by Guy Boothby
CHAPTER VI
While the letter from Helen cheered James Standerton wonderfully, it didnot in any way help him out of his difficulty with Mr. Bursfield. Thelatter had most decisively stated his intention not to give his consentto the marriage of his adopted granddaughter with the young Squire ofChilderbridge. What his reasons were for taking such a step, neither Jimnor Helen could form any idea. It was a match that most guardians wouldhave been only too thankful to have brought about. In spite of Helen'sstatements, he could only, after mature consideration, assign it to theold man's natural selfishness, and, however bitterly he might resent histreatment, in his own heart he knew there was nothing for it but to waitwith such patience as he could command for a change in the other'sfeelings towards himself. He had the satisfaction of knowing, however,that Helen loved him, and that she would be true to him, happen whatmight. He was not a more than usually romantic young man, but I happento know that he carried that letter about with him constantly, while hehad read it so often that he must have assuredly known its contents byheart. All things considered, it is wonderful what comfort it ispossible for a love-sick young man to derive from a few commonplacewords written upon a sheet of notepaper.
After the momentous interview with Mr. Bursfield, the days went by withtheir usual sameness at Childerbridge. No news arrived from thedetective, Robins. Apparently it was quite impossible for him todiscover the smallest clue as to Murbridge's whereabouts. To all intentsand purposes he had disappeared as completely as if he had been caughtup into the skies. The reward, beyond bringing a vast amount of troubleand disappointment to Jim, had not proved of the least use to any oneconcerned.
Numerous half-witted folk, as is usual in such cases, had come forwardand given themselves up, declaring that they had committed the murder,but the worthlessness of their stories was at once proved in every case.One man, it was discovered, had been on the high seas another had neverbeen near Childerbridge in his life; while a third, and this was a stillmore remarkable case, was found to have been an inmate of one of HerMajesty's convict establishments at the time the murder was committed.
"Never mind," said Jim to himself; "he must be captured sooner or later.If the police authorities cannot catch him, I'll take up the casemyself, and run him to ground, wherever he may be."
As he said this he looked up at the portrait of his father, which hungupon the wall of his study.
"Come what may, father," he continued, "if there is any justice in theworld, your cruel murder shall be avenged."
Another month went by, and still the same want of success attended thesearch for Murbridge.
"Alice, I can stand it no longer," said Jim to his sister one evening,after he had read a communication from Robins. "I can gather from thetone of this letter that they are losing heart. I ought to have taken upthe case myself at the commencement, and not have wasted all thisprecious time. The man may now be back in Australia, South America, oranywhere else."
Alice crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Dear old Jim," she said, "I am sure you know how I loved our father."
"Of course I do," said Jim, looking up at her. "No one knows better. ButI can see there is something you want to say to me. What is it?"
"Don't be angry with me, Jim," she replied, seating herself on the armof his chair "but deeply as that man has wronged us, I cannot helpthinking that we should not always be praying for vengeance against him,as we are doing. Do you think it is what our father, with his noblenature, would have wished?"
Jim was silent for a moment. The desire for vengeance by this time hadtaken such a hold upon him, and had become such an integral part of hisconstitution, that he was staggered beyond measure by her words.
"Surely you don't mean to say, Alice," he stammered, "that you arewilling to forgive the man who so cruelly killed our father?"
"I shall try to forgive him," the girl replied. "I say again, that I amsure it is what our father would have wished us to do."
"I am no such saint," Jim returned angrily. "I wish to see that manbrought to justice, and, what's more, if no one else will, I mean tobring him. He took that noble life, and he must pay the penalty of hiscrime. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, was the old law. Whyshould we change it?"
Alice rose and crossed the room to her own chair with a little sigh. Sheknew her brother well enough to be sure that, having once made up hismind, he would carry out his determination.
On the morning following this conversation, Jim was standing afterbreakfast at the window of his sister's boudoir, looking out upon thelawn, across which the leaves were being driven by the autumn wind. Hisbrow was puckered with thought. As a matter of fact, he was wondering atthe moment how he should commence his search for Murbridge. London wassuch a great city, and for an amateur to attempt to find a man in it,who desired to remain hidden, was very much like setting himself thetask of hunting for a needle in a bundle of hay. He neither knew whereor how to begin. While he was turning the question over in his mind, hisquick eye detected the solitary figure of a man walking across the parkin the direction of the house. He watched it pass the clump ofrhododendrons, and then lost it again in the dip beyond the lake.Presently it reappeared, and within a few moments it was within easydistance of the house. At first Jim had watched the figure with butsmall interest; later, however, his sister noticed that he graduallybecame excited. When the stranger had passed the corner of the house heturned excitedly to his sister.
"Good gracious, Alice!" he cried, "it surely cannot be."
"What cannot be?" asked Alice, leaving her chair, and approaching thewindow.
"That man coming up the drive," Jim replied. "It doesn't seem possiblethat it can be he, yet I've often boasted that I should know his figureanywhere. If it were not the most improbable thing in the world, Ishould be prepared to swear that it's Terence O'Riley."
"But, my dear Jim, what could Terence be doing here, so many thousandmiles from our old home?"
But Jim did not wait to answer the question. Almost before Alice hadfinished speaking he had reached the front door, had opened it, and waswildly shaking hands with a tall, spare man, with a humorous, yethatchet-shaped face, so sunburnt as to be almost the colour of mahogany.
The newcomer, Terence O'Riley, was a character in his way. He boastedthat he knew nothing of father or mother, or relations of any sort orkind. He had received his Hibernian patronymic from his first friend, awild Irishman on the diggings where he was born. He had entered WilliamStanderton's service at the age of twelve, as horse-boy, and for upwardsof thirty years had remained his faithful henchman. In every respect hewas a typical Bushman. He could track like a blackfellow, ride any horsethat was ever foaled, find his way in the thickest country with unerringskill, was a first-class rifle shot, an unequalled judge of cattle, atrifle pugnacious at certain seasons, but, and this seems an anomaly, atother times he possessed a heart as tender as a little child. WhenWilliam Standerton and his family had left Australia, his grief had beensincere. For weeks he had been inconsolable, and it meant a surethrashing for any man who dared to mention James' name in his hearing.
"What on earth does this mean, Terence?" asked Jim, who could scarcelybelieve that it was their old servant who stood before him.
"It means a good many things, Master Jim," said Terence, with the drawlin his voice peculiar to Australian Bushmen. "It's a longish yarn, but,my word, I _am_ just glad to see you again, and, bless me, there's MissAlice too, looking as pretty as a grass parrot on a gum log."
With a smile of happiness on her face, that had certainly not been theresince her father's death, Alice came forward and gave Terence her hand.He took it in his great palm, and I think, but am not quite sure, thatthere were tears in his eyes.
"Come in at once," said Jim. "You must tell us your tale from beginningto end. Even now I can scarcely realise that it is you. Every moment Iexpect to see you vanish into mid-air. If I had been asked where youwere at this moment, I should have said 'out in
one of the backpaddocks, say the Bald Mountain, riding along the fence on old Smoker,with Dingo trotting at his heels.'"
"No, sir," Terence answered, looking round the great hall as he spoke,"I sold Smoker at Bourke before I came away, and one of the overseershas Dingo, poor old dog. The fact of the matter was, sir, after you leftI got a bit lonesome, and the old place didn't seem like the same. I hadput by a matter of between four and five hundred pounds, and, thinks Ito myself, there's the Old Country, that they say is so beautiful, andto think that I've never set eyes on it. Why shouldn't I make the trip,and just drop in and see the Boss, and Master Jim, and Miss Alice intheir new home. Who knows but that they might want a colt broken forthem. As soon as I made up my mind, I packed my bag and set off forMelbourne, took a passage on board a ship that was sailing next day, andhere I am, sir. I hope your father is well, sir?"
There was an awkward pause, during which Alice left the room.
"Is it possible you haven't heard, Terence?" Jim enquired, in a hushedvoice.
"I've not heard anything, sir," Terence answered. "I was six weeks onthe water, you see. I _do_ hope, sir, there is nothing wrong."
Jim thereupon told Terence the whole story of his father's death. Whenhe had finished the Bushman's consternation may be better imagined thandescribed. For some moments it deprived him of speech. He could onlystare at Jim in horrified amazement.
"Tell me, sir, that they've got the man who did it," he said at last,bringing his hand down with a bang on the table beside which he wasseated. "Tell me that they're going to hang the blackguard who killedthe kindest master in all the world, or I'll say that there's not atrooper in England that's fit to call himself a policeman."
The poor fellow was genuinely affected.
"They haven't caught him yet, Terence," said Jim. "The police have beensearching for him everywhere for weeks past, but without success."
"But they must find him, run him down, and hang him, just as we used tostring up the cowardly dingoes out back when they worried the sheep. IfI have to track him like a Nyall blackfellow, I'll find him."
"Terence, I believe you've come at the right time," said Jim, holdingout his hand. "Seeing the way the police Authorities are managingaffairs, I've decided to take up the case myself. You were a faithfulservant to my father, and you've known me all my life. You've got a headon your shoulders--do you remember who it was that found out who stolethose sheep from Coobalah Out Station? Come with me, old friend, andwe'll run the villain down together. _I_ would not wish for a bettercompanion."
"I'm thankful now that I came, sir," Terence replied. "You mark mywords, we'll find him, wherever he's stowed himself away."
From that day Terence was made a member of the Childerbridge household.In due course, accompanied by Jim, he inspected the stables and was morethan a little impressed by the luxury with which the animals weresurrounded.
"Very pretty," he muttered to himself, "and turned out like racehorses;all the same, I wouldn't like to ride 'em after cattle in the Ranges ona dark night."
The sedate head coachman could not understand the situation. He waspuzzled as to what manner of man this might be, who, though so poorlydressed, while treating his master with the utmost respect, conversedwith him on terms of perfect equality. His amazement, however, wasturned into admiration later in the day when Mr. O'Riley favoured himwith an exposition of the gentle art of horse-breaking.
"He's a bit too free and easy in his manners towards the governor for mylikin'," he informed the head gardener afterwards, "but there's nodenyin' the fact that he's amazin' clever with a youngster. They do sayas 'ow he did all Mr. Standerton's horse-breaking in foreign parts."
It soon became apparent that Terence was destined to become one of themost popular personages at Childerbridge. His quaint mannerisms,extraordinary yarns, and readiness to take any sort of work, howeverhard, upon his shoulders, won for him a cordial welcome from theinhabitants of the Manor House. As for Jim and Alice, for some reasonbest known to themselves they derived a comfort from his presence thatat any other time they would scarcely have believed possible.
On the day following Terence's arrival James stood on the steps at thefront door, watching him school a young horse in the park. Thehigh-spirited animal was inclined to be troublesome, but with infinitetact and patience Terence was gradually asserting his supremacy. Littleby little, as he watched him, Jim's thoughts drifted away fromChilderbridge, and another scene, equally familiar, rose before hiseyes. He saw a long creeper-covered house, standing on the banks of amighty river. A man was seated in the verandah, and that man was hisfather. Talking to him from the garden path was another--no less aperson than Terence. Then he himself emerged from the house and stood byhis father's side--a little boy of ten, dressed in brown holland, andwearing a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. Upon his coming hisfather rose, and, taking him by the hand, led him down to thestock-yard, accompanied by Terence. In the yard stood the prettiest ponythat mortal boy had ever set eyes on.
"There, my boy," said his father, "that is my birthday present to you.Terence has broken him."
And now here was this self-same Terence in England, of all places in theworld, making his hunters for him, while the father, who all his lifehad proved so generous to him, was lying in his grave, cruelly murdered.At that moment Alice came up behind him.
"What are you thinking of, Jim?" she enquired.
"I was thinking of Mudrapilla and the old days," he answered. "SeeingTerence out there on that horse brought it back to me so vividly thatfor a moment I had quite forgotten that I was in England. Do you know,Alice, that sometimes a wild longing to be back there takes possessionof me. If only Helen were my wife, I'm not quite certain that I shouldnot want to take you both back--if only for a trip. It seems to me thatI would give anything to feel the hot sun upon my shoulders once again,to smell the smoke of a camp fire, to see the dust rise from thestock-yards, and to scent the perfume of the orange blossoms as we sittogether in the verandah in the evening. Alice, that is the life of aman; this luxurious idleness makes me feel effeminate. But there, whatam I talking about? I've got my duty to do in England before we go backto Mudrapilla."
At that moment Terence rode up, very satisfied with himself and with theanimal upon whose back he was seated. He had scarcely departed in thedirection of the stable before Jim descried a carriage entering thepark. It proved to be a fly from the station, and in it Robins, thedetective, was seated.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said, as he alighted; "in response to yourletter, I have come down to see you personally."
"I am very glad you have done so," Jim replied, "for I have been mostanxious to see you. Let us go into the house."
He thereupon led the way to his study, where he invited the detective tobe seated.
"I hope you have some good news for me," Jim remarked, as he closed thedoor. "Have you made any discovery concerning Murbridge?"
The detective shook his head.
"I am sorry to say," he answered, "that our efforts have been entirelyunsuccessful. We traced the man from Paddington to a small eating-housein the vicinity of the station, but after that we lost him altogether.We have kept a careful watch on the out-going ships, tried the hotels,lodging-houses, Salvation Army Shelters and such places, and have sent adescription of him to every police station in the country, but so farwithout an atom of success. Once, when the body of a man was found inthe river at Greenwich, I thought we had discovered him. The descriptiongiven of the dead man tallied exactly with that of Murbridge. I wasdisappointed, however, for he turned out to be a chemist's assistant,who had been missing from Putney for upwards of a fortnight. Then a mangave himself up to the police at Bristol, but he was found to be a madsolicitor's clerk from Exeter. This is one of the deepest cases I haveever been concerned in, Mr. Standerton, and though I am not the sort ofman who gives up very quickly, I am bound to confess that, up to thepresent, I have been beaten, and beaten badly."
"You are not going to abandon the case, I
hope?" Jim asked anxiously."Because you have been unsuccessful so far, you are surely not going togive it up altogether?"
"The law never abandons a case," the other observed sententiously. "Ofcourse it's quite within the bounds of possibility that we may hit uponsome clue that will ultimately lead to Murbridge's arrest; it ispossible that he may give himself up in course of time; at the present,however, I must admit that both circumstances appear remarkably remote."
"Well," returned Jim, "I can assure you that, whatever else happens, _I_am not going to give up. If the authorities are going to do so, I shalltake it up myself and see what I can do."
There was a suspicion of a smile upon the detective's face as helistened. Was it possible that an amateur could really believe himselfto be capable of succeeding where the astute professionals of ScotlandYard had failed?
"I am afraid you will only be giving yourself needless trouble," hesaid.
"I should not consider it trouble to try and discover my father'smurderer," Jim returned hotly. "Even if I am not more successful thanthe police have been, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that Ihave done my best. May I trouble you for the name of the eating-house towhich Murbridge proceeded on leaving Paddington?"
Taking a piece of paper from the writing-table, Robins wrote the nameand address of the eating-house upon it, and handed it to Jim. Thelatter placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and felt that he mustmake the house in question his starting point.
When the detective took his departure half an hour later, Jim gaveinstructions that Terence should be sent to him.
"Terence," he began, when the other stood before him, "I am going up toLondon to-morrow morning to commence my search for Murbridge. I shallwant you to accompany me."
"Very good, sir," Terence replied, "I've been hoping for this, and it'llgo hard now if we can't track him somehow. But you must bear in mind,sir, that I've never been in London. If it was in the Bush, now, I won'tsay but what I should not be able to find him, but I don't know muchabout these big cities, so to speak. It will be like looking for a trackof one particular sheep in a stock-yard after a mob of wild cattle havebeen turned into it."
Jim smiled. He saw that Terence had not the vaguest notion of whatLondon was like.
That evening he informed Alice of the decision he had come to. She hadbeen expecting it for some days past, and was not at all surprised byit. She only asked that he would permit her to accompany him.
"I could not remain here," she said, "and I'll promise that I'll not bein your way. It will be so desolate in this house without you,especially as Mr. Bursfield will not allow Helen to visit us, and I haveno other companion."
"By all means come with me," said Jim, "I shall choose a quiet hotel inthe West End, and you must amuse yourself as best you can while I amabsent."
Later in the evening he wrote a note to his sweetheart informing her ofhis decision, and promising to let her know, day by day, what successattended his efforts.
Next morning they left Childerbridge Station at eleven o'clock forLondon. As the train steamed out of the village past the littlechurchyard, Jim looked down upon his father's grave, which he could justsee on the eastern side of the church.
"Dear father," he muttered to himself, "If have to devote the rest of mylife in bringing your murderer to justice, I'll do it."
