Читать книгу: «Dangerous Ground: or, The Rival Detectives», страница 19
CHAPTER XLVIII.
A PROMISE RETRACTED
Left alone, Leslie Warburton faced her problem, and found herself mastered by it. She had believed herself already overwhelmed with misery – had fancied that in coming among these people who claimed her, she had taken the last step down into the valley of humiliation, of shame, of utter wretchedness. But they had shown her a lower depth still, and bidden her descend into it.
Should she obey them? Her pulses were throbbing violently, a fierce flame burned in either cheek, a shade of the old delirium lurked in her eye. Should she crown her list of miseries with this culminating horror? Why should she not? What had she to lose? She, who had already lost husband, home and happiness; she, who was already an outcast, accused of treachery, of child-stealing, of murder; she, who was only a waif at best, and who could claim no kindred unless she accepted those whose roof then sheltered her? What had she to lose? Only her life, and that must end soon. Why not make this last sacrifice, then let it end.
Her calmness, that before had been at best but the calmness of despair, had forsaken her; had changed to the recklessness of desperation. Faster and faster throbbed her pulses, hotter surged the blood through her fevered veins, wilder gleamed the light of her eyes.
Born of her weakness, her misery, her growing delirium, came a fierce, unreasoning rebellion; a longing to thrust upon the shoulders of Alan Warburton, who, more than any other, had been the cause of her present woe, a portion of this weight that dragged her down. Had she not suffered enough for the “Warburton honor?” Why not force him to tread with her this valley of humiliation?
Then followed other thoughts – better thoughts, humbler thoughts, but all morbid, all tinged by her half delirious fancy, all reckless of self.
And now every moment adds to her torture, increases the fever in her blood, the frenzy of her brain.
“I must end it!” she cries wildly. “I must save Daisy! And after that what matter how my day goes out?”
She walks swiftly to the door and attempts to open it. Useless; it is fastened from the outer side. She seizes the handle and shakes it fiercely. It seems an hour, it is really a moment, when Mamma unlocks the door and appears before her.
“You – ”
“I have decided,” breaks in Leslie. “I shall make the sacrifice.”
“You will marry this worthy man?”
“I will save Daisy from your clutches, and his.”
“In his own way?”
“In his own way, and yours. Let it be over as soon as possible. Where is this man?”
“Gently, gently; he is not far away.”
“So much the better. I cannot rest now till all is done. I must take Daisy back to her home; the rest is nothing.”
Mamma looks at her craftily.
“You agree to all the terms?” she asks. “Will you swear to keep your word?”
“I will do anything, when I am assured that I shall have Daisy safely back.”
“Ah!” ejaculates Mamma, indulging in a long sigh of relieved anxiety, “I will go tell Franz. He is as anxious to have the business settled as you are.”
“Franz!”
“Yes; it is Franz that you will marry.”
“Franz!” the word comes in a breathless whisper. “Your son – the convict?”
“You needn’t put so much force upon that. Yes; Franzy’s the man.”
A new look dawns upon Leslie’s face. A new light gleams from her eyes. She presses her palms to her forehead, then slowly approaches Mamma, with the uncertain movements of one groping in the dark.
“You told – ” she articulates, as if struggling for self-mastery. “Woman, you told me that Franz Francoise was your son.”
“So he is. I ain’t ashamed of him,” Mamma answers sullenly.
“Then,” – Leslie clutches at the nearest support and fairly gasps the words – “then —who am I?”
“Well, it can’t be kept back any longer, it seems. You are – ”
“Not your child?” cries Leslie. “Not yours?”
“No; you ain’t ours by birth, but you’re ours by adoption. We’ve reared ye, and we’ve made ye what ye are.”
But Leslie pays no heed to this latter statement. She has fallen upon her knees with hands uplifted, and streaming eyes.
“Not her child; not hers! Oh, God, I thank thee! Oh, God, forgive me for what I was about to do!”
Long, shivering sighs follow this outburst; then moments of silence, during which Mamma stands irresolute, puzzled as to Leslie’s manner, uncertain how to act.
A sound behind her breaks the uncomfortable stillness, and Mamma turns quickly, to see Franz standing in the open doorway.
“Franz, – ” begins the old woman.
The word arouses Leslie, she rises to her feet so swiftly, with such sudden strength of movement, and such a new light upon her face, that Mamma breaks off abruptly and stands staring from one to the other.
“Woman,” says Leslie slowly and with strange calm, “those are the first welcome words you ever uttered for my hearing. Say them again. Say that I am not your child.”
“I don’t see what it matters,” mutters Mamma sullenly. “You will be our’n fast enough when you’re married to Franz.”
“Eh!” Franz utters only this syllable, and advances step by step into the room.
A moment Leslie stands gazing from one to the other. Then her form grows more erect, the new hope brighter in her eyes, she seems growing stronger each moment.
“Half an hour ago,” she says, “I had not one thing to hope for, or to live for, save the restoration of Daisy Warburton, for I believed myself accursed. Rebel as my soul would, while your lips repeated your claim upon me I could not escape you. While you persisted in your lies, I was helpless. Now – ”
Mamma’s hands work convulsively; her eyes glitter dangerously; she looks like a cat about to spring upon its prey. As Leslie pauses thus abruptly, her lips emit a sharp hiss, but before words can follow, a heavy hand grasps her arm.
“Go on,” says Franz coolly; “now?”
“Do you know the proposition that woman has just made me?” asks Leslie abruptly.
“‘Twon’t be good for her, if she has made ye a proposition I don’t know on,” says Franz grimly, and tightening his clutch upon Mamma’s arm. “An’ fer fear of any hocus-pocus, suppose you jest go over it fer my benefit.”
“She has told me that you can, if you will, restore Daisy Warburton to her home.”
“No? has she?”
“That you, and you only, know where to look for the child.”
“Umph!”
“And that you will restore the child only on one condition.”
“And wot’s that?”
“That I consent to marry you.”
“Wal,” says Franz, turning a facetious look upon Mamma, and giving her arm a gentle shake; “the old un may have trifled with the truth, here and there, but she’s right in the main. How did the proposition strike ye?”
Leslie turns from him and fixes her gaze upon the old woman.
“And this,” she says, “is the man you would mate me with! Woman, you have overreached yourself. Believing, or fearing, myself to be your child, I might have been driven to any act of desperation. You have lifted that burden of horror from off my heart. I am not your child! No blood of yours poisons my veins! Do you think in the moment when I find the taint removed, I would doubly defile myself by taking the step you have proposed? Never! Your power over me is gone!”
“Do ye mean,” queries Franz quite coolly, “that you won’t take up with the old woman’s bargain?”
“She has done it!” cries Mamma fiercely. “She’s given her promise!”
“And I now retract it!”
“What!” Mamma suddenly wrenches herself free and springs toward Leslie. “You won’t marry Franz?”
“Never! The fear which has made me a coward is gone. I shall go back to my own. I will tell my story far and wide. I feared nothing so much as the shame of being pointed out as the child of such parents. You will not dare repeat that imposture; I defy you. As for little Daisy, I will find her; I will punish you – ”
“You will find her!” Mamma’s voice is horrible in its hoarse rage. “Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will never see daylight again. As for you, you will marry Franz Francoise to-morrow, or you will go out of this place between two officers, arrested as the murderess of Josef Siebel!”
It is more than she can bear. The strength born of her strong excitement deserts her. Mamma’s eyes burn into her own; she feels her hot, baleful breath upon her cheek; hears the horrible words hissed so close to her ear; and with a low moan falls forward, to be caught in the arms of Franz Francoise, where she lies pallid and senseless.
“Git out!” says Franz, as he lifts her and turns toward Mamma. “You’ve done it now, you old cat. Let me lay her down.”
He carries Leslie to the bed, and places her upon it so gently that Mamma sneers and glares upon him scornfully.
“Ye’re a fool, Franz Francoise.”
“Shet up, you! Ye’ve got somethin’ to do besides talk. D’ye mean to have her die on our hands?”
“‘Twon’t matter much, it seems.”
“I tell ye ’twill matter. Do ye think this thing’s settled? Not much. We’re goin’ ter bring her to terms yet, but she’s got ter be alive first.”
She turns upon him a look in which anger and admiration are curiously mingled.
“‘Tain’t no use, Franzy; that gal won’t give in now.”
“I tell ye she will. You’ve tried your hand; now I’ll try mine. Bring the girl out o’ this faint, an’ I’ll manage her. Do what ye can, then git yer doctor. Ye’d better not have him come here ef ye kin manage without him; but go see him, git what she needs, an’,” with a significant wink, “ye might say that she don’t rest well and git a few sleepin’ powders.”
“Franz,” chuckles Mamma, beginning her work of restoration with bustling activity, “ye ought to be a general. I’m proud of ye.”
CHAPTER XLIX.
A WELCOME PRESCRIPTION
Savage Mamma Francoise was not an unskillful nurse, and Leslie was soon restored to consciousness. But not to strength; the little that she had gained was spent by that long interview, with all its attendant conflicting emotions, and Leslie lay, strengthless once more, at the mercy of her enemies.
After much thinking, Mamma had decided that Franz had offered sound advice, and having exhausted her own resources, she set out to consult Doctor Bayless.
Her visit was in every way satisfactory. Doctor Bayless manifested no undue curiosity; seemed to comprehend the case as Mamma put it; prepared the necessary remedies, and spoke encouragingly of the patient.
“These relapses occur often after fevers,” he said; “the result of too much ambition. You understand about the drops, yes? These powders you will administer properly; not too often, remember. Careful nursing will do the rest. Ah, good-day.”
“Ye needn’t be afraid to take yer medicine,” said Mamma to her patient, coming to the bedside with a dose of the aforesaid “drops.” “‘Tain’t no part of my plans to let ye die. I intend to nurse ye through, but I tell ye plain that when ye’re better ye’ll have to settle this business with Franzy. When ye’re on yer feet agin, I’m goin’ to wash my hands of ye. But ye may not find Franz so easily got rid of, mind that.”
Realizing her helplessness, Leslie swallowed the drops and then lay back, pale and panting, upon her pillow. As the moments passed, she could feel the liquid coursing its way through her veins; her nerves ceased to quiver, a strange calm crept over her, her pulses throbbed quite steadily. She was very weak, but found herself able to think clearly.
Half an hour later, Doctor Bayless appeared upon the Francoise threshold, a small vial in his hand, a look of anxiety upon his countenance.
He pushed his way into the room, in spite of the less than half opened door, and Mamma’s lukewarm welcome. He seemed to notice neither. Still less did he concern himself with Papa and Franz, partaking of luncheon in the opposite corner of the room.
He addressed Mamma almost breathlessly.
Had the drops been administered?
Mamma replied in the affirmative.
Then he must see the patient at once. There had been a dangerous mistake. By some inadvertence he had exchanged two similar vials; he had given Mamma the wrong medicine. The result might prove fatal.
It was no time for parley or hesitation. Mamma promptly led the way to the inner room.
As Leslie greeted her visitor with a look of inquiry, Doctor Bayless, standing by the bedside, with his back to Mamma, put a warning forefinger upon his lips, his eyes meeting Leslie’s with a glance full of meaning.
“Keep perfectly quiet, young woman,” he said in his best professional tone. And as Mamma presented a chair, he seated himself close beside the bed and bent over his patient, seemingly intent upon her symptoms.
Presently he turned toward Mamma.
“I must have warm water; prepare it at once.” Then rising, he followed Mamma to the door, saying in a low tone: “Your patient must have perfect quiet; let there be no loud noise about the house. Now the water, if you please, and make haste.”
He turned and went back to the bedside, seated himself as before, and taking one of the patient’s hands, seemed intently marking every pulse-beat. A look of deep concern rested upon his face; and Mamma closed the door softly and went about her task.
“Old un,” began Franz, “ye’re gittin’ careless – ”
“Sh!” whispered Mamma; “no noise.”
But Franz, with a crafty leer, left his place at the table and tiptoed to the door, where he crouched, applying alternately his eye and his ear to the keyhole, while Mamma busied herself at the fire.
But Franz caught no word from the inner room, for Doctor Bayless never once opened his lips. The watcher could see his large form bending over the bed, with one hand slightly upraised as if holding a watch, the other resting upon the wrist of the patient.
But Leslie saw more than this. Locked in that strange calm, she saw the doctor’s hand go to his side, and take from a pocket a card which quite filled his palm.
Holding this card so that Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat mutely watching her face.
The card contained these words, closely written in a fine, firm hand:
Seem to submit to their plans. We can conquer in no other way. At the right time I shall be at hand, and no harm shall befall you. Let them play their game to the very last; it shall not go too far. Feign a continual stupor; they will believe it the result of drugs. Trust all to me, and believe your troubles almost over.
Stanhope.
Three times did Leslie’s eyes peruse these words, and in spite of that powerful soothing draught, her composure almost forsook her. But she controlled herself bravely, and only by a long look of hopeful intelligence, and a very slight gesture, did she respond to this written message so sorely needed, so welcome, so fraught with hope.
When Mamma returned with the water, Leslie lay quiet among the pillows, her eyes half closed, and no trace of emotion in her face. But her heart was beating with a new impulse. That message had brought with it a comforting sense of protection, and of help near at hand.
The last instructions of Doctor Bayless, too, fell upon her ear with hopeful meaning, although they were spoken, apparently, for Mamma’s sole benefit.
“She is a trifle dull,” he said, turning from the bed and confronting Mamma. “It’s the result of that mistaken dose, in part. In part, it’s the natural outcome of her fever. It’s better for her; she will gain strength faster so. These powders” – depositing a packet of paper folds in Mamma’s hand, – “are to strengthen and to soothe. She must take them regularly. She will be a little dull under their influence, very docile and easy to manage, but she will gain strength quite rapidly. In a week, if she is not unnerved or excited, she should be able to be up, to be out.”
Once more he turned toward Leslie, and took her hand in his.
What Mamma saw, was a careful physician going through with a last professional formula. What Leslie felt, was a warm, reassuring hand-clasp, friendly rather than professional.
When he had gone, Leslie lay quiet, repeating over and over in her mind the words of Stanhope’s note, and feeling throughout her entire being a strong, new desire to live.
CHAPTER L.
MR. FOLLINGSBEE’S SOCIAL CALL
Five weeks have passed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks, the bearded Englishman. Five weeks since that last named and eccentric individual set sail for far-off Australia.
Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there now, and Stanhope is not seen at all.
In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a dark frown upon his broad, high brow.
The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks.
It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little.
John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.
Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.
And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.
Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.
They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done?
Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him.
“You will not see me again,” he had said, “until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson.” And he was keeping his word.
Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done?
It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: “I’ll do my level best for you.” But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: “I shall not return until I have found the criminal.”
What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days?
Something, it must have been, or else – perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer fellow, and he had been sadly cut up by Vernet’s falling off.
The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.
“I may as well leave Dick to his own devices,” he muttered, “but I’ll send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I know where to put my hand on him.”
As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.
“Come in,” he called, somewhat impatiently.
It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief.
“The gentleman is waiting?” queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon the bit of pasteboard.
“Yes, sir.”
“Admit him.”
Then he rose and stood to receive his visitor.
“Ah, Follingsbee, I’m glad it’s you,” extending his hand cordially. “Sit down, sit down.”
And he pushed his guest toward a big easy chair just opposite his own.
The little lawyer responded warmly to his friendly greeting, established himself comfortably in the chair indicated, and resting a hand upon either knee, smiled as he glanced about him.
“You seem pretty comfortable here,” he said, as his eye roved about the well-equipped private office. “Are you particularly busy just now?”
“I can be quite idle,” smiling slightly, “if you want a little of my leisure.”
The attorney gave a short, dry laugh.
“Do you talk at everybody over the top rail of a fence?” he asked. “I thought that belonged to us lawyers. The fact is that although this is not strictly a social call, it’s a call of minor importance. If you have business on hand, I can wait your leisure.”
The Chief leaned back in his chair and smiled across at his visitor.
“I don’t suppose you or I can ever be said to be free from business,” he responded. “I was just growing weary of my bit of mental labor; your interruption is quite welcome, even if it is not ‘strictly social.’ You are anxious to make an informal inquiry about the search for the lost child, I presume?”
“I should be glad to hear anything upon that subject, but that is not my errand.”
“Ah!” The Chief rested his head upon his hand, and looked inquiringly at his vis-a-vis.
“I wanted,” said Mr. Follingsbee, taking out a huge pocket-book and deftly abstracting from it a folded envelope, “to show you a document, and ask you a question. This,” unfolding the envelope, “is the document.”
He smoothed it carefully and handed it to the other, who glanced over it blankly at first, then looked closer and with an expression of surprise.
“Did you write that letter?” queried Mr. Follingsbee.
“N-no.” He said it hesitatingly, and with the surprise fast turning to perplexity.
“Did you cause it to be written?”
The Chief spread the letter out before him on the desk, and slowly deciphered it.
“It’s my paper, and my envelope,” he said at last; “but it was never sent from this office.”
“Then you disown it?”
“Entirely. I hope you intend to tell me how it came into your possession.”
“It is written, as you see, to Mr. Warburton – ”
“To Mr. Alan Warburton; yes.”
“Introducing one Mr. Grip, late of Scotland Yards.”
“I see.”
“Well, sir, Mr. Warburton received this note the day on which it was dated.”
The Chief glanced sharply at the date.
“And on that same day, Mr. Augustus Grip presented himself, stating that he was sent from this Agency, with full authority to take such measures as he saw fit in prosecuting the search for the lost child.”
“Well?”
“The fellow began by being impertinent, ended by being insulting – and made his exit through the study window, his case closed.”
The Chief smiled slightly, then relapsed into meditation. After a brief silence, he said:
“Mr. Follingsbee, can’t you give me a fuller account of that interview between Mr. Warburton and this – this Mr. Grip?”
“No,” returns the lawyer, “no; I can’t – at present. There were some things said that made the visit a purely personal affair. The fellow gained access to the house through making use of your name, rather by seeming to. You see by that scrawl he was too clever to actually commit forgery.”
The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature and said:
“I see; sharp rascal.”
“I thought,” pursued the lawyer, “that it might interest you to hear of this affair. The fellow may try the trick again, and – ”
“It does interest me, sir,” interrupts the other. “It interests me very much. May I keep this letter?”
“For the present, yes.”
“Thanks. I’ll undertake to find out who wrote it – very soon. And, having identified this impostor, I shall hope to hear more of his doings at Warburton Place.”
“For further information,” said Mr. Follingsbee, rising and taking up his hat, “I must refer you to Mr. Grip, or Mr. Warburton.”
And having finished his errand, Mr. Follingsbee made his adieu and withdrew.
When he was gone, the Chief sat gazing at the chair just vacated, and a curious smile crossed his lips.
“Follingsbee’s a clever lawyer,” he muttered; “maybe that’s why he is so poor a witness. There’s a stronger motive behind his friendly desire to warn me of poachers abroad. He was in a greater hurry to finish his errand than to begin it, and he was relieved when it was done. I wonder, now, why he didn’t ask me if there really was such a person as Augustus Grip!”
