by Ellen Wood
“You are ambitious, Frank. I heartily wish you success. There’s nothing like keeping a good heart.”
“Oh yes, success is not doubtful. I’ll do battle with all the obstructions in my course. Good afternoon, sir.”
William, curious and anxious, could make nothing of his books that night at home. At length he threw up, put on the notable cloak, and went down to the manufactory. He found Mr. Ashley there; and the counting-house soon received an addition to its company in the person of Sergeant Delves. He had come in search of William. Not being aware that William was allowed the privilege of spending his evenings at home, he had supposed the manufactory was the place to find him in.
“I want you down at White’s,” said the sergeant. “Put on your cloak, will you be so good, Mr. Halliburton, and come with me?”
“Do you suspect me?” was William’s answer.
“No, I don’t,” returned the sergeant. “I told you before, to-day, that I did not. The fact is” — dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper— “I want to do a little bit of private inquiry on my own account. I have a clue to the party: and I should like to work it out.”
“If you have a sufficient clue, the party had better be arrested at once,” observed Mr. Ashley.
“Ah, but it’s not sufficient for that,” nodded the sergeant. “No, Mr. Ashley, sir; my strong advice to you is, keep quiet a bit.”
They started for the butcher’s, William wearing his cloak and cap, and Mr. Ashley accompanying them. Mr. Ashley possessed his own curiosity upon various points; perhaps his own doubts.
“It is strange who this man can be who walks at the back of your house,” observed Mr. Ashley to William, as they went along. “What can be his motive for walking there, dressed like you?”
“It is curious, sir.”
“I should suppose it can only arise from a desire that he should be taken for you,” continued Mr. Ashley. “But to what end? Why should he walk there at all?”
“Why, indeed!” responded William.
“What coloured gloves are you wearing?” abruptly interrupted Sergeant Delves.
William took his hands from beneath his cloak, and held them out. They were of the darkest possible colour, next to black; the shade called in the glove trade “corbeau.” “These are all I have in use at present,” he said. “They are nearly new.”
“Have you worn any light gloves lately? Tan or fawn?”
“I scarcely ever wear tan gloves. I have not put on a pair for months.”
They arrived at the butcher’s and entered. White was standing at his block, chopping a bone in two. He lifted his head, and touched his hair to Mr. Ashley.
“Is this the gentleman who had the money of you for the cheque?” began Sergeant Delves, without circumlocution.
Mr. White put down his chopper, and took a survey of William. “It’s like the cloak and cap that the other wore,” said he.
Sergeants take up words quickly. “That the ‘other’ wore? Then you do not think it was this one?”
“No, I don’t,” decided the butcher. “The one who brought the cheque was a shorter man.”
“Shorter!” repeated Mr. Ashley, remembering it had been said in his counting-house that the man who appeared to be personating William was thought to have the advantage the other way. “You mean taller, White.”
“No, sir, I mean shorter. I am sure he was shorter. Not much, though.”
There was a pause. “You observed that his gloves were tan, I think,” said the sergeant.
“Something of that sort. Clean light gloves they were, such as gentlemen wear.”
“Finally, then, White, you decide that this was not the gentleman?”
“Not he,” said the butcher. “It’s not the same voice.”
“The voice goes for nothing,” said Sergeant Delves. “The other one had plums in his mouth.”
“Well,” said the butcher, “I think I should have known Mr. Halliburton, in spite of any disguise, had he come in.”
“Don’t make too sure, White,” said the sergeant, with one of his wise nods. “He who came might have turned out to be just as familiar to you as Mr. Halliburton, if he had let you see his face. The fact is, White, there’s some one going about with a cloak like this, and we want to find out who it is. Mr. Halliburton would give a pound out of his pocket, I’m sure, to know.”
“I’d give two,” said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.
“Sir,” asked the butcher of Mr. Ashley, “what about the money? Shall I lose it?”
“Now, White, just wait a bit,” put in the sergeant. “If it was a gentleman that changed it, perhaps we shall get it out of him. Any way, you keep quiet.”
They left the shop — standing a moment together before parting. The sergeant’s road lay one way; Mr. Ashley’s and William’s another. “This only makes the matter more obscure,” observed Mr. Ashley, alluding to what had passed.
“Not at all. It makes it all the more clear,” was the cool reply of the sergeant.
“White says the man was shorter than Mr. Halliburton.”
“It’s just what I expected him to say,” nodded the sergeant. “If I am on the right scent — and I’d lay a thousand pound on it! — the man who changed the cheque is shorter. I just wanted White’s evidence on the point,” he added, looking at William; “and that is why I asked you to come down, dressed in your cloak. Good night, gentlemen.”
He turned up the Shambles. And Mr. Ashley and William walked away side by side.
CHAPTER XX.
IN THE STARLIGHT.
The conversation at Mr. Dare’s dinner-table again turned upon the loss of the cheque, and the proceedings thereon. It was natural that it should turn upon it. Mr. Dare’s mind was full of it; and he gave utterance to various conjectures and speculations, as they occurred to him.
“In spite of what they say, I cannot help thinking that it must have been William Halliburton,” he remarked with emphasis. “He alone was in the counting-house when the cheque disappeared; and the person changing it at White’s, is proved to have borne the strongest possible resemblance to him; at all events, to his dress. The face was hidden — as of course it would be. People who attempt to pass off stolen cheques, take pretty good care that their features are not seen.
“But who hesitates to bring it home to Halliburton?” inquired Mrs. Dare.
“They all do — as it seems to me. Ashley won’t hear a word: laughs at the idea of Halliburton’s being capable of it, and says we may as well accuse himself. That’s nothing: as Cyril says, Mr. Ashley appears to be imbued with the idea that Halliburton can do no wrong: but now Delves has veered round. He shifts the blame entirely off Halliburton.”
“Upon whom does he shift it?” asked Anthony Dare.
“He won’t say,” replied Mr. Dare. “He has grown mysterious over it since the afternoon; nodding and winking, and giving no explanation. He says he knows who it is who possesses the second cloak.”
“The second cloak!” The words were a puzzle to most at table, and Mr. Dare had to explain that another cloak, similar to that worn by William Halliburton, was supposed to be in existence.
Cyril looked up, with wonder marked on his face. “Does Delves say there are two such cloaks?” asked he.
“That there are two such cloaks appears to be an indisputable fact,” replied Mr. Dare. “The one cloak was parading behind the Halliburtons’ house last night. Samuel Lynn went up to it — —”
“The cloak parading tout seul — alone?” interrupted Signora Varsini, with a perplexed air.
A laugh went round the table. “Accompanied by the wearer, mademoiselle,” said Mr. Dare, continuing the account of Samuel Lynn’s adventure. “Thus the fact of there being two cloaks is established,” he proceeded. “Still, that tells nothing; unless the owner of the other has access to Mr. Ashley’s counting-house. I pointed this fact out to them. But Delves — which is most unaccountable — differed from me; and when we parted he expressed an opinion, with
that confident nod of his, that it was not Halliburton’s cloak which had been in the mischief at the butcher’s, but the other.”
“What a thundering falsehood!” burst forth Herbert Dare.
“Sir!” cried Mr. Dare, while all around the table stared at Herbert’s excited manner.
Herbert had the grace to feel ashamed of his abrupt and intemperate rudeness. “I beg your pardon, sir; I spoke in my surprise. I mean that Delves must be telling a falsehood, if he seeks to throw the guilt off Halliburton. The very fact of the fellow’s wearing a strange cloak such as that, when he went to get rid of the cheque, must be proof positive of Halliburton’s guilt.”
“So I think,” acquiesced Mr. Dare.
“What sort of a cloak is this that you laugh at, and call scarce?” inquired the governess.
“The greatest scarecrow of a thing you can conceive, mademoiselle,” responded Mr. Dare. “I had the pleasure of seeing it to-day on Halliburton. It is a dark green-and-blue Scotch plaid, made very full, with a turned up collar lined with red, and a bit of fur edging it.”
“Plaid? Plaid?” repeated mademoiselle. “Why it must be — —”
“What?” asked Mr. Dare, for she had stopped.
“It must be very ugly,” concluded she. But somehow Mr. Dare gathered an impression that it was not what she had been about to say.
“What is it that Delves says about the cloaks?” eagerly questioned Cyril. “I cannot make it out.”
“Delves says he knows who it is that owns the other; and that it was the other which went to change the cheque at White’s.”
“What mysterious words, papa!” cried Adelaide. “The cloak went to change the cheque!”
“They were Delves’ own words,” replied Mr. Dare. “He did seem remarkably mysterious over it.”
“Is he going to hunt up the other cloak?” resumed Cyril.
“I conclude so. He was pondering over it for some time before he could remember who it was that he had seen wear a similar cloak. When the recollection came to him, he started up with surprise. Sharp men, these police-officers!” added Mr. Dare. “They forget nothing.”
“And they ferret out everything,” said Herbert with some testiness. “Instead of wasting time over vain speculations touching cloaks, why does not he secure Halliburton? It is impossible that the other cloak — if there is another — could have had anything to do with the affair.”
“I dropped a note to Delves after he left me, recommending him to follow up the suspicion on Halliburton, whether Mr. Ashley is agreeable or not,” said Mr. Dare. “I have rarely in my life met with a stronger case of presumptive evidence.”
So, many, besides Mr. Dare, would have felt inclined to say. Herbert, like his father, was firm in the belief that William Halliburton must have taken the money; that it must have been he who paid the visit to the butcher. What Cyril thought may be best inferred from his actions. A sudden fear had come over him that Sergeant Delves was really going to search out the other cloak. A most inconvenient procedure for Cyril, lest, in the process, the sergeant should search out him. He laid down his knife and fork. He had had quite enough dinner for one day.
“Are you not hungry, Cyril?” asked his mother.
“I had a tremendous lunch,” answered Cyril. “I can’t eat more now.”
He sat at the table until they had finished, feeling that he was being choked with dread. But that a guilty conscience deprives us of free action, he would have left the table and gone about some work he was now eager to do.
He rose when the rest did, looked about for a pair of large scissors, and glided with them up the staircase, his eyes and ears on the alert, lest there should be any watching him. No human being in that house had the slightest knowledge of what Cyril was about to do, or that he was going to do anything; but to Cyril’s guilty conscience it seemed that all must be on the look-out.
A candle and scissors in hand he stole up to Herbert’s room and locked himself in. Inside a closet within the room hung a dark blue camlet cloak, and Cyril took it from the hook. It had a plaid lining: a lining of the precise pattern and colours that the material of William Halliburton’s cloak was composed of. The cloak was of the same full, old-fashioned make; its collar was lined with red, tipped with fur: in short, the one cloak worn on the right side and the other worn on the wrong side, could not have been told apart. This cloak belonged to Herbert Dare; occasionally, though not often, he went out at dusk, wearing it wrong side outermost. It was he, no doubt, whom Sergeant Delves had seen wearing one. He was a little taller than William Halliburton, towering above six feet. What his motive had been in causing a cloak to be lined so that, turned, it should resemble William Halliburton’s, or whether the similarity in the lining had been accidental, was only known to Herbert himself.
With trembling fingers, and sharp scissors that were not particular where they cut, Cyril began his task of taking out this plaid lining. That he had worn it to the butcher’s, and that he feared it might tell tales of him, were facts only too apparent. Better put it out of the way for ever! Unpicking, cutting, snipping, Cyril tore away at the lining, and at length got it out, the cloak suffering considerable damage in the shape of cuts and rents, and loose threads. Hanging the cloak up again, he twisted the lining together.
He was thus engaged when the handle of the door was briskly turned, as if some one essayed to enter who had not expected to find it fastened. Cyril dashed the lining under the bed, and made a spring to the window. To leap out? surely not: for the fall would have killed him. But he had nearly lost all presence of mind in his perplexity and fear.
Another turn at the handle, and the steps went on their way. Cyril thought he recognized them for the housemaid’s, Betsy. He supposed she was going her evening round of the chambers. Gathering the lining under his arm, he halted to think. His hands shook, and his face was white.
What should he do with this tell-tale thing? He could not eat it; he dared not burn it. There was no room, of those which had fires, where he might make sure of being alone: and the smell would alarm the house. What was he to do with it?
Dig a hole and bury it, came a prompting voice within him; and Cyril waited for no better suggestion, but crept with it down the stairs, and out to the garden.
Seizing a spade, he dug a hole rapidly in an unfrequented place; and when it was large enough thrust the stuff in. Then he covered it over again, to leave the spot apparently as he found it.
“I wish those stars would give a stronger light,” grumbled Cyril, looking up at the dark blue canopy. “I must come again in the morning, I suppose, and see that it’s all safe. It wouldn’t do to bring a lantern.”
Now it happened that Mr. Herbert Dare was bound on a private errand that evening. His intention was to go abroad in his cloak while he executed it. Just about the time that Cyril was putting the finishing touch to the hole, Herbert went up to his room to get the cloak.
To get the cloak, indeed! When Herbert opened the closet-door, nothing except the mutilated object just described met his eye. A torn, cut thing, the threads hanging from it loosely. Nothing could exceed Herbert’s consternation as he stared at it. He thought he must be in a dream. Was it his cloak? Just before dinner, when he came up to wash his hands, he had seen his cloak hanging there, perfect. He shook it, he pulled it, he peered at it. His cloak it certainly was; but who had destroyed it? A suspicion flashed into his mind that it might be the governess. He made but a few steps to the school-room, carrying the cloak with him.
The governess was sitting there, listlessly enough. Perhaps she was waiting for him. “I say, mademoiselle,” he began, “what on earth have you been doing to my cloak?”
“To your cloak!” responded she. “What should I have been doing to it?”
“Look here,” he said, spreading it out before her. “Who or what has done this? It was all right when I went down to dinner.”
She stared at it in astonishment great as Herbert’s, and threw off a volley of surprise i
n her foreign tongue. But she was a shrewd woman. Ay, never was there a shrewder than Bianca Varsini. Mr. Sergeant Delves was not a bad hand at ferreting out conclusions; but she would have beaten the sergeant hollow.
“Tenez,” cried she, putting up her forefinger in thought, as she gazed at the cloak. “Cyril did this.”
“Cyril!”
She nodded her head. “You stood it out to me that you did not come in on Saturday evening and go out again between ten and eleven — —”
“I did not,” interrupted Herbert. “I told you truth, but you would not believe me.”
“But this cloak went out. And it was turned the plaid side outwards, and your cap was on, tied down at the ears. Naturally I thought it was you. It must have been Cyril! Do you comprehend?”
“No, I don’t,” said Herbert. “How mysteriously you are speaking!”
“It must have been Cyril who robbed Mr. Ashley.”
“Mademoiselle!” interrupted Herbert indignantly.
“Ecoutez, mon ami. He was blanched as white as a mouchoir, while your father spoke of it at dinner — did you see that he could not eat? ‘You look guilty, Monsieur Cyril,’ I said to myself, not really thinking him to be so. But be persuaded it was no other. He must have taken the paper-money — or what you call it — and come home here for your cloak and cap to wear, while he changed it for gold, thinking it would fall on that other one who wears the cloak; that William Hall —— I cannot say the name; c’est trop dur pour les lèvres. It is Cyril, and no other. He has turned afraid now, and has torn the lining out.”
Herbert could make no rejoinder at first, partly in dismay, partly in astonishment. “It cannot have been Cyril!” he reiterated.
“I say it is Cyril,” persisted the young lady. “I saw him creep up the stairs after dinner, with a candle and your mother’s great scissors in his hand. He did not see me. I was in the dark, looking out of my room. Depend he was going to do it then.”
“Then, of all blind idiots, Cyril’s the worst! — if he did take the cheque,” uttered Herbert. “Should it become known, he is done for; and that for life. And my father helping to fan the flame!”
