by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XIV.
_An Adventure._
Mr. Abingdon took his departure at an early hour; his excellent wife wasindisposed, and her age rendered him anxious.
Philip wrote a curt letter to Sharpe & Smith. He had given thought totheir statements, he said, and wished to hold no further communicationwith either Sir Philip Morland or his representatives.
Then he ordered his private hansom, intending to visit the Universities'Club.
It was a fine evening, one of those rare nights when _blase_ Londonabandons herself for an hour to the delights of spring. The tops ofomnibuses passing through Park Lane were enlivened by muslin dresses andflower-covered hats. Men who passed in hansoms wore evening dresswithout an overcoat. Old earth was growing again, and if weather-wisefolk predicted that such an unusually high temperature meantthunderstorms and showers it would indeed be a poor heart that did notrejoice in the influences of the moment.
Two powdered and noiseless footmen threw open the door as Philipappeared in the hall. He stood for a little while in the entrancebuttoning his gloves. A strong electric light--he loved light--fell onhim and revealed his firm face and splendidly proportioned frame.
He cast a critical eye on a sleek horse in the shafts, and smiledpleasantly at the driver.
"Good gracious, Wale," he said, "your cattle are becoming as fat asyourself."
"All your fault, sir," was the cheerful reply. "You don't use 'em 'arfenough."
"I can't pass my time in being driven about town to reduce the weight ofmy coachman and horses. Wale, if you don't do something desperate, therewill be an 'h' after the 'w' in your name."
He sprang into the vehicle. With a lively "Kim up!" Wale got his stoutsteed into a remarkably fast trot.
A tall man, who had been loitering and smoking beneath the trees acrossthe road for a long time, sauntered toward a tradesman's cart which wasstanding near the area gate of the next house, while the man in chargegossiped with a kitchenmaid.
"Beg pardon," he said to the couple, "is that Mr. Philip Anson's place?"with an indicatory jerk of his thumb.
"Yes," said the man.
"An' was that Mr. Anson himself who drove away in a private cab?"
"Yes," said the girl.
"Thanks. It does one good to see a young chap like him so jolly andcomfortable, and provided with everything he can want in the world; eh?"
"I wish I 'ad a bit of 'is little lot," sighed the greengrocer'sassistant, with a side glance at the maid.
The stranger laughed harshly.
"It's hard to say when ye're well off," he growled. "Up one day anddown the other. You never know your luck."
Away he went, southward. His long vigil on the pavement near therailings seemed to have ended. In Piccadilly he took an omnibus to theCircus, and there changed to another for the Elephant and Castle.
He walked rapidly through the congeries of mean streets which lie to theeast of that bustling center, and paused at last before a house whichwas occupied by respectable people, judging by the cleanly curtains andgeneral air of tidiness.
He knocked. A woman appeared. Did Mrs. Mason live there? No. She knewnothing of her. Had only been in the place eighteen months.
The man evidently appreciated the migratory habits of the poor too wellto dream of prosecuting further inquiries among the neighbors. Hestrolled about, reading the names over the small shops, the cornerpublic house, the dressmakers' semiprivate residences.
At last he paused before a somewhat grim establishment, an undertaker'soffice. He entered. A youth was whistling the latest music hall song.
"Do you know anything of a Mrs. Mason, who used to live in this localityabout ten years ago?" he asked.
"Mrs. Mason? There may be forty Mrs. Masons. What was her Christian namean' address?"
"Mrs. Hannah Mason, 14 Frederick Street."
The youth skillfully tilted back his stool until he reached a ledgerfrom a shelf behind him. He ran his eye down an index, found a number,and pulled out another book.
"We buried her on the twentieth of November, nine years since," hesaid, coolly, rattling both tomes back into their places.
"You did, eh? Is there anybody here who remembers her?"
Something in the husky voice of this stark, ill-favored man caused theboy to become less pert.
"Father's in," he said. "I'll ring for him."
Father came. He had a vague memory of the woman, a widow with twochildren--boys, he thought. Somebody helped her in her last days, andpaid for the funeral--paid cash, according to the ledger. He did notknow who the friend was, nor had he any knowledge of the children'sfate. Workhouse, most probably. What workhouse? Parish of Southwark.Easy to find. Just turn so-and-so, and so-and-so.
With a grunt of acknowledgment the inquirer passed into the street. Hegave an eye to the public house, but resolutely quickened his pace. Atthe workhouse he succeeded, with some difficulty, in interviewing themaster. It was after office hours, but as he had journeyed a long way anexception would be made in his case.
Books were consulted to ascertain the fate of two boys, John and WilliamMason, who would now be aged twenty and eighteen respectively. YouthfulMasons had certainly been in the schools--one was there at the moment,in fact--but none of them answered to the descriptions supplied. Theworkhouse master was sorry; the records gave no clew.
Again the man sought the dark seclusion of the street. He wanderedslowly toward a main thoroughfare, and entered the first public house heencountered. He ordered six pennyworth of brandy, and drank it at agulp. Then he lit a pipe and went forth again.
"That was an ugly-lookin' customer," said an _habitue_ to the barman.
"'E 'ad a fice like a fifth act at the Surrey," agreed the other.
If they knew the toast that Jocky Mason had pledged so readily, theywould have better grasped the truth of this unfavorable diagnosis of hischaracter.
"Ten years' penal servitude, four years' police supervision, my wifedead, and my children lost, all through a smack on the head given me byPhilip Anson," he communed. "Here's to getting even with him!"
It was a strange outcome of his long imprisonment that the man shouldhave acquired a fair degree of culture. He was compelled to learn injail, to a certain extent, and reading soon became a pleasure to him.Moreover, he picked up an acquaintance with a smooth-spoken mate of theswell mobsman and long firm order--a dandy who strove to be elegant evenin convict garb. Mason's great strength and indomitable courage appealedto the more artistic if more effeminate rogue; once the big man savedhis comrade's life when they were at work in the quarries.
The influence was mutual. They vowed lasting friendship. Victor Grenierwas released six months before Mason, and the latter now crossed theriver again to go to an address where he would probably receive somenews of his professed ally's whereabouts.
Grenier's name was imparted under inviolable confidence as that which hewould adopt after his release. His real name, by which he was convicted,was something far less aristocratic.
Philip's driver, being of the peculiar type of Londoner which seems tobe created to occupy the dicky of a hansom, did not take his master downPark Lane, along Piccadilly, and so to Pall Mall. He loved corners. Givehim the remotest chance of following a zigzag course, and he wouldfollow it in preference to a route with all the directness of a Romanroad.
Thus it happened, as he spun round Carlos Place into Berkeley Square, henearly collided with another vehicle which dashed into the square fromDavies Street.
Both horses pulled up with a jerk, there was a sharp fusillade of whatcabmen call "langwidge," and the other hansom drove on, having the bestof the strategical position by a stolen yard.
Philip lifted the trapdoor.
"Has he a fare, Wale?"
"Yes, sir, a lydy."
"Oh. Leave him alone, then. Otherwise, I would have liked to see youride him off at the corner of Bruton Street."
Wale, who was choleric, replied with such force that Philip tried tosay, sternly:<
br />
"Stop that swearing, Wale."
"Beg pawdon, sir, I'm sure, but I wouldn't ha' minded if it wasn't myown old keb. Didn't you spot it?"
"You don't tell me so. How odd!"
"And to think of a brewer's drayman like that gettin' 'old of it.Well----"
Wale put the lid on in case his employer might hear any more of hissentiments.
Philip, leaning back to laugh, for Wale's vocabulary was amusing, ifnot fit for publication, suddenly realized the queer trick that even theevents in the life of an individual have of repeating themselves.
In one day, after an interval of many years, he had been suddenlyconfronted by personages connected with the period of his sufferings,with the very garments he wore at that time, with the cab in which hedrove from Clerkenwell to Hatton Garden. Abingdon had dined with him;Isaacstein had sent him a message; his driver, even, was the cabman whomade him a present of two shillings, a most fortunate transaction forWale, as it led to his selection to look after Philip's London stable.
All who had befriended the forlorn boy in those early days had benefitedto an extraordinary degree. The coffee-stall keeper who gave him coffeegrounds and crusts, the old clothes man who cut down the price of hisfirst outfit, Mrs. Wrigley, going hopelessly to her toil in a Shepherd'sBush laundry; Mr. Wilson, of Grant & Sons, the kindly jeweler of LudgateHill, were each sought out, and either placed in a good business orbounteously rewarded for the services they had rendered. O'Brien, ofcourse, was found a sinecure office at the Mary Anson Home.
As for the doctor, he owed his Harley Street practice to themillionaire's help and patronage.
It is worthy of note that Philip never wore a watch other than thatpresented to him by the police of the Whitechapel Division.
It was an ordinary English silver lever, and he carried it attached to aknotted bootlace.
Did he but know how far the historical parallel had gone that day--howJocky Mason had waited for hours outside his residence in the hope ofseeing him and becoming acquainted with his appearance--he might havebeen surprised, but he would never have guessed the evil that this manwould accomplish, and, in some measure, accomplish unconsciously.
He was not in his club five minutes when a friend tackled him for aconcert subscription.
"Anson, you are fond of music. Here is a new violinist, a Hungarian, whowants a start. I heard him in Budapest last autumn. He is a good chap.Take some stalls."
Philip glanced at the program.
"Eckstein at the piano. I see! He must be a star. Who is the soprano? Ihave never heard her name before."
"Miss Evelyn Atherley," read his friend over his shoulder. "I don't knowher myself. Dine with me here to-morrow night. We will go and hear theperformance afterward."
"Can you distribute stalls among your acquaintances?"
"My dear fellow, I will be delighted. Sorry I can't help Jowkacsy a bitmyself."
"You are helping him very well. I will take a dozen; two for you and me;ten elsewhere, for the claque."
"You _are_ a good chap. Hello! There's Jones. Jones is good for acouple. Don't forget to-morrow night."
And the good-natured enthusiast, who was a terror to many of hisfriends, ran off to secure another victim.
Philip had sent his hansom home. Shortly before eleven he quitted theclub, intending to walk to Park Lane by a circuitous route, long enoughto consume a big cigar.
He chanced to pass the hall in which the concert was to take place. Afew people were hurrying from the stage door. Evidently a rehearsal hadjust taken place. A short man, with a huge cluster of flowing locks,that offered abundant proof of his musical genius, ran out with a violincase in his hand.
He was about to enter a hansom waiting near the curb, but the driversaid:
"Engaged, sir."
The man did not seem to understand, so the cabby barred his way with thewhip and shook his head. Then the stranger rushed to a neighboring cabrank--evidently an excitable gentleman, with the high-strung temperamentof art.
A lady quitted the hall a few seconds later.
"Are you engaged?" Philip heard her ask the cabman.
"No, miss."
"Take me to No. 44, Maida Crescent, Regent's Park," she said. Afterarranging her skirts daintily, she entered the vehicle.
"That is odd," thought Philip, who had witnessed both incidents in thecourse of a six yards' walk. He glanced at the cabman, and fancied theman gave a peculiar look of intelligence toward a couple of fashionablydressed loungers who stood in the shadow of the closed public entrance.
The two men, without exchanging a word to Philip's hearing, went to abrougham standing at some little distance. They entered. The coachman,who received no instructions, drove off in the same direction as thehansom, and, as if to make sure he was being followed, the cab driverturned to look behind him.
Once, in Naples, Philip saw a man stealthily following a woman down anunlighted alley. Without a moment's hesitation he went after the pair,and was just in time to prevent the would-be assassin from plunging anuplifted stiletto into the woman's back. The recollection of that littledrama flashed into his mind now; there was a suggestion of theNeapolitan bravo's air in the manner in which these men stalked a girlwho was quite unaware of their movements.
He asked himself why a cabman should refuse one fare and pick up anotherin the same spot. The affair was certainly odd. He would see furtherinto it before he dismissed it from his thoughts. The distance to MaidaCrescent was not great.
While thinking he was acting. He sprang into the nearest hansom.
"A brougham is following a hansom up Langham Place," he said to thedriver. "Keep behind them. If they separate, follow the brougham. Whenit stops, pull up at the best place to avoid notice."
The man nodded. Nothing surprises a London cabman. Soon the threevehicles were spinning along the Outer Circle.
It was not a very dark night, the sky being cloudless and starlit. Awayin front, at a point where the two lines of lamps curved sharply to theright and vanished amidst the trees, a row of little, red lights showedthat the road was up.
The leading hansom drove steadily on. There was nothing remarkable inthis. When the driver reached the obstruction, he would turn out of thepark by the nearer gate--that was all.
But he did nothing of the kind. There was a sudden crash of wood, awoman's scream, and the horse was struggling wildly amidst a pile ofloose, wooden blocks, while one wheel of the cab dropped heavily into ashallow trench.
Simultaneously the brougham pulled up and its two occupants rushed tothe scene of the accident.
Philip's driver, of course, obeyed instructions, but he shouted to hisfare as he jumped into the road:
"That feller's either drunk or 'e did it a-puppuss."
Philip was of the same opinion. He reached the overthrown barricadealmost as soon as the two hurrying men in front, both of whom were inevening dress.
One of them held the horse's head and steadied him; the other was justin time to help the young lady to leave her dangerous conveyance.
"I hope you have received no injury, madam," he said, politely.
"Oh, not at all. I was frightened for an instant. How could it havehappened? I saw the lamps quite plainly. The man seemed to pull hishorse deliberately into the barrier."
The voice was singularly sweet and well modulated. A neighboring arclamp illuminated the girl's face with its white, unpitying radiance. Itrevealed features beautifully modeled, and large, startled eyes thatlooked wonderingly from the man who came so promptly to her rescue tothe driver who had caused the mishap. Philip, behind the hansom, wasunseen. He remained a critical observer.
"I fear he is intoxicated," was the reply. "Here, you! How came you tomake such a blunder?"
"Blind as an owl," came the gurgling answer. "I saw some red spotsdancin' abaht, but I thort it must be that larst gill o' beer."
Nevertheless the cabman extricated his horse and vehicle from theirpredicament with singular ease for a half-drunken man.
<
br /> "Goin' on, miss?" he grinned. "There's nothin' extry for thesteeplechise."
"No, no," cried the lady. "I will walk. I will pay you now."
"Take my advice and pay him not a cent," protested the man by her side."Leave him to me. My friend here will take his number. If you willaccept a seat in my brougham----"
The cabman began to swear and threaten them all with personal violence.The lady, clearly unwilling to avail herself of the accommodating offermade to her, tried to edge away. The driver of the hansom whipped hishorse on to the pavement. By this time he had turned his back to theroad-menders' barrier.
The girl, angered and alarmed, shrank toward the gentleman, who seemedto give her some measure of protection from the infuriated cause of allthe trouble.
"Do step into my brougham," he said, civilly. "Victor, just grab thegee-gee's head again, and keep that idiot quiet until we get away. Now,madam, take my advice. You will be quite safe instantly."
Even yet she hesitated. There was, perchance, a timbre in the quiet,cultured tone of the speaker that did not ring truly. The note of a bellcannot be perfect if there is a flaw in the metal, and the human voiceoften betrays a warped nature when to all outward seeming there is afair exterior.
The man who addressed her was youthful, not much older than herself. Hewas evidently a gentleman, with the polish and easy repose of society.His words, his attitude, were in the best of taste. Yet----
A loud altercation broke out between the cabman and "Victor." The latterdid not appear to be so ready to lay hands on the reins again, and thewhip fell viciously on the horse's flank, causing him to plunge forwardin dangerous proximity to the couple on the sidewalk. He came close, butnot too close. Philip was now quite certain that he was witnessing thedexterous display of a skilled driver.
"Really, I am at a loss for words to persuade you that your only courseis to use my carriage. Otherwise there will be a confounded row."
The stranger's voice was a trifle petulant She was such an unreasonableyoung lady. She turned to him irresolutely--to find Philip at herside--thrusting himself in front of her would-be rescuer.
"You have been the victim of a plot, madam," he said. "Your driver isnot drunk. He caused the accident purposely. These two scoundrels are inleague with him. If----"
"What the devil----" cried the other, fiercely, but Philip swung himbodily against the iron railings.
"If you care to take my cab, alone, it is at your service. I will lookafter these cads."
His quick eyes caught a signal from Victor to the cabman. He was sorryfor the horse, but this comedy must be stopped. He instantly caught thebridle, and backed the cab violently toward the excavation. The cabmanlashed at him in vain, and swore, too, with remarkable fluency for oneso drunk. Both wheels crunched on top of the stout barrier, and becamelocked there.
Then Anson ran back toward the girl, whose arm was held by the owner ofthe brougham.
"Take your hands off that lady, or I will hurt you," said Philip, andthere was that in his emphatic order which brooked no delay.
The stranger dropped his restraining hand, but shouted furiously:
"By what right do you interfere? I am only offering the lady someassistance?"
Philip ignored him.
"What do you say, madam?" he inquired, somewhat sternly, for she seemedloath to trust any of them. "Will you occupy my cab? It is there. Restassured that neither of these men shall follow you."
She stood her ground, came nearer to him.
"I believe you," she murmured. "I thank you from my heart. It isinexplicable that such wretches can exist as these two seeminggentlemen, who stooped to such artifice against a helpless woman."
"Most fortunately I saw you leaving the Regent's Hall," he replied."This cab was waiting for you, and you only. The man refused at leastone fare to my presence. The others followed in a brougham. Do you knowthem?"
"No. I have never, to my knowledge, seen either of them before in mylife. How came you----"
"I happened to hear your address. I will write to you and explain. Gonow," he quickly interrupted, for Victor and his friend wereapproaching them after a hasty conference.
"Leave you to deal with these assassins alone! Not I! I can defendmyself. I can help you. I will scream for assistance. There are too manyof them for you to resist them single-handed."
Philip vowed afterward that fire flashed in her eyes. There was asplendid passion in the gesture with which she pointed to the enragedhansom driver, who had climbed from his perch, and was running to joinhis employers.
This was a new experience for Philip, and the blood leaped in his veinsat the girl's courageous words. But he laughed, in his pleasant, musicalway.
"Men who would attack a defenseless woman," he said, "are poor creatureswhere a man's heart is needed. Now just watch me, and don't be alarmed."
He strode to meet the advancing trio. They halted.
"I give you a last warning," he cried. "Drive off in your carriage, andyou," to the cabman, "go back and help your horse. You must go now, thisinstant, or take the consequences."
There was the silence of indecision. This strong-faced man, with thefigure of an athlete, meant what he said.
Victor caught his friend's arm.
"Come away," he whispered. "She does not know you. You have failed thistime."
Without another word the pair crossed the road to their waitingbrougham. The cabman, who became remarkably sober, began to whine:
"It's on'y a lark, guv'nor. The lydy would ha' took no 'arm. I didn'tmean----"
Philip was strongly tempted to kick him, but refrained. He grasped theman's shoulder and lifted his badge to the light.
"I will spare you for the lady's sake," he said, grimly, "but I wantyour number, in case you try any more such tricks."
"My Gawd, it's Mr. Anson!"
For the first time the driver saw Philip's face clearly.
"Ah, you know me then? Who were those blackguards who employed you?"
"S'elp me, sir, I on'y know one of 'em. 'E's a Mr. Victor Grenier. Ioffen pick 'im up at the Gardenia. 'E said 'is pal was sweet on theyoung lydy an' wanted a put-up job ter 'elp 'er. That's all, guv'nor, onme life."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," was Philip's only comment.
He rejoined the girl, who was watching the retreating brougham.
"Now," he cried, pleasantly, "you can go home."
"Please drive me there. I will not deprive you of your cab."
So they drove away together, and the driver of the hansom, striving tofree his vehicle from the broken trestles, paused to scratch his head.
"'E fairly bested the crowd," he growled, "an' got the girl as well. Myeye, but she's a beauty."
