. By E. IA'ALL.
The tory of Helen Davenanl. By
V. FANE.
. The L' hi of Her Countenance. By
H. . BOYESEN.
85. Mistress Beatrice Cope. By M. E.
88. Giraldi. By R.
LE CLEBC.
. The Knight-Errant. By E. LYALL.
In the Golden Do a. By E LYALL.
. DERINO.
61 .
62.
A
. The
Bismarck in. Private Life. By a
Fellow-Student.
In Low Relief. By M. ROBERTS.
Th6 (ignadiane of Old. By P.
AS .
. A Squire of Low Degree. By L. A.
LONG.
A Flutlcred Dovecole. By G. M.
FENN.
. The Nugente of Can-iconna. By T.
HOPKINS.
A Sensitive Plant. By E. and D.
GERARD.
. Dona Luz. By J . VALERA. Trans-
lated by Mrs. M. J. SERRANO.
P ila Ximenez. By J. VALERA.
ranslafed by Mrs. M. J. SEB-
RANO.
The Primes and their Neighbors.
By R. M. JOHNSTON.
. The Iron Game. By H. F. KEENAN.
Stories of Old New Spain. By T.
. J ANVIEH.
Maid of Honor. By Hon. L.
WINGFIELD.
In che Heart of the Storm. By M.
RAY.
Consequences. By E. CASTLE.


APPLETONS’ TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY—(Continued)

I52.
153.
154.
155.
156.
157.
158.
159.
160.
161.
162.
168.
164.
165.
166.
167.
168.
169.
170.
171.
172.
173.
174.
The Trail of the Sword. By G.
PARKER.
A Mild Barbarian. By E. FAW-
CETT.
The God in the Car. By A.
HOPE.
Children of Circumstance. By Mrs.
M. CAFFYN.
At the Gate of Samaria. By W. J.
LOCKE.
The Just'ﬂcation of Andrew Le-
brun. F. BARRETT.
Dust and By M. L. PEN-
DERED.
The Good Ship Mohock. By W. C.
RUSSELL.
Noémi. By S. BARING-GOULD.
The Honour of Savelli. By S. L.
YEATS.
Kitty’s Engagement. By F. WAR-
DEN.
aurels.
The Mermaid. By L. DOUGALL.
An Arranged Marriage. By D.
GERARD.
Eve‘s Ransom. By G. GISSING.
The Marriage of Esther. By G.
BOOTHBY.
Fidelis. By A. CAMBRIDGE.
Into the Highways and Hedges. By
F. F. MONTRESOB.
The Vengearwe of James Vansittart.
By Mrs. J. H. NEEDELL.
A Study in Preiiudices. By G.
PASTON.
The Mistress of Quest. By A. SER-
E
ANT.
1n the Year quubilee. By G. GIS-
s
me.

175.
176.
177.
178.
179.
180.
181.
182.
183.
184.
185.
186.
In Old New England. By E.
BUTTERwoRTH.
Mrs. Musgrave—and Her Husband.
By R. MARSH.
Not Counting the Cost. By TASMA.
Out of Due Season. By A. SER-
GEAN'I‘.
Scylla or Charybdts? By R.
BROUGHTON.
In Defiance of the King. By C. C.
HOTCHKISS.
A Bid for Fortune. By G.
BOOTE'BY.
The King Q/‘Andaman. By J. M.
COBEAN.
Mrs. Tregaskies. By Mrs. CAMP-
EELL-PRAED.
The Desire of the Moth. By C.
VANE.
A Self-Denying Ordinance. By M.
HAMILTON.
Successors to the Title. By Mrs. L.
B. WALFORD.
The Lost Stradivarius. By J. M.
FALRNER.
The Wrong Man. By D. GERARD.
187.
188
189.
190.
191.
192.
198.
194.
195.
196.
197.
198.
199.
200.
201.
202.
203.
20-1.
205.
217.
218.
219.
221.
In the Day of Adversity. By J.
BLOUNDELLE~BURTON.
. Mistress Dorothy Marvin. By J. C.
SNAITII.
A Flash of Summer. By Mrs. W.
K. CLIFFORD.
The Dancer in Yellow. By W. E.
NORRIS.
The Chronicles of Martin Hewitt.
By A. MORRISON.
A Winning Hazard. By Mrs.
ALEXANDER.
Téte Picture of Las Cruees. By C.
EID.
The Madonna of a Day. By L.
DOUGALL.
The Riddle Ring. By J. MCCAR-
THY.
A Humble Enterprise. By A. CAM-
BRIDGE.
Dr. Nikola. By G. BOOTHBY.
An. Outcast of the Islands. By J.
CONRAD.
The King’s Revenge. By C. BRAY.
Denounced. By . BLOUNDELLE-
BURTON.
A Court Intrigue. By B. THOMP-
SON.
The Idol-Maker. By A. SERGEANT.
The Intriguers. By J. D. BARRY.
Master Ardiclc, Buccaneer. By F.
H. COSTELLO.
With Fortune Made. By V. CHER-
BULIEZ.
. Fellow Travellers. By G. TRAVERB.
. McLeod of the Camerons. By M.
HAMILTON.
. The Career of Candida. By G.
PASTON.
. Arrested. By E. STUART.
. Tatterley. By '1‘. GALLON.
A Pinc‘zbeck Goddess. By Mrs. J
M. FLEMING (A. M. Kipling).
Perfection City. By Mrs. ORPEN.
A Spotless Reputation. By D
GERARD.
. A Galahad thhe Creeks. By S. L.
YEATS.
. The Beautiful White Devil. By G.
BOOTBBY.
. The Sun of Saratoga. By J. A.
ALTSHELER.
Fierceheart, the Soldier. By J. C.
SNAI'I‘H.
Marietta’s Marriage. By W. E.
NORRIS.
Dear Faustino. By R. BROUGRTON.
. Nulma. ByMrs. CAMPBELL-PRAJD.
The Folly Qf Pen Harrington. By
J. STURGIS.
. A Colonial Free-Lance. By C. 0.
HOTCKKISB.
. His M 'aty’a Greatest Sulliect. By
S. S. noREImN.


APPLETONS‘ TOWN AND COUNTRY LIBRARY.—(Continued.)

224. Mi an'wy: A Welsh Singer. By A. 245. The Looms of Time. By Mrs. H.
AINE. FRASER.
225. A Soldier of Manhattan. By J. A. 246. The Queen's 0111). By G. A. HENTY.
ALTSHELER. 247. Dicky Monteith. By T. GALLON.
@6. Fortune’s Footballs. By G. B. 248. The busto/‘Hale. By G. BOOTHBY.
BURGIN. 249. The Gogglel Writ in Steel. By AR‘
227. The Clash ofArms. By J. BLOIIN- THUR ATERBON.
BELLE-BURTON. 250. The Widower. By W. E. Nonnrs.
228. God‘s Fouudling. By A. J. DAW- 251. The Scourge 0 God. By J.
soN. BLOUNDELLE- URTON.
229. Miss ﬁ'ovidonce. By D. GERARD. 252. Concerning Isabel Carnaby. By
230. The Freedom of Henry Meredylh. ELLEN THORNEYOBOET FOWLER.
By M. HAMILTON. 253. The Impedinwnt. By DOROTHEA
231. Sweethearts and Friends. By M. GERARD.
GRAY. 254. Belinda—and Some Others. By
232. Sunset. By B. WHITBY. ETHEL MAUDE.
238. A Fiery Ordeal. By TASMA. 255. The Key 0 the IIoly House. By
234. APrince of Mischazwe. By T. GAL- ALBERT EE.
LON. 256. A Writerof Books. By GEORGE
235. A Passionate Pilgrim. By P. PASTON.
WHITE. 257. The Knight of the Golden Uhain.
236. This Little World. By D. C. MUB- By R. D. CHETwODE.
BAY. 258. Rquf‘t of Witherw. By HALLI-
237. A For often Sin. By D. GERARD. WELL SUTCLIFFE.
238. The noidental Bishop. By G. 259. The Procession of Life. By Ben-
ALLEN. A0]! A. VAanLL.
289. The Lake of Wine. By B. CAPEB. 260. 131% Berwen Banks. By ALLEN
240. A Trooper of the Empress. By C. AINE.
Ross. 261. Pharos, the Egyptian. By GUY
241. Torn Solis. By A. RAINE. BOOTHBY.
242. Materfarm'lias. By A. CAMBRIDGE. 262. Paul Uarah. C'ornishman. By
243. John of Strathbourm. By R. D. CHARLES LEE.
CHETWODE. 263. Purstleol by the Law. By J. MAC»
244. The Millionaires. By F. F. MOORE. LAREN COBBAN.


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