by Fergus Hume
“I don’t believe he did wish it,” said Hagar, bluntly.
“But the paper—his own handwriting!” cried Vark.
“Yes, yes; I know Jimmy’s handwriting,” said Jacob, the veins in his forehead swelling with rage. “He is a devil—a par—par——!” The violence of his temper was such that Hagar stepped forward to soothe him. Even Vark felt alarmed.
“Keep quiet, you old fool!” said he, roughly; “you’ll break a blood-vessel! Here, sign this will. I’ll witness it; and ——” He stopped, and whistled shrilly. A man appeared. “Here is another witness,” said Vark. “Sign!”
“It’s a plot! a plot!” cried Hagar. “Don’t sign, Mr. Dix. I don’t want the money.”
“I’ll make you take it, hussy!” snarled Jacob, crushing the will up in his hand. “I shall leave it to you—not to Jimmy, the parricide. First I’ll destroy this.” With the old will he approached the fire, and threw it in. With the swiftness of a swallow Hagar darted past him and snatched the document away from the flames before it was even scorched. Jacob staggered back, mad with rage. Vark ground his teeth at her opposition. The stranger witness looked stolidly on.
“No!” cried Hagar, slipping the will into her pocket. “You shall not disinherit your son for me!”
“Give—give—will!” panted Jacob, and, almost inarticulate with rage, he stretched out his hand. Before he could draw it back he reeled and fell; a torrent of blood poured from his mouth. He was dead.
“You fool!” shrieked Vark, stamping. “You’ve lost a fortune!”
“I’ve saved my honesty!” retorted Hagar, aghast at the sudden death. “Jimmy shall have the money.”
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” sneered Vark, wrathfully. “Do you know who Jimmy is?”
“Yes—the rightful heir!”
“Quite so, you jade—and the red-haired Goliath who drove you to this pawn-shop!”
“It is a lie!”
“It is the truth! You have robbed yourself to enrich your enemy!”
Hagar looked at the sneering face of Vark; at the dead man lying at her feet; at the frightened countenance of the witness. She felt inclined to faint, but, afraid lest Vark should steal the will which she had in her pocket, she controlled herself with a violent effort. Before Vark could stop her, she rushed out of the room, and into her bedroom. The lawyer heard the key turn in the lock.
“I’ve lost the game,” he said, moodily. “Go and get assistance, you fool!” this to the witness; then, when the man had fled away, he continued: “To give up all that money to the red-haired man whom she hated! The girl’s mad!”
But she was only honest; therefore her conduct was unintelligible to Vark. So this was how Hagar Stanley came to take charge of the pawn-shop in Carby’s Crescent, Lambeth. Her adventures therein may be read hereafter.
CHAPTER II. THE FIRST CUSTOMER AND THE FLORENTINE DANTE.
IT has been explained otherwhere how Hagar Stanley, against her own interests, took charge of the pawn-shop and property of Jacob Dix during the absence of the rightful heir. She had full control of everything by the terms of the will. Jacob had made many good bargains in his life, but none better than that which had brought him Hagar for a slave—Hagar, with her strict sense of duty, her upright nature, and her determination to act honestly, even when her own interests were at stake. Such a character was almost unknown amongst the denizens of Carby’s Crescent.
Vark, the lawyer, thought her a fool. Firstly, because she refused to make a nest-egg for herself out of the estate; secondly, because she had surrendered a fine fortune to benefit a man she hated; thirdly, because she declined to become Mrs. Vark. Otherwise she was sharp enough—too sharp, the lawyer thought; for with her keen business instinct, and her faculty for organizing and administering and understanding, he found it impossible to trick her in any way. Out of the Dix estate Vark received his due fees and no more, which position was humiliating to a man of his intelligence.
Hagar, however, minded neither Vark nor any one else. She advertised for the absent heir, she administered the estate, and carried on the business of the pawn-shop; living in the back-parlor meanwhile, after the penurious fashion of her late master. It had been a shock to her to learn that the heir of the old pawnbroker w as none other than Goliath, the red-haired suitor who had forced her to leave the gipsy camp. Still, her honesty would not permit her to rob him of his heritage; and she attended to his interests as though they were those of the man she loved best in the world. When Jimmy Dix, alias Goliath, appeared to claim the property, Hagar intended to deliver up all to him, and to leave the shop as poor as when she entered it. In the mean time, as the months went by and brought not the claimant, Hagar minded the shop, transacted business, and drove bargains. Also, she became the heroine of several adventures, such as the following:
During a June twilight she was summoned to the shop by a sharp rapping, and on entering she found a young man waiting to pawn a book which he held in his hand. He was tall, slim fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a clever and intellectual face, lighted by rasher dreamy eyes. Quick at reading physiognomies, Hagar liked his appearance at the first glance, and, moreover, admired his good looks.
“I—I wish to get some money on this book,” said the stranger in a hesitating manner, a flush invading his fair complexion; “could you— that is, will you ——” He paused in confusion, and held out the book, which Hagar took in silence.
It was an old and costly book, over which a bibliomaniac would have gloated.
The date was that of the fourteenth century the printer a famous Florentine publisher of that epoch; and the author was none other than one Dante Alighieri, a poet not unknown to fame. In short, the volume was a second edition of “La Divina Commedia,” extremely rare, and worth much money. Hagar, who had learnt many things under the able tuition of Jacob, at once recognized the value of the book; but with keen business instinct—notwithstanding her prepossession concerning the young man— she began promptly to disparage it.
“I don’t care for old books,” she said, offering it back to him. “Why not take it to a secondhand bookseller?”
“Because I don’t want to part with it. At the present moment I need money, as you can see from my appearance. Let me have five pounds on the book until I can redeem it.”
Hagar, who already had noted the haggard looks of this customer, and the threadbare quality of his apparel, laid down the Dante with a bang. “I can’t give five pounds,” she said bluntly. “The book isn’t worth it!”
“Shows how much you know of such things, my girl! It is a rare edition of a celebrated Italian poet, and it is worth over a hundred pounds.”
“Really?” said Hagar, dryly. “In that case, why not sell?”
“Because I don’t want to. Give me five pounds.”
“No; four is all that I can advance.”
“Four ten,” pleaded the customer.
“Four,” retorted the inexorable Hagar. “Or else ——”
She pushed the book towards him with one finger. Seeing that he could get nothing more out of her, the young man sighed and relented. “Give me the four pounds,” he said, gloomily. “I might have guessed that a Jewess would grind me down to the lowest.”
“I am not a Jew, but a gipsy,” replied Hagar, making out the ticket.
“A gipsy!” said the other, peering into her face. “And what is a Romany lass doing in this Levitical tabernacle?”
“That’s my business!” retorted Hagar, curtly. “Name and address?”
“Eustace Lorn, 4: Castle Road,” said the young man, giving an address near at hand. “But I say—if you are true Romany, you can talk the calo jib.”
“I talk it with my kind, young man; not with the Gentiles.”
“But I am a Romany Rye.”
“I’m not a fool, young man! Romany Ryes don’t live in cities for choice.”
“Nor do gipsy girls dwell in pawn-shops, my lass!”
“Four pounds,” said Hagar, taking no notice of
this remark; “there it is, in gold; your ticket also—number eight hundred and twenty. You can redeem the book whenever you like, on paying six per cent. interest. Good night.”
“But I say’” cried Lorn, as he slipped money and ticket into his pocket, “I want to speak to you, and ——”
“Good night, sir,” said Hagar, sharply, and vanished into the darkness of the shop. Lorn was annoyed by her curt manner and his sudden dismissal; but as there was no help for it, he walked out into the street.
“What a handsome girl!” was his first thought; and “What a spitfire!” was his second.
After his departure, Hagar put away the Dante, and, as it was late, shut up the shop. Then she retired to the back-parlor to eat her supper — dry bread-and-cheese with cold water—and to think over the young man. As a rule, Hagar was far too self-possessed to be impressionable; but there was something about Eustace Lorn—she had the name pat— which attracted her not a little. From the short interview she had not learnt much of his personality. He was poor, proud, rather absent-minded; and—from the fact of his yielding to her on the question of price—rather weak in character. Yet she liked his face, the kindly expression of his eyes, and the sweetness of his mouth. But after all he was only a chance customer; and—unless he returned to redeem the Dante—she might not see him again. On this thought occurring to her, Hagar called common-sense to her aid, and strove to banish the young man’s image from her mind. The task was more difficult than she thought.
A week later, Lorn and his pawning of the book were recalled to her mind by a stranger who entered the shop shortly after midday. This man was short, stout, elderly and vulgar. He was much excited, and spoke badly, as Hagar noted when he laid a pawn-ticket number eight hundred and twenty on the counter.
“‘Ere, girl,” said he in rough tones, “gimme the book this ticket’s for.”
“You come from Mr. Lorn?” asked Hagar, remembering the Dante.
“Yes; he wants that book. There’s the brass. Sharp, now, young woman!”
Hagar made no move to get the volume, or even to take the money. Instead of doing either, she asked a question. “Is Mr. Lorn ill, that he could not come himself?” she demanded, looking keenly at the man’s coarse face.
“No; but I’ve bought the pawn-ticket off him. ‘Ere, gimme the book!”
“I cannot at present,” replied Hagar, who did not trust the looks of this man, and who wished, moreover, to see Eustace again.
“Dash yer imperance! Why not?”
“Because you did not pawn the Dante; and as it is a valuable book, I might get into trouble if I gave it into other hands than Mr. Lorn’s.”
“Well, I’m blest! There’s the ticket!”
“So I see; but how do I know the way you became possessed of it?”
“Lorn gave it me,” said the man, sulkily, “and I want the Dante!”
“I’m sorry for that,” retorted Hagar, certain that all was not right, “for no one but Mr. Lorn shall get it. If he isn’t ill, let him come and receive it from me.”
The man swore and completely lost his temper—a fact which did not disturb Hagar in the least. “You may as well clear out,” she said, coldly. “I have said that you shan’t have the book, so that closes the question.”
“I’ll call in the police!”
“Do so; there’s a station five minutes’ walk from here.”
Confounded by her coolness, the man snatched up the pawn-ticket, and stamped out of the shop in a rage. Hagar took down the Dante, looked at it carefully, and considered the position. Clearly there was something wrong, and Eustace was in trouble, else why should he send a stranger to redeem the book upon which he set such store? In an ordinary case, Hagar might have received the ticket and money without a qualm, so long as she was acting rightly in a legal sense; but Eustace Lorn interested her strangely—why, she could not guess—and she was anxious to guard his interests. Moreover, the emissary possessed an untrustworthy face, and looked a man capable, if not of crime, at least of treachery. How he had obtained the ticket could only be explained by its owner; so, after some cogitation, Hagar sent a message to Lorn. The gist of this was, that he should come to the pawn-shop after closing time.
All the evening Hagar anxiously waited for her visitor, and—such is the inconsequence of maids—she was angered with herself for this very anxiety. She tried to think that it was sheer curiosity to know the truth of the matter that made her impatient for the arrival of Lorn; but deep in her heart there lurked a perception of the actual state of things. It was not curiosity so much as a wish to see the young man’s face again, to hear him speak, and feel that he was beside her. Though without a chaperon, though not brought up under parental government, Hagar had her own social code, and that a strict one. In this instance, she thought that her mental attitude was unmaidenly and unworthy of an unmarried girl. Hence, when Eustace made his appearance at nine o’clock, she was brusque to the verge of rudeness.
“Who was that man you sent for your book?” she demanded, abruptly, when Lorn was seated in the back-parlor.
“Jabez Treadle. I could not come myself, so I sent him with the ticket. Why did you not give him the Dante?”
“Because I did not like his face, and I thought he might have stolen the ticket from you. Besides, I”—here Hagar hesitated, for she was not anxious to admit that her real reason had been a desire to see him again—“besides, I don’t think he is your friend,” she finished, lamely.
“Very probably he is not,” replied Lorn, shrugging his shoulders. “I have no friends.”
“That is a pity,” said Hagar, casting a searching glance at his irresolute face. “I think you need friends—or, at all events, one staunch one.”
“May that staunch one be of your own sex,” said Lorn, rather surprised at the interest this strange girl displayed in his welfare— “yourself, for instance?”
“If that could be so, I might give you unpalatable advice, Mr. Lorn.”
“Such as—what?”
“Don’t trust the man you sent here—Mr. Treadle. See, here is your Dante, young man. Pay me the money, and take it away.”
“I can’t pay you the money, as I have none. I am as poor as Job, but hardly so patient.”
“But you offered the money through that Treadle creature.”
“Indeed no!” explained Eustace, frankly. “I gave him the ticket, and he wished to redeem the book with his own money.”
“Did he really?” said Hagar, thoughtfully. “He does not look like a student—as you do. Why did he want this book?”
“To find out a secret.”
“A secret, young man—contained in the Dante?”
“Yes. There is a secret in the book which means money.”
“To you or Mr. Treadle?” demanded Hagar.
Eustace shrugged his shoulders. “To either one of us who finds out the secret,” he said, carelessly. “But indeed I don’t think it will ever be discovered—at all events by me. Treadle may be more fortunate.”
“If crafty ways can bring fortune, your man will succeed,” said Hagar, calmly. “He is a dangerous friend for you, that Treadle. There is evidently some story about this Dante of yours which he knows, and which he desires to turn to his own advantage. If the story means money, tell it to me, and I may be able to help you to the wealth. I am only a young girl, it is true, Mr. Lorn; still, I am old in experience, and I may succeed where you fail.”
“I doubt it,” replied Lorn, gloomily; “still, it is kind of you to take this interest in a stranger. I am much obliged to you, Miss ?—”
“Call me Hagar,” she interrupted, hastily. “I am not used to fine titles.”
“Well, then, Hagar,” said he, with a kindly glance, “I’ll tell you the story of my Uncle Ben and his strange will.”
Hagar smiled to herself. It seemed to be her fate to have dealings with wills—first that of Jacob; now this of Lorn’s uncle. However, she knew when to hold her tongue, and saying nothing, she w
aited for Eustace to explain. This he did at once.
“My uncle, Benjamin Gurth, died six months ago at the age of fifty-eight,” said he, slowly. “In his early days he had lived a roving life, and ten years ago he came home with a fortune from the West Indies.”
“How much fortune?” demanded Hagar, always interested in financial matters.
“That is the odd part about it,” continued Eustace; “nobody ever knew the amount of his wealth, for he was a grumpy old curmudgeon, who confided in no one. He bought a little house and garden at Woking, and there lived for the ten years he was in England. His great luxury was books, and as he knew many languages—Italian among others—he collected quite a polyglot library.”
“Where is it now?”
“It was sold after his death along with the house and land. A man in the city claimed the money and obtained it.”
“A creditor. What about the fortune?”
“I’m telling you, Hagar, if you’ll only listen,” said Eustace, impatiently. “Well, Uncle Ben, as I have said, was a miser. He hoarded up all his moneys and kept them in the house, trusting neither to banks nor investments. My mother was his sister, and very poor; but he never gave her a penny, and to me nothing but the Dante, which he presented in an unusual fit of generosity.”
“But from what you said before,” remarked Hagar, shrewdly, “it seemed to me that he had some motive in giving you the Dante.”
“No doubt,” assented Eustace, admiring her sharpness.
“The secret of where his money is hidden is contained in that Dante.”
“Then you may be sure, Mr. Lorn, that he intended to make you his heir. But what has your friend Treadle to do with the matter?”
“Oh, Treadle is a grocer in Woking,” responded Lorn. “He is greedy for money, and knowing that Uncle Ben was rich, he tried to get the cash left to him. He wheedled and flattered the old man; he made him presents, and always tried to set him against me as his only relative.”
“Didn’t I say the man was your enemy? Well, go on.”
